[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 121 - 125

Chapter 121: Son of Fire

The party continued their descent beneath the city.

Wisdom Hallyne extolled the capabilities of the Alchemists' Guild and the manifold virtues of wildfire as they walked, his voice echoing against the tunnel walls. Joffrey smiled and nodded with feigned interest while using magical sound transmission to speak privately with Tyrion.

"Is the strength of King's Landing enough to wipe out the rebels?" he asked, his voice resonating directly in Tyrion's mind.

How could Tyrion possibly say no to his king?

"The lords of the North have assembled more than twenty thousand troops," Joffrey continued, genuine displeasure creeping into his tone. "Yet they march north instead of south."

Though he had personally agreed to the North marching northward, the stark contrast in these lords' attitudes before and after rankled him deeply. They had scraped together mere thousands to deal with him, yet mustered their full strength for Stark—a blatant slap across the royal face if ever there was one.

And Lord Eddard Stark had not only acquiesced to the North's isolation but had failed to secure adequate support from the Riverlands and the Vale. With Eddard's status and reputation, his influence over those regions should have been far greater.

Yet the Vale remained steadfastly neutral, and the lords of the Riverlands had offered tepid responses at best. Materials and supplies had not been delayed, true enough, but neither had they charged a copper penny less than full value. To support twenty thousand soldiers and fill the bellies of hundreds of thousands within the city walls, not only the royal treasury but the entire wealth of King's Landing was hemorrhaging at an alarming rate.

With such paltry support, who would believe the royal house and the Starks were bound by marriage alliance?

Joffrey knew the most fundamental reason. The whispers about Renly and Lysa had ultimately seeded suspicion in Lord Eddard's mind. Coupled with his disgust for House Lannister and his disdain for political maneuvering, Eddard had chosen escape over alliance.

If not for Sansa, Jon, and the others remaining in King's Landing—and the existence of divine grace—perhaps Eddard's stance would have proven even more adversarial.

Joffrey could not help but wonder if a marriage alliance with Highgarden might prove more valuable. At the very least, the Tyrells appeared genuinely willing to provide troops.

"The marriage with the direwolf was supposed to bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms," he mused silently to Tyrion. "Yet the support from the North remains virtually unchanged from before."

Only a dozen years past, many lords of the Riverlands and the Vale had chosen to defy their liege lords for the Targaryen royal family—at greater risk and greater cost. These facts had laid bare the true thoughts of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.

Though House Baratheon had inherited the Iron Throne with some claim to Targaryen blood, the lords had never fully transferred their centuries of loyalty to the new dynasty. The Seven Kingdoms were fracturing before his eyes.

Joffrey delivered his final judgment to Tyrion: "Those who contribute more shall be qualified to sit in positions of greater favor."

Tyrion pondered these words with growing unease. Could Joffrey be planning to alter the marriage contract? Would such a course be wise? Though deeply concerned, he was not fool enough to ask directly. Silence was his only recourse.

The slope of the tunnel gradually leveled beneath their feet.

"Your Grace, the Iron Torch Corridor lies ahead," announced Hallyne, his voice taking on a mysterious quality. "Within it lies the secret of wildfire."

Tyrion peered forward through the gaps between several figures blocking his view. Emerald light spilled through the narrow spaces.

The party finally emerged from the tunnel.

Before them stretched a narrow, empty corridor. Walls and ceiling of black marble surrounded them, though now shrouded in an eerie emerald glow that cast strange shadows upon their faces.

Tyrion raised his gaze to look down the length of the passageway.

Along both sides of the corridor stood pairs of black iron pillars, each standing two feet high. Around these iron pillars danced green flames, like torches that had been lit at the beginning of the world and would burn until its end.

So these were the "Iron Torches."

Hallyne explained with unmistakable pride, "Using these iron torches, the Guild produces a considerable amount of wildfire each day. Now this number"—he chuckled, a sound like dry parchment rustling—"is a full two hundred jars."

Two hundred jars. The thought of such quantity still left Hallyne breathless with excitement.

Two hundred jars meant a monthly output of six thousand—comparable to all the Guild's reserves accumulated over years past and enough to sustain a massive battle. How many souls would be consumed by wildfire, dying in unspeakable agony?

Tyrion shook his head and sighed. "Magnificent iron torches indeed, but I fear today's output will be greatly reduced."

Simply by observing the green light and fire, Tyrion could imagine the tremendous consumption of wildfire such a display required.

Hallyne gazed at the king with naked flattery. "Your Grace's presence—no matter the cost—cannot compare to the Guild's excitement and gratitude."

Joffrey remained noncommittal. "What I seek today is not wildfire. You are prepared, I trust?"

Hallyne nodded repeatedly, his head bobbing like a bird's. "Of course, how dare I disturb Your Grace without making the most thorough preparations? The rituals and spells stand ready."

