A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

novice.”
    â€œI hope to be one soon.” Sam drew out the letters Jon Snow had given him. “I came from the Wall with Maester Aemon, but he died during the voyage. If I could speak with the Seneschal . . .”
    â€œYour name?”
    â€œSamwell. Samwell Tarly.”
    The man wrote the name in his ledger and waved his quill at a bench along the wall. “Sit. You’ll be called when wanted.”
    Sam took a seat on the bench.
    Others came and went. Some delivered messages and took their leave. Some spoke to the man on the dais and were sent through the door behind him and up a turnpike stair. Some joined Sam on the benches, waiting for their names to be called. A few of those who were summoned had come in after him, he was almost certain. After the fourth or fifth time that happened, he rose and crossed the room again. “How much longer will it be?”
    â€œThe Seneschal is an important man.”
    â€œI came all the way from the Wall.”
    â€œThen you will have no trouble going a bit farther.” He waved his quill. “To that bench just there, beneath the window.”
    Sam returned to the bench. Another hour passed. Others entered, spoke to the man on the dais, waited a few moments, and were ushered onward. The gatekeeper did not so much as glance at Sam in all that time. The fog outside grew thinner as the day wore on, and pale sunlight slanted down through the windows. He found himself watching dust motes dance in the light. A yawn escaped him, then another. He picked at a broken blister on his palm, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
    He must have drowsed. The next he knew, the man behind the dais was calling out a name. Sam came lurching to his feet, then sat back down again when he realized it was not his name.
    â€œYou need to slip Lorcas a penny, or you’ll be waiting here three days,” a voice beside him said. “What brings the Night’s Watch to the Citadel?”
    The speaker was a slim, slight, comely youth, clad in doeskin breeches and a snug green brigandine with iron studs. He had skin the color of a light brown ale and a cap of tight black curls that came to a widow’s peak above his big black eyes. “The Lord Commander is restoring the abandoned castles,” Sam explained. “We need more maesters, for the ravens . . . did you say, a penny?”
    â€œA penny will serve. For a silver stag Lorcas will carry you up to the Seneschal on his back. He has been fifty years an acolyte. He hates novices, particularly novices of noble birth.”
    â€œHow could you tell I was of noble birth?”
    â€œThe same way you can tell that I’m half Dornish.” The statement was delivered with a smile, in a soft Dornish drawl.
    Sam fumbled for a penny. “Are you a novice?”
    â€œAn acolyte. Alleras, by some called Sphinx.”
    The name gave Sam a jolt. “The sphinx is the riddle, not the riddler,” he blurted. “Do you know what that means?”
    â€œNo. Is it a riddle?”
    â€œI wish I knew. I’m Samwell Tarly. Sam.”
    â€œWell met. And what business does Samwell Tarly have with Archmaester Theobald?”
    â€œIs he the Seneschal?” said Sam, confused. “Maester Aemon said his name was Norren.”
    â€œNot for the past two turns. There is a new one every year. They fill the office by lot from amongst the archmaesters, most of whom regard it as a thankless task that takes them away from their true work. This year the black stone was drawn by Archmaester Walgrave, but Walgrave’s wits are prone to wander, so Theobald stepped up and said he’d serve his term. He’s a gruff man, but a good one. Did you say Maester
Aemon
?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œAemon
Targaryen
?”
    â€œOnce. Most just called him Maester Aemon. He died during our voyage south. How is it that you know of him?”
    â€œHow not? He was more than just the oldest living maester. He was the oldest man in Westeros, and lived through more history than Archmaester Perestan has ever learned. He could have told us much and more about his father’s reign, and his uncle’s. How old was he, do you know?”
    â€œOne hundred and two.”
    â€œWhat was he doing at sea, at his age?”
    Sam chewed on the question for a moment, wondering how much he ought to say.
The sphinx is the riddle, not the riddler.
Could Maester Aemon have meant
this
Sphinx? It seemed unlikely.