Chapter 13: The Unseen Quarry

Chapter 13: The Unseen Quarry

Kaelen's return to King's Landing was like a man stepping from a vast, storm-tossed sea back into a stuffy, candle-lit room. The raw, elemental power he had touched at the Tower of Joy, the twin echoes of Ice and Fire, had fundamentally altered his perspective. The intricate political games he had been playing with Littlefinger, the silent war of whispers with Varys, now seemed like the posturing of children in a sandbox. They were scrabbling for dominion over a pile of dust and stone, while he had just glimpsed the cosmic forces that shaped the world itself.

He maintained his cover with flawless precision. He presented himself before the Iron Throne, laying the severed head of a long-dead brigand at King Robert's feet. He recounted a fabricated, thrilling tale of hunting down the 'Kingswood Brotherhood,' complete with ambushes, desperate duels, and a final, brutal display of the King's Justice. Robert, who loved nothing more than a good story of bloodshed, was immensely pleased. Kaelen's reputation as the ruthlessly effective Master of Laws was not only preserved but enhanced.

He met with Littlefinger, sliding back into their alliance as seamlessly as a dagger into a sheath. He listened to the Master of Coin's latest financial schemes, offering his own insights gleaned from the absorbed mind of Orlandor Fane. His suggestions were now sharper, more prescient, tinged with a long-term vision that slightly unnerved Baelish. Kaelen was playing the game better than ever, but his heart was no longer in it. His gaze was fixed on a far greater prize.

His nights were no longer spent orchestrating the city's power dynamics. They were spent in the one place in the Red Keep that held any true value for him now: the castle's ancient library. As Master of Laws, he was granted access to the restricted sections, the locked rooms where centuries of forgotten lore and dangerous knowledge lay sleeping under layers of dust.

Guided by the new, burning sensitivity within him, he bypassed the histories and legal texts. He sought out the crumbling scrolls and worm-eaten codices that spoke of the ages before the Andals, before the dragons. He read of the Children of the Forest and their greenseers, of the giants and the First Men. He devoured treatises on the Rhoynar and their water magic, on the dragonlords of Valyria, on the strange faiths of the Free Cities. He was not reading for pleasure or education; he was a predator studying his new ecosystem, identifying its most potent inhabitants.

He built a new menu in his mind. The warlocks of Qarth and their 'Shade of the Evening.' The shadowbinders of Asshai, who could kill with living darkness. The Red Priests of R'hllor, who claimed to draw power from flame itself. These were no mere knights or schemers. They were wielders of the unseen, and Kaelen felt a hunger for their power that was a thousand times more profound than anything he had felt before.

His research provided him with a crucial lead, a target far closer than the exotic cities of Essos. An ancient text, penned by a maester during the reign of Maegor the Cruel, spoke of the king's persecution of a fire cult within the city. This cult, the maester speculated, was the precursor to the Alchemists' Guild. The pyromancers.

Kaelen's mind lit up with cold fire. Wildfire. He had seen its devastating, unnatural green flames during the Sack. It was not a product of simple chemistry; it was a magical substance, volatile and powerful. The 'Wisdoms' of the guild, the men who held the secret to its creation, were not mere craftsmen. They were practitioners of a debased but potent form of fire magic. They were his first target in his new hunt.

He focused his investigation on the Alchemists' Guildhall, a labyrinthine, soot-stained structure near the Dragonpit. His new magical sense confirmed his theory. The place hummed with a low, chaotic energy, like a nest of angry hornets. Through Captain Rennifer, he began to gather intelligence. He learned of the Guild's hierarchy, their paranoid secrecy, their obsessive rituals. He identified their leader, a senior pyromancer named Wisdom Pollitor, a man who had survived Aerys's madness and was now trying to rebuild the Guild's prestige.

Hunting a pyromancer presented a unique set of challenges. Their Guildhall was a death trap of volatile substances and secret passages. A direct assault was suicide. Kaelen needed to isolate his prey. He used Rennifer to create a diversion, staging a massive brawl between rival gangs near the Guildhall. As the City Watch swarmed the area and most of the junior alchemists rushed to secure their stores, Kaelen made his move.

He moved like the ghost whose skills he had absorbed. He scaled the Guildhall's outer wall, his fingers and toes finding purchase in the crumbling mortar. He slipped through a high window into a disused storage room, his movements utterly silent. The air inside was acrid, burning his nostrils with the smell of sulfur and strange, sharp chemicals. He navigated the shadowy corridors, his senses guiding him through the maze, the hum of chaotic magic growing stronger.

He found Wisdom Pollitor in his private laboratory. It was a hellish chamber, filled with bubbling retorts, twisting copper pipes, and shelves laden with jars of viscous, glowing liquids. The Wisdom himself was a stooped, ancient man with burn-scarred hands and eyes that held the wild, paranoid gleam of someone who has spent a lifetime staring into the flame.