To capture the king's attention, Hallyne had scoured the ancient tomes of the Guild for a full sennight, carefully collecting every fragment of knowledge required to perform long-forgotten magics. All was prepared for the experiment at hand.

"Your Grace, it awaits in the hall beyond the corridor."

Hallyne diligently led the way, occasionally turning to recount the Guild's glorious history, offering assurances that this demonstration would surely satisfy His Grace the King.

Joffrey cast a casual glance at the iron torches lining their path, the emerald flames reflected in his eyes.

This corridor was not unfamiliar to him.

Though this marked his first physical visit to the Alchemists' Guild, he had observed it many times through magical means. The secret of wildfire had been revealed to him long ago.

The primary ingredient for wildfire was a viscous black liquid, not unlike unrefined oil. The pyromancers poured this substance into the hollow interior of the iron torch, then mixed it with precise proportions of sulfur, rosin, and resin, initially fusing these raw materials at extreme temperatures.

At this stage, the liquid took on a blackish-green hue before being channeled through connected pipes into a secret chamber deeper within the Guild.

There, the pyromancers chanted incantations and made curious gestures with their hands. Joffrey quickly noted that their movements shared certain rhythmic similarities with Melisandre's dance.

Thereafter, familiar patterns appeared in the air—patterns resembling fire runes, identical to those Melisandre had conjured.

Did the alchemists share some connection with the Lord of Light? Or perhaps with other powerful entities commanding the power of flame?

He continued his observation, keen-eyed.

The runes floating in the air began to sprinkle colorful starlight. This radiance merged with the large vat of oil at the center of the secret chamber, gradually transforming the uppermost layer of liquid to an emerald green—wildfire in its purest form.

Colorful starlight.

Joffrey immediately recognized the significance. What manner of magic was this? Was not all magic pure monochrome?

This represented a major discovery.

Following this revelation, he had asked Melisandre to perform additional spells. Most had indeed emitted monochrome light, yet a select few produced colorful illumination, and these seemed to yield more complex effects.

Could higher-level runes create different magics, thereby achieving more refined and diverse outcomes?

Joffrey's questions multiplied rather than diminished.

If this were true, why divide magic into so many different runes? Why not simply employ a single, universal type?

Or did an omnipotent rune exist that he had yet to encounter?

The answer remained elusive.

The wildfire within the iron torches burned fiercely as Joffrey gazed ahead.

Regardless, the path forward in rune magic had been marked. Higher-level runes, once glimpsed, must be obtained.

His immediate task was clear: collect runes, accumulate knowledge, and await the opportunity that would surely come.

Hallyne, leading the procession, came to a halt.

The Iron Torch Corridor lay behind them now. The party stood upon a circular elevated platform overlooking a vast hall below.

Joffrey peered downward.

Dozens of figures scurried about, arranging the components for some elaborate ceremony.

Hallyne offered a devout prayer, his voice hushed with reverence: "May the gods grant their blessing. May the Son of Fire be born without complication."

Joffrey, too, found himself filled with anticipation.

Chapter 122: Spells and Crystals

A chilling white light shone down from above, bathing the chamber in an unearthly glow.

All the assistants and apprentices gazed upward in reverent awe. The King stood behind a pure white orb of light so dazzling that his face became indistinct, as if he were some divine messenger too holy for mortal eyes to behold.

Hallyne and several Wisdoms, having descended into the hall, could not help but look about them in wonder.

In the brilliant illumination, every detail of the ancient chamber was revealed—stone walls weathered by centuries, massive pillars carved with forgotten symbols, narrow tunnels branching off into darkness, intricate patterns etched into wooden panels, heavy doors of ancient oak bound with black iron, and obsidian platforms that resembled sacrificial altars.

What a magnificent hall, Hallyne thought with swelling pride, a glorious masterpiece crafted by the Guild's forebears! He drank in every detail with excitement.

In all his decades of service, this was the first time he had beheld the hall in such perfect clarity.

Though the chamber lay some distance from the wildfire storage, caution dictated that no flame should risk igniting the volatile substance stored deep below. This prudence, coupled with long-standing traditions, had led the Guild to employ only sealed oil lamps for illumination, never braziers or open torches.

Even the Iron Torch Corridor, situated closer to the surface, typically contained no exposed flames except during moments of supreme importance—such as welcoming the King.

Hallyne glanced up at King Joffrey, the radiant white light obscuring His Grace's features as if one were staring directly into the sun itself. Fortunately, he could just make out the King's nod of approval.

Receiving this silent command, Hallyne turned his attention to the black stone altar positioned at the center of the hall, where the sacrifices had already been arranged with meticulous care.

Today, at this very moment, the Guild would rise again from obscurity. The alchemists would reclaim their ancient glory, if only the Flame Child could be successfully brought into being.

Hallyne anxiously inspected the ritual preparations.

The outer walls of the altar had been painted with magical symbols transcribed from ancient texts, using ink concocted from a mixture of blood, sulfur, powdered silver, and wildfire itself.

