POV: Jon Stark
I pulled my hand back from Archmaester Theobald's temple.
Thud
The connection broke, and he hit the floor.
The man was gone. I'd wiped the slate clean.
Apparently, Maester Munkun had seen a figure on the Hightower. After months of digging, he decided it was the Bloodstone Emperor.
He was wrong, or maybe only half wrong?
I recognized the person, blue lips, and a single red eye.
That was Euron Greyjoy. No doubt about it.
I turned my attention to the rest of the group.
Archmaester Perestan and the other members of the Conclave were tied up in the corner.
I walked over to Perestan. He flinched the second I reached out.
"Don't worry, this won't hurt." I placed my palm against his forehead, and pushed my consciousness right through the bone, diving into the wet, grey machinery of his brain.
Time for a rewrite.
It was basically like editing a corrupted file.
I smoothed out the jagged electrical spikes of anxiety firing off in his amygdala. I flooded his system with a nice cocktail of oxytocin and dopamine.
Then, I keyed his loyalty specifically to me.
While I was in there, I figured I might as well do some maintenance.
He had a heart arrhythmia and some nasty arthritis in his knees.
I stimulated a release of stem cells. Repaired the fraying valves in his myocardium. Scrubbed the calcium deposits right off his joints.
Simple, really.
I pulled back.
He blinked. The terror was gone. He looked at me with the unconditional love of a well-trained hound.
I moved to the next one.
It took me about ten minutes to process the whole group.
I cured failing livers, cataracts, and dementia.
I turned a group of scheming politicians into peak-condition servants.
Talk about efficiency.
Then I stopped at Archmaester Heston.
I had already processed him, but something felt… off?! ….What's wrong with him?
He was looking at me strangely. His eyes weren't fixed on my face. They were glued to the veins on my bicep.
Did I make a mistake?
I dove back into his mind for a diagnostic check. I scanned his personal history.
Ah. Heston had a preference for men.
I really didn't need that kind of distraction at work.
I reached out and grabbed his head again.
Rewire.
I pulled back.
Heston blinked. His gaze snapped to my eyes. It was cold, respectful, and totally devoid of thirst.
Good.
I stood back and wiped my hands on a cloth.
"Stand up."
The Conclave rose in unison. They moved with a vigor they hadn't possessed in twenty years.
"Go back to the Citadel. You will use the key to open the Black Vault."
They nodded.
"Bring me the preserved specimens. The corpse of the Child of the Forest. The Giant's hand. The Wyvern. The Kraken beak. The Sea Dragon."
I paused, picturing the Vault I'd seen in Theobald's memory.
"You know what, just bring every specimen you have. Transport them here immediately."
"Go."
I threw the key. My maids caught it and pressed it into the waiting hands.
The maesters turned and marched out of the shack into the night.
A few hours later, I was sitting at the heavy oak table in the mansion's solar.
There was a bowl of sliced melons in front of me. Across the table sat Oberyn Martell and Archmaester Marwyn.
Oberyn was sharpening a dagger. Marwyn was beside him, knocking back wine.
"The plan has changed," I said.
Oberyn paused mid-stroke. He looked up.
"Changed? We are burning daylight, Stark. The vault isn't going to open its—"
"It already is," I said, taking a bite of melon. "I sent the Conclave to fetch the contents."
Marwyn stared at me. He saw the total lack of concern in my posture and realized I wasn't joking.
"I told you I need you to get into the vault," I said. "But the vault is coming to us. So our deal is concluded."
I stood up and walked around the table to Marwyn.
"Payment time."
Marwyn stiffened. "Now?"
"Why wait?"
I put my hand on his shoulder. I didn't wait for permission.
I dove into his biology.
Marwyn was tough. He was like an old oak tree.
But his telomeres were short. His cells were tired. He had accumulated genetic garbage over seventy years of hard living.
I flushed it out, triggering a massive release of telomerase. Then revert his cells to a younger state.
I could see the changes happening in real-time.
His grey hair darkened at the roots. The deep trenches on his face smoothed out.
I stepped back.
Marwyn looked at his hands. He flexed his fingers. He took a deep breath. It sounded clear and strong, the wheeze was gone.
"You kept your word to the Mage," Oberyn said. "What about me?"
"You will have your payment," I said.
"Where is he?" Oberyn asked. "My spies were unable to find him."
He tapped the point of his dagger against the wood.
I took another slice of melon and ate it slowly, then wiped my fingers on a cloth.
"Gregor Clegane is in the Eyrie."
…..
Once Oberyn and Marwyn left, I decided to check on things in the Vale.
I warged into the clone I had sent in the Eyrie.
The clone's body was huge. Everything felt heavy and powerful.
My hands were twice their normal size. My shoulders were broad enough to carry a cart.
The leather armor I wore was stiff and cracked from the cold.
The camp sprawled in every direction around me.
Thousands of men huddled around fires. The banners of House Baratheon snapped overhead.
I flexed my fingers. The skin was copper-toned, Khal Drogo's DNA had built this body well.
I scanned the camp. Most of the sellswords ignored me. I was just another blade for hire. Nobody cared about me because of my clothes.
After waiting for a while, I saw three figures walking toward the command tent in the center of the camp.
King Robert Baratheon, Brynden Tully, and Edmure Tully.
They pushed through the tent flap and went inside.
I stopped warging into the clone and let its programming take over.
Instead, I jumped into a small mouse that I sent with the clone.
I slipped under the canvas flap and into the tent.
Robert was pacing. His boots thudded against the wooden planks someone had laid down to keep the floor dry.
"I want this done," Robert said. His voice was rough and angry. "I want these savages crushed. I want their bodies piled so high the crows won't finish eating them before spring."
He turned and pointed at the Blackfish.
"How long, Tully? How long before we can march through those bloody gates and be done with this?"
"We can't march through the gates, Your Grace, The gates are gone."
Robert stopped pacing. "Gone?"
"Destroyed," the Blackfish said. "The clans used wildfire."
"How?"
"They disguised themselves as wine merchants," the Blackfish continued. "They rolled wagons with barrels of wildfire to the Moon Gates, and the explosion took down half the gatehouse. The rest collapsed an hour later. The clans swarmed through before we could regroup. They hold the ruins now."
"Wildfire? Those savage bastards have wildfire?" Robert asked.
"Wildfire? Up here?" Edmure said in a confused tone. "Do they have a pyromancer with them? Are those Targaryens behind it?"
The Blackfish let out a long, heavy sigh. He didn't look at Edmure. He turned back to Robert.
"Your Grace, we need to retake the gates before they get into the Giant's Lance."
Robert slammed his fist against the table.
"I don't have time for this!" Robert shouted. "I should be in the North! The real war is waiting for me there, I can feel it! And I'm stuck here fighting clansmen who should have been wiped out a century ago!"
He grabbed a cup of wine from the table and drained it in one pull.
"I want them dead, Blackfish. I don't care how you do it."
The Blackfish nodded once. "We'll do what we can, Your Grace."
….