Pollitor was so engrossed in his work, carefully decanting a glowing green fluid, that he didn't notice Kaelen until the Serpent Lord stood directly before him.

"Wisdom Pollitor," Kaelen said, his voice a low counterpoint to the bubbling of the concoctions.

The old man yelped, spinning around and dropping the vial he was holding. It shattered on the stone floor, but thankfully, it was inert. Pollitor stared at him, his mouth agape. "Who… who are you? How did you get in here?"

"I am a seeker of knowledge," Kaelen replied, taking a slow step forward. "And you possess a knowledge I desire. The secret of the green fire."

Recognition dawned in the pyromancer's eyes, followed by a surge of fanatical fury. "The Art is not for the likes of you! You would profane the mystery!"

The old man, surprisingly agile, snatched a ceramic pot from a nearby table. Kaelen recognized the container instantly. It was a pot of wildfire.

"Back! Or we shall both be rendered unto the flame!" Pollitor shrieked, his hand trembling as he held the pot aloft.

Kaelen felt a thrill of genuine danger. This was a new kind of duel. He could not charge the man; a single misstep would incinerate them both. He had to be faster than fire itself.

He drew upon the preternatural speed of the duelist and the inhuman reflexes of the assassin. As Pollitor made to throw the pot, Kaelen moved. He didn't run forward; he snatched a heavy, lead-lined crucible from a workbench and hurled it with all his might. The crucible flew across the room, a spinning projectile of death. It struck the pyromancer squarely in the chest, crushing his frail ribs and sending him staggering backward. The pot of wildfire flew from his grasp, arcing through the air.

Kaelen dove, his movements a fluid roll. The pot smashed against the far wall, but its contents, improperly decanted, only sputtered with a sickening green fizzle instead of erupting. Kaelen was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room before the whimpering Pollitor could reach for another weapon.

The kill was brutally intimate. Kaelen clamped a hand over the man's mouth, his other hand driving his dagger home. He held the dying pyromancer close, feeling the last, frantic heartbeats against his own chest.

The absorption was a shock to his system. It was not the cold river of statecraft or the sharp sting of spy-craft. It was a raging, chaotic inferno. It was the sensation of being burned alive and reborn in the flames. He felt the secret knowledge of the pyromancers pour into him—the precise measurements, the ritualistic incantations, the obsessive, half-mad devotion required to create their substance.

But it was more than a recipe. It was an intuitive, elemental connection to heat and flame. He felt a new power awaken within him, a nascent control over the element of fire. He knew, with an instinct that was now part of him, the flashpoint of every object in the room. He could feel the heat emanating from the candles, from his own body, from the chemical reactions in the vials. He had harvested his first active magical ability.

He staged the scene with his usual meticulous care. He broke several more vials, spilled a few volatile but non-combustible chemicals, and positioned Pollitor's body to look as if he'd been overcome by fumes during a failed experiment. It would be another tragic accident for the city's chronicles.

Kaelen returned to his chambers in the Red Keep, the new power a wild stallion in his soul. He stood before the hearth, focusing his will on a single, flickering candle. He pushed, not with his hand, but with the new, fiery instinct within him. The small flame leaped up, twisting into a roaring miniature vortex of fire a foot high. He pulled back, and it subsided to a normal flicker. He touched the iron poker beside the hearth, concentrating. He felt the metal grow warm, then hot, until the tip began to glow a dull red.

He had done it. He had proven his hypothesis. Magic was a skill, an essence, like any other. And it could be taken.

His mind turned back to the map of the world he was building in his head, the list of unseen quarry. The path was clear. His journey to godhood would be a pilgrimage from one font of magic to another, drinking each one dry until he alone possessed their power.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door. A guard entered with a dispatch bearing the seal of the Hand. Kaelen broke the seal and read. The message was simple. Lord Stannis Baratheon, having successfully secured the Targaryen stronghold of Dragonstone, was returning to King's Landing to take his seat on the Small Council.

Kaelen's new senses tingled. Dragonstone. A fortress built with Valyrian magic, a place of smoke and salt and fire. The place itself was soaked in arcane energy. And his own spies, now seeded throughout the court, had included an interesting addendum to the official reports. Stannis was not coming alone. He was accompanied by a red priestess from Asshai, a woman named Melisandre, who was said to whisper prophecies of a chosen one in the king's brother's ear.

A Red Priestess. A wielder of the power of R'hllor. One of the prime targets on his newly crafted menu. He had just learned to control the flame, and now, a master of the fire was sailing directly to his doorstep.

A slow, predatory smile touched Kaelen's lips. The hunt was coming to him. He was eager to see what kind of fire the Red Woman possessed, and how brightly it would burn when he snuffed it out and made it his own.