[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 46 - 50

Chapter 46: Night of the Crimson Scythe

Daenerys Targaryen found, to her surprise, that her memory of Westeros had grown strangely distant, like a dream half-remembered upon waking. The lands of her birthright, never seen with her own eyes, had become shrouded in fog.

Her gaze lingered on the map as the scroll unfurled before her. The familiar names emerged one by one: first the North with its ancient forests and snow-capped mountains, then the verdant Riverlands cross-crossed by blue veins of water, the towering peaks of the Vale, the storm-wracked Iron Islands, the golden Westerlands, the fertile Crownlands, the fierce Stormlands, and the bountiful Reach.

And finally, Dorne, with its red mountains and endless sands.

She expected the scroll to continue, perhaps to show the Summer Sea that separated her from her homeland, but she realized her error as the rod rolled to its end.

Upon the final section of parchment lay a gleam of silver, cold and unsettling as winter moonlight. She blinked once, and in that heartbeat, a large hand moved with such speed it left ghostly traces in the air, snatching away the silver light and removing it entirely from her sight.

In less than the span of a breath, the agonized, rage-filled cry of the man beside her jolted her back to the present moment.

She raised her head, her mind still fogged with confusion.

A dagger protruded from Khal Drogo's broad chest, its hilt adorned with silver filigree that caught the light of the braziers.

Ser Jorah Mormont was locked in desperate combat with the dying Khal, his longsword ringing against the wicked curved edge of the arakh that flashed like a sliver of moon.

The feast erupted into chaos. Tables crashed over, benches were kicked aside, and the metallic scrape of steel leaving scabbards filled the air. Curses in a dozen tongues mingled with screams of terror and frantic pleas for mercy. It sounded like the ending of the world itself.

Daenerys knelt weakly upon the platform, watching with wide violet eyes as madness unfolded around her. The quicker among the guests scrambled away from the dais that was swiftly transforming into a vision of the seven hells.

Three bloodriders and a dozen Dothraki warriors surged toward their fallen Khal with murder in their eyes.

In the confusion, Alyn snatched the sword from Viserys's belt and made straight for Magister Illyrio, who stood frozen in shock nearby, suddenly bereft of his customary guards.

"No—" was all the fat magister managed before the sharp steel pierced his throat. Aerys withdrew the blade with a savage twist.

Illyrio collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing in death's embrace. Bloody froth choked his final words, forcing a wet, gurgling cough from his lips before the tearing sound of his last breath faded into silence.

Alyn laughed with wild abandon, his eyes alight with feverish triumph.

The Dothraki turned toward the sound, their gazes fierce and hungry for blood.

Alyn hastily dropped the crimson-stained sword and dragged the hysterically screaming Beggar King toward Khal Bono and Khal Jhaqo.

"Khal Bono, Khal Jhaqo," he spoke in carefully memorized Dothraki, "will you not claim countless gold, wine, and slaves? The moment is now or never! We still need the city gates!"

Bono and Jhaqo exchanged impassive glances, unmoved by his urgency.

Alyn felt true panic rising within him. At any moment, Jorah Mormont might be hewn into pieces by the arakh of a dying man with nothing to lose.

Suddenly, a frenzied, grief-stricken wail pierced the air from the direction of the fallen Khal.

Alyn struggled to contain the surge of dark joy that threatened to bloom across his face. Drogo is dead?

Bono and Jhaqo exchanged knowing glances.

Two days past, the iron-clad Andal had brought this small man before them, and he had shared a plan sweet as summer wine.

Drogo was dead.

Drogo had no sons. After him, who would claim this khalasar?

Any khal might seek to take it, but more likely the khalasar would splinter, with khals taking their khas to form new, smaller khalasars.

But what if one or two khals could avenge their fallen leader, rewarding every warrior with gold and slaves beyond counting?

More and more Dothraki were drawn to the platform's edge by the spreading chaos.

They witnessed the blood-soaked scene—the fallen bloodriders, the Andal knight still fighting, corpses strewn like autumn leaves.

Their eyes turned to their khals for direction.

Khal Bono and Khal Jhaqo recognized many of their own khas among the gathered warriors.

The two exchanged another meaningful glance, each understanding the other's intent without words.

Two arakhs flashed like twin crescents of death, sweeping toward the remaining witnesses on the platform. Seven or eight lives were severed in the span of a few heartbeats.

Khal Bono raised his blood-slick arms and bellowed, "The Pentoshi magisters conspired with the bloodriders and these outlanders to murder Khal Drogo! Avenge your Khal! Slaughter these grass-eating scum!"

Khal Jhaqo's voice joined his, "Quickly, protect the iron-clad man!"

Their two khas were the strongest, and through careful arrangement, the two khals' men comprised more than half the crowd gathered at the feast.

The warriors obeyed without hesitation, howling their battle cries as they joined the slaughter, immediately gaining overwhelming advantage through numbers and surprise.

Someone tried to speak the truth of Khal Drogo's death, but the words died in their throat as more and more arakhs flashed through the air, their distinctive whistling drowning out all protests.

What followed was a bloody purge, swift and merciless as winter.

Finally, Alyn, who had been waiting with bated breath, slumped to the ground in relief. It seemed he would not join the dead this day.

The battle ended as quickly as it had begun.

Khal Bono and Khal Jhaqo led their warriors away from the blood-soaked feast grounds, moving with purpose toward new prey.

The area near the platform grew eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the soft gurgling of the dying.

Jorah, his armor spattered with blood, stood before Alyn, leaning heavily on his sword. "Drogo was indeed a warrior worthy of respect," he admitted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Perhaps much stronger than me."

Alyn smiled thinly. "Then how is it you stand here while he does not?"

Jorah's lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "He was injured first, and he lacked this armor that only cowards would wear," he tapped his breastplate, "and it was close-quarters infantry combat. The Dothraki are still better fighters on horseback than on foot. It would be strange indeed if I were the one lying dead."

