Author's note: I will be a good boy and warn you that this chapter is about world-building, almost completing 75 % of the world-building aspect in this entire fanfic.
Topics explored: Westeros's disgust towards magic and bastards, Westeros's development which is stuck for 8000 years.
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With my recent rise in social status, I quickly made 'friends' left and right.
According to the latest gossip from them, Harwin, our Citadel representative to Iron Bank, has fought with a Lys citizen during his time there.
The reason is not exactly clear to me; it became a mixed pile because of the various gossips that are floating in the conversations. Ranging from a drunken fight over a courtesan to something more exciting.
The problem in this complete fiasco is that the Lys citizen was a magister's son and my friend, History Brandon, pointed out there is a striking resemblance between Harwin and Archmaester Harwyn.
So, both of them are spoiled brats with a strong background. Hence, the Braavosi law got bent and they are spending time as Sealord's guest/ Prisoners. Essentially freezing the negotiations about Requill temporarily.
My thoughts were going just fine until they fucked up.
I noticed prompts flashing in my mind, repeatedly warning me.
[Reminder: changing route.]
[Reminder: changing route.]
[Reminder: changing route.]
[Reminder: changing route.]
[Reminder: changing route.]
[Reminder: changing route.]
Initially, I felt really confused and hazy. It is like trying to recall an exam answer during a deep sleep. Quite the freaky experience.
ARGH
This incident, as I later learned, marked the 76th instance of such episodes.
However, unlike the previous experiences, this one felt longer and more vivid, like a lucid dream. The surroundings seemed more detailed, and I had an acute awareness of myself and the environment.
In this messed up state, my mind cleared up enough to realise that I was exploring an uncharted area on my Citadel map.
SLAP
After clearing myself with the pain, I did my best to concentrate.
[Uncharted area: 18 meters towards the back of Host.]
GULP
This phenomenon seems to always divert my attention when I try to explore this area and by the time I realize this, I would be somewhere else entirely. Sometimes with days going back until I am reminded by AI to explore the area.
For example, during this attempt, my mind got completely diverted towards the issue in Bravos.
"Well, that's one sick feeling. Let's get this over with."
My mind was not clear enough, I would ha. Otherwise, I would not have proceeded knowing this freaky defence on the area.
At least, I hope so. It is that, or I am an adrenaline junkie.
---===Unknown area, Citadel===---
So, after multiple episodes of being diverted, I finally reached a door at the end of this area. Its material is unmistakably weirwood. It looks exactly like the weirwood staff wielded by the city guard leader, Landed Knight Floren.
Driven by curiosity and a confused mind, I approached the door and attempted to open it.
It was now that I had my first encounter with magic in this life.
SLASH
Blood split through my palm as if responding to an unseen command, dripping in the door, and the door slowly opened.
KREAK KREAK
DRIP DRIP
The dripping blood woke me up completely. I had two choices. One choice is to leave and forget about this room. The second choice is to go ahead.
AI, check the path ahead.
[Task started.
Processing info from Host senses-Sight, hearing, taste.
Comparing with database- Lorence observational skills, construction manuals, trap making ...]
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I entered the room confidently, assured that the judgment was safe, at least from the knowledge I possess. If there are any magic traps, I can't do anything about them.
CLACK
CLACK
CLACK
I guess I am most tempted by the idea of finding magic. Now, I am understanding the characters in horror movies or adventure movies. One must experience the temptation to know how irresistible the feeling becomes.
WHOOSH
WHOOSH
The wind draft that came from the path extinguished the candle in my hands. But, it also means that I am at the end of the corridor.
"HUH."
Contrary to my expectations, the room is just a miniature library. I guess books are the only things found in Citadel.
It is filled with bookshelves, skeletal models of diverse animals, and a towering weirwood tree positioned at the centre of a courtyard. An opening in the ceiling allowed sunlight to filter through, casting an ethereal glow on the surroundings. It gave a magical feel.
Not like that magic. But, More like a beautiful landscape feeling.
My attention moved towards a table which had a single chest. To my surprise, I noticed a stone inscription in the Old Tongue etched into the chest.
Grateful for my foresight to have the database filled with various language syntaxes, I fist pumped into the air.
Translate.
[TING. Translation to the inscription done.]
I read the AI prompt out loud, "Welcome, seeker of magic. Now claim you're right."]
Interesting message.
So, I attempted various methods to open the chest, ranging from trying to punch it, throw it, and even burn it.
