The Inferior Scholar Havel

Daeren returned to the Red Keep, intending to see his father, but was informed he was meeting with the Grand Maester.

"Alright, I'll wait."

Since there was no urgent matter, he decided to stroll around the castle grounds.

The aftermath of the trial by combat was intensifying.

His fame had first spread throughout King's Landing, then the entire Crownlands, and was now rapidly disseminating across the Seven Kingdoms.

Making a timely appearance would help foster a fan effect.

The King's bedchamber.

Pycelle was doing his utmost to slander Daeren, speaking ill of him.

"Daeren the Prince is too young to bear such a heavy responsibility."

"The position of Commander of the City Watch should be given to someone older, more experienced, and reliable."

"Your Majesty, an 11-year-old Commander of the City Watch will only make the citizens of King's Landing uneasy."

Just moments before, the King had proposed dismissing the current Commander of the City Watch and promoting Daeren to the position.

Absolutely not!

Pycelle, his face trembling, spouted a torrent of dissuasive words.

He was not loyal to the King, nor did he serve the Hand.

As a veteran of three reigns, his pursuit was the stability and orderly succession of the kingdom.

In his heart, only Crown Prince Rhaegar could govern the kingdom well.

Before Rhaegar ascended the throne, any sign of obstruction had to be extinguished.

Even the King's second son.

"You mean to say that my son, Aerys, has to start as a mere Gold Cloak, doing the most menial patrol work every day?"

Aerys's eyes were bloodshot, and he panted like an ox.

Pycelle was startled and quickly said, "No, no, no. Your Majesty could arrange for Daeren the Prince to serve as the Deputy Commander of the City Watch, to learn under Lord Manly Stockworth first."

This man was the Earl of Stockworth Keep in the Crownlands, and the current Commander of the City Watch.

House words: "Loyalty is my pride!"

"Lamb, lamb..."

Aerys muttered, annoyed, "A dragon learning from a lamb... the Seven Kingdoms have truly changed."

The Stockworth family crest was a white lamb holding a golden cup on a green background.

It was neither imposing nor noble, almost excessively plain.

After some struggle, he still agreed to the suggestion.

"I shall take my leave."

"Rest well, Your Majesty."

Seeing his objective achieved, Pycelle withdrew successfully.

He hadn't gone far when he heard the sounds of young men and women laughing.

"Who is it?"

Pycelle craned his neck, peeking from a distance.

"Are you finished, Grand Maester?"

Daeren happened to turn his head and spotted the old man.

Cersei, who was surrounding him, became displeased. "Why are you bothering with that old man who smells of old age?"

She was not upset that her uncle Kevon had lost to Daeren in the trial by combat.

Instead, she was deeply fascinated by Daeren's heroic display in winning the trial.

"Cersei, you go play first."

Daeren, without considering the girl's feelings, said, "I have important matters. We'll meet again next time."

He had only been strolling when he was "accidentally" encountered and then pestered by her.

He went along with it, feigning ignorance as he conversed.

Both parties were playing the role of a high-class hunter appearing as prey.

"Damn it!"

Seeing the Prince she had almost caught slip away, Cersei snorted coldly, resenting the old man who had interrupted her good time.

Pycelle asked, confused, " Prince, what business do you have with me?"

"What were you reporting to my father in his chambers just now?"

Daeren asked abruptly.

Pycelle's heart skipped a beat. He tried to cover up, "Nothing, just some trivial matters."

"Oh...?"

Seeing his guilt, Daeren drew out his voice, guessing the old man was up to no good.

But it didn't matter.

He already knew the other party was deliberately targeting him. It was just a matter of one less or one more problem.

Daeren stated his purpose, "I need some medicine for stopping bleeding and healing wounds. Something fast-acting."

"May I ask, you need these wound medicines..."

Pycelle's professional habit kicked in.

"Grand Maester, you just need to help me."

After interrupting, he added, "I'm back today to ask about the position assigned to me. I don't have time for idle chat."

Upon hearing about the position, Pycelle's eyes darted around. He quickly said, "The wound medicine is easy to make. I have other things to attend to. Go to the Archmaesters' Tower; other maesters can help you."

Then, finding a casual excuse, he left, as if fleeing from a guilty conscience.

"Hey, don't go?"

Daeren stood there, stunned.

Something was up.

Did something he say strike a nerve?

With his suspicions about Pycelle, Daeren headed to the Archmaesters' Tower.

It was indeed a tower.

Like the Hand's Tower or the White Sword Tower, it was a standalone tower, somewhat cramped.

As soon as he reached the top floor of the tower, he heard a noisy commotion in the corridor.

Creeeak!

Daeren pushed open the door to the research room. Inside, a dozen maesters in their robes were present.

Their ages varied; some were meticulous middle-aged men, others were young men with stubble.

Each was busy with their own tasks, grouped in twos and threes, discussing academics intensely.

"Research really ages people."

Looking at the sense of weariness emanating from these maesters, a feeling that didn't belong to their age, Daeren recalled his own experiences following his mentor during his previous life.

Life was fulfilling and happy.

"Please keep that further away, thank you."

"Excuse me..."

After a polite knock, Daeren attempted to communicate.

"..."

No response.

Outside of Maegor's Holdfast, the maesters were lost in their own worlds, completely oblivious to the arrival of a Prince.

Daeren's face darkened slightly.

"Your Highness, how may I be of service?"

Suddenly, a timid inquiry came from behind the door.

Daeren turned around.

A tall, thin young maester in a coarse linen robe, with brown hair and a sallow complexion.

He held a rag in his hand, a bucket beside him, and was kneeling to wash the floor.

"You're a maester too?"

Daeren asked curiously.

Maester Havel, with a small mustache above his upper lip, said shyly, "I am a maester here. This week, I'm assigned to wash the floors and scrub the toilets."

"No wonder."

Daeren nodded slightly.

Being a maester was not an easy path; it involved much hardship.

When joining the Citadel, one had to undergo years of menial labor, such as cleaning, scrubbing toilets, and clearing vomit.

Samwell Tarly from the story was a prime example.

Only when the maesters deemed you worthy and your desire for knowledge sincere would they begin formal instruction.

To be a true scholar, one must study to a certain level and acquire metal rings in a specific field.

Scholars are merely mid-tier.

Above them are Doctors and the College of Cardinals.

A typical scholar has two paths to choose from.

Either they remain in the Academy City to further their studies, or they go to serve in a great noble's castle.

"Your Highness, what can I do for you?"

"I... I might be able to help."

Scholar Havel seemed a bit self-conscious, speaking in a hushed tone.

Daeren didn't dismiss him, saying, "I need some medicine for stopping bleeding and healing wounds. Can you help me prepare or obtain it?"

Everyone has their low points in life.

He believed the other man wouldn't disappoint him.

"Of... of course!"

Scholar Havel's eyes lit up. He dropped his rag and scrambled to his feet.

To make Prince believe him, he even pulled out the scholar's necklace from his collar.

On one necklace were seven or eight metal rings strung together—copper, brass, silver, black iron, Valyrian steel...

These represented his profound attainments in various fields like astronomy, ravenology, history, medicine, and mysticism.

"He's quite talented."

Daeren was surprised.