Grand Maester-Die!

Daeren soon learned why someone talented in so many fields had ended up scrubbing floors.

"I'm sorry..."

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to..."

Maester Harvey squinted through a narrow slit, stumbling along as he repeatedly bowed and apologized.

"Are you severely nearsighted?"

Daeren asked.

With eyesight that poor, he could not tell male from female five meters away, or man from beast ten meters away.

Could he even take care of himself?

Maester Harvey said awkwardly, "Forgive me, Your Highness. My vision had been blurry since childhood. After joining the Citadel and staying up late to read, it only grew worse."

He did not understand what severe nearsightedness meant, but he could roughly guess.

Daeren offered a suggestion. "You know about the Citadel's magnifying glasses, right?"

"Grind their lenses into concave shapes. Make two small ones, and I'll give you a frame later."

Fishing junk—broken glasses.

Unfortunately, the damaged lenses were reading glasses. Otherwise, he could have simply given the man a pair to make do with.

"Really?"

Maester Harvey was overjoyed. "I'll try it when I return. Thank you so much."

A maester of his caliber was the equivalent of a professor from Qingbei University in the information age.

With just a little guidance from Daeren, he was immediately enlightened.

"Your Highness, I'll find you some prepared wound medicine right away."

Maester Harvey walked to an experiment table and rummaged through a pile of drawers.

Clang!

His nearsighted hands knocked over a container on the table, spilling a milky-white liquid with a heavy aroma of alcohol.

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

"This is... a calming medicine made from Poppy Milk mixed with strong liquor."

Maester Harvey hesitated.

"Poppy Milk!?"

Daeren was startled. He quickly shook his hand clean and rubbed it back and forth against his clothes.

Put plainly, it was opium.

Once poppies ripened, their sap was milky white. It was collected and dried in the shade into a pale paste.

Diluting that paste with water produced Poppy Milk.

Maesters across Westeros often used Poppy Milk in place of anesthetics.

But even so, it was still a strictly prohibited drug.

"You said this is a calming medicine made with Poppy Milk and strong liquor?"

An idea flashed through Daeren's mind. He quickly asked, "Is this what the Grand Maester has been giving my father to drink?"

Poppy Milk used as a sedative, mixed with strong liquor.

That was not calming someone or helping them sleep. It was opium and alcohol wrecking their brain nerves.

Maester Harvey's face turned pale, but he still insisted, "Y-yes."

When the Grand Maester had begun using this secret formula, Harvey had strongly opposed it.

Long-term use of Poppy Milk was not only addictive; it also severely damaged the brain nerves.

The Citadel prohibited it.

Daeren suppressed his rage and gritted his teeth. "Other than the Grand Maester, who else was involved in making this?"

"No one."

Maester Harvey explained, "The Grand Maester is highly respected. He never lets anyone else handle the medicines he makes."

"Heh. Highly respected indeed."

Daeren's voice was bone-chillingly cold.

No wonder his father Aerys had been so quiet lately. He was either sleeping or sleeping with his mistresses. So he had been getting high on drugs.

Maester Harvey's face had gone pale, and both legs trembled faintly as he groaned inwardly.

But he truly wanted this matter exposed.

Maesters had morals too.

"Maester Harvey, prepare some wound medicine for me. I'll come collect it later."

Having learned such explosive news, Daeren had no mind for anything else.

He left those words behind and departed without looking back.

"Pycelle, you deserve to die!"

Dusk.

Daeren remained in his bedchamber, watching the dim golden sunset beyond the window.

An opened bottle of red wine sat on the windowsill beside his hand.

"The Red Keep is as leaky as a rat's nest."

Daeren's expression was gloomy.

He had already sought out Barristan and Ser Gerold to confirm what sort of calming medicine his father Aerys had recently been taking.

Pycelle truly had been adding Poppy Milk to Aerys's sedatives.

"When someone wants to die, there's nothing they won't do."

Daeren had already decided to get rid of him tonight.

That old menace had lived far too long. If he did not kill him, Daeren would not be able to sleep.

Red wine splashed into the goblet, running down its inner wall and gradually filling it halfway with rich crimson liquor.

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

Daeren drew a deep breath, raised the goblet, and drained it in one gulp.