Alyn pretended not to notice the bloody gashes that marked Jorah's exposed flesh. In truth, he understood that such wounds were mere scratches in the chaos of melee combat, badges of honor rather than signs of defeat.

He surveyed the scene around them.

The Beggar King cowered nearby, muttering incoherently to himself. Daenerys remained on her knees, still as a statue carved from pale marble.

He rose and approached the princess. "Your Highness," he said with a bow that mocked courtesy, "Alyn is honored to inform you that we will soon be returning to King's Landing. The Crown Prince awaits your arrival."

Daenerys turned her head with painful slowness, regarding with horror this servant she had never fully trusted.

Ser Jorah moved to reassure her. "Your Highness, there is no cause for fear. So long as you offer no resistance, no harm will come to you—not from us, nor from His Grace the King, nor from the Crown Prince."

Daenerys understood with sickening clarity that the "Grace" of whom he spoke was the Usurper, not her brother.

She curled into herself like a wounded animal with nowhere left to flee.

Khal Bono and Khal Jhaqo, having dispersed to eliminate any remaining "outsiders," returned with two groups of mounted warriors at their backs.

The harsh sounds of Dothraki filled the air.

Jorah translated for Aerys. "They demand you fulfill your promise—open the gates of Pentos and allow them to avenge their Khal."

Alyn sighed with feigned sadness. "The magisters were too rash. How could they assassinate the Khal merely because they feared his power? A pity that now the beautiful Pentos must endure the Dothraki's wrath."

"Tell them they may depart now."

The sun had fully surrendered to night by then.

Pentos remained oblivious to the approaching storm. The grasslands beyond the walls were neither so near nor so far that the commotion would seem unusual—after all, would mounted barbarians truly attack a walled city under cover of darkness?

With such comforting thoughts, coupled with the fact that the city gates had long been undermanned, the guards who were paid to protect Pentos enjoyed their evening meal, unaware of the sharp blades waiting in the shadows.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats grew louder.

A lone figure rode slowly toward the city gate. The waiting mercenaries recognized the signal.

The guards who sat together breaking bread were utterly unprepared. Nearly half were killed or wounded in the first clash of steel. The remaining guards and scattered civilians in the distance could offer no timely aid.

Yet before the mercenaries could secure the gate—

Rumble...

The ground trembled violently beneath their feet, and a low, oppressive thunder rolled from beyond the walls, punctuated by faint cheers and savage howls.

The charge of forty thousand Dothraki screamers.

Jorah led the Dragon siblings through the city gate first. After joining with Alyn, they spurred their mounts faster and faster, galloping wildly toward the western harbor.

Mere heartbeats later, countless Dothraki horsemen poured through the breached gate like a tide of death.

The mercenaries who had harbored illusions of control and the few guards still resisting were trampled into bloody mud beneath countless hooves.

The Dothraki swept into Pentos like a storm of steel and flesh.

Amidst the crimson tableau stood Khal Jhaqo—no, Khal Jhaqo now in truth.

He proclaimed in a voice like thunder, "The Pentoshi people used gifts to purchase the great khalasar's mercy, but now they have shattered the sacred oath and murdered Khal Drogo through treachery! Unforgivable!"

He raised his bloodied arakh high above his head, the curved blade catching the light of the first fires. "As punishment, take your fill of blood and plunder! Warriors!"

The answering roar of the Dothraki horde shook the very stones of Pentos. Their bloodlust and greed were fully awakened. They would avenge their Khal!

No blade would taste its scabbard this night.

Everything that lived was prey to be hunted.

Fortunately, Alyn and his companions had already reached the ship waiting in the harbor. A moment later, and Alyn would not have known whether the Dothraki arakhs would recognize friend from foe in their frenzy.

The ship had already weighed anchor.

Alyn and Jorah stood upon the deck, watching as Pentos grew brighter and brighter with spreading flames.

That was the firelight of death, painting the night sky red as a Targaryen banner.

Alyn felt both exhilaration and unease mingling in his breast. The mission was complete, but would Her Highness forgive him for the blood night of Pentos?

Disordered footsteps approached from behind.

The captain and a dozen sailors appeared, clutching drawn swords. "Alyn," the captain said, his voice flat, "you know I am Pentoshi born."

Aerys positioned himself behind Jorah's armored bulk. "Your family is not in the city, are they? What do you intend?"

The burly captain spoke slowly, each word deliberate as a knife thrust.

"More coin."

How much coin? Aerys did not know, but he would soon discover the price of betrayal.

Chapter 47: Black Castle

"How many people dwell in Pentos?" Joffrey asked abruptly, turning to Tyrion who rode beside him upon a shaggy snow bear.

The dwarf gazed distantly at the Wall, a pale blue-white line smudged against the northern horizon. He wondered why the Crown Prince would think of a Free City across the Narrow Sea while they approached the edge of the world.

"Four or five hundred thousand within the walls, perhaps more," Tyrion answered after consideration. "With another million or two scattered through the surrounding countryside."

Joffrey nodded silently, but in his heart, he marveled at Alyn's significant achievement, understanding that Pentos was suffering a grievous calamity at this very moment.

He had witnessed the bloodbath in Pentos through his arts.

Though he had only acquired the runes for location, reconnaissance, and backtracking after Alyn set sail, and without preparing a proper medium in advance, he couldn't observe Alyn's every word and action. Yet there existed many objects connected to the city-state of Pentos that served as mediums: Pentoshi gold coins, bottles of amber wine, saffron packets, and dragon eggs, among others.

Using these mediums, he could employ the location rune to fix Pentos's position, then feed that information into the reconnaissance rune, allowing him to gaze upon Pentos from thousands of leagues away in the frozen North.

Since then, Joffrey had observed the situation in Pentos at regular intervals each day.

Last night's blood and fire had declared his victory as surely as any herald.

Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen would soon fall into his hands, Pentos had suffered a grievous blow that would take years to recover from, and relations between the Dothraki and the Free Cities would inevitably deteriorate, likely returning to their natural state of bitter opposition.

In such circumstances, would the Dothraki khalasars still risk crossing the Narrow Sea by ship, as the Spider had planned?

Varys and Illyrio's grand conspiracy had come to naught.

Without the Beggar King and Daenerys as shields and distractions, the boy they called Young Griff—the so-called "Little Aegon" whom they truly supported for restoration—had lost a vital ally and would find it nigh impossible to continue gathering strength silently on the continent of Essos.

What would the Spider's reaction be?

Joffrey knew that Varys would learn of Pentos's fate within days. When that happened, would the eunuch lurking in the Red Keep choose to flee... or to kill?

He chose to place his faith in Hanna's determination and the Lannister forces that remained in King's Landing. The gold of Casterly Rock purchased loyalty as surely as any vow.

"Your Highness," Benjen Stark spoke, breaking the prince's reverie. "We'll reach Castle Black before nightfall. It's the largest of the three remaining active fortresses among the nineteen castles along the Wall, and serves as headquarters for the Night's Watch."

Joffrey spared him a brief glance. "Now is not the time for such concerns. After I ascend the Iron Throne, I shall begin to improve the circumstances of the Night's Watch."

Benjen almost couldn't help but ask, "How long will that be?" but fortunately, the words died on his lips before they could escape.

Benjen was not alone in lamenting the decline of the Night's Watch. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, old Maester Aemon who had seen a hundred namedays, and all the brothers who felt true kinship with the ancient order could only watch helplessly as their brotherhood withered day by day.

The Night's Watch had once been heralded as the shield that guards the realms of men, but now it was merely a ragtag force defending against wildling raids.

The Night's Watch had once stood as a symbol of honor and dedication, with many knights, nobles, and sons of good families volunteering to take the black, but now only criminals, bastards, and unwanted noble offspring were sent to serve their sentences upon the Wall.

The Night's Watch had once boasted tens of thousands of brothers, garrisoned in nineteen formidable fortresses, enough to resist all enemies from beyond, but now fewer than a thousand men guarded the hundreds of leagues of ice that was the Wall.

Benjen believed that the wildling woman had spoken truly of the secret passage.

Why should he doubt it? Thinking on it carefully, there were too many abandoned places along the Wall. What difference would one secret passage make?

He could send men to block this particular breach, but if the Night's Watch continued its decline, who would remain to guard the next secret passage discovered? And if things grew worse still, would the wildlings even need to sneak across the border at all?

Benjen watched Joffrey's straight back as the prince rode ahead.

Besides the North, the Crown Prince was the only figure of importance in the Seven Kingdoms who still seemed to believe in the value of the Night's Watch.

The scene of King Robert's sudden death unbidden flashed through his mind, and Benjen quickly shook his head, casting the treasonous thought far away.

Gods forgive me, he prayed silently. That was not my intention, absolutely not.

Benjen could not see what lay ahead, but a secret smile flitted across Joffrey's lips as if he had sensed the ranger's disloyal thoughts.

The time was midday, and the cold wind howled across the barren landscape, carrying the promise of snow.

The Wall grew larger and larger in their vision, higher and higher until it gradually consumed the entire horizon.

Sunlight fell directly upon the blue-white serpent that stretched across the northern edge of the world, and crystal-clear azure light seemed to flicker with the giant structure's breathing, as though it were alive.

Gods above and below, Tyrion thought with awe.

Its boundless body seemed to contain all the ice in the world, reaching from the frost-rimed Gorge in the west to the frozen fingers of the Bay of Seals in the east.

Tyrion rode in solemn silence. Having witnessed the existence of magic with his own mismatched eyes, how could he still doubt the greatness and mystery of the Wall?

Being able to hold back the Others, those terror-wrights of legend, the Wall must possess power beyond mortal comprehension.

The party drew closer.

They beheld Castle Black nestled at the foot of the Wall, but even though it was large enough to house thousands, it appeared as nothing more than an insignificant cluster of weathered stone beneath the towering barricade of ice.

More than a dozen men in black cloaks rode forth to greet them, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air.

"Your Highness," called a bald old man with a long gray beard, "all the brothers of the Night's Watch have been awaiting your arrival. It is a great honor for Castle Black to serve you."

Joffrey nodded with a gracious smile that did not reach his eyes.

Benjen Stark urged his mount forward and embraced the old man warmly. "Lord Commander, I've returned."

The Lord Commander clapped him hard on the back. "Benjen, you've finally come back to us. I've lost what little hair I had left waiting for you. The Wall truly cannot spare you for even a day."

Even the normally solemn Benjen showed the ghost of a smile. "Commander's hair was already long gone before I left. You can hardly blame that on me."

Laughter rippled through the assembled men, a rare sound at Castle Black.

Lord Commander Mormont greeted Yoren and the others in turn, exchanging warm words with each man of the Watch.

Joffrey listened to their conversation, gradually matching the names in his memory with the weathered faces before him.

Beside Mormont stood his steward, Eddison Tollett, called "Dolorous Edd" for his perpetual gloom;

The ruddy-faced fat man was the Night's Watch's First Steward, Bowen Marsh, who managed the day-to-day operations of the Watch;

The stern-looking man who seemed born without the capacity to smile was the Night's Watch's master-at-arms, Ser Alliser Thorne;

The man with the protruding chin and perpetual scowl was the First Builder, Othell Yarwyck;

The one-armed but powerful man with the imposing belly was Donal Noye. He had once served as blacksmith to House Baratheon, personally forging Robert's fearsome warhammer and Stannis's first sword.

The observation that "Robert is true steel, Stannis is pure iron, and Renly is copper, bright and pretty but not worth much in a fight" had come from Noye's lips.

Stannis certainly seemed like pure iron—unyielding and brittle. As for Renly...

