The party continued their descent beneath the city.
Wisdom Hallyne extolled the capabilities of the Alchemists' Guild and the manifold virtues of wildfire as they walked, his voice echoing against the tunnel walls. Joffrey smiled and nodded with feigned interest while using magical sound transmission to speak privately with Tyrion.
"Is the strength of King's Landing enough to wipe out the rebels?" he asked, his voice resonating directly in Tyrion's mind.
How could Tyrion possibly say no to his king?
"The lords of the North have assembled more than twenty thousand troops," Joffrey continued, genuine displeasure creeping into his tone. "Yet they march north instead of south."
Though he had personally agreed to the North marching northward, the stark contrast in these lords' attitudes before and after rankled him deeply. They had scraped together mere thousands to deal with him, yet mustered their full strength for Stark—a blatant slap across the royal face if ever there was one.
And Lord Eddard Stark had not only acquiesced to the North's isolation but had failed to secure adequate support from the Riverlands and the Vale. With Eddard's status and reputation, his influence over those regions should have been far greater.
Yet the Vale remained steadfastly neutral, and the lords of the Riverlands had offered tepid responses at best. Materials and supplies had not been delayed, true enough, but neither had they charged a copper penny less than full value. To support twenty thousand soldiers and fill the bellies of hundreds of thousands within the city walls, not only the royal treasury but the entire wealth of King's Landing was hemorrhaging at an alarming rate.
With such paltry support, who would believe the royal house and the Starks were bound by marriage alliance?
Joffrey knew the most fundamental reason. The whispers about Renly and Lysa had ultimately seeded suspicion in Lord Eddard's mind. Coupled with his disgust for House Lannister and his disdain for political maneuvering, Eddard had chosen escape over alliance.
If not for Sansa, Jon, and the others remaining in King's Landing—and the existence of divine grace—perhaps Eddard's stance would have proven even more adversarial.
Joffrey could not help but wonder if a marriage alliance with Highgarden might prove more valuable. At the very least, the Tyrells appeared genuinely willing to provide troops.
"The marriage with the direwolf was supposed to bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms," he mused silently to Tyrion. "Yet the support from the North remains virtually unchanged from before."
Only a dozen years past, many lords of the Riverlands and the Vale had chosen to defy their liege lords for the Targaryen royal family—at greater risk and greater cost. These facts had laid bare the true thoughts of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.
Though House Baratheon had inherited the Iron Throne with some claim to Targaryen blood, the lords had never fully transferred their centuries of loyalty to the new dynasty. The Seven Kingdoms were fracturing before his eyes.
Joffrey delivered his final judgment to Tyrion: "Those who contribute more shall be qualified to sit in positions of greater favor."
Tyrion pondered these words with growing unease. Could Joffrey be planning to alter the marriage contract? Would such a course be wise? Though deeply concerned, he was not fool enough to ask directly. Silence was his only recourse.
The slope of the tunnel gradually leveled beneath their feet.
"Your Grace, the Iron Torch Corridor lies ahead," announced Hallyne, his voice taking on a mysterious quality. "Within it lies the secret of wildfire."
Tyrion peered forward through the gaps between several figures blocking his view. Emerald light spilled through the narrow spaces.
The party finally emerged from the tunnel.
Before them stretched a narrow, empty corridor. Walls and ceiling of black marble surrounded them, though now shrouded in an eerie emerald glow that cast strange shadows upon their faces.
Tyrion raised his gaze to look down the length of the passageway.
Along both sides of the corridor stood pairs of black iron pillars, each standing two feet high. Around these iron pillars danced green flames, like torches that had been lit at the beginning of the world and would burn until its end.
So these were the "Iron Torches."
Hallyne explained with unmistakable pride, "Using these iron torches, the Guild produces a considerable amount of wildfire each day. Now this number"—he chuckled, a sound like dry parchment rustling—"is a full two hundred jars."
