Chapter 7: The Serpent Sheds His Skin
Chapter 7: The Serpent Sheds His Skin
280 AC, Month of the Falling Leaf
The Valyrian steel link was a declaration of victory, but it was also a leash. As long as Alaric remained within the Citadel, he was their prodigy, their monster, their problem. They watched his every move, the Archmaesters debating his studies in hushed, fearful tones. Vaellyn sent him discreet gifts—rare herbs, expensive inks, freshly baked bread from the finest bakery in Oldtown—subtle reminders of their 'arrangement'. Ebrose had a permanent acolyte stationed outside the restricted vault, ostensibly to ensure the torches were extinguished, but in reality, to log Alaric's comings and goings. The Citadel, which had once been a labyrinth to conquer, was now becoming a gilded cage.
He had digitized every significant text in the vault. Prometheus's servers, the secret architecture within his soul, now held a library that dwarfed anything in the physical world. He had the theoretical knowledge. Now, he needed the practical experience, the resources, and the freedom to act on what he knew. It was time for Phase Two. It was time for Essos.
As with all his other gambits, his exit strategy was a carefully planned piece of political theatre. He requested another audience with the Conclave. This time, he was not a supplicant acolyte, but a peer, his full, heavy chain of seventeen links making a soft, musical chime as he walked into the chamber. He wore it as a king wears his crown: a symbol of undeniable authority.
He stood before them, a boy of twelve with the eyes of a man who had seen the rise and fall of empires.
"Archmaesters," he began, his voice clear and steady. "I have come to a conclusion. The knowledge contained within your libraries, even within the restricted vault, is a foundation. It is the history of power, not power itself. It is a map, but a map is not the territory."
He let his gaze sweep across their faces, lingering for a moment on Vaellyn's gilded mask, on Ebrose's hostile glare. "The secrets of the Valyrians were not found in scrolls, but in the heart of volcanoes. The wisdom of the Shadowbinders is not learned from books, but experienced in the dark alleys of Asshai. The principles of blood magic," a collective flinch went through the room at the words, "are not theoretical. To truly understand the forces that shape this world, I must study them in the world itself. My studies here are complete. I intend to travel to the Free Cities."
The wave of collective relief that washed over the chamber was almost a physical force. He could see the tension drain from Ebrose's shoulders. Perestan's stern expression softened into something approaching approval. They were not losing a maester; they were exporting a problem.
"This is an unorthodox path, Maester Blackwood," Perestan said, formally using his new title for the first time. It felt strange on his tongue. The Citadel had just officially named the youngest maester in its thousand-year history. "Most who complete their chain seek service in a great lord's keep."
"Most maesters are servants," Alaric replied, the statement hanging in the air, sharp and dangerous. "I have no desire to be a servant. I desire to be a master. Of my own fate, and of the disciplines I have studied."
Vaellyn was the first to see the angle, the opportunity. "A field study. A grand tour of the East. An excellent proposal. The Citadel could benefit immensely from your... findings. A maester acting as a correspondent in the Free Cities, reporting on their economies, their politics, their... unique customs. It would be an invaluable source of information."
"Indeed," Alaric agreed smoothly. "However, such an expedition requires capital. My house, as you know, is a minor one. My resources are limited to my knowledge."
He had them. He was offering them a way to be rid of him, while simultaneously framing it as a venture that would benefit them.
The 'negotiation' that followed was a formality. They officially released him from any obligation of service. They affirmed his title as a full Maester of the Citadel, his chain his proof. And, at Vaellyn's vigorous urging, they provided him with a letter of credit, drawn from the Citadel's own accounts with the Iron Bank of Braavos, for the sum of one thousand golden dragons. It was a staggering amount, but to them, it was a small price to pay for his departure. They also provided him with sealed letters of introduction to the Sealord of Braavos and the Magisters of Pentos and Myr, attesting to his status as a scholar of unprecedented genius on a mission of research. They were, in effect, paying for their own peace of mind.
His final business in the Citadel was with his assets. He found Pate in the library, diligently copying a manuscript. The boy had thrived under Alaric's tutelage and protection. He now had two links of his own, copper and tin, and he carried himself with a quiet confidence that had been absent before.
"Pate," Alaric said, his voice low. Pate jumped, then beamed when he saw who it was. The fear he once held had been replaced by a fierce, dog-like devotion.
"Maester Alaric," he said, his voice full of reverence.
"I am leaving the Citadel," Alaric stated simply.
Pate's face fell. "Leaving? But... where will you go?"
"To the east. I have research to conduct." Alaric placed a small, leather-bound book on the table. "This is for you."
Pate opened it. It was a copy of one of Alaric's own papers, a treatise on the migratory patterns of ravens, filled with complex charts and observations. But on the first page, Alaric had written a personal inscription. 'Pate, a keen mind is a maester's greatest tool. A loyal heart is a man's greatest virtue. Cultivate both.' It was a meaningless sentiment, but he knew it would bind the boy to him forever.
"This is my own work," Alaric said. "Present it to Archmaester Rigney when you are ready to be tested for the black iron link. He will be impressed." He was essentially gifting the boy a link, cementing his academic future. "I have one task for you, Pate. A favor."
"Anything, Maester," Pate said earnestly.
"I am interested in any and all news regarding Archmaester Marwyn. When he returns, where he goes, who he speaks with. And any news from the North. Anything regarding the Night's Watch or happenings beyond the Wall. Send a raven to the Maester of the Merchant's Guild in Pentos. Address it to 'The Scholar'. It will find me. Can you do this?"
"Yes, Maester. Of course."
