Inside the Workshop, the maesters had descended into utter frenzy.
They crowded around the stone tablets covered in "divine revelations," arguing one moment, marveling the next, then frantically copying onto their parchment with trembling hands.
To them, this doorway into a new world was far more astonishing than the return of magic and dragons.
Lynn did not disturb them.
Holding the pitch-black Glass Candle, he returned to his room.
Lynn gripped the cold Glass Candle.
It felt like a piece of obsidian dug out from deep within a glacier, cold enough to numb his hand.
Lynn raised the twisted candle before his eyes and examined it carefully in the firelight.
It reflected nothing. The firelight falling on it seemed to be swallowed by an invisible black hole, without even a trace of a halo escaping.
To those maesters, this object was proof that magic had returned, a forbidden creation of mysticism.
But to Lynn, it was far more than that.
Ravens.
They were the fastest-and only-means of transmitting information over vast distances in Westeros.
Yet they were still too slow.
A raven needed days, even weeks, to fly from Winterfell to King's Landing.
Along the way, it might be delayed by blizzards or shot down by enemy archers, while its message might be intercepted and altered.
The outcome of a war, the rise or fall of a house, often depended on whether that little bird arrived on time.
But this candle...
Ravens? Messengers?
Compared with truly instantaneous communication, they were nothing more than primitive people playing with mud.
With it, he could sit in Winterfell while commanding armies far away in Dorne, coordinating merchant ships across the Narrow Sea, or even holding a secret conversation with an ally in distant King's Landing without anyone knowing.
Although Greensight could achieve similar