I searched the room for clues or a key. Despite my efforts, the chest remained stubborn. It was only when I explored the drawer of the table that a Valyrian dagger caught my eye.
The problem with the treasure is that it is in the same design as obsidian ritual daggers. You know they used to be wielded by the First Men.
So, the guess I have been avoiding is the only way. I muttered under my breath because of the frustration, "Fucking Westeros magic—it always comes down to blood."
SLASH
With a hint of fear, I drew the Valyrian dagger across my palm, allowing my blood to stain the blade.
DRIP DRIP
Applying the dripping blood to the chest, I watched in awe as the chest swung open.
CLICK CLICK THUMP
Inside, I found literal treasures. Well, they are treasures to me.
An Archmaester link forged from Valyrian steel, accompanied by a master key exclusive to archmaesters. Thus, I realized that the room I am inside is the hereditary Archmaester room—a glorified office of the bigwigs of Citadel.
My teacher's words resonated in my mind, emphasizing that these rooms and their master keys remained intact in history, with one exception—this chamber.
As I admired the contents of the chest, a subtle reminder caught my eye. Inscribed on the back of the lid were the words, "Magic isn't always the answer."
So, I delved deeper into the pages of the books in the room.
According to the sequence. So I chose a bookshelf labelled "Serial One".
The first volume took the title "The Archmaester of Magic Room and its Significance by Peremore."
WHISTLE
This is the proof of the Citadel and its long history. A book written by the hands of Peremore the Twisted himself. The founder of Citadel.
The popular theory about his title was that it was merely a reflection of his unconventional path of being a scholar in the age of the heroes. So, the martial society from 8000 years ago cursed the first scholar with the twisted title.
I thought the same.
Well, the truth hidden within the pages broke that thought.
It seems Peremore's twisted nature went beyond the field of education; it dived headfirst into the sinister and magic.
The book chronicled how he had employed dark and forbidden magic to ensure the longevity of the Citadel and the enchanted room.
It was a revelation that sent shivers down my spine, for the twisted path he treads involved unspeakable acts. He casually admitted to torturing enemies, innocents, animals, giants, children of the Forest—anything he could find—for decades.
Fuck , blood covered brick has built Citadel against a lot of pain. According to Peremore, this is a literal saying.
[.....A weirwood seed served as the anchor for the enchantments, binding the room and the Citadel to the currents of magic coursing through the world. So, I, Peremore, continued with founding....]
He described using an ingenious way to seal the Room containing the secrets of magic. According to Peremore, the inherent madness that magic could induce in its seeker is too dangerous and insane.
Here is the conclusion of the guy who tortured magical beings of legends: "I hope that my enhancement in the entrance acts as a test to weed out the fools. These fools are the ones that become ones that induce nightmares in us and destroy the reputation of magic. Magic is not for everyone."
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SLAM
"Oh, come on. Would it kill you to write the basics? So what if everyone knew the basics in your era?"
I took a deep breath. It is not like anyone would expect the Andal invasions and a system erasure of magic.
I stumbled into this Archmaester room, or accurately speaking, a room full of Archmaester Journals.
Most of them are spilling their frustrations on the socio-political drama of their time. At least they were writing their discoveries. I can process that info to salvage some usable magic.
Rather than bore you with details, I'll give you the condensed version.
Peremore, in his pursuit of knowledge, believed that obstacles or difficulties could be overcome in magic by using stronger magic. Meaning, he uses a better sacrifice or greater number of sacrifices. He at least showed some semblance of restraint.
As generations passed, the newer ones said "screw restraint."
Take this one guy as an example.
There was a warg who had a bond with a wolf-dog, a crossbreed between a husky and a wolf. Not a creative name. So, to become a better warg, he sacrificed a similar wolf-dog to enhance himself in myriad ways, either by bathing in their blood or eating them. He also did the same to the Wolfdog to enhance its connection to him—meaning he sacrificed humans to the Wolfdog.
An insane asshole.
Unfortunately, his theory worked. Rather than train his warg skill, he used rituals to become better.
It worked until he started developing dog-like features like fur and a dog smell. In his estimation, he would become a Wolfdog completely but one with the intellect of a human if he continued.
Sanity won out in the end, and he stopped the rituals.
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Now, here's where it gets weird.
In this room, there was a set-up I had been trying to avoid for some time, not believing it—a copper coil hugging an iron block and bone box with markings containing a pointing needle.
Turns out, Citadel figured out electricity and even the example of a compass. But these discoveries were declared magic and sealed away here.
Now, I am thinking of theories that state magic is keeping the world stagnated.
