credit to Titch-IX
Even with the shutters firmly bolted against the howling winter wind, an insistent draft pushed its way through and set the candles to guttering. Munkun snatched up the fresh vellum sheet from his desk to spare the creamy white expanse from spatters of wax, and once again resented the fact that the pressures of office had forced him to confine his writing to the dark hours of the night. At this rate, I’ll be as blind as poor Tyland, he thought, my eyes burned out by over-much squinting. Granted, he rarely slept more than an hour or two a night these days, but writing by candle-light put unnecessary strain on his eyes and he would have much preferred to work by the light of day.
Unfortunately, Munkun’s days were entirely consumed with trying to hold Westeros together with parchment and ink, while the lords of the realm – the ones who are still currently breathing, he amended – busied themselves with the next civil war. The job of the Grand Maester of the Citadel ought to be dispense learned advice to the King of Westeros, but in the absence of anyone who cared, the stewards, cooks, pursers, and reeves had turned to him for help, and soon he found himself sending ravens to Highgarden begging for grain shipments and answering the petitions of knight’s widows and not having an hour of daylight left for the great work he was eager to begin.
Eying the candles warily, he dipped his quill in the ink jar, stirring it around a bit to stop the ink from sludging up from the cold, and began to write: