Deep__Aureate
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Chapter 36 Implication
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 16:27:31 +0000 UTCOldtown, House Hightower
The raven arrived at the Hightower just as the evening bells tolled, their solemn chimes echoing through the ancient halls like the voice of history itself.
Lord Hobert Hightower stood by the high window of his solar as he broke the royal seal.
He unfurled the scroll with practiced ease, until his eyes reached the words at its heart.
His hands stilled.
The color drained from his face.
The parchment crinkled slightly in his grip as his fingers unconsciously tightened. He read the line again, and then a third time, as though repetition might soften the truth it carried.
"A Valyrian pyromancer…" he murmured, voice barely audible. “They were meant to be extinct.”
He turned toward the hearth, where the flames danced quietly, tame, harmless. His jaw clenched.
The name at the center of the scroll burned brighter than the fire: Prince Aegon… son of Prince Baelon… awakened as a Valyrian pyromancer…
The letter went on to announce a royal hunt in his honor, to be held in the spring.
Lord Hobert exhaled, slow and deliberate, and cast a long look toward the east-facing windows.
Beyond them, the Citadel rose like a crown of learning and order, its spires shadowed against the twilight sky.
His voice, when it came, was measured, but edged with urgency.
“Send word to the Citadel. At once. They need to see this.”
His steward bowed quickly and departed. Hobert remained where he stood, still holding the parchment.
His thoughts churned like the tide beneath Oldtown’s bridges.
A Valyrian pyromancer… in the blood of Targaryens.
Oldtown, The Citadel
By the time the raven was delivered to the Citadel, the light of the day had already bled into dusk.
A few senior stewards glanced at the royal seal with thinly veiled alarm and passed it on without delay.
Moments later, bells were rung, low and deliberate, summoning the Archmaesters of the Conclave to an emergency session. It had been years since the last such gathering.
In the heart of the Citadel, behind the ancient oak-and-bronze doors of a chamber, the Archmaesters gathered one by one.
Their heavy chains clinked faintly as they took their seats around the great circular table. Bronze, silver, black iron, each link on each neck a statement of mastery and pride, and now, of uncertainty.
The atmosphere was thick with unease. The candlelight cast long shadows, flickering over parchment-dry faces etched by time and study.
The message lay at the center of the table, still unfurled, as if the inked words alone might catch fire.
“A Valyrian Pyromancer,” one Archmaester murmured, as if saying the words too loudly would conjure flame. “Announced by the King himself.”
“Impossible,” another said. “There hasn't been a recorded pyromancer, an authentic one, since the Doom.”
“No mere rumor,” said a voice from the far end, thin but sharp. “The King does not call for a royal hunt over children’s fancies. This is real.”
One of the older Archmaesters, chain rustling as he leaned forward, tapped the table with his knuckles. “The art of fire was the crown jewel of the Freehold. Blood rituals. Soul-binding. Fire drawn from the body like oil from a well. It is not a gift, it is a curse. And it cannot be permitted to bloom again.”
Agreement rippled through the chamber like wind across tall grass.
“And yet it has,” another said bitterly. “In the blood of the dragonlords. Just as it did before.”
The room quieted as the doors creaked open again. Soft footsteps echoed into the hall, calm, deliberate.
A figure stepped into view, clad in modest grey robes, the links of a maester’s chain gleaming faintly under candlelight.
But it was the man’s face that drew attention, youthful compared to the rest, with fine-boned features and unmistakable violet eyes. He bore no smile, no humility, only the cold clarity of one who had long since made peace with his choices.
Maester Vaegon. Son of King Jaehaerys.
Tension immediately bristled across the room.
One voice snapped, “Who allowed him in?”
“I did,” came the reply from a figure seated near the letter. “He may not yet bear a ring of office, but this matter touches his bloodline, and ours. And you will listen to what he has to say.”
The rest shifted uncomfortably. Some nodded. Others scowled.
Vaegon stepped forward and inclined his head, but only slightly. “I have no intention of defending the boy,” he said calmly. “I gave up the name Targaryen. My loyalty lies here.”
That didn’t stop the suspicion in some eyes.
“Your blood rides dragons,” one Archmaester said grimly. “And now it wields fire. The same fire that built Valyria’s empire, and burned it down.”
“My blood also writes books,” Vaegon said softly, “and teaches boys to read. Shall we silence the scribes as well?”
A silence fell like a hammer. No one answered.
From the shadows near the back of the chamber, a younger voice broke the thick silence, measured, yet edged with the daring of someone still new to power.
A younger Archmaester, one whose chain bore fewer links than most present, leaned forward from his seat. His face was pale in the candlelight, but his tone was calm.
“If this is true…if the boy truly commands flame as the sorcerers of old…then should we not study it?” he asked. “There may be something to learn. Something to understand.”