He turned and picked up the black robe prepared on the table.

He walked to the wall on the north side of the room and lightly tapped it with a rusty Iron Sword until he heard a hollow sound that differed from the rest.

"Found it."

Daeren pushed hard with both hands.

Boom—

The wall carved with murals slowly turned, revealing an unknown secret passage amid a howl of cold, damp wind.

When the Red Keep was first built, "Maegor the Cruel" had countless secret passages hidden within it.

Afterward, he slaughtered all the craftsmen, and Maegor himself was assassinated. The passages became lost secrets.

There was a secret passage in Daeren's room.

He had learned of it as a child while reading historical records. In The Dance of the Dragons Chronicle, the Black queen Rhaenyra Targaryen had secretly slipped out of the Red Keep through its passages during her youth to meet her uncle, Daemon Targaryen.

Daeren had been curious then about where the passage entrance was.

He had guessed it was most likely in Rhaenyra's bedchamber.

He had specifically asked a maester who recorded court affairs which room had been Rhaenyra's bedchamber.

The answer had been, "The one you live in."

This was the first time Daeren had made use of the secret passage.

Upon entering it, he found the space was not as narrow and cramped as he had imagined. Instead, it was rather open.

Daeren walked downward, counting the levels as he went.

He passed several exits without a glance and continued downward.

At last, he arrived at the Red Keep's cellar.

At the very center of the cellar stood a circular platform built from stone.

Resting atop it was an enormous dragon skull.

It was the skull of Balerion, Aegon the Conqueror's dragon, known as the Black Dread.

Balerion had been a legendary dragon.

Throughout the Targaryen conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, it had always led the charge, symbolizing death and power.

Even now, it was still enshrined here.

Daeren looked up at the dragon skull, black as ink, his eyes calm. "I'm sending someone to see you now."

Balerion was an Old Valyrian word meaning "the god of death."

The sky gradually darkened.

"Ah, these old bones of mine."

Pycelle sighed and groaned as he supported his aching lower back while climbing the staircase.

In the days before "Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish, if the old man wanted to vent some desire, he had to secretly slip into the cheapest brothels of Flea Bottom.

Fortunately, the broad-chested girls were beautiful and kind-hearted, and they had thoroughly resolved his physical needs.

"I need to write Prince Rhaegar and tell him to prepare early. We can't let that second son gain influence."

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

Pycelle muttered as he climbed, feeling grand and heroic for a moment.

It felt as though the nine great houses of the Seven Kingdoms rested upon his shoulders alone.

Suddenly, a shadow covered him from above.

Pycelle jolted in fright and looked up in confusion. "Who are you?"

Someone stood at the bend in the staircase, wearing a black hooded robe and blocking his path.

Daeren looked down at him.

"This is the Red Keep. I am the Grand Maester!"

By then, Pycelle had realized something was wrong. He cried out in alarm and backed away.

The next moment, the black-robed figure moved.

He rushed toward him.

Pycelle's face changed drastically. He quickly turned and ran.

His formerly hunched back straightened, his weak legs found strength, and he flew up the stairs with vigorous strides.

Bang!

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

Pycelle had already been running, and his legs immediately gave way. He rolled all the way down the tall spiral staircase.

Someone falling down stairs could not scream.

Daeren followed him down step by step, expressionless.

"S-spare... spare me..."

Pycelle rolled to the bend on the next floor, aching all over, his face and head drenched in blood.

Bang!

Another kick answered him, knocking him onto the stairs of the next level.

Daeren continued after him.

By the time Pycelle stopped again, his consciousness was fading. He was taking more breaths out than in.

"Y-you... who are... you?"

Pycelle's eyes were smeared shut with blood. He could not see the killer's true face.

Daeren remained silent.

He gripped the man's shoulders tightly and began slamming him into the wall.

There was a method to it.

Using the movement of Pycelle's shoulders, he made the man's head strike the wall, releasing him a second before impact to create the illusion of an accidental collision.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

After several blows delivered like an outlet for his rage, Pycelle's brains burst out. His body went limp as he collapsed, his breathing completely gone.

"Old dog."

Daeren sneered.

He turned and returned the way he had come through the secret passage.