Two hundred jars. The thought of such quantity still left Hallyne breathless with excitement.
Two hundred jars meant a monthly output of six thousand—comparable to all the Guild's reserves accumulated over years past and enough to sustain a massive battle. How many souls would be consumed by wildfire, dying in unspeakable agony?
Tyrion shook his head and sighed. "Magnificent iron torches indeed, but I fear today's output will be greatly reduced."
Simply by observing the green light and fire, Tyrion could imagine the tremendous consumption of wildfire such a display required.
Hallyne gazed at the king with naked flattery. "Your Grace's presence—no matter the cost—cannot compare to the Guild's excitement and gratitude."
Joffrey remained noncommittal. "What I seek today is not wildfire. You are prepared, I trust?"
Hallyne nodded repeatedly, his head bobbing like a bird's. "Of course, how dare I disturb Your Grace without making the most thorough preparations? The rituals and spells stand ready."
To capture the king's attention, Hallyne had scoured the ancient tomes of the Guild for a full sennight, carefully collecting every fragment of knowledge required to perform long-forgotten magics. All was prepared for the experiment at hand.
"Your Grace, it awaits in the hall beyond the corridor."
Hallyne diligently led the way, occasionally turning to recount the Guild's glorious history, offering assurances that this demonstration would surely satisfy His Grace the King.
Joffrey cast a casual glance at the iron torches lining their path, the emerald flames reflected in his eyes.
This corridor was not unfamiliar to him.
Though this marked his first physical visit to the Alchemists' Guild, he had observed it many times through magical means. The secret of wildfire had been revealed to him long ago.
The primary ingredient for wildfire was a viscous black liquid, not unlike unrefined oil. The pyromancers poured this substance into the hollow interior of the iron torch, then mixed it with precise proportions of sulfur, rosin, and resin, initially fusing these raw materials at extreme temperatures.
At this stage, the liquid took on a blackish-green hue before being channeled through connected pipes into a secret chamber deeper within the Guild.
There, the pyromancers chanted incantations and made curious gestures with their hands. Joffrey quickly noted that their movements shared certain rhythmic similarities with Melisandre's dance.
Thereafter, familiar patterns appeared in the air—patterns resembling fire runes, identical to those Melisandre had conjured.
Did the alchemists share some connection with the Lord of Light? Or perhaps with other powerful entities commanding the power of flame?
He continued his observation, keen-eyed.
The runes floating in the air began to sprinkle colorful starlight. This radiance merged with the large vat of oil at the center of the secret chamber, gradually transforming the uppermost layer of liquid to an emerald green—wildfire in its purest form.
Colorful starlight.
Joffrey immediately recognized the significance. What manner of magic was this? Was not all magic pure monochrome?
This represented a major discovery.
Following this revelation, he had asked Melisandre to perform additional spells. Most had indeed emitted monochrome light, yet a select few produced colorful illumination, and these seemed to yield more complex effects.
Could higher-level runes create different magics, thereby achieving more refined and diverse outcomes?
Joffrey's questions multiplied rather than diminished.
If this were true, why divide magic into so many different runes? Why not simply employ a single, universal type?
Or did an omnipotent rune exist that he had yet to encounter?
The answer remained elusive.
The wildfire within the iron torches burned fiercely as Joffrey gazed ahead.
Regardless, the path forward in rune magic had been marked. Higher-level runes, once glimpsed, must be obtained.
His immediate task was clear: collect runes, accumulate knowledge, and await the opportunity that would surely come.
Hallyne, leading the procession, came to a halt.
The Iron Torch Corridor lay behind them now. The party stood upon a circular elevated platform overlooking a vast hall below.
Joffrey peered downward.
Dozens of figures scurried about, arranging the components for some elaborate ceremony.
Hallyne offered a devout prayer, his voice hushed with reverence: "May the gods grant their blessing. May the Son of Fire be born without complication."
Joffrey, too, found himself filled with anticipation.
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