Gawen’s closer collaboration with Archmaester Ebrose began in the Citadel’s infirmary.
He went there to gain practical experience.
Greyscale.
Bloody flux.
Shivering sickness.
And countless other ailments.
The diseases he encountered there stirred memories of an old aspiration from his previous life.
Before he knew it, he was working from dawn until dusk like a hamster running endlessly on its wheel—examining patients, recording symptoms, and helping care for the sick.
Gawen did not pity the strangers who stood on death’s doorstep.
What drove him was neither sentiment nor compassion.
It was the desire to understand.
Among the patients were more than a dozen sufferers of greyscale.
The maesters had no cure.
Gawen, however, knew of one possible treatment.
Samwell Tarly had not yet been born, but Gawen remembered reading about the procedure in his previous life.
After studying every medical text on local diseases that Ebrose recommended, he carefully examined the patients with his Druidic senses, searching for the true cause of the illness.
Greyscale was fundamentally a disease of the skin.
The outer layers gradually hardened into stone.
In its final stages, the petrification spread inward until muscles, organs, and eventually the entire body became lifeless rock.
From everything he observed, the volcanic vapors surrounding the ruins of Old Valyria were likely the original source.
Microscopic mineral particles entered the body through the lungs.
Over time, those deposits accumulated, triggering an unnatural process of calcification that slowly transformed living flesh into stone—just as it had the ancient inhabitants of Valyria.
The disease spread through physical contact.
Within the Valyrian peninsula itself…
It was entirely possible that airborne particles had once spread it even more efficiently.
Treating greyscale in its earliest stages was, by comparison, relatively straightforward.
A refined purification spell.
An alchemical ointment capable of dissolving mineral deposits.
Or…
Simply excising the infected tissue before the calcification spread.
Any of those methods had a chance of succeeding.
[Flora Mastery: Greyscale Pathology Analysis] +5
[Current Level 2 (183/500)]
Gawen noted the results on his status panel.
At its core, greyscale was nothing more than the accumulation and mineralization of stone-like particles within living tissue—a form of contamination that interfered with the body’s natural flow of energy.
Once his Life Manipulation specialization reached Level 3, he would theoretically be capable of purging early-stage calcified tissue directly through Druidic magic.
The drawback was obvious.
The spell consumed an enormous amount of Natural Energy.
Treating a single patient in the early stages would require roughly fifty points—
Nearly a quarter of his current reserves.
Through careful questioning, Gawen also learned more about alchemy in Westeros.
It certainly existed.
But it had become a fading discipline.
The Alchemists’ Guild maintained its headquarters in King’s Landing, serving the Iron Throne directly.
Only they possessed the secret of wildfire.
Along with countless other closely guarded formulas.
Relations between the Guild and the Citadel were notoriously strained.
The Citadel did have practitioners of alchemy…
Though they preferred the title chemists.
It remained a relatively obscure branch of learning, developing much later than medicine and attracting few students.
Most of its practitioners specialized in medical applications.
That also explained another mystery.
Why gunpowder had never appeared in Westeros.
Both the Citadel and the Alchemists’ Guild were fiercely secretive institutions.
Neither willingly shared discoveries with the other.
Gawen had no intention of revealing knowledge far beyond this world’s current understanding.
Instead, he planned to follow the same cautious path Samwell Tarly eventually would—
Offer a plausible treatment.
Nothing more.
After all…
Medicine was something he genuinely loved.
“Archmaester Ebrose.”
Gawen approached the elderly scholar.
“I have an idea regarding the treatment of early-stage greyscale.”
“…You do?”
Ebrose nearly choked.
He gave the overly enthusiastic young noble an incredulous look.
Then he remembered Walgrave’s recommendation.
And Vaellyn’s as well.
“…Very well.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“In its early stages, I believe the disease can be cured.”
“The treatment would rely entirely upon surgery.”
“We remove the infected layers of skin before the calcification spreads.”
Gawen outlined his proposal concisely.
“Hmm…”
“An unimaginably painful procedure.”
Ebrose immediately identified the greatest weakness.
“And what would you do if the infection appears on the face?”
“Or the scalp?”
“My point is simply that some lives can still be saved.”
Gawen answered calmly.
“Patients with infections on their arms, legs, back, or other areas may survive.”
“Cases involving the face or head would naturally be much more dangerous.”
“Other regions of the body also present greater risks because of bleeding.”
“But I believe this method could save at least some patients.”
“Of course…”
Ebrose fell silent.
Finally, he nodded.
“A sailor arrived several days ago.”
“The greyscale has spread from the middle of his right thigh all the way to his foot.”
“He may be an appropriate candidate.”
“We’ll perform the operation tomorrow.”
“I’ll prepare the instruments.”
“The milk of the poppy.”
“And the patient.”
“Thank you, Archmaester.”
Gawen bowed sincerely.
“Yes…
yes…”
“Think nothing of it.”
The old maester sighed, already lost in thought.
Seeing no reason to disturb him further, Gawen quietly withdrew.
The following day, they met in the operating chamber.
The room occupied one of the upper levels of a Citadel tower.
Cold.
Sterile.
Almost austere.
Unlike the rest of the Citadel, there were no tapestries adorning the walls.
Only a single stone operating table stood at the center of the room.
The patient already lay upon it.
Archmaester Ebrose waited nearby.
Beside him rested a small table covered with an intimidating assortment of silver surgical instruments, each meticulously arranged in preparation for the operation.
The instruments belonged to Archmaester Ebrose personally.
They were his own carefully maintained surgical tools.