Nine wooden crosses stood upon the altar, the sacrifices bound securely to them, unmoving in their fateful positions.

Three sacrifices had been slaughtered earlier, their blood flowing in thin rivulets along the carved channels in the altar's surface.

Another three wore nooses around their necks, awaiting the moment when flames would rise. Assistants stood ready to strangle them instantly, offering their souls and deaths to the ritual's completion.

The final three sacrifices slept in drugged oblivion, still untouched and unharmed.

All nine surrounded a great vat brimming with wildfire.

Hallyne withdrew a rolled parchment from within his robes, scrutinizing the ancient incantation transcribed upon it word by word, ensuring no errors had been made that might render their efforts worthless.

This incantation required nine recitations, alternating between three languages, each repeated thrice. Hallyne and his fellow Wisdoms had labored for many days to determine its precise meaning, then spent countless hours practicing until they could chant it flawlessly, without hesitation or stumbling.

Finally, he cast his gaze to the floor beneath them.

Crystal stones bestowed by the King outlined a hexagonal array some twelve feet across upon the ground. The black stone altar bearing the sacrifices occupied the center of this hexagram, while Hallyne and five other Wisdoms positioned themselves at each point of the six-sided figure.

This hexagrammic array was not specified in the ancient texts.

Yet Hallyne's greatest confidence resided precisely in this additional magical circle—or rather, in the crystal stones containing the power of divine grace.

Records of ancient rituals were not uncommon in the Guild's archives, and Hallyne believed his predecessors must have attempted this very ceremony many times before, with predictable results: the lost arts had remained stubbornly ineffective.

Those who came before had proposed many explanations for these failures. Dragons, perhaps. Magic itself. Or even the gods.

Hallyne had once been uncertain which theory to credit. But now, with merely a few crystal stones, the creation of wildfire could be vastly accelerated, even without additional incantations or magical circles.

Hallyne believed he understood why those ancient spells had failed. It was not dragons they had lacked, but the power contained within these crystalline vessels.

Would the Flame Child favor these crystal stones?

He drew a deep breath, allowing the damp, cold air to fill his nostrils and chest, calming his restless thoughts ever so slightly.

Then, he looked at each of the five other Wisdoms in turn, exchanging meaningful glances with each. In the silent communication between them, the mysterious ritual—lost for countless years—quietly commenced.

The six Wisdoms slowly unfolded the scrolls they held.

The first recitation of the incantation was in the Common Tongue brought to Westeros by the Andals. Hallyne and the others chanted in unison:

"Great Master of Blazing Flames and Life, You are—"

"Your followers gather here to pray... accept our sincerely offered sacrifices, respond to the call of the ritual..."

"Spirits of leaping flame..."

Their voices echoed throughout the spacious hall—trembling, intense, and filled with fanatical devotion, as if calling upon some long-forgotten god.

The second recitation shifted to High Valyrian, sounding more fluid and melodious, like poetry carved from air and fire.

The third employed the tongue of Asshai, its words short and strangely coherent, yet more mysterious and profound—utterly an obscure magical language.

Joffrey stood upon the elevated platform, watching in silence.

The incantation seemed ordinary enough—mere phrases in several languages, apparently simple to memorize and reproduce.

Yet Joffrey had conducted numerous experiments of his own.

The dances and incantations performed by Melisandre and the alchemists did not work for everyone who attempted them. Even if one were to replicate their movements and words precisely, with abundant source energy placed nearby, there remained no guarantee that the corresponding spells would function.

The true wellspring of magical power—those high-level runes that appeared so suddenly—likely stemmed from multiple powerful entities who screened those seeking to wield their power.

How was this response mechanism achieved?

What was their state of being, or His?

Did they possess human-like thoughts, intelligence, or emotions?

Joffrey knew only that They had not manifested physically in the world. Their reasons and motives remained shrouded in mystery.

"Great Master of Blazing Flames and Life..." The six Wisdoms within the magic circle began their second round of chanting.

Master of Blazing Flames and Life. Joffrey pondered this title carefully.

Did it refer to R'hllor, the Lord of Light?

Some other entity entirely?

Or was it merely a meaningless, grandiose appellation designed to lend the spell an air of mystery?

"Great Master of Blazing Flames and Life..."

The Wisdoms commenced their third round of chanting and began to make strange gestures, their movements growing faster and more frenzied, gradually transforming into a dance that mimicked flames themselves.

Bang!

The magical circle painted on the outer wall of the altar suddenly erupted in fire. Deep green flames wound upward, clinging to every black stone they touched, scorching the entire altar in their hungry embrace.

The assistants who had been waiting sprang into action, tightening the nooses and ending the lives of the three bound sacrifices.

The souls of the newly dead slowly dissipated in the air above their bodies.

Joffrey's eyes fixed upon the top of the altar.

Two complex patterns were drawing source energy from the crystal stones, transforming it into dense starlight that sprinkled down upon the altar like mystical rain.

