Daeron discovered very quickly why a man as brilliant as Maester Harvey had ended up scrubbing the floors.
"I'm so sorry—"
"Forgive me—please, I didn't see—"
He mumbled apologies as he bumped into chairs, shelves, and doorframes.
"You're half‑blind, aren't you?" Daeron asked.
The young man blinked behind half‑shut eyes. From five paces away he could barely tell man from woman; at ten, not even human from horse.
"Can you even live like that?"
Harvey gave an embarrassed nod. "Since childhood, everything's been a blur. Years bent over books by candlelight in the Citadel worsened it. I can barely read without sticking my nose to the page."
Daeron sighed. "You know they make magnifying lenses at the Citadel, right? Grind two of those into concave shapes. And I'll have a frame made for you."
He half‑smiled to himself, remembering some of the junk he'd "fished up" from the system — broken spectacles that were useless except as proof of concept.
"You'd really do that?" Harvey's face lit up. "Thank you, my prince! Truly!"
To a man who spent his life in the dark, even a little kindness was a sunrise.
"Now," Harvey said quickly, "let me find those ready‑mixed healing balms for you."
He turned toward a workbench cluttered with jars and vials and started rummaging.
Clink!
A bottle tipped and broke; thick, milky liquid splashed across the table, reeking faintly of alcohol.
Daeron dipped a finger. "What's this?"
"Er— poppy milk mixed with strong spirits. A sedative."
Poppy milk.
Daeron froze, then wiped his hand furiously on his sleeve. "What did you say?"
The young maester swallowed. "A soothing draught, Your Grace. That's what the Grand Maester gives His Majesty to—"
Daeron's stomach sank. "To sleep better?"
Harvey hesitated, color draining. "Y‑yes."
Poppy milk — dried resin from the flower's sap, diluted in water. A mild narcotic when used rarely, lethal when abused.
"And Pycelle… he gives this to my father every night?" Daeron's voice dropped to a hiss.
Harvey nodded reluctantly. "I warned him against it. The Citadel forbids its long‑term use — it dulls the mind, breeds dependence. He wouldn't listen."
Daeron clenched his fists, fighting down fury. "Anyone else involved in preparing it?"
"N‑no one. He trusts no apprentices. He does it alone."
Daeron's laugh was low and cold. "A paragon of virtue, indeed."
Now he understood why his father had been so strangely subdued — sleeping through half his reign, lost in fog, drowning between dreams and madness.
Harvey's lips trembled. "I wanted to tell someone, truly I did—"
"I'll handle it."
Daeron's voice had lost all warmth. "Just make my bandages. I'll return for them later."
He turned on his heel and stormed out, cloak snapping behind him.
"Pycelle," he spat under his breath. "You die tonight."
Dusk.
The sun bled into the horizon as Daeron sat in his chamber, staring out the window.
A half‑empty bottle of red wine glimmered on the sill.
"The Red Keep leaks secrets like a rat's nest," he murmured darkly.
He had already questioned Barristan and Gerold Hightower. Both confirmed that Aerys's "sleeping potion" had that same milky hue — poppy milk, laced with strong drink.
"Addicted, poisoned, made a fool of… perfect," Daeron said softly. "Perfect for the Hand to lead by the nose."
His hand tightened around the wineglass.
Enough.
The old serpent would die before dawn.
He poured deep red wine until the glass brimmed, held it up in silent toast.
"To your health, old dog," he said quietly, and drained it in one breath.
Then he pulled on a black hooded cloak and crossed to the north wall. Taking up a rusty sword, he tapped along the carved stone until a hollow clunk answered back.
"There."
He pressed.
Creaaak—rumble.
The wall turned slowly on hidden hinges, releasing the breath of stale, cold air. A narrow stairway curled downward into darkness: one of Maegor the Cruel's secret passages, built when the Red Keep was young and sealed by the murders of the craftsmen who made them.
Daeron had read of them once — in the Chronicles of the Dance of the Dragons — tales of Princess Rhaenyra sneaking through the same corridors to meet her uncle Daemon Targaryen.
According to the records, her chambers had stood here. His room.
"Fitting," he said, stepping into the dark.
He descended silently, counting the turns, ignoring the occasional side exits, until the air grew heavy and damp.
At last he emerged into the crypt beneath the Red Keep.
In the center stood a round stone platform — and upon it, the colossal skull of Balerion the Black Dread.
The dragon that conquered Westeros. The embodiment of death.
Daeron gazed at the hollow sockets and felt no fear. "I'll send him to join you, old friend."
The dragon's name in High Valyrian meant Death itself.
Nightfall.
"Seven hells, my bones," muttered Pycelle as he climbed the spiral stairs, one hand clutching his robe, the other his aching waist.
There was no Lord Baelish yet to leave the brothels open for him—so the Grand Maester had to sneak to the Flea Bottom himself for comfort.
Still, he mused dreamily, he had done his duty. The King drugged, the Hand appeased, the realm pacified.
He was practically the glue of Westeros.
He wheezed a laugh. "Next, a letter to Prince Rhaegar. He must be warned — his brother grows too popular. And the Hand—must not—"
A shadow fell over him.
He froze. "Who's there?"
A tall figure stood at the landing above, cloaked head to foot in black.
"This is the Red Keep!" Pycelle barked, trying to summon authority. "I am the Grand Maes—"
The figure moved.
Fast.
Pycelle turned to run.
The gout vanished, the stoop straightened, and for the first time in years he moved like a frightened hare.
A boot slammed into his back.
Thud!
He pitched forward, tumbling. Bones cracked against stone. The sound echoed down the stairwell.
When bodies fall that far, they don't scream.
The cloaked man followed, step by measured step.
On the next landing, Pycelle sprawled in a broken heap, face bloodied, gasping like a fish.
"S‑spare me," he whispered. "Please…"
Another kick hurled him down the next flight.
When he finally stopped, his breaths came shallow and wet.
"Wh‑who are you…?" he slurred, blood clouding his eyes.
The killer said nothing.
He gripped Pycelle by the shoulders and drove his head into the wall.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Each blow precisely angled, timed between releases—to make it look like an accident, a fatal fall.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Bone split. Red mist spattered the stone.
When the body went limp, the hooded figure stepped back.
"Old dog," Daeron whispered.
Then he turned and vanished the way he came — down into the tunnels, where even whispers went to die.
---
read more inpat***
caveleather