The reply came sharp and cold.
“No,” barked one of the senior Archmaesters, a man whose chain had weighed down his shoulders for decades.
“The arts of the Freehold are a blight. Their legacy is death and tyranny, cloaked in fire and blood. The Citadel exists to resist them. To unmake their memory. We have spent centuries killing their echoes. We will not nurture their return.”
A low murmur of agreement followed. The brazier crackled in the center of the chamber, as if stirred by the tension.
Vaegon did not flinch. His fingers remained steepled, his violet eyes unreadable.
“And how do you propose to kill a boy who holds fire in his palm?” he asked softly. “Will you throw books at him? Or hope he burns himself before he becomes something worse?”
A moment of hesitation passed.
Then, one of the more pragmatic voices, a veteran of courtly maneuverings, known more for patience than passion, spoke.
“He is still young,” the Archmaester said carefully. “The fire may fade… or not. Either way, we must prepare. Quietly. A delegation could be sent, disguised as scholars, advisors, healers if need be. We gain access. We observe. And if necessary…”
“Measure him,” another added, voice colder. “Limit him. Weaken him.”
“To ensure his power never ripens,” someone else finished.
“Or,” came a whisper near the brazier, barely audible, “to erase him.”
That final suggestion sent a silence rippling across the chamber like a stone cast into still water.
It lingered, unspoken but undeniable. An idea that no one would voice directly, yet none dismissed.
The younger Archmaester looked disturbed. Not merely by the idea itself, but by how easily it had taken root in the room.
He had joined the Citadel to expand knowledge, to safeguard order, not to plot the quiet undoing of a royal child.
Vaegon saw the discomfort in his colleague’s eyes.
“He is just a boy,” Vaegon said, not to challenge but to remind. Then, after a pause, his gaze drifted to the firelight. “But boys grow. And fire… spreads.”
The session stretched deep into the night. Voices rose and fell. No consensus formed.
The more aggressive proposals, open warnings, demands, even preemptive condemnation, were dismissed as reckless. Too visible. Too risky.
The King had declared the boy a wonder, not a threat. To oppose him openly was to court suspicion.
Instead, they debated quieter approaches: the collection of old Valyrian texts from across the libraries of Westeros; the reexamination of long-forbidden treatises locked beneath the Citadel; the dispatching of trusted agents to King’s Landing under other guises.
Some even argued for a direct, secret audience with the King.
Still, no firm path emerged. Just tension, layered and unspoken.
But on one point they were united.
Prince Aegon Targaryen, third son of Baelon, had become the most volatile element in the realm.
And the Citadel would not be caught unprepared.
At last, the Conclave was dismissed. One by one, the Archmaesters filed out into the cold, echoing corridors of stone.
The younger Archmaester lingered for a breath longer, his expression troubled. Then he too slipped away, robes trailing behind him.
Only Vaegon remained.
Seated alone in the vast chamber, he gazed into the heart of the brazier. The flames danced, reflected in his eyes, violet, steady, unfathomable.
“Fire reborn,” he murmured, not as a threat, nor a hope.
Simply a truth.
The Eyrie, Vale of Arryn
The sky above the Eyrie was a pale sheet of ice, the kind that seemed to hang motionless even as the wind screamed through the mountain passes.
Snow had fallen lightly the night before, frosting the slender white towers and leaving the Vale far below hidden under a soft shroud of mist.
Inside the High Hall, Lord Rodrick Arryn sat at the carved stone table, the weight of age and thought bowing his shoulders slightly.
Across from him, his third wife, Lady Elena, stirred her tea without drinking it, her brows drawn together in quiet concern.
The fire crackled, but the room still felt cold, perhaps not from the wind, but from the letter lying open between them.
The royal seal had been broken with care. Its contents had been read thrice.
“Would there be any trouble… in the succession?” Elena asked at last, her voice tentative but firm.
Rodrick’s eyes remained fixed on the letter as if hoping it would change.
“There can’t be,” he said, though he did not sound entirely convinced. “Baelon is the heir. That much is settled. After him, Viserys. It’s tradition. Aegon may be the youngest dragonrider, and now… this,” he gestured toward the parchment, “but he is still the third son.”
Elena didn’t respond at once. Her fingers brushed the edge of the letter as if feeling for truth in the vellum.
“You’re saying that because the King already agreed to your proposal,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Because Aemma will be betrothed to Viserys.”
Rodrick’s sigh came like the wind through the Eyrie’s Moon Door, low and weary.
“Yes. That bond must hold. It ties us to the line of succession.” He reached for the goblet beside him but did not drink. “Viserys must claim Balerion soon. It is the only way he can truly secure his place.”
Elena watched him carefully. “And if he cannot?”
Rodrick finally drank, swallowing the warm wine like a man swallowing a bitter truth.
