Grand Scholar -- Death!

Soon, Daeren would understand why a multi-talented individual had fallen to the point of washing floors.

"Apologies..."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Maester Harvey squinted, bumping into things and bowing apologetically as he went.

"Are you highly nearsighted?" Daeren asked.

With his degree of myopia, the man couldn't tell male from female at five meters, let alone distinguish humans from animals at ten. Could he even manage his own life?

Maester Harvey looked embarrassed. "Apologies, Your Highness. My vision has been blurry since childhood, and it worsened after joining the Citadel and staying up late to read."

He didn't understand what "highly nearsighted" meant, but he could guess.

Daeren offered a suggestion: "You know the magnifying glasses at the Citadel?"

"Grind the lenses into a concave shape, make two small ones, and I'll get you a frame later."

Trash from the fishing docks, broken eyeglasses.

It was a shame the broken lenses were from reading glasses; otherwise, he could have just given them to the man to make do.

"Really?" Maester Harvey was overjoyed. "I'll try it as soon as I get back. Thank you so much."

Scholars at his level were comparable to top professors in the information age. A little guidance from Daeren immediately opened up new possibilities.

"Your Highness, I'll find some pre-prepared wound medicines for you right away." Maester Harvey walked to a workbench and rummaged through a pile of drawers.

Clang!

His nearsighted hands knocked over a container on the table, spilling a milky white liquid that emitted a strong alcoholic aroma.

Daeren dipped a finger in and asked, "What is this?"

"This is... a calming medicine made with Poppy Milk and strong liquor," Maester Harvey stammered.

"Poppy Milk!?" Daeren exclaimed, quickly shaking his hand clean and wiping it on his clothes.

Simply put, it was opium. When poppies matured, their sap was milky white, and when dried, it turned into a white paste. Diluting the paste with water created Poppy Milk. Scholars in Westeros often used Poppy Milk as a substitute for anesthetic. However, even so, it was a strictly prohibited substance.

"You say this is a calming medicine made with Poppy Milk and strong liquor?" Daeren's eyes lit up as he quickly asked, "The Grand Maester gave this to my father, didn't he?"

Poppy Milk as a calming agent, mixed with strong liquor. That would only work on the brain nerves after being heavily drugged with poppies and alcohol, right?

Maester Harvey's face turned pale, but he insisted, "Y-yes, it is." He had strongly opposed the Grand Maester's use of this secret recipe. Long-term consumption of Poppy Milk not only led to addiction but also severely damaged brain nerves. It was forbidden in the Citadel.

Daeren suppressed his rage, gritting his teeth. "Besides the Grand Maester, who else was involved in making this?"

"No one." Maester Harvey explained, "The Grand Maester is highly respected, and he never lets anyone else handle the preparation of his medicines."

"Heh, a truly respected man," Daeren's tone was chillingly cold. He now understood why his father, Aerys, had been so quiet lately, spending his time sleeping or with mistresses. He'd been high on drugs.

Maester Harvey's face was pale, his legs trembling slightly. He inwardly lamented his predicament. He really wanted to expose this matter. Scholars had morals too.

"Maester Harvey, help me prepare some wound medicine. I'll pick it up later."

With the earth-shattering news, Daeren had no mind for anything else.

He dropped a sentence and left without looking back.

"Pycelle, you deserve to die!"

Dusk.

Daeren remained in his chambers, watching the hazy sunset outside the window.

On the windowsill beside him sat a bottle of opened red wine.

"This vast Red Keep is truly as leaky as a rat's nest."

Daeren's gaze was gloomy.

He had already gone to Barristan and Ser Gerold to verify what kind of calming medicine his father Aerys had been taking recently.

Pycelle was indeed mixing Poppy Milk into his father Aerys's calming medicine.

"If a person is seeking death, they'll do anything."

Daeren had already decided to eliminate the man tonight.

Such a long-lived scourge, he wouldn't be able to sleep if he didn't get rid of him.

The red wine poured down with a splash, flowing along the inner wall of the goblet to the bottom, gradually forming half a cup of deep red Grape brew.

"Old dog, I'm sending you to hell."

Daeren took a deep breath and downed the wine in one go.