Joffrey wanted desperately to believe the assessment of Renly's worth, but as long as the Lord of Storm's End drew breath, he would not underestimate so dangerous a rival. Pretty copper could still shine brightly enough to blind men to truth.

Lord Commander Mormont approached Joffrey once more.

"Your Highness, Castle Black has fallen into disrepair over the years. We have done our utmost to make the King's Tower suitable for your stay. I hope you will not find it wanting."

Joffrey waved a dismissive hand. "You have gone to too much trouble, Lord Commander. How could I possibly find fault?"

He adopted an expression of determination and addressed the assembled men of the Night's Watch in a carrying voice: "You are all valiant heroes of the realm. The Seven Kingdoms will not forget your sacrifices. I swear by my position as Crown Prince that the Night's Watch shall regain its former glory within a year or two of my reign!"

The crowd erupted in grateful cheers, though their eyes held the wary hope of men who had heard promises before.

Yet Joffrey knew in his heart that perhaps only Tyrion, Jon Snow who had seen little of the world beyond Winterfell, and to some extent Benjen and Yoren truly believed his grand words.

It mattered little. The ancient secrets of the Wall beckoned to him like a siren's call.

The royal party rode through the gates of Castle Black.

And there, amid the crumbling towers and wind-swept courtyards, Joffrey sensed it at last—the ancient, powerful, and sweet aura of old magic that permeated every ice crystal of the Wall.

I truly want it, he thought, his hunger growing. I shall have it all.

Chapter 48: Ancient Magic

Castle Black grew more desolate after the sun abandoned the sky. The shadows between the crumbling towers lengthened, and the wind's mournful keen grew sharper.

Bowen Marsh shivered as he fumbled with a large iron ring of keys, trying each one in turn to unlock the heavy chains that secured the iron-barred gate. Frost had formed on the metal, making his fingers clumsy and slow.

"Could we not venture beyond the Wall on the morrow instead?" Tyrion asked, unable to contain his discomfort. Though the power of fire magic normally kept the cold at bay, what scenery could possibly be worth viewing in the pitch of night?

"Your nephew is in no particular hurry," Joffrey replied with feigned indifference. "I merely wish to fulfill my desire immediately and sleep soundly tonight."

What truly drew his attention was not what lay beyond the Wall, but the secrets held within the ancient barrier itself. The intangible magical aura ahead beckoned to him like a siren's call, impossible to resist.

The iron chains clattered noisily to the frozen ground.

Joffrey's eyes gleamed with anticipation.

He couldn't help but marvel at the difficulty of passing through the Wall. Ingress and egress were not meant to be simple matters here at the edge of the world.

Beyond the narrow, winding tunnel lay two more equally formidable iron gates, each requiring a dedicated gatekeeper to unlock. Above each gate were murder holes from which defenders could rain down arrows and chunks of ice upon intruders, making the defenses nearly impenetrable.

For the Wall, which lacked conventional city gates, these tunnels served as the only practical passages in and out of the North.

Unfortunately, even these passages had been largely abandoned as the Watch dwindled.

Joffrey knew of only two tunnels that remained serviceable—this one at Castle Black, and the mysterious "Black Gate" beneath the abandoned Nightfort.

He suspected that the Three-Eyed Raven might have permitted the skinchanger and snow bear to pass through the Black Gate. After all, that ancient being had once served as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, which would explain their unlikely presence.

The Wall truly deserved its reputation as the most formidable fortress in the known world.

Just before stepping into the tunnel, recalling the various accounts of the Wall's magic, Joffrey hesitated: Would these enchantments harm only the Others and their fell servants, or would they prove hostile to any wielder of magic?

He took a cautious step backward.

Tyrion strode boldly into the tunnel. Good, Joffrey thought with relief. The dwarf hadn't shattered into a thousand pieces or dropped dead without warning.

Joffrey continued forward with renewed confidence.

One step. Two steps.

But the moment he took the third step, a hazy, shimmering curtain of light swept across his entire body.

The Wall's magic!

A wave of dizziness seized his soul from within, threatening to unmoor him from his physical form. Am I caught in some ancient trap? he wondered with mounting alarm.

After several ragged breaths, he was relieved to discover that he remained alive and whole. There was no pain, his thoughts remained clear, and he felt neither the bite of cold nor the flush of heat.

But he immediately noticed the changes wrought upon his being.

The abundant magical energy that normally coursed through his body was suddenly compressed and forced into his runes, making it nearly impossible to call upon. Simultaneously, tendrils of magical energy began to flow slowly from the runes into the icy substance of the Wall itself, leaving faint streaks of colored light in their wake.

At least two distinct types of runes! he realized with mounting excitement.

He focused his mind and peered into the depths of the Wall, following the colorful threads of magical energy flowing outward from his body.

Identical patterns within the ice absorbed these dissipating energies. The patterns flickered like distant stars, but his perception of them steadily increased in a methodical fashion.

But why?

He immediately considered the similarities and differences between formless source energy and luminous magical energy. Could these ancient runes somehow reverse magical energy back into its primal source form?

A constellation of incredible theories exploded within his mind at once.

He hastily committed the shape of the pattern to memory, then began searching for evidence of other runes hidden within the ice.

The small group halted in the tunnel.

Jon stood silent vigil at Joffrey's side, standing guard against enemies that weren't there.

Bowen Marsh displayed no urgency whatsoever, content to wait out the prince's curiosity.

Tyrion, shivering violently from head to toe, couldn't help but plead: "Merciful nephew, I beg you to spare my miserable life. It's so cold in this accursed tunnel that my little manhood is like to freeze and snap off. Either let us press forward quickly or retreat to the warmth."

The dwarf was paying dearly for his earlier negligence.

His confidence in fire magic had led him to forgo additional layers of fur and wool. Now that his magic had failed him, he finally understood through bitter experience the infinite power of the Wall's ancient enchantments.

Joffrey withdrew his probing gaze with evident satisfaction.

