Chapter 16: The Serpent's Gaze Turns East
In the silent aftermath of his victory over the Red Priestess, Kaelen found himself at a precipice. He stood in the high chambers of the Tower of the Hand, a fire roaring in the hearth—a fire he had lit with a thought, a fire that danced with fleeting, chaotic visions only he could see. Within him, a new and profound schism had formed. One part of him, the cold, logical architect, was deeply enmeshed in the political machinations of King's Landing, locked in a profitable, predatory dance with Littlefinger. The other, the true, hungry core of his being, was consumed by the vast, unseen world of magic he had only just begun to taste.
His senses were now a tapestry woven from two different worlds. He could feel the thrum of gold changing hands in the city below, the subtle shifts of political allegiance in the court, the quiet fear he inspired in his subordinates. But beneath it all, he could also feel the deeper currents: the ancient, cold magic of the land itself, the faint, residual heat of Valyrian bloodlines, and the two brightest points of arcane power that now called to him.
One was a trail, a thread of ice and fire leading north to the cold granite of Winterfell and the boy who was a living secret.
The other was a rumor, a whisper from the far east, of a city of wonders and the shadowy power that festered within it. Qarth.
For a week, Kaelen was a creature of intense, coiled stillness. He performed his duties as Master of Laws with chilling efficiency. He met with Littlefinger, their plans for the economic subjugation of the port moving forward flawlessly. He oversaw the City Watch, his authority absolute. But his mind was elsewhere, weighing two futures, two distinct paths on his dark pilgrimage to godhood.
The North was tempting. The magic he'd sensed at the Tower of Joy was potent, fundamental. The boy, Jon Snow, was a nexus of power, a key to the great song of this world. But Kaelen's cold, surgical logic ultimately overruled his hunger. The boy was just a boy; his power was latent, immature. To go north now would be to harvest a green fruit. Moreover, to meddle with the son of Eddard Stark, the King's most trusted friend, was a political risk of the highest order. It was a move to be made from a position of absolute, unassailable power, not before. The Northern hunt was a long-term investment.
Qarth, however, was an immediate opportunity. The Warlocks were an established power, their skills in shadow and illusion honed over centuries. They were a known quantity from his past life's reading, a concentrated source of arcane energy ripe for the taking. The risk was in the unknown, the journey to a foreign land. But the reward was a unique and powerful skill set, another primary color to add to his growing palette of divine power.
His decision, when it came, was one of pure, predatory pragmatism. He would go east.
To do so, he needed a reason, a pretext so grand and so profitable that not even King Robert could refuse it. The Master of Laws could not simply abandon his post to sail across the world. But an ambassador of the Iron Throne, on a mission of vital state importance? That was another matter entirely.
He approached Littlefinger not in the Red Keep, but in one of Baelish's own establishments—a high-end brothel in the nicer part of the city, a place where secrets were bought and sold more freely than the flesh on display. He found the Master of Coin in a private room, surrounded by plush cushions, sipping wine and watching the quiet, intricate dance of his own power.
"Lord Baelish," Kaelen began, cutting straight through the pleasantries. "Our venture with the port is a success. But it is a small success. We are taking a cut of the existing trade. It is the thinking of shopkeepers, not kings."
Littlefinger raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Go on."
"The wealth of King's Landing is a pittance compared to the wealth of the world," Kaelen continued, his voice low and intense. He drew on the commercial acumen of Orlandor Fane, speaking the language of pure profit. "Lannisport grows rich on the trade winds from the Sunset Sea. Oldtown grows fat on the Arbor. But the greatest wealth of all lies to the east. In the Jade Sea. In the Queen of Cities, Qarth."
He painted a picture for Littlefinger, a vision of untold riches. He spoke of the Qartheen thirst for Westerosi lumber and raw iron, of the priceless silks, spices, and exotic beasts they could bring back. He proposed establishing a direct, exclusive trade agreement between the Iron Throne and the Pureborn of Qarth.
"Imagine it, Lord Baelish. A royal fleet, funded by our Sable Quill company, its profits flowing directly to us, under the guise of filling the Crown's coffers. We would not only become wealthier than Lord Tywin himself, but we would also give the King a source of income that makes him independent of his fractious lords. A king with his own treasury is a true king."
Littlefinger's eyes, usually full of mockery, now gleamed with the pure, fervent light of avarice. The scale of the ambition was breathtaking. It was a scheme that could change the balance of power in the entire world.
"A brilliant, magnificent vision, Lord Vyrwel," Littlefinger breathed. "But Qarth is a closed society, ruled by ancient guilds and proud merchants. They would not deign to treat with common envoys."
"Which is why," Kaelen said, delivering his master stroke, "the mission must be led by a high lord of the realm, an ambassador with the full authority of the King, who can negotiate with the Pureborn as an equal. A man of status, who understands both statecraft and trade. A man like myself."
The pieces clicked into place in Littlefinger's mind. Kaelen wanted a reason to go east. And he was offering Littlefinger a kingdom of gold in exchange for the key. It also had the added benefit of getting his terrifying and unpredictable partner out of the city for a year or more, giving him free rein. The offer was too good to refuse.