“Then we must hope blood and names are still enough.”
Silence stretched between them before he added, more quietly, “Our alliance with House Targaryen must stand. And Viserys is… amiable. Malleable. Aemma will not be mistreated.”
Elena frowned. “But Aegon… He’s not just another boy. A Valyrian pyromancer?” Her voice trembled slightly. “It sounds like a tale out of Old Valyria. And if the realm begins to see him as something more, something sent by the gods…”
“They won’t,” Rodrick cut in, though without force. “Not yet. This royal hunt is spectacle, not strategy. An attempt to frame the boy as a marvel, not a monarch.”
Elena wasn’t sure she believed that.
Rodrick shifted, running a hand down his face, then said, “Besides… it’s not just us backing Viserys.”
She blinked. “You mean…”
“Yes. The Hightowers,” Rodrick said, rubbing at his temple. “Perhaps even before we made our offer.”
Lady Elena's eyes narrowed. “That’s dangerous.”
“Yes,” Rodrick agreed softly. “Which is why we must hold our ground. Quietly. Carefully.”
He fell silent then, the crackle of fire filling the chamber.
For a moment, he seemed lost in thought. Then, with a tired exhale, he leaned back in his seat, eyes drifting to the frost-tinged window.
“I am too old for this,” he murmured.
Elena tilted her head. “You’re not yet fifty.”
Rodrick gave a hollow chuckle. “The mountains weigh heavier with age. And so does politics. Perhaps it’s time to pass the burden.”
“To your son?”
He nodded.
“Taron,” he said after a moment, naming his eldest. “He’s twenty and level-headed. Spends more time at the Eyrie than in the tourney yard. He understands duty. Has the heart of a falcon, if not the wings yet.”
Elena considered the name. “He’s untested.”
“So was I, once,” Rodrick replied. “But the boy listens. And in these days, that may matter more than any sword stroke.”
She reached for his hand and held it.
“We will stand beside him,” she said.
Rodrick gave her a grateful nod. “Then let us begin the long handover, after the winds shift. The Vale must be ready.”
They sat in silence again, the fire low, the storm outside the Eyrie beginning to stir once more.
Comments
troptop
Huh? Which platform?
Iolaum
Given how Aegon tries to manage Daemon's temper I doubt this. It's interesting however that he seems to care much less about Viscerys.
Iolaum
I m wondering if Otto Hightower will make the connection of his eye injury and Aegon being a Valyrian Pyromancer.
Gopard
Thanks for the chapter!
Prithvi Chandrsekar
I agree, a bit older would have made more sense.
Mariusz Zuk
I would like to say first that the story is good and interesting. The only 2 things that maybe not are bad but i find unnecessary is the "Infinite Class Tree" and age of the character . For "Infinite Class Tree" without it the character could still have all the abilites , it would reduce time for explanation of the system (would make more sense for general that thanks to his blood and connection to the dragons he just awaken this abilites without adding some system that only he have ) . As for the chararacter age i am not sure why with a lot of the novel the main character must be very young (like here below age of 10 ) . It would be more believable for all his abilites and power as well as charcter interactions if he was a little older someting like 14-15 . Like i said i still like the story and will probably continue reading it/follow it but those are two thing that bother me .
P3t1
The Citadel and the Hightowers are in a serious need of ass-whooping asap. I also hope Aegon learns from his uncle’s death and realises that a well-placed dagger or some poison in his food could kill him and end all his ambitions. He really needs some poison resistance trait plus some magic wards or whatever to protect himself from assassination attempts.
Seanpna
I hope at some point he's able to go explore the wider world. Maybe explore the remains of old Valyria, see the shadow-city of Asshai where there is still (blood) magic/warlocks and where the red priestesses come from, and maybe see the remnants of the Yi Ti empire. Plus there is apparently other continents rumored/mentioned.
ㅇㅇ
Well, I think if Mc bribe Daemon with a Valyria steel armor, or if he bribe Lannister with a Valyria sword, they would be willing to support mc as king.
Chad B. Sonnen
The Targaryens were their own worse enemy in the end, from the cruel, to the mad king. These backdoor plots by outside powers have nothing on that. I hope this story don't forget that.
Hamed Al-Ghamdi
dragonlord for him and his domain and his dragon
Lictor Magnus
I know right now he’s focused on personal power and being a wizard, but at some point he should probably grab some sort of leadership class. I’m sure he could create some kind of high lord or prince class to help him maneuver around all the scrutiny he’ll get.
troptop
He's just like my Giga-Chad Breton Warrior-Mage build in skyrim. Can't wait til he starts pummeling knights and warlocks.
rockus4
God I hate the maesters , hope mc puts them in their place
Bladesunder
I really hope someone tries something and he puts them in their place.
Rachel N
Can't wait for the Royal Hunt! Heehee
