Garth had always been proud of his decision to become a maester. From the moment he arrived at the Citadel, with its towering spires and seemingly endless tomes, he had felt a sense of purpose. The long hours spent studying the histories, sciences, and mysteries of the world had filled him with a deep satisfaction. He reveled in the discipline, the meticulous forging of his maester's chain, each link a symbol of knowledge mastered. He was ready to serve Westeros as a scholar and advisor, armed with the wisdom of the ages.
But with time, that satisfaction turned to frustration. Garth began to see cracks in the Citadel's hallowed institution. The maesters, once titans of wisdom in his eyes, now seemed less like keepers of knowledge and more like gatekeepers, stuck in their ways, uninterested in innovation or the world outside their walls. They hoarded secrets, claiming it was for the greater good, yet Garth couldn't help but feel that they were afraid—afraid of change, of new knowledge that might challenge their comfortable place in the world.
It was then that Garth made a decision that would change his life forever. He would leave the Citadel. Not in disgrace or exile, but on a journey of discovery. If the maesters refused to seek out the wonders of the world, then he would. He would travel Westeros and Essos, documenting not just history but life itself—the people, their struggles, their stories. His new goal was not just to learn, but to see, to experience, and to share his findings with the world.
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His journey began in Westeros. Garth traveled from the frosty heights of the North to the balmy shores of Dorne, through the bustling streets of King's Landing and the quiet, misty hills of the Riverlands. He documented the Seven Kingdoms in ways the maesters before him had not, focusing not just on the great lords and kings, but on the smallfolk. The innkeepers, the smiths, the farmers. He filled his journals with observations, maps, sketches, and interviews, noting the everyday lives of the people that often went unmentioned in the grand histories.
But even the vastness of Westeros could not satisfy his thirst for knowledge. The Free Cities of Essos, with their rich histories, ancient cultures, and mysterious customs, beckoned him.
Braavos was his first stop. The city of canals and shadows fascinated him, with its imposing Titan standing watch over the harbor and the labyrinthine streets that seemed to hide secrets at every corner. He wrote at length about the Iron Bank and its immense power, the legendary Sword of Braavos, and the strange customs of the Faceless Men, though he was careful not to delve too deeply into that particular mystery. Some knowledge, he knew, could be dangerous.
From Braavos, Garth set his sights on Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Each of the Free Cities promised more to uncover, more to record. He could hardly contain his excitement as he boarded the ship to Lys. But it was on this journey that fate decided to take a cruel turn.
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The ship never made it to Lys. Pirates, ruthless and efficient, attacked their vessel just days after they left Braavos. The crew fought bravely, but they were outmatched. Garth was captured, his maester's chain ripped from his neck, his status as a scholar of the realm meaningless to the slavers who now owned him.
He was sold, again and again, passed from one brutal master to another. His notes, his books, his beloved journals—all were lost to the sea or stolen by his captors. Garth, the proud maester-in-training, was now just another slave, toiling in the sun, beaten and starved.
His journey through the Free Cities had turned into a nightmare. He was forced to march through scorching deserts, chained to other unfortunate souls, their spirits as broken as their bodies. The slavers treated them like animals, herding them through the cities and villages, displaying them in markets for wealthy merchants and cruel nobles to purchase.
For months, Garth suffered. His once-sharp mind dulled by hunger and exhaustion, and his body, once filled with the energy of youth, now ached with every step. He began to lose hope. The world he had once dreamed of exploring had shown him its darkest side, and Garth no longer believed he would escape.
Then, one day, he was sold to a new master. This one, a slaver from Qarth, was known for his cruelty. Garth and a group of other slaves were taken on a grueling journey through the Red Wastes, a barren desert where the sun seemed to burn hotter than anywhere else in the world. Each step felt like torture. The slaves, already weak from their time in captivity, began to fall one by one.
Garth tried to hold on. He told himself that he would survive this. That somehow, he would escape, and that he would return to his journey, his purpose. But as the days wore on, his strength began to fail him.
On the fourth day of their march through the Red Wastes, Garth's legs gave out. He collapsed into the burning sand, his vision blurring as the sun beat down on him. He could hear the slavers shouting at him to get up, but he couldn't move. His body had reached its limit.
A shadow fell over him, and he knew what was coming. One of the slavers was standing over him, whip in hand, ready to strike. Garth braced himself for the pain.
Then, a loud boom echoed through the desert. The slaver crumpled to the ground, a gaping hole in his head. For a moment, Garth thought he had imagined it. But then, another boom, and another slaver fell.
Chaos erupted. The remaining slavers scrambled in confusion, shouting orders and running for their weapons. But it was too late. More of them fell, their bodies dropping lifelessly into the sand.
Through his hazy vision, Garth saw two figures descending from the sky. Boys—no older than sixteen, riding atop strange, gliding devices that hummed as they hovered in the air. They wore sleek clothing, unlike anything Garth had ever seen, and in their hands, they held silver sticks—guns, though Garth did not know the word for such a weapon.
The boys moved with precision, their weapons firing with a sound like thunder. In moments, the slavers were all dead. The desert fell silent, save for the soft hum of the gliders.
Garth's vision began to fade, the exhaustion overtaking him. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he saw one of the boys—a tall, dark-haired youth with sharp, serious eyes—glance down at him. There was kindness in his expression, a gentleness that contrasted with the deadly efficiency he had just displayed.
"Don't worry," the boy said softly. "You're safe now."
And with that, Garth's world went dark.
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As Garth lost consciousness, the last thought that flickered through his mind was that perhaps, in the midst of the Red Wastes, he had found a new story worth telling. A story of two boys who could bring death with a gesture, but who had also brought him salvation.