"I believe," Littlefinger said, a slow smile spreading across his face, "that I can persuade Lord Arryn of the wisdom of such a venture. And a king with a promise of gold is a very agreeable king indeed."
The proposal to the Small Council was a theatrical masterpiece. Littlefinger, in his capacity as Master of Coin, outlined the dire state of the Crown's finances. Then Kaelen, as Master of Laws, presented the Qartheen venture as the ultimate solution. He spoke with the diplomatic grace of Lord Corbray, framing the mission as one of national importance, a way to secure the future of the Baratheon dynasty. Jon Arryn, ever prudent, saw the long-term benefits. King Robert, bored with the numbers, heard only the promise of wealth beyond his wildest dreams and approved the mission with a hearty laugh and a command to bring him back a cage of monkeys with blue asses.
Kaelen's great voyage was approved. His hunt had its cover.
He spent the next month in meticulous preparation. He commissioned a sleek, fast galley, the Sea Serpent, and staffed it with a hand-picked crew and twenty of his most loyal Vyrwel guards. He also sought out the Qartheen merchant captain whose tales had first planted the seed of this journey. The man, Mathos, a distant cousin of some minor merchant prince, was easily found. Kaelen hired him as a guide and cultural attaché, and in their conversations, Kaelen's mind, now a finely-tuned instrument of espionage, absorbed every detail of Qartheen customs, politics, and, most importantly, the legends surrounding the Warlocks.
Before their departure, Kaelen's network provided him with an opportunity. A notorious pirate captain named "Corpse-Eye" Magon, known for his uncanny ability to navigate the treacherous Stepstones and his almost supernatural sense for weather patterns, was planning to raid the shipping lanes east of Tarth. Kaelen arranged for a rumor to be leaked, a whisper of a new royal treasury ship, lightly guarded and laden with silver, that would be passing through the area.
It was a baited hook, and the pirate swallowed it whole.
Two weeks into their voyage, as they sailed through the beautiful, dangerous archipelago of the Stepstones, Magon's fleet of ramshackle warships appeared on the horizon.
Mathos, the Qartheen captain, wrung his hands in despair. "We are doomed! That is Corpse-Eye Magon! He never loses a ship!"
Kaelen stood at the prow of the Sea Serpent, a cold smile on his face. "Excellent," he said softly.
The battle was brief and one-sided. Magon's pirates, expecting a fat, slow merchantman, were met by a hardened crew of veterans and twenty of the most disciplined soldiers in Westeros. The pirates were slaughtered. Kaelen himself led the boarding party that swarmed Magon's flagship. He fought his way across the blood-slicked deck, his movements a symphony of deadly force, every one of his stolen skills working in perfect harmony.
He cornered Corpse-Eye Magon on the ship's quarterdeck. The pirate was a fearsome-looking man with a milky, dead eye and a wild black beard, wielding a pair of rusty, notched axes. He was a berserker, a whirlwind of savage fury.
The fight lasted less than a minute. Kaelen's defense was impenetrable, his speed otherworldly. He disarmed the pirate with a precise flick of his blade that severed the tendons in one wrist, and then, as Magon howled in rage, Kaelen ended it with a clean, surgical thrust to the heart.
He held the dying pirate, ignoring the chaos of the battle around him, and drank deep. The absorption was a dizzying, salty rush. It was not the polished skill of a knight or the intellectual knowledge of a scholar. It was the raw, instinctual wisdom of a man born on the sea. He felt the knowledge of the tides, the currents, the moods of the wind, settle into his bones. He could look at the color of the water and know its depth, look at the shape of a cloud and know the coming weather. He understood the secret language of the stars, not as a maester did, with charts and instruments, but as a sailor did, with his gut. He was now a master of the waves.
When the last of the pirates was cut down or had leaped into the sea, Kaelen stood as the undisputed master of his small fleet. He ordered the pirate ships scuttled and their meager treasures added to his own stores.
He stood at the prow of the Sea Serpent as they left the Stepstones behind and entered the vast, open expanse of the Summer Sea. The water was a brilliant turquoise, the air warm and sweet. He felt the ship rise and fall beneath him, no longer as a passenger, but as a part of its very being. He had left Westeros, his first hunting ground, behind him. The world had opened up, and he was taking to it with an ease that felt like destiny. His ambition, once confined to a single continent, was now as boundless as the ocean before him.
Days later, they rounded the coast of southern Essos. The Qartheen captain, Mathos, his awe for Kaelen now bordering on religious terror, pointed to the northeast.
"There," Mathos said, his voice a reverent whisper. "Beyond the Jade Gates lies Qarth. The Queen of Cities, the Gateway to the East." He looked at Kaelen, his expression grave. "My lord, it is a city of great beauty and greater danger. The Pureborn are proud, the Sorrowful Men are silent and deadly. And the warlocks… their House of the Undying is a place of dust and whispers. They say those who enter are never the same. Their power is not of this world."
Kaelen listened to the warning, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. He felt the hum of ancient, corrupt magic calling to him across the waves, a siren song of immense power. Mathos spoke of danger. Kaelen heard only the promise of a magnificent feast. The serpent had crossed the sea, and he was hungry.