“Good, you’re here.”
The old maester wasted no time.
“You’ll perform the operation.
I’ll assist.”
“The milk of the poppy has already taken effect.”
“Mmm…”
The patient let out a slow, relaxed sigh.
He was a young sailor, no older than twenty.
Short, broad-shouldered, with dark cropped hair and an otherwise unremarkable face.
The milk of the poppy possessed effects much like morphine from Gawen’s previous world.
It dulled pain…
But also brought euphoria and the danger of addiction.
“Let’s begin.”
Gawen took a slow breath.
For the first time, he partially summoned his enchanted armor.
Only a portion of it.
Turning away briefly, he pretended to retrieve something from his pocket before slipping it on.
A pair of thin leather gloves appeared over his hands, fitting like a second skin.
White runes shimmered faintly across their surface.
Ebrose glanced at them with mild curiosity—and perhaps a trace of amusement—but asked no questions.
The young man’s leg looked less like flesh than weathered stone.
Or the bark of an ancient tree.
His skin had turned a dull gray.
In several places the outer layer had already broken away, exposing hardened, rock-like tissue beneath.
Cracks and fissures spread across the infected limb.
Gawen studied it carefully before deciding where to begin.
He started at the middle of the thigh, where the disease had only recently taken hold.
From there, he would work downward.
Life Manipulation: Surgical Procedure
Proficiency +2
This was unfamiliar territory, even for a Druid.
Using a silver scalpel and forceps, Gawen carefully peeled away the diseased outer layers of skin, removing large sections of tissue that were only partially calcified.
The patient hissed through clenched teeth.
Occasionally his body twitched despite the milk of the poppy.
Even so…
He endured.
Without drawing attention to himself, Gawen quietly eased the man’s suffering with a subtle touch of Druidic magic.
The operation progressed smoothly.
He successfully removed the infected tissue down to the knee.
Then…
Everything became much more complicated.
“…Damn.”
Gawen muttered under his breath.
The greyscale had penetrated far deeper there.
Nearly to the bone.
“We’ll have to cut deeper.”
He looked toward Ebrose.
“Any thoughts?”
The old Archmaester considered the wound carefully.
“We could cauterize it.”
“Or bandage it and leave the rest to fate.”
“The second option.”
Gawen answered reluctantly.
There was no better choice.
Beyond removing the diseased skin, they were forced to excise portions of the underlying muscle and connective tissue.
The damaged area measured only a few centimeters.
The young sailor would almost certainly limp for the rest of his life.
After overcoming the most difficult stage, they continued downward.
While Gawen carefully removed the infected tissue from the lower leg, Ebrose cleaned and dressed the wound around the knee.
The foot proved equally troublesome.
Every cut demanded painstaking precision.
Especially around the toes.
Several toenails had to be removed entirely.
Hours later…
The surgery was finally complete.
“Done.”
Gawen set down his instruments.
Without anyone noticing, he quietly cast a purification spell over both himself and the surgical tools.
Nearby, a bucket contained every piece of diseased tissue they had removed.
All of it would be burned.
Lige Manipulation Proficiency +15
Current Level 2 (93/500)
Rebirth Incarnation Proficiency +8
Current Level 2 (89/500)
Natural Energy Consumed: -35
Current Natural Energy: 117/180
Gawen noticed another change on his status panel.
His Life Manipulation proficiency increased far more rapidly during actual surgery than through ordinary treatment or study.
Practical experience was vastly more effective than reading books.
Each operation appeared to grant roughly fifteen to twenty points of proficiency.
At that pace…
Another twenty surgeries of similar difficulty should be enough to raise Life Manipulation to Level 3.
“You truly are gifted.”
Ebrose smiled bitterly.
“No wonder Walgrave and Vaellyn both spoke so highly of you before the Conclave.”
“Thank you, Archmaester.”
Gawen returned the smile.
“Do you think it was a success?”
“It’s too early to say.”
Ebrose shook his head.
“You removed every visible section of infected tissue.”
“But whether the procedure truly works…”
“Only time will tell.”
He looked around the operating room.
“I trust you can handle the cleanup?”
“Of course.”
Gawen carefully transferred the unconscious sailor onto a rough wheeled cot and returned him to the infirmary.
For a spellcaster…
Cleaning the operating chamber required only a few minutes.
Some time later, Ebrose finally delivered his verdict.
“You succeeded.”
The old maester spoke quietly.
“The boy will live.”
“He’ll walk with a crippled leg for the rest of his life…”
“But he’ll live.”
Gawen hesitated before asking,
“Archmaester…”
“Did greyscale…
affect someone close to you?”
“I couldn’t help noticing your reaction.”
Ebrose fell silent.
Finally, he answered.
“My own mentor.”
“Archmaester Nylen.”
“The previous Archmaester of Healing.”
“He contracted greyscale.”
His voice carried unmistakable regret.
“The infection began in his arm.”
“He survived only six months.”
“My condolences.”
Gawen nodded in understanding.
“But now…”
“You have a way to treat patients in the early stages.”
“You know what must be done.”
“Remove the infected tissue before it spreads.”
“And perhaps…”
He paused.
“One day, your chemists will discover a medicine capable of curing the disease completely.”
“…Perhaps.”
Ebrose gave a slow nod.
“Perhaps they will.”
He regarded Gawen with genuine admiration.
“You would have made an exceptional maester.”
Both of them knew the truth.
Ebrose knew the meaning of the Rowan name.
And he knew equally well…
That the heir to House Rowan would never swear the vows of a maester.
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