POV: Jon Stark,
I thought it must be like a computer, but the brain is much different and more complex than computers in my previous world.
I had learned that truth slowly, piece by piece, as I studied the minds of the creatures I created. In my past life, people spoke of the brain as if it ran on code, as if thoughts were programs executing in sequence. But that was wrong. The brain had no operating system. No software. It was a pattern recognition machine, nothing more and nothing less.
The limbic system, on which I'm currently working, is a complex group of brain structures located deep within the brain.
It governs emotions, behavior, motivation, memory, and survival instincts like feeding and fucking.
After the 137th attempt, I could change that. Reshape it. Make loyalty where there had been hunger. Make fear where there had been calm.
I knelt beneath the weirwood in my garden, hands resting on two small creatures. A rat I had created from biomass, its body perfect and healthy. And a sand eagle that my golden eagle had captured yesterday.
Normally, the eagle would have killed the rat immediately. Predator and prey. Instinct was carved into their brains over millions of years.
But I had modified the eagle's limbic system.
I reached into its amygdala with my biokinesis and rewired the pathways that identified threats and food.
I changed the hippocampus so that memories of rats triggered not hunger but somewhat closer to what a mother bird feels for its chicks.
I adjusted the hypothalamus to release oxytocin when the eagle saw the rat, the same chemical that bonds parents to offspring.
The work took an hour. When I pulled my hands away, both creatures stirred.
The rat moved first, sniffing the air. It turned and saw the eagle. Its body tensed, ready to flee.
The eagle looked down at the rat. Then it bent and regurgitated a piece of half-digested fish onto the ground in front of the rodent.
Feeding behavior. The eagle was offering food to the rat as if it were a nestling.
The rat sniffed the fish cautiously, but it still ate it. The eagle watched with tilted head, making soft chirping sounds.
I sat back, observing.
The rat finished eating and turned. It flicked its tail, the motion sharp and quick. The tail struck the eagle across the face.
The eagle flinched but did not retaliate. It simply shuffled its feet and continued watching the rat with what I could only describe as concern.
A voice interrupted my thoughts. "Why is the bird not eating the mouse?"
I looked up. A small girl with blonde hair stood a few feet away, watching the eagle and rat with wide eyes.
Ghost lay nearby, his massive head resting on his paws. The girl had been bothering him for the past half hour, asking questions in that relentless way children do. Ghost tolerated her with the patience of a saint, though his ears occasionally flicked with irritation.
"Because I changed its mind," I said simply.
The girl frowned. "You cannot change minds. My mother says minds are made of thoughts, and thoughts live in your head where no one can touch them."
"Your mother is wrong."
She looked offended. "My mother is very smart. She reads books."
I gestured to the eagle. "That bird's mind is made of meat and…. Lightning. I can touch meat. I can change how lightning moves. So I changed its mind."
The girl walked closer, peering at the eagle. "Does it hurt the bird?
"No."
She considered that, then turned her attention back to Ghost. "Can you change his mind too? Make him like me more?"
Ghost huffed softly.
"Ghost already likes you," I said. "He is just tired of answering questions."
"I only asked a few questions."
The girl sat down next to Ghost and started petting his fur. He bore it with dignity.
Suddenly, one of my ravens reached out to me using the warging link.
As I warged inside it, I saw Marwyn the Mage walking up the path to my mansion. Beside him walked two others. Oberyn Martell and his daughter.
I already knew why the Red Viper sought me, I knew every word they exchanged through those Sand Eagles.
But the one I didn't understand was the red priestess. She had arrived in Braavos weeks ago. She had come to King's Landing once, searching for me. Now, when I was here before her eyes, she still kept her distance.
The garden gate opened and Marwyn stepped in first, followed by Oberyn and Serulla.
Marwyn inclined his head. "Jon, may I present Prince Oberyn of Dorne, and his daughter Serulla."
Oberyn smiled as though he had stepped into a tavern, not my home. "Your garden is beautiful, Lord Snow, or should I say Lord Stark now? Braavos does not have trees like this."
"Few places do," I said. I did not offer my hand. "Sit, both of you."
There was a stone bench beneath the weirwood. They took their seats while Marwyn lingered at the edge, pretending to study the roots. I leaned against one of the carved pillars and met Oberyn's gaze.
"You did not come this far for talk of gardens," I said. "Tell me what you want."
"Direct."
"I prefer not to waste my time."
"Then I will not waste it. I came because you wish to enter the Citadel and take something."
He paused, studying my expression. "And I can help you."
I watched him carefully. His voice carried no hint of deception, "What do you want in return?"
Oberyn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Revenge," he said simply.
"Revenge against lions right? But you know…. Why do I even need you?"
"The Citadel was raised atop old ruins, something the maesters fear to speak of, or maybe they are ashamed of, after all, they still can't build a sturdy enough foundation to build a tower of that height." He said.
"They built their tower on the remains of an outpost from the Empire of Dawn. But I think it wasn't an outpost, but a temple.
A temple that the Empire of Dawn deliberately made away from their home, on another continent.
It was carved of oily black stone, and the vault lies deep within it. The walls are alive with patterns that move when no one looks directly at them." Obyryn said.
I straightened. "You've seen this yourself?"
He nodded once. "I was younger then. Curious. I followed a scholar who claimed to have seen the lower levels. He vanished.
The walls were smooth and cold, and the light bent strangely. The spiral patterns… they shift. Sometimes they seem to breathe." He paused, watching me closely.
I let his words settle in my mind.
Everything he described matched what I had felt when I first studied the shadow catalyst.
Oberyn leaned back, crossing his arms. "The door is made of the same black stone. It does not obey tools or magic. The key that opens it is not merely shaped metal. You could forge a hundred copies, each one perfect in form, and the door would remain closed.
Only the original key opens it, and that key always stays in the hands of an Archmaester who has the highest influence in the concave. When one dies, it passes to another. They never let it out of their sight."
…