Embarking on my journey as the newest Acolyte and the youngest among the Citadel scholars, I quickly found myself making 'friends' left and right.

According to the latest gossip, Harwin, our Citadel representative, inadvertently insulted a Lys citizen during the discussions, mistakenly assuming them to be something they weren't. The problem was the said citizen is a magister's son.

The situation took an ironic twist when my friend Brandon pointed out the striking resemblance between Harwin and a younger Archmaester Harwyn. The unintentional faux pas created an awkward air, freezing the negotiations temporarily.

Then, a peculiar turn of events unfolded.

I began to notice prompts flashing in my mind, repeatedly reminding me.

[Reminder: changing route.]

Initially perplexed, it felt akin to the disoriented sensation of trying to recall an exam during a deep slumber.

This peculiar occurrence, as I later learned, marked the 76th instance of such episodes. However, unlike the previous experiences, this one felt longer and more vivid, like a lucid dream that lingered in my consciousness. The surroundings seemed more detailed, and I had an acute awareness of myself and the environment.

In this altered state, my perception shifted, and I realized I was exploring an uncharted area—an unfamiliar territory on the map crafted by the intricate algorithms of AI.

The realization dawned on me like a revelation about an impending exam that surfaced during a deep sleep.

Amidst this surreal experience, I encountered a door, its material unmistakably weirwood. The familiarity struck me, reminiscent of the weirwood staff wielded by the master-at-arms at Hightower.

Driven by an insatiable curiosity, I approached the door and attempted to open it.

It was now that I had my first tangible encounter with magic in this life. Blood split through my palm as if responding to an unseen command, and the door slowly creaked open.

In contrast to my initial expectations, the room unfolded as a miniature library, adorned with bookshelves, skeletal models of diverse animals, and a towering weirwood tree positioned at the center of a courtyard.

An opening in the ceiling allowed sunlight to filter through, casting an ethereal glow on the surroundings. It gave a magical library feel.

My attention gravitated towards a table, resembling a reception desk, which harbored a single chest. To my surprise, a stone inscription in the Old Tongue adorned the chest, bearing a message that echoed through the corridors of time.

Grateful for the foresight to have the AI record various language syntaxes for translation, I deciphered the inscription that read, "welcome, seeker of magic. Now claim your right."

Intrigued, I attempted various methods to open the chest, scouring the room for clues or a key. Despite my efforts, the chest remained unyielding. It was only when I explored the drawer of the table that a Valyrian dagger caught my eye, reminiscent of the obsidian ritual daggers wielded by the First Men.

In a sudden realization, I muttered under my breath, "Fucking Westeros magic—it always comes down to blood."

With a hint of fear, I drew the Valyrian dagger across my palm, allowing my blood to stain the blade. Applying the crimson essence to the chest, I watched in awe as the the chest swung open, unveiling a rare treasure—an Archmaester link forged from Valyrian steel, accompanied by a Master key exclusive to Archmaesters. This, I realized, was the hereditary Archmaester room—a glorified office of the big wigs of Citadel.

My teacher's words resonated in my mind, emphasizing that these rooms and their Master keys were never lost in history, with one exception—this particular chamber. As I marveled at the contents of the chest, a subtle reminder caught my eye. Inscribed on the back of the lid were the words, "Magic isn't always the answer."

As I delved deeper into the pages of the book from the bookshelf labeled "Serial One", the first volume bore the title "The Archmaester of Magic Room and its Significance by Peremore." It was a marvel to learn that the very room I stood in, a testament to the enduring presence of the Citadel throughout history, was crafted by the hands of Peremore the Twisted himself. The initial assumption that his epithet was merely a reflection of his unconventional teaching methods was shattered by the startling truth hidden within the pages.

Peremore's twisted nature went beyond the realm of education; it delved into the arcane and the sinister. The book chronicled how he had employed dark and forbidden magic to ensure the longevity of the Citadel and the enchanted room. It was a revelation that sent shivers down my spine, for the twisted path he tread involved unspeakable acts. He casually admitted to torturing enemies, giants, Children of the Forest—anything he could find—for decades. A weirwood seed served as the anchor for the enchantments, binding the room and the Citadel to the currents of magic coursing through the world.

He described using an ingenious way to seal the magical box containing the secrets. According to Peremore, the inherent madness that magic could induce in its seeker is too dangerous and insane. Here the guy who tortured magical beings of legends said that "I hope that this acts a test to weed out the fools. For these fools are the ones that tend to become ones that induce nightmares in us and destroy the reputation of magic."

I stumbled into this Archmaester room, or rather, room full of Archmaester Journals. They're spilling their frustrations on the socio-political drama of their time, at least they were writing down their discoveries. I can have the processes this books for at least some usable magic.

Now, here's where it gets weird. In this room, there was one set up I had been trying to avoid for some time, not believing—copper coil hugging an Iron block and Bone box with markings with a pointing needle.

Turns out, they once figured out electricity here and even a compass. It was considered magic and sealed away here, but the doubt about this fiasco was why didn't the other non-maesters popularize this. After all, electricity and magnetism is not magic. Though it looks magical. Considering the sheer fear people have in regards to magic. Fair point.

