When Daeron returned to the Red Keep, he was told the King was busy meeting with the Grand Maester.
"Well, then," he sighed. "I'll wait."
No urgent business anyway. A walk through court wouldn't hurt—especially with his name echoing through the city.
Since the trial by combat, his fame had exploded—first through King's Landing, then across the Crownlands, and faster than wildfire, through all Seven Kingdoms.
A public appearance now and then would only feed the legend.
Inside the royal bedchamber.
Grand Maester Pycelle was selling him out.
"Prince Daeron is too young, Your Grace. He lacks the… experience for such responsibility."
The old man's trembling voice grated through the room.
"The command of the City Watch should fall to someone older, steadier—someone the smallfolk can trust. Appointing a boy of eleven will only unnerve the capital."
Moments earlier, Aerys had declared his intention to remove the current commander, Lord Manly Stokeworth, and give the post to his shining second son.
But Pycelle would have none of it.
He served neither King nor Hand—only stability. In his mind, the realm was a delicate machine: better a cautious lie than an honest upheaval. He believed only Rhaegar had the wisdom to rule, and any rival—especially a younger, more beloved prince—must be checked early.
"So you mean to tell me," Aerys hissed, eyes bloodshot, "that my son must start as a mere gold cloak—patrolling gutters and alleys like a common guard?"
The King's breathing turned heavy, the room hot with his fury.
Pycelle flinched. "N‑no, Your Grace! I only suggest that His Highness serve first as deputy—to learn from Lord Manly Stokeworth."
Stokeworth: a minor Crownlands lord, proud bearer of the house words, "Pride in Service."
"Lambs…" Aerys muttered bitterly. "They want a dragon to learn from a lamb."
The Stokeworth banner—white lamb holding a golden goblet—fluttered somewhere deep in the King's memory. Pleasant, loyal… and utterly uninspiring.
Yet after a long, twitching silence, Aerys gave a single reluctant nod.
"So be it," he rasped.
"Thank you, Your Grace. Sleep well."
Pycelle bowed himself out, beaming faint victory.
He had barely made it down the corridor when laughter drifted out from the next turn—a girl's sharp giggle entwined with a boy's amused tone.
Pycelle craned his neck to look.
"Enjoying your stroll, Grand Maester?"
Caught, he jolted. Down the hallway stood Prince Daeron himself, silver hair gleaming in the afternoon light.
The girl beside him turned, green eyes flashing annoyance. "Why talk to that old goat, my prince? He reeks of medicine and dust."
Cersei Lannister, Daeron noted inwardly.
She hadn't held his uncle's defeat against him. If anything, she now looked at him the way most girls looked at songs about heroes: infatuation barely disguised as outrage.
"Cersei, go play," Daeron said pleasantly. "We'll talk some other time."
He didn't explain. The "chance" encounter had started as her trap, and he'd simply gone along for the amusement.
Now, it was time to end it.
She huffed, pivoted on her heel, and swept away—eyes flicking daggers at the meddling Maester.
Daeron turned back. "So, Grand Maester—what brings you lurking here?"
"Ah—Prince Daeron!" Pycelle stammered. "Is there… something you require of me?"
"Only curiosity," Daeron said evenly. "What exactly were you discussing with my father?"
A pause. A heartbeat of panic fluttered under the old man's beard before he forced a smile. "N‑nothing important, my prince. Trifles. Medicinal matters."
"Oh?" Daeron dragged the word out. The twitch in Pycelle's eye said all he needed.
He already suspected as much: the slippery old vulture had whispered poison into the King's ear. But it hardly mattered now. Better to save the strike for later.
"I came to ask for medical supplies," Daeron said lightly. "I need effective wound salves—something fast."
Pycelle tilted his head. "Wound… salves? Might I inquire, for—"
"You might not," Daeron interrupted smoothly. "Just the potions. I've a full day ahead, not much time for chatter."
That last word hit him. Pycelle's eyes darted away; he muttered an excuse about errands and fled down the hall, robes fluttering.
"Well," Daeron muttered, "that's suspicious."
Had he said something that struck a nerve?
Frowning, he decided to find his own remedy.
The Maesters' Tower.
The place wasn't large but had the same cylindrical austerity as Maegor's Holdfast or the White Sword Tower—only lonelier.
Even before he reached the top floor, Daeron could hear the murmurs: scribes debating theories, parchment flipping, quills scratching against waxed tablets.
When he opened the door, the noise spilled out—a dozen robed scholars of all ages, arguing in clusters amid shelves stacked high with books, herbs, and inert ravens.
"Research really does age a man," he murmured.
They looked worn not from battle, but from sleepless nights—haunted by ink instead of ghosts. The sight reminded him faintly of nights spent under fluorescent lights in his previous life, arguing with tired mentors over theory.
Except here, the smell was worse.
"Excuse me…"
He knocked politely. No answer. Not one head turned.
Outside the Citadel's walls, maesters lived inside the cages of their own minds. The world might have exploded and they'd still be arguing footnotes.
He sighed.
Then a soft, nervous voice came from behind him.
"My lord… may I assist you?"
Daeron turned.
A tall, thin young man knelt by the doorway, brown hair sticking up, skin pallid, a mop and bucket at his side. He was on his knees scrubbing the floorboards.
"You're a maester?" Daeron asked, surprised.
The youth—narrow‑shouldered, a little awkward—gave a shy smile beneath his thin moustache. "Yes, Your Grace. I'm Harvey. This week I've been assigned floor‑cleaning and… privy maintenance."
Daeron blinked. "Ah. That explains it."
Becoming a maester, he knew, wasn't a graceful road. Every novice began as a servant—scrubbing chambers, emptying chamber pots, cleaning vomit before being granted the right even to read a scroll.
He remembered Samwell Tarly's miserable apprenticeship and almost pitied him.
"Harvey, was it?"
"Yes, my prince." The man bowed awkwardly.
"What I need," Daeron said, "are fast‑acting balms—something to stop bleeding and close wounds. Can you make or fetch them?"
Harvey froze, as if unsure whether he deserved the task at all. Then his eyes lit up. "Y‑yes! Of course!"
He jumped to his feet, tossing the rag aside. "I can help! I trained for this!"
He tugged at his collar—and Daeron's brows rose.
Around his neck hung a heavy chain of linked metals: copper, bronze, silver, black iron, even Valyrian steel—eight metals in all, each symbolizing a mastered field: astronomy, ravens, history, medicine, alchemy, and more.
Daeron whistled softly. "A true polymath."
The man flushed crimson.
For the first time that day, Daeron smiled genuinely. "Then, Maester Harvey—let's see what you can do."
And as Harvey scurried off through the clatter of glass jars and parchment, the young prince thought, with a spark of amusement, that sometimes the best allies were the ones the realm never noticed at all.