Pycelle requested her every time he visited. He would bring her a little spice or a small bottle of wine laced with milk of the poppy, something almost every whore in the trade wanted.
But they found it difficult to obtain themselves, which was why Ros remained willing to serve Pycelle despite his age and the little power he had left. He usually stayed there until around midnight before returning to the Maester's Tower.
Yet today, Viserys had suddenly sent him a wounded man, which meant Viserys had been keeping an eye on him all along. The warm wine slid down Pycelle's throat, carrying the sweetness of honey and the faint astringency of wine.
He set down his cup and turned his gaze back to the unconscious man on the narrow bed and the two assistant maesters still tending his injuries. After watching for a while, Pycelle looked away again.
Pycelle knew very well where he stood in Viserys's eyes, and why he was still allowed to remain in the Maester's Tower, still wearing the Grand Maester's chain.
It was only because Viserys did not yet wish to move against him-or rather, because he did not yet wish to take direct action against the Citadel.
Pycelle had spent his entire life in Westeros. He understood the Citadel's influence over the Seven Kingdoms better than most.
Every lord's castle had a maester, and every maester had been trained by the Citadel. Their correspondence, the recording and calculation of their accounts, and the compilation of their family histories all depended on maesters.
Maesters were also responsible for most noble children's early education. Those children grew up within the system the Citadel had established and possessed an instinctive trust in its maesters.
If Viserys simply removed him as Grand Maester, or worse, executed