Turning, he picked up the black robe prepared on the table.

He walked to the north wall of the room and lightly tapped it with a rusty iron sword until he heard an inconsistent hollow sound.

"Found it."

Daeren pushed with both hands.

Boom--

The wall, carved with frescoes, slowly rotated, accompanied by a cold, damp gust of wind, revealing a secret passage unknown to anyone.

From the very beginning of the Red Keep's construction, "Cruel Maelor" had hidden countless secret passages.

Afterwards, he killed all the craftsmen, and Maelor himself was assassinated, leaving the secret passages as lost secrets.

Daeren's room had a secret passage.

This secret passage, he had seen in his childhood when reading historical books, from the The Dance of the Dragons Chronicle. It described how Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, during her youth, had sneaked out of the Red Keep through a secret passage to meet her uncle Daemon Targaryen in secret.

Daeren had been curious about the location of the secret passage entrance then.

He guessed it was most likely in Rhaenyra's chambers.

He specifically asked a maester who recorded court happenings which room was Rhaenyra's.

The answer he received was: "It's the room you're staying in."

This was the first time Daeren was using the secret passage.

Entering the secret passage, the space was not as narrow and cramped as he had imagined, but rather spacious.

Daeren walked downwards, counting which level he was on.

He passed several exits, ignoring them all, and continued downwards.

Finally, he arrived at the Red Keep's cellars.

In the center of the cellar, stones were piled up to form a circular platform.

On it rested a colossal dragon skull.

This was the skull of Conqueror Aegon's dragon, known as the "Black Death," Balerion.

Balerion was a legendary dragon.

On Targaryen's path to conquering the Seven Kingdoms, it was always at the forefront, symbolizing death and power.

Even to this day, it was still enshrined here.

Daeren looked up at the pitch-black dragon skull, his eyes calm: "I'll send someone to meet you now."

Balerion was an ancient Valyrian pronunciation, translating to "Death God."

The sky grew dark.

"Oh, my old bones."

Pycelle sighed and climbed the stairs, holding his lower back.

In the era before Littlefinger Petyr Baelish, the old man had to sneak into the back doors of the flea dens to relieve himself.

Fortunately, the broad-minded girls were beautiful and kind-hearted, and they helped him solve his physiological problems.

"I need to send a letter to Prince Rhaegar, tell him to make preparations and not let that second son gain power."

"I can't neglect the Hand either. The court depends on him."

Pycelle muttered as he climbed, feeling a surge of ambition.

He felt as though the nine great families of the Seven Kingdoms of the continent rested on his shoulders alone.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over him.

Pycelle jumped, startled, and looked up in confusion. "Who are you?"

A person stood at the turn of the stairs, wearing a hooded black robe, blocking his path.

Daeren looked down at him.

"This is the Red Keep, and I am the Grand Maester!"

By now, Pycelle realized something was wrong and shouted in panic, backing away.

The next moment, the black-robed figure moved.

He advanced rapidly towards him.

Pycelle turned deathly pale and immediately turned to flee.

His hunched back straightened, his weak legs gained strength, and he scrambled up the stairs as if he had wings.

Bang!

Daeren kicked him hard in the lower back, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Pycelle was already running, so his legs immediately lost their footing, and he rolled down the high spiral staircase.

A person falling down stairs cannot scream.

Daeren descended expressionlessly, step by step.

"Spare... spare me..."

Pycelle rolled to the next landing, his body aching, his face and head covered in blood.

Bang!

The only response was another kick, sending him tumbling down another flight of stairs.

Daeren continued to follow.

When Pycelle finally stopped again, his consciousness was already fading, his breaths shallow.

"You... who are you...?"

Pycelle's eyes were blurred with blood, and he couldn't see the killer's face clearly.

Daeren remained silent.

He gripped the other man's shoulders and began slamming his head against the wall.

He did it with practiced skill.

Using the sway of his shoulders, he made the man's head hit the wall. Just before impact, he would release his grip, creating the illusion of an accidental collision.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

As if venting his frustration, he struck several times in succession. Pycelle's brains burst out, his body slumped to the ground, and he breathed no more.

"Old dog!"

Daeren sneered.

He turned and returned the way he came through the secret passage.