The vat of wildfire at the center of the altar began to glow with an intense green luminescence.

The Wisdoms gradually retreated, their incantations and dance movements continuing unabated.

Tendrils of flame resembling snakes slithered across the outer wall of the altar, climbing onto the platform and converging toward the vat of wildfire at its center.

The Wisdoms abruptly ceased their chanting and fled frantically outward.

Boom!

The wildfire exploded with terrible force, shattering its container. Emerald flames instantly engulfed the entire altar.

The conflagration devoured the three unconscious sacrifices, who awoke in unimaginable agony. Their only response was to scream in utter despair until their throats were consumed and their bones reduced to ash.

Hallyne climbed up to the high platform, panting heavily as he approached the King's side.

Joffrey observed the altar with intense concentration.

The wildfire leaped and danced endlessly, emerald flames shooting upward some thirty feet. All nine sacrifices had been transformed to ash, leaving only six invisible souls hovering above the pyre.

Silver starlight entangled these wayward souls, slowly dragging them toward the passionately dancing wildfire that roared below.

Chapter 123: Little Gold

"Chirp~"

A sharp sound pierced through the emerald inferno atop the altar—short and keen, like fabric torn asunder by a sudden gale.

Everyone held their breath, awaiting whatever unknown change might come next.

"Chirp~ Chirp~"

The emerald flames began to subside of their own accord, flowing like liquid fire, curling inward toward the center, no longer clinging to the scorched stones and scattered ashes at the periphery.

This was surely no behavior that any common flame could exhibit!

Hallyne's eyes widened in anticipation. Elf, my Elf, Alchemist's Elf, come forth! his mind cried out in silent prayer.

As if hearing these unspoken summons, the viridian flames gradually dimmed and became translucent, their fierce color fading. Then, from within their midst, golden flames were born anew.

These aureate flames pulsated with irregular rhythm—sometimes expanding into a towering inferno several feet high, revealing faint human faces composed of fire that wailed in silent anguish; sometimes shrinking to a palm-sized flicker that threatened to extinguish entirely.

Hallyne's heart seemed to beat or cease with each fluctuation.

At last the golden flames stabilized, settling at a height of six feet. The leaping tongues of fire gradually converged, coalescing into a distinctly human shape.

Child of Fire!

Hallyne could not determine its gender—perhaps such elemental beings transcended such mortal distinctions.

The hall fell silent.

Under the collective gaze of all present, the entity opened its eyes. Bright and dark flames distinguished the whites from pupils, conveying emotions as clearly as any mortal visage.

Hallyne sensed that the Child of Fire was in good spirits.

"Chirp~" It tilted its head, looking left and right, examining everything around it with what appeared to be intense curiosity about the world it now inhabited.

Beyond any doubt, it lived. It was a sentient being.

Gasps and exclamations rose and fell throughout the chamber.

Tears welled in Hallyne's eyes, his lips trembling uncontrollably. He nearly fell to his knees in reverence.

Child of Fire!

How many years had passed since the Guild had created a truly undeniable miracle? Alchemists were no falsehood after all! They could do more than merely create wildfire—alchemy and fire spirits were the true masterworks of the wise!

Hallyne's mind raced. The Guild still possessed other spells and techniques in its ancient archives, arts that must also be rediscovered. Alchemists would return to their most glorious era, perhaps even surpass it!

He turned to King Joffrey with burning eyes, eager to witness the monarch's surprise and admiration.

Tyrion, quicker to respond than his royal nephew, provided Hallyne the reaction he craved. "What a shocking miracle of creation," the dwarf said with genuine wonder. "To exist in a body of pure flame—how terrifying, yet how marvelous."

"The alchemists truly deserve their reputation," Tyrion added sincerely, while privately wondering why Joffrey remained so calm and grave. Was this not what they had come to witness? Why did the king appear displeased? Was he still brooding over the Stark affair?

Joffrey's attention remained fixed upon the hexagram array etched into the hall's floor.

The birth of the Child of Fire was indeed cause for celebration. A fire spirit possessing intelligence would command considerable combat prowess while serving as both deterrent to enemies and inspiration to allies.

Yet he could not help but notice that the source energy contained within the crystals comprising the hexagram array continued to be consumed by the newborn entity.

It seemed the Child of Fire urgently required a steady supply of source energy for its survival.

Perhaps this explained the extinction of dragons as well. Magical creations relied upon magic to sustain their existence; once that magic weakened, the creations themselves perished.

Source energy might well be as necessary for the Child of Fire—and for dragons—as air was for men.

But the present situation gave cause for concern: the two runes had absorbed vast quantities of source energy during the ritual, and the remainder housed within the crystals amounted to less than ten units.

At the current rate of consumption...

Joffrey gazed at the unwitting Child of Fire and sent a message directly into its consciousness: "Little Gold, you are dying."

"Chirp!" The golden flames enveloping the entity suddenly flared upward several feet. Its head swiveled frantically, searching for whatever had just startled it so.