But a new doubt rose in my mind. Why didn't the non-magical Maesters popularize them? After all, electricity and magnetism are not magic. Though they look magical, they are not magic.
Considering the sheer fear people in recent times have about magic, I understood them. Fair point.
So, I'm standing there, torn between reading every book in sequence or sating my curiosity by flipping through the last book on the shelf.
So, I took the responsible way of sating my curiosity.
It's by this dude William Garlan, just before the start of the Andal invasions. Probably the last Archmaester of magic, considering this is the last journal.
After reading the book, nightmares infested me every night for the following days.
Whatever I thought about magic from my past life? Gone.
William's writings spill some seriously dark secrets, giving me a front-row seat to the shadowy side of the Citadel's archives.
He saw the insane ways of his predecessors as a way of progress. Even the wolf-dog guy. He admires the warg for pushing the boundaries of knowledge, unrestrained by a world filled with idiots.
Initially, He was sane and only wanted knowledge.
But his half-brother, King Garlan Gardner, influenced oppression from other Maesters. This is a tragical classic of a talented bastard and a jealous trueborn.
The point was, unlike other bastards in Westeros, this bastard had magic. So, he delved into magic with a zealous drive, sacrificing everything to enhance his gift from his father's side—Gardner's plant magic.
His last entry in the Journal was his idea to show the world his might.
I had the AI pull up information on this guy in normal history.
[AI Profile: William, the usurper.
A Gardner bastard. He took his righteous brother's throne by treachery and helped many of his fellow bastards do the same in their houses.
He raped and tortured his nieces and sister-in-law, bringing the mighty House of Garden to a low moral point.
It was the mighty King Marcel Gardner, who, under the light of the Seven, killed the monster and brought peace to the greatest kingdom in Westeros.]
Reading between the lines, William promoted every wizard or witch in every manner. Allowing the killing and sacrificing of the nobles, who had rich magical blood. No wonder people fear magic and bastards.
William is held in history as an example of both, enabling the Seven to establish themselves in opposing him. Yep, the faith of Seven spread in Westeros simply because they killed this guy.
Speaking of him, I realised that the human skeleton model in the room's corner was clutching another journal and a compass.
I am sure it belongs to William because, well, it's written in the book that his skeleton became blood-red because of the various rituals he conducted.
Okay, it's not a mannequin, as I was wanted to believe. Considering the twisted magic down here, I am sure all the models were real skeletons that got sacrificed.
CRACK CRACK
I took the book out of the bony hand and read it. Wow, He wrote about his encounters with Faith.
He wrote that the faith is from a madman who converted the magical into hating said magic. Essentially, making their magic a weapon against magic, like some kind of anti-magic—he called it faith, which is anchored to the Seven stars.
He wrote incidents where the faith seemed to gather on these zealots and became a 'miracle' of sorts, killing his magic forces.
Pity he didn't write how to do it manually. He postulated that, in time, the faithful's magic would die out because of their disgust at magic. The greatest irony is that without magic powering the Seven Stars, even the faith would die out.
Man, the founder of faith, had some hate boner for magic. He found a way to anchor magic through thoughts and desires, like in Harry Potter, and he used it to kill magic. Like a suicide Kamikaze.
Then came the compass. It is jet black, made from meteorite iron, and ritually crafted using the blood of his relatives, with a seven-star written. William says it may be the only symbol to collect and point the desires out.
Wonderful asshole, he made a Jack Sparrow compass.
But the thing is that his relatives hate him, and their hatred clung to it, cursing anyone who uses it to madness.
Hence, I've got in this room is the magical side of history, the influence of faith on Westeros, a cursed compass, and some insane magic.
A magic whose use can lead to insanity, hence 'insane magic.'
Well, I'm not trying any of these. I don't need this power. With AI and my knowledge, I can accomplish a lot.
Yes, I will not sacrifice my first-born daughter's virginity on an altar for more ease in magic. And no massacres and genocides for the strength of a knight; I can achieve that through exercise.
Seriously, Westeros magic, in a nutshell, is doing everything imaginable at the cost of lives. Said cost increases rapidly with the increase in difficulty.
But the scary part is that I know if I'm pushed to the brink like William was my family murdered by his brother, then I might skip the line.
I just hope that day never comes. I am not that capable of resisting temptations.
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Author's note: And cut.
So, Westeros is stuck in stagnation because magic is messing up the development, history and power struggles. It messed up even more aspects of the world.
Like all of them.
It is magic, the superpower of the world. Though the cruellest kind.
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