"Alas, for the sake of my uncle's little manhood," he said with mock solemnity, "I have no choice but to temporarily set aside my curiosity about what lies beyond the Wall. Master Steward, we shall return the way we came."

Upon hearing this, Bowen Marsh's already ruddy face turned an even deeper shade of red, nearly purple with indignation.

On such a bitter night, he had abandoned his warm brazier and comfortable bedding to escort the crown prince beyond the Wall, only for the royal visitor to change his mind on a whim!

Bowen glared at Tyrion with undisguised hostility. "Lord Tyrion," he said through gritted teeth, "should there be a next time, I implore you to dress more appropriately before venturing into the cold. I have pressing duties that require my attention!"

No sooner had he finished speaking than Bowen turned to lead Joffrey and Jon back toward Castle Black, pointedly ignoring the shivering dwarf.

Tyrion followed helplessly in their wake, cursing under his breath.

The iron gate at the tunnel's entrance slammed shut with an ominous finality. It would not open again this night.

The moonlight painted the world in shades of silver and shadow.

The lights throughout Castle Black winked out one by one, until only the King's Tower and a handful of sentry posts remained illuminated against the darkness.

The party that had arrived at Castle Black that afternoon had already disbanded.

Benjen and Yoren had returned to their duties, while the wildling woman Osha remained under guard, awaiting her opportunity to identify the secret passage she had promised to reveal.

Joffrey retired to the King's Tower with Jon and Tyrion, taking the warmest chambers on the second floor. Rain, Ghost, and the snow bear each remained with their respective masters.

In the dancing orange-red light of the hearth fire, Joffrey sat upon the bed, absently stroking Rain's silvery fur.

The shadowcat seemed to suffer from some peculiar feline obsession with grooming. Whenever his sleek coat was disturbed, even by his master's touch, he would emit several disgruntled purrs of protest.

"Alas," Joffrey sighed, "I find I cannot sleep."

The increase in his mental strength had significantly reduced his need for slumber, and the day's discoveries had set his mind racing with possibilities. This was undoubtedly beneficial in the grand scheme of things, but for someone who had once relished the indolence of spending entire days abed, it represented a bittersweet sacrifice.

Fortunately, the power gained in exchange for this price was valuable beyond measure.

Joffrey closed his eyes and practiced communing with the three intangible new runes he had discovered.

The Runes of Extraction, Restoration, and Anti-Magic.

Contrary to his initial theory, it was not a single type of rune that drew away magical energy and reversed it into source energy within the Wall, but rather the combined effect of the Extraction Rune and the Restoration Rune working in concert.

The Extraction Rune could absorb magical energy within a certain radius.

The Restoration Rune could transmute excess magical energy from each rune back into primal source energy for storage, then redistribute this power to each rune when magical reserves ran low.

The Anti-Magic Rune, true to its name, could greatly suppress the functioning of magical energy within its sphere of influence—effectively prohibiting magic entirely. This particular rune was likely the most devastating to the Others and their wights.

Once their magic failed, those creatures who relied upon supernatural forces to maintain their very existence would simply... dissolve.

No wonder the Others had not ventured south in thousands of years.

There was just one aspect he couldn't quite decipher: he could control the activation and deactivation of the runes inscribed upon his own body, directing their output with precision, so how did the Anti-Magic Runes embedded in the Wall avoid interfering with the operation of other magical patterns?

Perhaps it was the effect of some unknown fourth rune that he had yet to discover? But he had found no evidence of such a thing.

It was equally possible that the power of this hypothetical rune was channeled through some manner of ritual, rather than being permanently inscribed upon the Wall or other physical objects.

If that were the case, what form might such a ritual take?

Having harvested so many runes through his archaeological pursuits, Joffrey had learned to set aside his pride.

The ancient builders of the Wall might not have understood the fundamental essence of magic as he did, but their ability to create such enduring magical artifacts proved the sophistication of their craft.

He and those long-dead sorcerers were merely reaching the same destination by different paths. There was no need to judge one approach superior to the other.

What other magical secrets might the Wall contain?

He cast his mind back, sifting through the countless fragments of lore stored within his consciousness, until he settled upon a few tantalizing lines of text.

The Black Gate of the Nightfort—a talking door of weirwood, a pale face carved into ancient wood that would open only for sworn brothers of the Night's Watch who recited their sacred oath.

Most definitely worth exploring, he decided, as Rain purred contentedly beside him.

Chapter 49: Experimental Subject

The bitter cold of night gave way to a day scarcely less frigid. Beyond the thick stone walls of Castle Black, the wind howled like a hungry beast.

Inside the great hall, a massive fire roared in the hearth, sending writhing shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Among the hundreds of black-clad men of the Night's Watch, Joffrey and his companions stood out conspicuously in their finery, like summer blooms amidst winter frost.

The atmosphere at the feast bore a certain strained quality. Though the high-ranking officers seated near the dais conducted themselves with appropriate formality, the common brothers of the Watch appeared distinctly ill at ease in the presence of the Crown Prince.

Many of these men had been sent to this frozen edge of the world for violating the King's laws or fleeing the King's justice. How should they receive the son and heir of the man who had condemned them to this living death? With joy? With resentment? With fear?

Bang!

Tyrion Lannister, his belly full of Castle Black's surprisingly fine wine, leapt boldly atop the long wooden table.

True to his reputation as a man blessed with an abundance of humor if not stature, the dwarf launched into a series of self-deprecating jests so ribald they would have made a Fleabottom whore blush. His vulgar gestures, performed with his short limbs and punctuated by the occasional wobble from the wine, elicited a thunderous roar of laughter that shook the ancient rafters.

The strained atmosphere thawed like ice before a brazier. Men who had moments before been rigid with apprehension now gathered in clusters of three or five, boasting and cursing with abandon. They sang bawdy tavern songs woefully off-key, held crude wooden cups aloft in drinking contests, played at dice and finger games with copper pennies changing hands, and periodically erupted in shouts of triumph or groans of despair.

