Pycelle's stooped body shuddered violently beneath that icy gaze, as though an invisible spike of ice had pierced him.
His grizzled beard trembled uncontrollably, and his already pale old face lost its last trace of color, turning ashen.
He could clearly feel the chill in that gaze... it was no vague display of authority, but an undisguised proclamation of death aimed squarely at this body that had lived more than eighty years and witnessed the rise and fall of several reigns.
Trembling, he raised his head, his clouded old eyes meeting the deep Violet Eyes above the throne.
The briefest glance struck him like lightning. He hastily lowered his eyes, yet dared not look away entirely, his posture both ridiculous and pathetic.
His lips quivered for a long while before he finally forced out a dry, hoarse voice, thick with flattery and the desperate will to live:
"Y-Your Highness... your servant... your servant Pycelle, Grand Maester of the Red Keep, of the Citadel..." He stumbled over his words, his voice breaking with fear as he desperately grasped for a lifeline.
"I wear a maester's chain, each link representing a field of learning... I am well versed in medicine and pharmacology, and can tend to the royal family's health... I also know the history of the Seven Kingdoms, the laws of the realm, astronomy, genealogies, rites, and protocols... I can answer Your Highness's questions, care for the ravens, and handle correspondence..."
He tried desperately to straighten the spine bent by age and flattery, to muster some shred of a Grand Maester's dignity. He even abandoned all decorum and shuffled two steps across the cold floor on his knees, abject as a worm in the mud, his voice growing ever more pitiful:
"I swear in the name of the Citadel, with the