The True Heir of the Andal Conquerors, the True Andal King

Oldtown.

The bells of the Starry Sept tolled heavily, echoing through the damp air along the Honeywine River.

Within the Citadel, in the room belonging to the historian Maester Perestan.

There was only the occasional cry of gulls from outside the window.

The apprentice Mollander was carefully brushing dust from the bookshelves with a feather duster.

Every book here was older than his grandfather, and every scroll of parchment might record the rise and fall of some extinct house.

His movements were gentle, for fear of disturbing the dead souls sleeping within the ink.

Maester Perestan was not in the room, which allowed Mollander to relax a little.

As the most renowned—and strangest—historian at the Citadel.

Maester Perestan was almost obsessively strict about the classification of books.

Mollander walked to the enormous oak desk, intending to sort through the manuscripts the maester had left behind the previous night.

Spread across the desk was a heavy tome, the book Maester Perestan treasured most: Andal Conquest War.

Its pages had yellowed, its edges curled, and it gave off the stale scent of mildew and ink.

Mollander instinctively glanced at the still-wet ink on the page.

It was a page the maester had recently added. The ink was fresh and gleaming black.

Upon a page filled with the names of the dead, a name Mollander knew all too well suddenly leaped into view.

Suleiman.

Mollander's hand froze in midair.

He was not surprised.

After all, no one on the Westeros Continent could avoid that name now.

Whether in tavern gossip or messages carried by maesters' ravens.

This young man's name appeared more often than a king's.

He was destined to be written into history.

Yet what puzzled Mollander was where that name had appeared.

Maester Perestan had actually added Suleiman's name to the