Alaric had just established his first spy within the Citadel. Pate would be his listening post, his connection to the machinations of the Archmaesters and the whispers from the far North.
His final encounter with Martyn was not a conversation, but a silent acknowledgment of the chasm that now lay between them. He saw him across the main courtyard, laughing with a group of other acolytes, his own chain now bearing a fourth link of pewter. Their eyes met for a brief moment. There was no anger in Martyn's gaze, only a deep, weary sadness. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head and turned back to his friends.
Alaric felt nothing. The emotional wound had been cauterized. Martyn was part of a life he had shed, a skin left behind on the path to power. He turned and walked away without looking back.
The transformation from Maester Blackwood back to Alaric Blackwood, private scholar and aspiring tycoon, was swift and liberating. He packed his chain away in a specially made, lead-lined box. It was a tool, a key to open doors, but it was also a symbol of an identity he no longer needed. He traded the Citadel's script for solid coin, gold dragons and silver stags. He exchanged his robes for the attire of a wealthy, but unassuming, traveler: a fine wool tunic of dark grey, comfortable leather breeches, and a heavy, hooded cloak to guard against the sea winds and prying eyes.
When he looked at his reflection in the small, polished mirror in his room at The Quill and Tankard, he saw a new person. He was still a boy of twelve, but his face had lost all trace of childhood softness. His eyes held a chilling intensity, and his mouth was set in a firm, determined line. He was no longer a student. He was a player, entering the game.
The port of Oldtown was a controlled chaos of sight, sound, and smell. Sailors from the Summer Isles with skin as black as polished jet shouted in their sing-song language. Merchants from Lys with perfumed hair and languid eyes haggled with grim-faced ironborn traders. The air was thick with the scent of tar, salt, fish, and a hundred exotic spices.
Alaric did not seek passage on a swift trading galley or a luxurious passenger ship. Those drew attention. He sought discretion. For two days, he walked the docks, observing, listening, his mind a cold calculus of risk and reward.
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He found Captain Zoros in a dockside tavern that smelled of sour wine and regret. The Myrman was in his fifties, with a weathered face, a braided beard shot through with grey, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He was watching a game of dice, but his attention was on the whole room. He missed nothing.
Alaric approached the table and sat down, placing a single golden dragon on the scarred wood. "Captain Zoros? I require passage to Pentos."
Zoros's eyes flickered to the coin, then to Alaric's face. He took in the boy's fine, but practical, clothes, his calm demeanor, his unnerving gaze. He grunted. "Pentos is a long way. Passage is expensive. And I'm not a ferry for runaway apprentices."
"I am not a runaway," Alaric said smoothly. "I am a scholar on a research expedition." He produced the letter of introduction from the Citadel, the one addressed to the Magisters of Pentos. He didn't let Zoros read it, just flash the impressive seals and ribbons. "And I am prepared to pay well for speed and discretion."
He pushed two more gold dragons onto the table. "That's for your time. The fare we can negotiate."
Zoros's eyes narrowed. This was no ordinary boy. There was a cold authority in him that belied his age. "What kind of scholar are you?"
"The kind who values his privacy," Alaric said. "I require a private cabin. I will take my meals alone. My baggage is not to be touched. And my presence on your ship is not to be discussed in any port. For this, I will pay you one hundred golden dragons upon our arrival in Pentos."
The captain's eyebrows shot up. A hundred dragons was more than he would make from his entire cargo of wool. It was a fortune for a simple tramp freighter. It was also dangerously high, the kind of payment that invited questions.
"That's a lot of coin for a quiet boat ride, boy," Zoros said, his voice a low growl. "What's in your baggage? Dragon eggs?"
Alaric smiled, a thin, cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "Nothing so troublesome. Just books. And I assure you, Captain, I am far more valuable than my baggage. The men who sealed that letter," he tapped the scroll, "would be most displeased if I were to... misplace it. Or if my journey were to be unduly interrupted."
It was a veiled threat, wrapped in the authority of the Citadel. Zoros understood it perfectly. He was being paid not just for passage, but for protection and silence. The boy was important, connected, and willing to pay. And asking too many questions might be very, very bad for his health.
Zoros slowly scooped the three gold dragons into his purse. "My ship leaves on the morning tide. Be at the western dock at dawn. Don't be late. The 'Tidal Serpent' waits for no man. Not even a rich scholar."
The deal was done.
As the first hint of grey dawn touched the top of the Hightower, Alaric stood on the deck of the Tidal Serpent. His few belongings—a chest of clothes, the lead-lined box containing his chain, and another, heavier chest filled with mundane books to serve as a cover for his real studies—were already stowed below.
The ship's crew moved with a quiet efficiency, casting off the thick mooring ropes, their bare feet padding on the damp deck. With a groan of timber, the Tidal Serpent pulled away from the dock and began to drift out into the calm waters of the Whispering Sound.
Alaric stood at the stern, watching the city of Oldtown recede. He saw the smoke rising from a thousand hearths, the sprawling mass of the Citadel, and the great, white tower at its heart, its beacon fire now extinguished by the coming day. He had arrived here as a boy, a helpless passenger in a new, terrifying world. He had treated it as his own personal university, a training ground. He had conquered it, plundered it, and bent it to his will. Now, he was leaving it behind.
A new continent awaited him. A new game. Essos. The land of merchants and mercenaries, of sorcerers and slavers. A land of chaos. And chaos, as a wise man in one of his books had once said, was a ladder.
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Alaric looked out at the vast, grey expanse of the Sunset Sea, a faint, cold smile touching his lips.
"Yes, it is," he whispered to the wind. "And I intend to own it."