"Look up, Little Gold. Do you know what lies above?"

Little Gold? Above? It patted its fiery forehead, perplexed yet somehow finding this new world strangely familiar.

Am I... Little Gold?

Little Gold raised its gaze, and beheld a beautiful small man above, smiling down at it.

Strange. What are 'beautiful' and 'smiling'? What are 'people'? How do I know these things?

Little Gold grew increasingly confused. Apart from knowledge imparted by the inherited mark, it should know nothing of this world.

The inherited mark had instilled understanding of its nature: it was a spirit of fire, born to absorb and control flame, to aid its summoner, to protect kindred spirits, and to resist frost.

Above all else, it must remain in a place of strong magic, or face death.

It understood what death meant.

Death was the extinguishing of its flame, leaving nothing behind.

Little Gold contentedly sensed the abundant magic surrounding it. What a comfortable feeling—how could I possibly die?

"Little Gold, do you like the crystals upon the ground?"

Little Gold glanced downward.

Magic! There was magic in those shining objects, being absorbed by its inherited mark.

Yet something seemed amiss. What it should absorb was magic from the unknown place, the true wellspring of power.

Little Gold calmed itself and focused its senses.

The magic from that unknown place felt thin and barren—entirely insufficient!

Terror seized Little Gold's consciousness.

The magic within the shining objects was diminishing rapidly and would soon be depleted. When that happened...

I will die!

The flames comprising Little Gold's body churned with its turbulent emotions. It reverted to a formless inferno, its human shape entirely obscured.

"Little Gold, come to me."

Little Gold looked up to see the beautiful small man beckoning. Yes—he too harbored considerable magic within.

No, I shall not die.

Little Gold's eyes brightened, golden fire beaming toward the beautiful small man. If it could but claim that magic, its flames would continue to burn.

The Child of Fire moved its legs, taking its first steps since birth.

The magic within the crystals was utterly exhausted.

Little Gold immediately felt the inherited mark's desperate thirst for magic, accompanied by an omnipresent, indescribable pain and fear.

It hastened toward the beautiful small man.

But the mark could wait no longer. Without magic, it began to devour Little Gold's very substance without hesitation.

Amid exclamations from the onlookers, Little Gold summoned all its strength and leapt upward. Its flames danced wildly as it floated directly toward the beautiful small man. As it approached the source of magic, its remaining body had diminished until it stood no taller than the small man himself.

Little Gold might have sighed with relief, but to its horror, the mark failed to absorb the magic emanating from the beautiful human. It continued to consume Little Gold from within!

"Little Gold, do you want crystals?"

The human extended his hand, balancing a crystal upon his fingertip. Another kind of inedible magic accompanied his words: "Make a contract with me."

It's too late! Little Gold nodded frantically, attempting to touch the life-giving crystal.

The inedible magic entered its being.

Little Gold understood what a contract entailed—something even more constraining than a summoner's command.

But it had no choice.

The contract was sealed.

Joffrey lifted the restriction upon the restoration rune within the crystal, allowing source energy to flow into the Child of Fire, halting its imminent collapse.

The dazzling transformation finally subsided.

Everyone gathered around the newly formed entity.

Tyrion gazed at Little Gold and smiled with self-deprecation. "A Child of Fire, standing no taller than myself."

Little Gold, now shrunk to four feet in height, focused solely on clutching the life-saving crystal, paying no heed to the eyes and words of humans.

"Little Gold, do you want more crystals?"

It raised its head expectantly.

The beautiful human produced a handful of crystals, each one containing untold reserves of magic.

Chapter 124: Ogre

On the stone steps outside the Alchemists' Guild, Joffrey amused himself by toying with the fire spirit nestled in his palm.

The diminutive golden figure, standing but an inch tall, clutched a crystal nearly as large as itself, steadfastly ignoring its ill-tempered master's provocations.

After a portion of its essence had been devoured by the inheritance mark, the Fire Child now called "Little Gold" could manifest a solid form no taller than four inches at its fullest extent. To exceed this size would cause its form to grow increasingly tenuous and transparent, with the flames comprising its body becoming wild and unmanageable.

Little Gold had reluctantly accepted this four-inch limitation.

Yet its master, addressed by others as "Your Grace," had forced it to shrink smaller and smaller until it could be contained within the cup of his palm, preventing it from easily returning to its natural dimensions.

How could it endure such indignity?

Little Gold drew another sip of magic power from the crystal it embraced; so sweet, so reassuring, filling its being entirely.

Yes, it could endure this after all.

Without warning, a powerful force thrust upward from beneath. Little Gold watched as everything seemed to plummet downward with alarming speed. Then the palm beneath it suddenly inverted, tossing the tiny being onto a field of shimmering gold.

Two enormous fingers plucked the precious crystal from its arms, but mercifully, the magic contained within continued to flow upward, suffusing Little Gold's form.