Even the officers at the high table gradually shed their reserve, reverting to the easy camaraderie that usually characterized their meals together.

"Your Highness, you must sample this," Lord Commander Mormont said with genuine enthusiasm, passing Joffrey a platter bearing a fresh crab that had been transported from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Joffrey accepted it with a gracious smile and tasted a few succulent morsels. Preserved by the perennial ice of the Wall during its journey, the crab was indeed delectable.

However, satisfying his appetite was not Joffrey's primary concern this day.

"Lord Commander," he inquired casually, "I understand that First Ranger Stark is escorting the wildling woman Osha to locate the secret passage she spoke of?"

Lord Commander Mormont nodded, his beard bobbing slightly with the motion. "Benjen plans to depart once the feast concludes."

Joffrey feigned mild curiosity. "In the Lord Commander's estimation, is this passage the wildling speaks of genuine or mere fabrication? Could such a thing truly exist in the location she describes?"

An aged voice, thin as parchment yet somehow commanding, responded before Mormont could formulate an answer.

"That place is the long-abandoned Nightfort," the voice said. "My memory retains a few fragments concerning it still. Perhaps the wildling woman speaks of the 'Black Gate' concealed deep within the fortress well."

Joffrey turned slightly to face a blind old man whose visage bore the deep wrinkles of a century's passing—Maester Aemon.

Aemon Targaryen, once a noble prince of the Dragon Dynasty, had been dispatched to the Citadel by a king who feared too many heirs might breed conflict. Later, when his younger brother ascended to the Iron Throne, Aemon chose to serve in the Night's Watch to remove himself from the game of thrones. He had marked his hundredth nameday that very year.

Without question, Aemon wielded profound influence over the Night's Watch despite his frailty.

"I am most grateful, Maester Aemon, for enlightening me," Joffrey said with a carefully measured chuckle. "Your knowledge is truly boundless."

Aemon faced Joffrey directly, as though his milk-white eyes could still perceive the world around him. "I merely fulfill my sworn duty as a Maester of the Citadel. I have simply lived long enough to remember certain things, though I have forgotten far more."

"You are too modest by half," Joffrey said smoothly, shifting to sit nearer to the ancient Targaryen. "You stand as the very embodiment of what a Maester should aspire to be." He paused, then continued in a lower voice. "Maester Aemon, have you never considered returning to the South to serve? It might assuage the pangs of homesickness that must surely afflict you. Strictly speaking, both my royal father and I are your blood relations, however distant."

Joffrey's words contained more truth than falsehood.

Setting aside the disputed Targaryen bloodline of Orys Baratheon, founder of House Baratheon, the connection was more direct—his great-grandmother Rhaelle Targaryen had been a true princess of the dragon's blood. Though this lineage bore no relation to Joffrey's true parentage, none present knew that particular secret.

Aemon waved a spotted, trembling hand dismissively. "Let all that lies in the past remain there. The Wall is my home now, has been for decades. It would please me to rest beneath the ice when my watch is ended at last."

Joffrey nodded, respecting the old man's conviction, and turned back to Lord Commander Mormont, who appeared somewhat discomfited by the exchange.

"What troubles the Lord Commander?" Joffrey asked with a sly smile. "Does he fear I might harbor ill will toward Maester Aemon? We are family, distant though the connection may be."

Mormont hastily shook his head. "Not at all, Your Highness. I harbor no doubt that you act from the purest of intentions."

"I merely jest," Joffrey assured him, then leaned forward with an expression of eager anticipation. "I confess I am most curious to behold the Nightfort with my own eyes. Lord Commander, I would ask you to inform Benjen that I shall accompany their expedition."

Lord Commander Mormont found himself with no graceful means to refuse such a request.

Joffrey rose to his feet. "Where is the wildling woman being held at present? I wish to speak with her before our departure."

Lord Commander Mormont glanced toward Bowen Marsh, who gazed longingly at his half-finished meal.

With visible reluctance, the First Steward abandoned his trencher and moved to obey.

The wildling woman Osha languished in a dark chamber adjacent to the general barracks, bound with coarse rope that chafed her wrists raw.

The room, lacking even the most rudimentary stove for heat, was bitterly cold—a harsh reminder of the unforgiving life she had known beyond the Wall.

Creak...

The door swung open, admitting both pale light and a fresh surge of frigid air. She narrowed her eyes against the sudden brightness and turned away, bracing herself to be roughly handled once more.

The door closed again, and the darkness was suddenly alleviated by the warm glow of a torch.

"Osha."

A clear male voice resonated in the confined space.

Osha raised her head, and a face of almost feminine delicacy came into focus before her. "Your Highness," she said, recognizing her visitor with surprise. "Why have you come here?"

Joffrey smiled thinly. "To determine whether you have realized your purpose yet."

Osha's expression betrayed her incomprehension.

Joffrey had initially regarded this woman as a character of little consequence, thinking it sufficient to surrender her to the Night's Watch for whatever fate they deemed appropriate. But after reflecting upon what he had learned the previous night about the Wall's magic, he recognized that he required a test subject—not too formidable, not too frail, and ideally without allies or protectors to complicate matters.

After considering the denizens of Castle Black, he concluded that Osha best satisfied these requirements.

"Osha," he said softly, "does the secret passage you spoke of possess a weirwood door adorned with a face that seems to live and breathe?"

"Your Highness knows of it?" she gasped, her eyes widening.

Joffrey pressed his advantage. "Once you have guided the Night's Watch to this passage, what do you intend to do thereafter?"

Osha shook her head, genuinely bewildered by the question.

"You are aware that the Others have awakened from their long slumber, are you not?"

Osha's thoughts immediately flew to those terrifying pale shadows that had driven her people to desperate measures. The North is no longer safe! She must flee southward, toward the warmth and life of the green lands!

"I can accept your oath of loyalty," Joffrey suggested.

