Daeron returned to The Red Keep, but when he wanted to see his father, he was told that the King was currently meeting with the Grand Maester.
"Alright, I'll wait."
Since there was no urgent matter, he decided he might as well take a stroll around the court.
After the Trial by Combat, the aftermath was only intensifying.
His fame first resounded through King's Landing, then the entire Crownlands, and was now spreading through the Seven Kingdoms at an extremely rapid pace.
Making an appearance would help build his fan base... Meanwhile, in the King's chambers.
Pycelle was sparing no effort to smear Daeron, speaking ill of him.
"Prince Daeron is too young to shoulder such a heavy responsibility."
"The position of Commander of the City Watch should be given to someone older, more experienced, and more reliable."
"Your Grace, an 11-year-old Commander of the City Watch would only cause unease among the subjects of King's Landing."
Just moments ago, the King had proposed dismissing the current Commander of the City Watch and promoting Daeron to the position in one fell swoop.
Absolutely not!
Pycelle's face twitched as he poured out a basketful of persuasive arguments.
He was loyal neither to the King nor to the Hand.
As a veteran of three reigns, his pursuit was the stability of the realm and an orderly succession.
In his mind, the only one who could govern the kingdom well was Crown Prince Rhaegar.
Before Rhaegar's ascension, any signs of interference had to be snuffed out.
Even if it was the King's favored Second Son.
"Are you suggesting that a son of mine, Aerys's son, should start as a bottom-tier Gold Cloak, performing the lowliest patrol work every day?"
Aerys's eyes were bloodshot, and he was breathing like a bull.
Pycelle was startled and quickly said, "No, no, no. Your Grace could arrange for Prince Daeron to serve as the Deputy Commander of the City Watch, first learning under Lord Manly Stokeworth."
This man was the Lord of Stokeworth in the Crownlands and the current Commander of the City Watch.
101kanshu.com for smooth reading.
House words: "Proud to be Faithful!"
"Lamb, lamb..."
Aerys muttered to himself, saying irritably, "A true dragon learning from a lamb? The heavens of the Seven Kingdoms have truly changed."
The sigil of House Stokeworth was a white lamb holding a golden cup on a green field.
It was neither majestic nor noble, being a bit too plain.
After some internal struggle, he still agreed to the suggestion.
"I shall take my leave then."
"Rest early, Your Grace."
Seeing his goal achieved, Pycelle made a graceful exit.
He hadn't walked far when he heard the giggling of a young boy and girl.
"Who is it?"
Pycelle craned his neck, peeking from a distance.
"Are you finished with your work, Grand Maester?"
Daeron happened to turn his head and spotted the old man.
Cersei, who was by his side, was displeased: "Why are you paying attention to that smelly old fossil?"
She wasn't angry because her uncle Kevan had lost to Daeron in the Trial by Combat.
On the contrary, Daeron's heroic posture during the trial had left her deeply infatuated.
"Cersei, you go play for a bit."
Daeron didn't bother coddling the girl's feelings, saying, "I have business. I'll see you next time."
He had originally been "accidentally" encountered by her while walking, and then she had clung to him.
He had gone along with it, feigning ignorance while they chatted.
Both sides held the belief that high-end hunters often appear in the form of prey.
"Damn it!"
Seeing the prince she had caught slip away, Cersei snorted coldly, harboring a grudge against the old man who had interrupted her good time.
Pycelle asked in confusion, "Prince, do you have some business with me?"
"What were you just reporting in my father's chambers?"
Daeron asked abruptly.
Pycelle's heart skipped a beat, and he covered it up, saying, "Nothing, just some insignificant trifles."
"Oh...?"
Seeing the other's guilty conscience, Daeron drew out the sound, guessing that the old geezer definitely hadn't been up to anything good.
However, it didn't matter.
It was already clear that the man was deliberately targeting him; it was just one more thing to deal with.
Daeron stated his purpose: "I want some medicine to stop bleeding and heal wounds, something that works fast."
"If I may ask, why do you need these medicines..."
Pycelle's professional habit kicked in.
"Grand Maester, just give me what I need."
After interrupting him, Daeron added, "I came back today to ask about the position arranged for me. I don't have time for small talk."
At the mention of the position, Pycelle's eyes darted around, and he quickly said, "Wound medicine is easy to prepare. I have some matters to attend to; you go to the Maesters' Turret, and the other maesters can help you."
Then, he made up a random excuse and left with a guilty conscience.
"Hey, don't leave!"
Daeron stood there dazed.
Something was up.
Which sentence of his had struck a nerve?
Carrying his suspicion of Pycelle, Daeron headed to the Maesters' Turret.
It was called a turret, and it truly was one.
Like the Tower of the Hand and the White Sword Tower, it was a standalone tower with a somewhat cramped area.
As soon as he reached the top floor of the turret, he heard a chaotic clamor in the hallway.
Creak!
Daeron pushed open the door to the research room, finding a dozen or so maesters in their robes inside.
They were of various ages; some were meticulous middle-aged men, while others were stubble-faced youths.
Everyone was busy with the task at hand, gathered in small groups and discussing academics intensely.
"Research really can make people age."
Seeing the sense of weariness these maesters emitted—a weariness that didn't belong to their age—reminded Daeron of his experience following his mentor in his previous life.
Life was very full and happy.
Please take that away, thank you.
"Excuse me..."
After knocking politely, Daeron tried to communicate.
"..."
No one responded.
In a place outside of Maegors Holdfast, the maesters were so immersed in their own worlds that they didn't notice a prince had come to visit.
Daeron's face darkened slightly.
"Your Highness, may I be of service?"
Suddenly, a timid inquiry came from behind the door.
Daeron turned around.
It was a young maester wearing a linen robe, tall and thin, with brown hair and a sallow complexion.
He held a rag in his hand, a bucket was beside him, and he was kneeling on the floor, scrubbing.
"You are a maester too?"
Daeron asked curiously.
Maester Harvy, who had two small mustache wisps on his upper lip, said shyly, "I am a maester here. This week, I've been assigned to wash the floors and scrub the latrines."
"No wonder."
Daeron nodded slightly.
Being a maester was not an easy path; it was quite a struggle.
Upon joining The Citadel, one had to perform years of menial labor—cleaning, scrubbing latrines, and clearing away vomit.
Samwell Tarly in the show was a living example.
Only when the maesters deemed you qualified and your desire to learn sufficiently devout would they provide formal instruction.
Once you had learned to a certain level and earned a metal link in a specific field could you be considered a true maester.
A maester was only the middle tier.
Above them were the Archmaesters and The Conclave.
An average maester had two paths to choose from.
Either stay at The Citadel for further study or go to the castle of a Great Lord to serve.
"Your Highness, what is it you need?"
"I... I might be able to help."
Maester Harvy seemed to have a bit of an inferiority complex, as his voice was very soft.
Daeron didn't show any disdain and said, "I want some medicine to stop bleeding and heal wounds. Can you help me prepare or get some?"
Everyone has low points in their life.
He believed the man wouldn't let him down.
"Of... Of course!"
Harvy's eyes lit up, and he dropped his rag and scrambled up from the floor.
To make the prince believe him, he even pulled his maester's chain out from under his collar.
On the chain were links of copper, brass, silver, iron, valyrian steel... seven or eight types of metal links strung together.
This represented profound achievements in various fields such as astronomy, ravenry, history, medicine, and the higher mysteries.
"Quite a talent."
Daeron was surprised.