The Alchemists' Guild, once a glorious and feared order, had long held the secrets of destruction powerful enough to command awe across the known world. Their flames could not only light the night but also engulf entire cities in ruin.
Yet over the centuries, as the Citadel's influence rose, the Maesters gradually replaced ancient alchemy in the eyes of the nobility. The pyromancers could only watch helplessly as their prestige faded into obscurity.
A month earlier, Lo Quen had gathered the scattered alchemists from Lys and Tyrosh by force, bringing them to the workshops of Crown Town. At first, the pyromancers were uneasy, fearful of what awaited them. But when they learned that the young king wished for them to craft wildfire—and would provide full funding for their work—their anxiety gave way to fanatic enthusiasm.
At that moment, Qyburn emerged from the depths of the workshop. His robe was dust-stained, his expression alight with excitement. As a Maester deeply versed in the arcane, he had been directly involved in the process of creating wildfire—not merely as a supervisor but as an active participant.
Now, at last, he had fulfilled the task Lo Quen had set before him.
Suppressing the tremor in his voice, Qyburn spoke, his tone brimming with pride.
"Your Grace, we have labored without rest, day and night. At last, we have completed several hundred jars of wildfire."
He stepped aside, gesturing for Lo Quen to follow. Together, they moved through the core of the workshop, where tables overflowed with complex alchemical apparatus, and entered an open courtyard set apart from the main buildings.
There stood the entrance to a cellar, its dark mouth framed in stone. Several armored guards flanked it, their faces solemn, their eyes sharp and watchful.
Qyburn signaled for them to open the heavy, iron-banded wooden door. A rush of cold, damp air greeted them as they descended the narrow steps into the depths below.
The sight awaiting them stole the breath from their lungs.
The cellar was divided into a series of narrow, self-contained stone chambers. Each one was packed floor to ceiling with specially crafted clay jars. Their surfaces were rough and uneven, deliberately made that way.
The alchemists claimed the irregular texture helped stabilize the wild energy sealed within.
Above every chamber, a secondary compartment had been hollowed out and filled with dry sand—a final safeguard. Should any chamber's wildfire be accidentally ignited, the ceiling hatch could be released, letting a cascade of sand pour down in an attempt to smother the flames—an inferno no water could ever quench.
From one of the chambers, a pyromancer in a faded robe emerged, stepping carefully into the corridor. He appeared to be in his fifties, his face weathered but his eyes bright with feverish light.
He was one of the pyromancers brought from Lys. Before coming to the front lines of the Disputed Lands, he had lived a life of destitution. Now, before the young king who had given him the chance to reclaim his lost art, his gaze burned with awe and gratitude.
His voice quivered with emotion as he bowed deeply.
"Your Grace, the wildfire has been safely stored. We await your command."
Behind him, several younger apprentices stood, their faces taut with nervous anticipation and unrestrained excitement.
Lo Quen's gaze swept over the rows of silent clay jars before resting once more on the old pyromancer.
"Excellent," he said calmly. "Show me the true power of wildfire."
At those words, the pyromancer's face lit up, his expression shining with a sudden, youthful vigor.
"As you command, Your Grace!"
He immediately directed two of the steadiest apprentices to carefully carry a crate of sealed wildfire jars from the outermost stone chamber. The group left the oppressive cellar and made their way to the testing ground, set more than three hundred feet away from both the workshop and the vault.
The soil there had been packed down hard, barren of any grass, with no flammable material anywhere nearby.
One chosen apprentice, under the breathless gaze of all present, held a long, slow-burning fuse. The old pyromancer personally checked the position of the jar and the length of the fuse, ensuring that nothing could go wrong.
"Begin."
The apprentice took a deep breath and touched one end of the fuse to a torch.
A burst of orange flame flared to life, creeping along the grease-soaked cord toward the solitary clay jar standing in the center.
The air seemed to freeze.
And then—when the dancing sparks finally reached the jar's specially designed ignition port—
A violent tremor surged through the ground.
Lo Quen could clearly feel the magic pulsing within the jar.
Then—
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the air with a shriek that split the sky. A wave of vivid, ghostly green fire erupted outward, expanding in an instant from the jar's center. Its brilliance outshone the sun, flooding the entire testing field with a flickering emerald glow.
The heat was beyond imagination. The shockwave rolled out in a scorching blast, and even three hundred feet away, Lo Quen and the others felt the sear of it against their skin.
When the shock finally faded, the air still shimmered with heat. At the center of the testing ground lay a shallow pit of blackened, molten earth, still burning with emerald flame.
Lo Quen stared at the inferno, awe giving way to deep satisfaction.
"You've done excellently," he praised.
With this wildfire, that seemingly unbreakable highland fortress would no longer bar his advance.
...
Leaving the workshop behind, Lo Quen rode to a quiet river valley encampment behind Conquest Keep, near the rushing waters of a broad river. The place was lush and tranquil, the murmur of water forming a stark contrast to the grim austerity of the armory.
Janice stood by the riverbank, her gaze tenderly following three massive shapes playing near the edge of the green forest.
After only a few months apart, the growth of the three young dragons astonished Lo Quen all over again.
Blooddancer had shown the greatest promise. Its long, powerful body had already grown to nearly eight meters, its crimson scales gleaming like molten metal beneath the sunlight—like living fire turned solid. It stood proud and regal, wings flexing with effortless strength, each beat sending gusts of wind through the trees, setting the leaves whispering in waves.
Duskshadow was slightly smaller, about five and a half meters long, its deep violet scales shimmering like flowing night under the shade. At that moment, it was chasing a startled deer through the underbrush, scattering smaller creatures in every direction.
Silverfall was close in size to Duskshadow, just over five meters, its body sheathed in scales that shone like liquid silver, glinting brilliantly in the sun. It seemed more interested in the river, striking the water with its foreclaws and sending sheets of spray into the air. From time to time, it would swoop low, snatch a fat salmon from the surface with its long neck, and rise gracefully again, moving with the poise of a creature born to both air and water.
A flicker of surprise passed through Lo Quen's mind.
Their growth rate was astonishing—far beyond what he had expected, even in an age when magic had yet to return in full force.
In the original history, Daenerys's Drogon had only become large enough to bear a rider at two years old—and that was after the return of magic.
But soon, his surprise gave way to satisfaction.
The faster they grew, the better. If fortune favored him, the dragons might gain real combat strength before the Red Comet arrived.
Janice walked up to him and said softly, "Your Grace, since your lesson with Blooddancer, it hasn't quarreled again with Duskshadow or Silverfall."
Lo Quen smiled. "Looks like the little one's finally learning some discipline."
Perhaps hearing their voices, Blooddancer—still on the far bank of the river—lifted its long, sinuous neck and turned toward them, curiosity flickering in its eyes.
The two couldn't help but laugh at its guilty look.
After spending a little while playing with Janice and the dragons, Lo Quen finally excused himself and rode away.
...
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