Osha blinked, then swiftly dropped to her knees before the Crown Prince despite her bonds. "Your Highness, my blade is yours to command! I pledge myself to your service faithfully. I can—"

Joffrey crouched beside her and whispered: "Give thanks to whatever gods you worship, for you shall gain power beyond imagining."

"Remain still," he instructed. "There may be some discomfort, but you must endure it."

Osha watched with mounting horror as the Crown Prince slowly drew forth a dagger of unsettling aspect. Its hilt appeared fashioned from black crystal, while the dark blade seemed imbued with fell magic—a weapon far superior to any common steel.

What does he intend? Osha's mind raced through all manner of ghastly possibilities.

The blade drew inexorably closer to her forehead. An unnatural chill seemed to emanate from the weapon, penetrating to the very marrow of her bones and causing her to tremble uncontrollably.

The Crown Prince clamped his free hand upon her shoulder. "The blade will enter now," he said clinically. "You must not move."

How could she remain motionless in the face of such terror? Osha struggled frantically against her bonds, but the Crown Prince fixed her with a single baleful glare, and her body went suddenly, inexplicably still.

Strange! she thought wildly. Not even the White Walkers inspire such dread as this golden-haired boy!

She could only watch, paralyzed with fear, as the blade approached closer and closer, until at last it vanished from her field of vision as it pressed against her brow.

Clang... Tsss...

The sound of fresh leather being sliced open sent a wave of revulsion cascading through her.

No, she realized with dawning horror, that is my scalp being peeled back!

The swollen flap of skin, its inner surface slick with blood, was carelessly tossed aside onto a nearby table. Crimson rivulets flowed from the wound, soaking into her matted brown hair.

This gruesome tableau was her final coherent memory.

Warm droplets continued to flow from the crown of her head, and her vision soon filled with a red haze.

Then came a kaleidoscope of excruciating sensations—as though a thousand needles of ice-forged steel were being driven simultaneously into her fingertips, as if countless beetles were gnawing at her brain and flesh, accompanied by waves of numbness, nausea, vertigo, cacophonous noise, and blinding flashes of light.

After she perceived two shadowy figures extracting something from her violated form, Osha surrendered completely to the merciful darkness of unconsciousness.

Aaaiiieeeee!

A blood-curdling scream echoed from the small dwelling. Bowen Marsh, who had been waiting dutifully outside, shuddered violently, his flesh crawling as though a thousand spiders skittered across his skin.

What manner of twisted game is this royal princeling playing? he wondered, fighting the urge to flee. Too perverse by half!

Within the chamber, Joffrey carefully inserted the experimental construct into Osha's exposed brain, sealed the final segment of frontal bone in place, and employed his healing magic to mend the grievous wounds. At last, he exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

The impromptu surgery had proven far more challenging than anticipated.

When he pushed open the door to draw in a breath of fresh air, he found Bowen Marsh several paces distant, his face ashen.

"Your Highness," the steward stammered, "your hands..."

Joffrey glanced down instinctively and beheld his arms drenched in glistening crimson from fingertips to elbows.

"A simple medical procedure," he explained with unnerving casualness. "I appear to have gotten somewhat... liberal with the patient's blood."

Bowen cast a furtive glance into the chamber. The wildling woman appeared largely intact, if unconscious. How could a single body have yielded so much blood?

After a moment's hesitation, he ventured to offer advice: "Your Highness, for the treatment of ailments, Castle Black possesses an ample supply of herbs that might alleviate suffering. There is no need for such, ah, rudimentary methods."

Joffrey slapped his thigh in mock self-admonishment. Of course! How could he have overlooked such an obvious consideration?

But noting Bowen's suspicious expression, Joffrey merely replied with iron confidence: "You misunderstand, good steward. Not every surgical intervention permits the luxury of anesthesia."

Bowen Marsh offered a weak, unconvinced chuckle, averting his eyes from the blood-drenched prince.

Chapter 50: The Invisible Core

They were nearing the abandoned ruin of Long Night Castle, its broken towers like jagged teeth against the pale northern sky.

Osha still could not bring herself to meet the Crown Prince's gaze directly. Those eyes, she knew, were portals to hell itself.

Looking into those clear, beautiful orbs of jade and gold, who could have imagined that behind them lay a mind that could create such torment without hesitation or remorse?

She had been told, in the aftermath of her ordeal, that a "core" had been successfully implanted within her skull.

How had it been placed there? She dared not dwell on the question overmuch.

The memory of that despairing pain—which her mind forced her to relive in every quiet moment—had given her the courage to ask that question once. Only once.

But the gentle, calm voice that had answered her still haunted her dreams: "Anesthesia is harmful to the brain, which is why I chose not to use it on you. No need to express gratitude—simply remember it in your heart."

And remember it she did, though not with thankfulness, but with bone-deep terror.

She dared not harbor even the slightest hint of hatred or rejection toward her benefactor. What if that "core" nestled against her brain could somehow transmit her emotions to him?

She hastily severed all such disrespectful thoughts before they could fully form.

No, she corrected herself. His Highness acted solely out of concern for my wellbeing. How else could I have obtained such power?

Thank you, Your Highness. Long life to Your Highness. I shall remain forever loyal to Your Highness...

Joffrey could easily perceive Osha's inner resistance.

He had pried open her skull like a craftsman opening a particularly stubborn oyster—could he truly begrudge her some measure of discontent? Such thinking would be dangerous indeed, both for him and for her.

Ding~

A crisp sound, like crystal striking crystal, emanated from his waist.

He withdrew a piece of perfectly transparent, colorless glass from his belt pouch. A faint message of light appeared upon its surface: "May 10th, 9:00 AM, Osha, a commoner from Ghost Shadow Forest City in the Outer Province, sends greetings to the throne."

It seemed the wildling woman had been well trained. She had been using the core to send these punctual greetings for several days now, never delaying even by a minute. Impressive, in its way.

He tapped the message box, causing four options to materialize below it:

"Send 'The throne is well. Osha, a commoner, today is another pleasant day.'"

