Chapter 8: The Vault of Stone and Scroll
The warmth of the sun faded behind them as Kaelion and Maester Arthur stepped through the colossal wooden doors of the Citadel. The shift from the cobbled streets of Oldtown to the echoing interior of this hallowed place felt like passing through a veil.
Even though Raphael had already provided preliminary scans from afar, being here—truly here—was something else entirely.
Arthur chuckled at Kaelion's wide-eyed gaze.
"Still impressed?"
Kaelion smirked and gave a small nod.
Massive gray stone columns loomed on either side of the hall, thick as tree trunks and engraved with the sigils of the great houses who'd contributed to the Citadel's construction over the centuries. The air smelled of aged parchment, melted wax, and cold iron, laced with the faintest undertone of ash from the ever-burning lanterns hanging from iron hooks. High above, the vaulted ceiling stretched endlessly, its beams lost in shadow, broken only by stained-glass shafts of light casting ribbons of color across the stone floor.
Rows upon rows of towering bookcases ran like rivers through chambers of study. Brass chains crisscrossed the halls, binding tomes too ancient or dangerous to be read freely. The Citadel library wasn't a single room—it was a vast, interconnected labyrinth of knowledge.
Kaelion glimpsed alchemical labs, halls lined with obsidian daggers, preserved organs, and even a chamber containing fragmented dragon skulls and fossilized scales.
It was beautiful.
A silent servant took Arthur's satchel and bowed before vanishing down a corridor. Arthur turned to Kaelion, his expression softening.
"This is where I leave you… for now," he said, placing a firm hand on Kaelion's shoulder. "Remember what I told you. Many here will try to test you. Some will try to measure your mind… others might try to break it."
Kaelion nodded.
"Then I'll give them what they want. One way or another."
Arthur chuckled. "Good luck, boy."
An attendant gestured, and Kaelion followed him deeper into the library sector. The quiet murmurs of scholars echoed faintly through the stone halls, amplifying his anticipation.
When he finally arrived at a wing lined with thousands of chained books, he paused.
To everyone else, he was just another ward.
But to him, this was the culmination of years of planning.
Eventually, he reached the area he'd been seeking: the Library Vaults—a near-sacred region within the Citadel where restricted and esoteric texts were guarded by senior maesters.
Kaelion stepped into a grand chamber filled with scrolls, tomes, and books written in Valyrian, the Common Tongue, and even languages long extinct.
But he wasn't here to read.
"Raphael," he thought calmly, scanning the shelves like a casual browser. "Is this close enough?"
> [Confirmed. Proximity to Citadel vaults is sufficient. Library grid fully scanned.]
He exhaled slowly.
"Even just standing here was enough?"
> [Correct. Data extraction of magical lore, species physiology, and regional anomalies complete.]
This had always been the goal.
While others chased chains and titles, Kaelion had always wanted something else: knowledge.
Not even 21st-century Earth had tomes detailing dragon physiology or the arcane rites of the Children of the Forest.
He respected Arthur—deeply.
But Arthur couldn't teach him what he truly sought.
Sixty seconds. That's all it took.
With Raphael's Analysis, Parallel Thought, and Thought Acceleration, the entire Citadel's magical archives were absorbed and cataloged.
Knowledge of wildfire, dragons, wargs, skinchangers, and even the shadowbinders of Asshai surged into his mind.
Magic in Westeros was real—but chaotic.
It ebbed and flowed, unstable, manifesting in blood rituals, warging, or prophecy. Most of it was ritualistic, reliant on rare materials or birthright. Feared. Suppressed. Hidden.
The Citadel studied it only in the shadows.
Groups like the Red Priests or the Children of the Forest were treated as relics.
To Kaelion, that was pathetic.
It lacked structure. It lacked logic. It lacked design.
"Raphael," he thought, a grin forming. "Initiate creative synthesis. Start with Nen from Hunter x Hunter. Add cursed energy from Jujutsu Kaisen. Merge them. Stabilize the system within this world's framework."
> [Acknowledged. Simulations running.]
He felt it instantly.
Spiritual circuits flared to life within him.
Auras. Domains. Cursed energy flow.
The structured categories of Nen—Enhancement, Emission, Manipulation—took root alongside cursed energy techniques: innate abilities, reverse cursed energy, and Domain Expansions.
The fusion was seamless.
Where Westeros' magic left voids, Kaelion's system filled them.
> [System integration complete. Magical construct stable.]
He smirked.
"Then I don't need to go to King's Landing anymore."
He understood it all now. The physiology of dragons. Their flame sacs. Heat dependency. Blood bonding. Rites of magic. All of it theorized, scattered, buried—and now his.
Kaelion stood still, grinning like a madman before a shelf of books he no longer needed.
---
Elsewhere in the Citadel…
In a quiet, torch-lit chamber deeper within, a circle of robed men sat in hushed conversation—some old and silver-haired, others younger with keener eyes.
"Maester Arthur's ward," one said. "He's here now?"
"Yes," replied a man with a pale steel ring. "Arrived less than an hour ago. Already in the archives."
"Hm. Let's see what the young prodigy is made of," muttered another, stroking his beard. "Reputation means little without substance."
"Shall we test him?"
An elder maester chuckled, his chain nearly dragging on the floor.
"Let's see if he reads… or merely recites."
They nodded in agreement.
"I'll send Alerys," one suggested. "He's sharp enough to report back what he sees."
---
Alerys, ward of Maester Belden, moved silently through the winding stone corridors, boots barely making a sound.
He'd heard the stories. Kaelion wasn't like the others.
There was something strange about his presence—like his eyes held more than they should.
I don't know what to expect, Alerys thought. Some say he's a freak. Others say he's a genius. All I know is, the maesters want answers.
He turned a corner, expecting to find a boy deep in a tome.
Instead, he found Kaelion standing motionless before a shelf on greyscale ailments—not reading, not even touching a book.
Just… grinning.
Or rather, staring into space with a vacant smile on his face.
Alerys hesitated.
Did I get the wrong person?
The boy looked around ten. Tall for his age. Dark-skinned, brown-eyed, jet-black hair. Sharp features. Handsome, symmetrical… and eerily calm.
Alerys coughed.
Kaelion blinked once.
The grin vanished, replaced by unreadable stillness. In an instant, he turned, posture straight and alert.
"I was sent to bring you," Alerys said. "The maesters wish to speak with you."
Kaelion nodded.
"Lead the way."
They walked together through the halls. Silence settled between them—not awkward, just... dense.
Kaelion's gaze lingered on the relics lining the walls. Alerys kept glancing at the boy beside him, trying to figure him out.
Eventually, they arrived at a large oaken door.
Inside, the room was lit with oil lamps, filled with robed figures and heavy silence. Maester Arthur sat quietly in the corner.
Alerys stepped forward. "Kaelion, ward of Maester Arthur, as summoned."
The room hushed.
Kaelion scanned their faces—wary, curious, expectant.
No fear.
No hesitation.
He stepped forward.
Let the games begin.
---
Thanks for reading!
And once again—sorry for the late upload. Real-life stuff got in the way: work, self-study, you know the deal. Still, no excuses—I appreciate you all, especially those consistently dropping power stones and comments. I see you, and it means a lot.
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See ya!