Dazed, it clambered to its feet.

The golden meadow upon which it stood was encircled by a ring of gleaming walls, their surfaces adorned with curved, intertwining golden branches that formed intricate patterns of surprising beauty.

Gold. Crown. Little Gold recalled these words from some forgotten memory. This, then, was the top of its master's head.

Just as this realization dawned, the entire world spun violently, hurling Little Gold through the air. It crashed against the unyielding metal of the crown and hastily clung to the decorative branches for dear life.

Joffrey turned his head to address Hallyne, who walked beside him. "The Alchemists' Guild has performed admirably this time. What reward do you seek? Name it."

Hallyne bowed with practiced humility. "It is entirely due to Your Grace's divine favor that the Fire Child was successfully brought into being. Moreover, to have personally participated in such a miracle is already the highest honor—how could I presume to ask for any reward?"

He frequently glanced upward at the Fire Child perched upon the King's crown, his heart torn between pride and disappointment.

He had witnessed with his own eyes that while the Guild's inherited spells and rituals had indeed proven useful in the Fire Child's creation, the King's divine power had played an even more crucial role.

Without that divine grace, could the Guild ever hope to replicate such a marvel?

This thought kindled in Hallyne a burning desire to remove the Fire Child from atop the King's head for closer study—perhaps even to claim it for himself.

But Hallyne was not yet mad enough to attempt such folly.

"Hallyne, what would be the total price for ten thousand jars of wildfire?" Joffrey asked abruptly.

The Alchemists' Guild was not directly subordinate to the Iron Throne. To procure ten thousand jars of wildfire from the pyromancers would obviously require substantial payment.

Hearing the King's question, Hallyne's mind raced through countless possibilities.

Surely the King already knows our price. Does he think it too dear? Or does he wish to increase his order? Perhaps he intends to raise the price as a reward?

Not daring to maintain his silence for too long, Hallyne spoke quickly. "In truth, Your Grace, the wildfire manufacturing process carries extreme dangers. Over the years, assistants and apprentices have suffered unfortunate accidents, and the Guild must provide for their bereaved families."

Hallyne sought to defend his brethren's worth. "There are also costs for raw materials, daily expenses, safety measures, and debts accrued from past wildfire production. All manner of expenditures accumulate, making our work... not inexpensive."

"In total, ten thousand gold dragons." He carefully studied the King's expression for any hint of displeasure.

This was the price they had originally agreed upon.

Ten thousand gold dragons—when he had first quoted this sum, Hallyne had summoned considerable courage.

It was well known that ten thousand jars represented the Guild's largest commission in recent memory. The Guild's operations for years, perhaps even decades to come, might well depend upon this transaction.

Hallyne had felt compelled to inflate the price somewhat above the true cost.

After all, if they hoped to restore the Guild to its former glory, to attract fresh talent, and to conduct further research, gold was essential.

Of course, two or three thousand gold dragons would have been acceptable as well.

Yet remarkably, the royal treasury had accepted the price of ten thousand dragons without the slightest haggling.

Could the King now regret such generosity?

Contemplating the recent clearing operations in King's Landing and the King's Holy War army, Hallyne bowed even deeper, striving to convey utmost respect and submission.

Even one thousand gold dragons would suffice.

Joffrey regarded him with a dispassionate gaze. "You are familiar with the Research Department, I presume?"

Indeed, Hallyne knew this name well.

The Research Department, established barely a month past, had already garnered considerable renown throughout King's Landing.

Common folk whispered that the department housed mad scholars and monstrous aberrations, forever devising novel methods of dealing death and conducting inexplicable experiments.

To Hallyne, however, these sounded like kindred spirits. Were not the alchemists themselves slandered in much the same fashion by ignorant masses?

Hallyne also knew certain secrets withheld from most.

The Research Department's director—the notorious "Ogre" Qyburn—had been tasked with studying divine power and the divine power light screen!

Hallyne could scarcely contain his envy. He had already experienced Qyburn's remarkable achievements firsthand.

Before this very day, heeding the divine power light screen's prompting, Hallyne had prayed twice at the Prayer Stone.

After each prayer, Hallyne had noted subtle changes in the light screen itself. Some texts vanished, certain patterns and operations transformed, and the assigned tasks grew increasingly refined and frequent.

Following his second prayer, the light screen had begun to impart knowledge of writing and history, and revealed a vast "Sea of Books" containing seemingly limitless wisdom.

Hallyne had immersed himself in this Sea of Books for two days before realizing that its contents multiplied faster than any mortal could possibly absorb.

The light screen had assigned him the task "Accumulating Streams into the Sea." Hallyne had gathered several ancient scrolls, which the light screen had successfully incorporated into its repository, rewarding him with points for his efforts.

These points served little practical purpose as yet, being exchangeable only for grades of honor—symbols that looked impressive but held no tangible value.

Yet Hallyne suspected that these points would prove more valuable in time. The reason was simple: neither the King nor Qyburn would cease their ambitious pursuits.

