Gavin stood on the same stretch of beach where he had once boiled seawater for salt and stared at the panel hovering before his eyes.
Energy points accumulated slowly—roughly one per year through passive absorption.
Over the years he had rarely spent them on his bloodline.
The awakening still progressed with age, but the pace had clearly slowed.
In a few more years he would need energy points just to push it further.
Most of the points he had earned had gone into martial skills.
Swordsmanship had reached the level of a true master.
Years of hard training combined with the steady growth of his bloodline had also strengthened his body far beyond what a normal fourteen-year-old could achieve.
He studied the two points still in reserve and began to plan the road ahead with cold precision.
At the Citadel he had two clear goals.
The first was access to whatever books on magic the maesters kept.
He carried power inside him, yet he had no reliable way to turn that power into real strength.
The Citadel’s archives might hold the answers he needed.
The second goal was the maester who would one day be expelled—Qyburn.
That plan had taken shape because of the Command function on his panel.
Two years earlier, during the campaign against the Iron Islands, Emond had taken most of the domain’s fighting men.
The young soldiers Ryan had trained were formed into a small company and given patrol duties alongside militia.
Gavin, the strongest among them, had been made one of the captains.
He had gone into it full of confidence, ready to test the Command function at last.
He had tried to use it to strengthen the men under him.
The panel had shown only their names and a single line beneath each one: (This unit does not belong to you).
No matter what he attempted, the function remained as unresponsive as a sleeping beast.
The failure had forced him into long, careful thought.
He had eventually concluded that the men could not truly swear themselves to him, or perhaps the panel only recognized those who already carried some spark of magic.
Either way, both possibilities were out of reach for a bastard with no title and no easy path to knighthood.
He could not make soldiers swear lasting loyalty to him, and he could not give them magic.
If the living would not serve, then what about the dead?
The idea had come from the story he remembered—Qyburn bringing the Mountain back as something that obeyed orders with almost no will of its own.
Later the creature had seemed to regain fragments of self, or at least obsession, but the core fact remained: the dead could be made to serve.
If Gavin could learn that same art, he could raise fallen warriors who would never question orders, never waver in loyalty, and never need pay or glory.
They would become the most perfect force he could command.
The thought thrilled him and sickened him in equal measure.
It was a violation of every law and decency he knew.
But he was running out of clean paths.
He clenched his jaw and made the decision.
He would find a way to take Qyburn’s knowledge for himself.
Gavin joined a merchant caravan and began the journey to Oldtown.
The Reach spread out around him like a living tapestry—endless fields of green wheat and barley rippling under the wind, rich soil that promised abundance with every harvest.
Five days later, as evening fell, the Hightower rose before him.
The great tower stabbed more than a hundred feet into the sky, its stone carved with ancient and intricate patterns.
In his old life such a height would have been ordinary.
Here, in this age, legend claimed it had been raised with the help of magic.
Looking at it now, Gavin found the stories easy to believe.
A wild, dangerous thought took root.
If the tower had truly been built with magic, then its stones might still hold power.
If he could lay his hands on the tower itself, perhaps he could draw energy from it—real, usable energy points.
The idea spread through his mind like wildfire before he forced it down with a bitter smile.
He was still only a bastard with no standing.
Getting close enough to touch the Hightower was impossible for now.
But impossible today did not mean impossible forever.
One day he would stand at its base and take what he needed.
He shook the thought away, led his horse through the streets, and found a clean-looking inn.
Inside he claimed a quiet corner, ordered a private room and a meal, and paid the servant with a few coppers.
While he ate he asked quiet questions about the Citadel and how one went about enrolling.
The next morning he rose early, ate the bread and cheese the inn sent up, and set out with Emond’s sealed letter in his belt.
As he walked, people turned to stare.
Silver hair and purple eyes still meant Targaryen to most of Westeros, and the Iron Throne’s current attitude toward dragonblood made those stares sharp.
The maester who received him at the Citadel gates looked surprised by his appearance and asked directly about his parentage.
The Citadel tried to remain neutral, but it had no wish to invite trouble.
When Gavin presented Emond’s letter—carefully worded and bearing the seal of Three Towers—the maester’s expression eased.
He led Gavin toward the hall of affairs, speaking as they walked.
“Tuition is ten gold dragons a year.
You may choose whatever subjects interest you, but in your first year you are permitted only one course of study.”
CaveLeather