"Send 'Read.'"

"Send 'Do not disturb frequently.'"

"Do not reply."

Joffrey smiled with wicked satisfaction and decisively selected the first option.

The information rune image embedded in the glass instantly transmitted the preset message to the "core" within Osha's skull.

The corresponding information rune within the core triggered its predetermined operating path and relayed the received message directly to Osha's brain.

Thus, Osha beheld another "Crown Prince"—one visible only to her—waving in greeting and speaking the same words she had heard on previous days: "The throne is well. Osha, a commoner, today is another pleasant day!"

Naturally, she alone could hear these words, as before.

Nameless gods beyond the Wall, she thought frantically. If this continues much longer, I fear I shall never forget this face, never forget this voice!

Osha carefully examined the light blue interface that only she could perceive.

The so-called "daily tasks" had vanished from view, leaving only unchanging text and patterns upon the ethereal display.

There was also that small box that shifted position occasionally, moving of its own accord across her field of vision.

So, today's task is completed? she wondered.

Osha's tightly wound nerves finally relaxed slightly.

The task had been simple enough, yet she had not dared approach it with anything less than absolute diligence.

She remained ignorant of the precise means by which this "core" accomplished its mysterious functions, but she understood with terrible clarity that this dreamlike interface floating before her eyes was far from natural. She existed now under a never-ending, invisible scrutiny.

The light blue interface constantly reminded her of the core's presence, nestled against her very thoughts. Freedom had become an impossible luxury, as distant as the summer that had fled before the advancing winter.

There was no escape after all.

She silently savored the bitterness and despair, as she had done each day since the procedure.

But for reasons she could not fathom, a strange thought suddenly blossomed within her chaotic mind: Why escape?

What's so terrible about this arrangement?

She almost instinctively rejected this notion, but some peculiar enchantment compelled her to continue pursuing it. The more she contemplated it, the more reasonable it seemed.

That's right, she mused. Why should I wish to escape?

His Highness has neither harmed me nor deceived me.

This core truly does possess extraordinary power—it is nothing less than a gift from the gods themselves.

No, it is clearly the very will of the gods made manifest!

Pain, it seemed, had become fertile soil for the seeds of faith.

Osha's expression gradually transformed, becoming almost fanatical in its intensity.

Yes, of course! The gods have bestowed such magnificent power to send His Highness against the White Walkers, to save the world from endless night, to establish a paradise upon the earth!

The divine messenger has chosen me as his instrument—why should I resist such an honor?

Having found this justification, Osha ceased her futile resistance, allowing the invisible shackle to embed itself more deeply within her soul.

The contract magic energy stored within the core immediately merged with her consciousness.

According to the terms of this mystical pact, Osha willingly offered all that she was, and in exchange, the Crown Prince would permit her to continue serving him loyally, until death released her from her obligation.

Joffrey sensed the contract taking effect and felt profound satisfaction.

Osha's will had proven remarkably resilient. One could only imagine how overwhelming the core's influence would be upon a person of lesser determination. The contract rune would shine brilliantly indeed when brought to bear upon such malleable minds.

He was particularly pleased that the core had already demonstrated its ability to function independently, and even generated a slight surplus of energy.

This version of the core contained several elements he had carefully integrated: an information rune image, a restoration rune image, a single-use contract magic energy, and fire magic energy.

The information rune image was programmed to continuously project a translucent rectangular blue light screen with fixed text patterns directly into the host's brain, and to transmit received information to "Navi"—his name for the crystalline device that functioned as both receiver and display.

The restoration rune image could convert unused magic energy within the core back into source energy for storage, functioning essentially as a mystical battery.

The contract magic energy enabled the binding of individuals to unbreakable, irresistible terms.

And should some unexpected complication arise, the fire magic energy could trigger the core's self-destruction, eliminating the host in the process.

In essence, he had created a crude version of a mobile communication device, though it relied not on code and programs but rather on information reaction paths that he had painstakingly inscribed one instruction at a time.

His transparent glass "Navi" served as both server and a more sophisticated receiver, linking him to his creation.

The core required hundreds of written instructions:

Project a translucent rectangular blue light screen with unchanging text patterns to the host... Display white numbers that change in accordance with the passage of time... Regularly present "daily tasks" and transmit preset specific information to "Navi" based on the host's reactions...

The instructions for the server "Navi" were several times more complex.

Though cumbersome, the process was still far simpler than the programming methods of his previous life. There was no need to consider implementation details—any instruction could be added at will, which was the true marvel of magic.

Naturally, Joffrey had labored to create this core primarily to benefit himself.

He had already encountered the upper limits of conventional magic:

Redundant rune energy storage limit: 100 units, with a recovery speed of 5 units per day;

The total storage capacity for magic energy produced by all runes was 2000 units, with a recovery speed limit (related to the total amount of rune energy) of 100 units per day.

Note: One unit was defined as the amount produced by a single rune over 24 hours.

Under these restrictive conditions, the upper boundary of his personal magical strength had been firmly established.

Breaking through this limitation would obviously require considerable time and effort.

Before that breakthrough could be achieved, he needed to circumvent these restrictions to obtain greater power.

The core represented a promising result in this endeavor.

During the past few days, it had consumed less than a single unit of magic energy in total, yet had produced more than ten units, all of which had been converted into source energy for storage.

The output of magic energy clearly exceeded the normal accumulation rate of the runes themselves.

But why? Joffrey wondered.

His thoughts turned to the eight preserved heads he had studied in Wolfwood, and to the mysterious connection between source energy and soul consciousness.

He had verified a promising avenue of research: the human soul could generate additional source energy, which could then be harvested and stored through various media for conversion by runes and subsequent use.

Endless magical power, he thought, with a smile that would have chilled Osha's blood had she witnessed it. Unlimited potential.

The wind howled across the barren landscape as they continued their journey toward Long Night Castle, each step bringing Joffrey closer to the boundless power he craved.