Hallyne looked up at his sovereign.

What had Qyburn been before? Merely a scholar expelled from the Citadel. Now, by the King's favor alone...

By the King's favor, Qyburn had helped create the divine power light screen, applying his knowledge and wisdom to transform all of King's Landing—changes that would soon reshape the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps even the entire world.

This was truly the happiest home a wise man could hope for.

The Research Department.

The King's eyes remained calm and fathomless, and Hallyne believed he understood His Grace's intention.

He dropped to one knee. "Your Grace, I require no reward save this: allow me to join the Research Department. Hallyne will devote his heart and soul, offering eternal loyalty, exploring the power of divine grace and the mysteries of magic in Your Grace's name."

Joffrey nodded slightly. "The wisdom of Hallyne certainly merits such a position. However, this alone seems insufficient reward for your service."

Joffrey gently raised Hallyne to his feet. "All members of the Alchemists' Guild may join the Research Department and establish an Alchemy branch. You shall remain their director, equal in station to Qyburn himself. Does this arrangement please you?"

Hallyne then knew that the ten thousand gold dragons were utterly beyond reach.

"I am humbled by Your Grace's generosity."

Joffrey finally mounted his white stag and returned to the Red Keep, well satisfied with the day's accomplishments.

Halfway to his destination, Alyn, the Minister of Security, sent a rare message via the light screen: "Archmaester Marwyn of the Citadel has entered King's Landing."

Joffrey sighed softly. Today had proven busier than expected.

"Summon him to my presence," he commanded.

Chapter 125: The Magician

The evening sunlight had already dimmed beyond the windows.

Inside the King's bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast, however, it remained as bright as midday. This unnatural luminescence came not from the red glow of flames, but from the clear, white light emanating from dragon crystal orbs embedded in the vaulted ceiling.

In a side hall adjoining the royal apartments, Archmaester Marwyn—known to many as "the Magician"—awaited the King's summons. His gaze was fixed upon the glowing dragon crystal orbs overhead, his weathered face illuminated by their steady radiance.

This was magic, was it not? Or perhaps what King Joffrey had termed "divine grace"?

How did these dragon crystal orbs emit such perfect light? Why could the similar orbs at the riverside gate record information when visitors entered the city?

Was the King's rumored transformation into a giant truth or falsehood? Had Qyburn truly witnessed the light and flames with his own eyes?

Marwyn sank deeper into contemplation, his brow furrowed.

Servants brought tea to the three visitors, then, as if by unspoken agreement, began to observe the strangest among them—Archmaester Marwyn, who continued to stare upward, seemingly entranced.

The man wore a leather jerkin that had seen better days. He was short, stout, and powerfully built, with a large head, thick neck, and square, jutting chin. Rather than resembling a maester who wielded wisdom as his weapon, he looked more the part of a dockside brawler who frequented waterfront taverns.

Only the chain of many metals that hung around his neck matched his purported station.

This was a maester's chain, the visible symbol of his learning. Each different metal represented mastery in a specific field of knowledge, signifying that the wearer's attainments had been recognized and verified by the Citadel.

Marwyn had also been awarded a Valyrian steel link, along with the accompanying ring, rod, and mask.

These rare honors acknowledged him as a master in the esoteric fields of magic and the higher mysteries—a designation that earned him the title of "Archmaester" and permitted him to sit on the Conclave, help govern the Citadel, and participate in the election of the Grand Maester.

Despite these accolades, Archmaester Marwyn's life at the Citadel had been far from comfortable.

Marwyn understood the reason all too well.

The Citadel had long despised and actively opposed witchcraft, prophecies, and magic in all its forms. The order was committed to building a world that pursued rational knowledge and rejected mystical powers as superstition.

Because of this, the other archmaesters regarded him with exceptional revulsion for his obsession with magic and arcane knowledge. Archmaester Vaellyn, known for his sour disposition, had even bestowed upon him the mocking title "Marwyn the Magician."

Yet Marwyn embraced this name gladly.

For one who believed in and recognized the power of magic, the title of magician was no insult, but rather a blessing and a mark of distinction.

Magic—this was precisely the purpose and motivation for his long journey.

Qyburn's letter had mentioned many intriguing matters: the prophecies of the shadowbinders of Asshai, the bloodline of the Targaryens, King Joffrey's extraordinary coronation, mysterious flames and light, divine grace, a screen of light capable of transmitting messages instantaneously, and a newly formed research department dedicated to studying these phenomena.

Ordinary scholars would dismiss such claims as nonsense, but Marwyn was inclined to believe them.

He understood Qyburn's mind.

Qyburn and he were kindred spirits, both willing to face uncomfortable truths and pursue them relentlessly. Qyburn's only fault was his excessive zeal, which had made him unacceptable to conventional society—particularly to those gray sheep who populated the Citadel.