Now, I am thinking theories on magic keeping the world stagnated. So, I'm standing there, torn between reading every book or sate my curiosity by flipping through the last book on the shelf. So, I took the responsible way of sating my curiosity.

It's by this dude William Garlan, from back in the Andal invasions. Probably, the last Archmaester of magic considering it is the last journal.

After reading the book, nightmares infested me every night for the following days.

Whatever I thought about magic from my past life? Gone.

William's writings spill some seriously dark secrets, giving me a front-row seat to the shadowy side of the Citadel's archives. As is the case with the Citadel in general, the magical side of Westeros, more like its end.

Rather than bore you with details, I'll give you the condensed version. Peremore, in his pursuit of knowledge, believed that obstacles or difficulties could be overcome in magic by using stronger magic, equivalent to better or more sacrifices. He at least showed some semblance of restraint. As generations passed, the newer ones said "screw restraint." There was a warg who had a bond with a wolf dog, a crossbreed between a husky and a wolf. Not creative enough. In order to become better, he sacrificed a similar wolf dog to enhance himself in myriad ways, either by bathing in their blood or eating them. He also did the same to the Wolfdog to enhance its connection to him—meaning he sacrificed humans to the Wolfdog. An insane asshole. It worked until he started developing dog-like features like fur and a smell. In his estimation, he would become a Wolfdog completely but one with the intellect of a human if he chose to continue. Sanity won, and he stopped the rituals.

Then came the latest one, William. He saw the insane ways of his predecessors as a way of progress. He was sane at the start, only wanting knowledge. But oppression from other Maesters and his half-brother, King Garlan Gardner, turned him into a tragic case of a talented bastard and a jealous trueborn. The point was, the bastard had magic. So, he delved into magic with a zealous drive, sacrificing everything to enhance his gift from his father—Gardner's plant magic. His last plans were to show the world his might.

I had the AI pull up information on this guy in normal history—[William, the usurper, Gardner bastard. He took his just brother's throne by treachery and helped many of his bastards do the same. He raped and tortured his nieces and sister-in-law, bringing the mighty house down. It was soon the mighty King Marcel Gardner, who under the light of the Seven, killed the monster and brought peace to the greatest of Westeros.]

Reading between the lines, William promoted every wizard or witch in every manner, killing and sacrificing the nobles. No wonder people fear magic. And bastards. This guy is held in history as an example of both, enabling the Seven to establish themselves in opposing him.

Then comes the skeleton in the corner of the room, clutching another journal and a compass. I am sure it belongs to William because, well, it's written on the book, and the said skeleton is blood red. Okay, not a mannequin, as I was led to believe. I took the book out and read it too.

Basically, he wrote down that the faith is from madmen who convert the magicals into hating said magic, making their own magic a weapon against magic, like some antimagic—he called it faith, anchored to the Seven stars. He wrote down incidents where the faith seemed to gather on these zealots and became a 'miracle' of sorts, killing his magic forces. Pity, he didn't write down how to do it manually. He postulated that, in time, the faithful's own magic would die out due to their disgust at magic, including their own. Without magic powering the Seven stars, even the faith would die out. Man, the founder of faith had the same hate boner for magic. He basically found a way to anchor magic through thoughts and desires, like in Harry Potter, and he used it to kill magic. Like a suicide way.

Then came the compass. It is jet black in color, made from meteorite iron, and ritually crafted using the blood of his relatives, with a seven-star written. William says it may be the only symbol that can collect the desires and point them out. Wonderful asshole, he made a Jack Sparrow compass. But the thing is, his relatives hate him, and their hatred clung to it, cursing anyone who uses it to madness.

All in all, I've got magical history, the influence of faith on Westeros, a cursed compass, and some insane magic that can lead me to insanity, hence 'insane magic.' Well, I'm not trying any of these. I don't need this power. With AI and my metaknowledge, I can accomplish much.

Yes, I'm not going to sacrifice my first-born daughter's virginity on an altar for more ease in magic. And definitely no massacres and genocides for the strength of a knight; I can achieve that through exercise. Seriously, Westeros magic, in a nutshell, is doing everything imaginable at the cost of lives. Said cost increases rapidly with the increase in difficulty.

But the scary part is that I know if I'm pushed to the brink like William was, my own family murdered by his brother, then I might skip the line. I hope that day never comes.

Summary:

As the newest Acolyte at the Citadel, I navigated the complex web of relationships among scholars. An unintentional insult from Harwin during negotiations, mistaking a Lys citizen for someone else, caused a temporary freeze in the discussions. However, amidst the socio-political drama, a mysterious phenomenon unfolded—repeated prompts urging me to change my route, marking the 76th instance of such episodes. In a longer and more vivid experience, I found myself in an uncharted area, encountering a weirwood door leading to an enchanted Archmaester room. Within, I discovered the dark secrets of Peremore's twisted magic, the hereditary Archmaester room, and a rare Archmaester link. Delving into the journals, I uncovered the sinister practices of past Archmaesters, including the disturbing tale of William, who embraced dark magic and orchestrated a reign of terror. The revelation of a cursed compass and the manipulation of magic through faith added layers to the intricate history of Westeros. As I grappled with the knowledge, the haunting realization lingered—magic in Westeros demanded unimaginable sacrifices, and I pondered the thin line between restraint and madness that I hoped never to cross.