POV: Archmaester Theobald
Archmaester Theobald of the Yellow sat in the cushioned chair of his rented chambers in Braavos, watching the five acolytes struggle with the chests. His fingers absently turned the heavy golden ring on his chain, the symbol of his mastery over economics, over coin, over the flow of wealth that made kingdoms rise and fall.
The assembled Conclave had been clear in their instructions. Jon Stark, formerly Snow, now legitimized and grown too dangerous who must be eliminated.
Not captured and studied but eliminated, before his abilities spread and before he taught others which will make magic something that could not be controlled.
'If you can measure it, you can manage it.'
That had been Theobald's philosophy for thirty years. Everything, from grain yields to trade routes to the Crown's debts—could be quantified, analyzed, controlled. He'd built his reputation on turning chaos into numbers, numbers into predictions, predictions into power.
But magic? Magic was unmeasurable. Unpredictable. It defied every principle of rational economics. You couldn't chart its supply, couldn't predict its demand, couldn'immeasurablet you couldn't quantify.
And that bastard possessed it in abundance.
'Unacceptable.'
The Conclave had voted. Seven Archmaesters in favor, one against, two abstaining. The decision was made. Jon Stark must die. And the Citadel's gold, gold which was carefully accumulated over centuries, skimmed from tithes and donations and shrewd investments would pay for it.
"Careful with those!" Theobald snapped as one of the acolytes stumbled. "Those chests contain more wealth than you'll see in ten lifetimes. Drop one and I'll have your chain before you can blink."
The five acolytes were a sorry sight. The Conclave had assigned him whoever was available in Braavos. young men supposedly training to become maesters, but none of them looked capable of real work.
Two were stick-thin, all sharp angles and knobby joints. The other three were soft and pudgy, their faces flushed red from the minimal exertion of carrying the chests from the ship.
'Pathetic. This is what the Citadel produces now? Scholars who can't even lift a damn box?'
"Careful! CAREFUL!" Theobald lurched forward in his chair but didn't stand because, as one of the thin acolytes lost his grip.
The chest hit the floor with a thunderous crash. The lock burst open. Gold bricks spilled across the wooden planks, each one stamped with the Citadel's seal. Each one worth a hundred gold dragons.
Twenty bricks. Two thousand gold dragons rolling across the floor like a merchant's nightmare.
"You FUCKING idiot!" Theobald roared, his face going purple. "You clumsy, worthless FUCK! Do you know what you've done? Do you know how much gold you just dropped?"
The thin acolyte scrambled to his knees, hands shaking as he tried to gather the bricks. "I'm sorry, Archmaester, I'm so sorry, I—"
"Sorry? SORRY?" Theobald's jowls quivered with rage. "Your sorry ass will be scrubbing chamberpots in Oldtown for the next decade! You'll—"
"Archmaester." One of the pudgy acolytes, slightly more competent than the others, spoke up nervously. "Perhaps we should... hire porters? To carry the chests to the House of Black and White?"
Theobald glared at him, then at the scattered gold, then at the remaining two intact chests. Each chest contained a million gold dragons in compressed bricks. Three chests total. More than most kingdoms saw in a year.
The price the faceless men had demanded for killing someone under their own protection. Two million gold dragons. An obscene sum. But the Conclave had deemed it necessary.
'Worth it,' Theobald thought viciously. 'To rid the world of that unnatural bastard.'
"Fine," he spat. "Hire porters. Strong ones. Not you worthless fucks, actual laborers who know how to carry something heavier than a quill."
"Yes, Archmaester."
The acolytes scurried off, though the thin ones looked ready to collapse and the fat ones were breathing hard. Theobald watched them go with disgust.
'Should have brought proper servants. But the Conclave insisted on discretion.'
He settled back in his chair. It was comfortable, this chair. cushioned. The Braavosi inn was expensive but worth it, good wine, soft beds, and girls in the room next door whenever he wanted them.
No reason to trudge through the streets to the House of Black and White himself. Let the acolytes handle it. Let them deal with the faceless men and their creepy temple. He'd paid the gold. That was his contribution. Walking across half the city in this heat? At his age?
Theobald poured himself wine and drank deeply. The acolytes would take the gold to the temple, speak the name, and the deed would be done.
Simple transaction, the economics at its finest.
'Jon Stark will be dead within a fortnight. And magic will remain where it belongs, in dusty books and children's tales.'
He drank again, savoring the wine. Excellent vintage.
Time passed. The sun moved across the sky. Theobald dozed in his chair, comfortable and satisfied. The hardest part was done.
A knock at the door woke him.
"Enter," he called, shifting his bulk in the chair.
One of the acolytes stepped in, the thin one with dark hair and a scar on his chin. He'd been carrying the leftmost chest, Theobald recalled vaguely.
"Well?" Theobald demanded. "Is it done? When will those freaks kill the bastard?"
The acolyte closed the door behind him. Quietly. Deliberately.
"The followers of the Many-Faced God always honor their words," he said softly.
Theobald nodded, pleased. "Good. Good. It's about time someone dealt with that unnatural fuck." He gestured vaguely. "Fetch me more wine. And get the girls from the room next door, I want all of them. I'm in the mood to celebrate, and I—"
The acolyte moved.
It was so fast Theobald barely registered it. One moment the young man was standing by the door. The next, he was beside the chair, and something cold touched Theobald's throat.
"Wha—"
The blade drew across his neck in one fluid motion.
Theobald's words turned to wet gurgling. He clutched at his throat, feeling hot blood pour between his fingers. His yellow gold ring glinted in the afternoon light as his hands shook.
'No. No. This isn't—'
He tried to speak, to demand an explanation, to curse this traitor. But only blood came out.
The acolyte, no, not an acolyte, never an acolyte, watched with calm, empty eyes as Archmaester Theobald drowned in his own blood.
"A man honors his word," the figure said quietly. "A contract was made. A name was given. And the Many-Faced God always collects His due."
…
(A/N: I will upload extra chapters according to the power stones received.)