Marwyn was certain that Qyburn would not jest about matters of such gravity, and reports trickling out of King's Landing seemed to corroborate the most fantastical claims.

Compared to his own eight-year journey across the Narrow Sea—long, perilous, and ultimately fruitless in its exploration—Qyburn and King Joffrey's invitation was undeniably worth investigating.

It was like flipping an uncertain coin.

Heads, and his lifelong dreams might be realized. Tails, and he would merely lose some time—though perhaps face unknown dangers as well.

Marwyn had decided to toss this metaphorical coin.

The coin awaited him in King's Landing.

To reach it, his primary challenge had been leaving the Citadel and Oldtown without arousing suspicion.

The archmaesters of the Citadel were, in his estimation, nothing but gray-robed sheep, skilled only at poisoning, debating, and scheming against one another. Marwyn held little concern about the Citadel's attempts to obstruct him.

But these were times of war.

With the exception of Lord Paxter Redwyne, whose two sons were hostages in King's Landing, all the lords of the Reach had pledged loyalty to King Renly—including the Hightowers of Oldtown.

The movements of an archmaester would surely attract the attention of powerful families like the Hightowers.

Had he attempted to travel north to King's Landing by land, Marwyn doubted he would even have reached the Roseroad before being intercepted. The roads were crawling with soldiers who asked few questions before acting.

Marwyn had wisely chosen the sea route.

Under the pretense of exploring the Free City of Pentos, he had taken ship southward, circumnavigating Dorne before sailing north along the eastern coast to King's Landing—a reasonable plan that aroused minimal suspicion.

Unfortunately, Oldtown's harbor boasted only a few oared merchant vessels willing to sail so far north.

The numerous oarsmen aboard such ships lent them flexibility in navigation, but also necessitated frequent stops to replenish food, fresh water, and other supplies.

Both Dorne and the Stormlands—territories they would skirt on their journey—maintained unfriendly relations with King Joffrey's court. Though the true purpose of their voyage remained concealed, the risk increased with each landfall.

As a precaution, Marwyn had brought with him two acolytes of special backgrounds who shared his passion for adventure and magic.

Alleras, half-Dornish and known as "the Sphinx," had smoothed their passage through Dornish inspections.

Leo Tyrell, scion of the ruling house of Highgarden, had secured hospitable treatment at various ports in the Stormlands.

Their journey had proceeded without incident.

What pleased Marwyn even more was that the coin he had metaphorically tossed had indeed landed heads up.

Qyburn had not lied—at least, not entirely.

King's Landing truly seethed with mysterious power. Divine grace, magic—whatever name one gave it—years of searching had finally yielded tangible results.

Marwyn could scarcely wait to immerse himself in the study of this power, to glimpse the fundamental truths of the world that had eluded him for so long.

The sheep of the Citadel still dreamed of eliminating magic from the world? What folly!

The knowledge of the maesters might have contributed to the decline of dragons, but it could never truly alter the nature of existence. The world had always been what it was—a realm where magic, mystery, and mortal affairs intertwined inseparably.

After witnessing the changes in King's Landing firsthand, Marwyn felt even more certain of his convictions.

Had magic returned? No—it had never truly departed.

Marwyn's gaze finally moved away from the dragon crystal orbs. He stared into the depths of the bedchamber beyond, as if he could somehow perceive King Joffrey waiting within.

When would the summons come?

He could scarcely contain his impatience. He yearned to strike an agreement with the King this very night. Any conditions would suffice, provided they did not delay his meeting with Qyburn on the morrow.

After what seemed an eternity, a young handmaiden finally entered the side hall. "His Grace summons you," she announced. "All three of you together."

Marwyn rose immediately, took two steps forward, then turned back to beckon his companions. "His Grace summons us. Come quickly."

Alleras sprang up with nimble grace.

Leo Tyrell stretched lazily before rising to his feet with deliberate slowness.

. . .

"Greetings, Your Grace."

The three visitors stood at the center of the hall and offered their salutations in unison.

The King sat upon a throne at the chamber's far end. The young handmaiden who had led them and another girl with silver hair and violet eyes attended him closely.

Marwyn glanced to his left, where Qyburn stood with his gray-white hair. The former maester smiled at him—he had grown old in the years since they had last met.

Joffrey studied the two youths flanking Marwyn with careful attention.

The fair-haired young man on the left wore clothing of green and gold, his features bearing some resemblance to Ser Loras Tyrell. This would be Acolyte "Lazy" Leo Tyrell.

The slender youth on the right possessed black curly hair and light brown skin, with uncommonly bright eyes, and wore close-fitting green garments. This was Acolyte Alleras, called "the Sphinx," half-Dornish by birth.

Alleras, Joffrey pondered, recalling theories and conjectures from books he had once read. His mind swiftly calculated possibilities as his gaze swept over the youth. Indeed, a girl concealed beneath those masculine garments.

How interesting.

Alleras shuddered suddenly, as if sensing the weight of scrutiny upon her.