Soon, Daeron understood why a multi-talented individual would end up mopping floors.
"Sorry..."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
Maester Harvy squinted his eyes into slits, stumbling along the way while bowing and apologizing.
"Are you severely nearsighted?"
Daeron asked.
With the other man's level of myopia, he truly couldn't distinguish male from female from five meters away, nor man from beast from ten meters away.
Can he even take care of himself?
Maester Harvy looked embarrassed and said, "Sorry, Your Highness. My vision has been blurry since I was a child, and after joining The Citadel and staying up late to read, it has only gotten worse."
He didn't understand what 'severely nearsighted' meant, but he could roughly guess.
Daeron offered a suggestion: "You know about the magnifying glasses at The Citadel, right?"
"Grind a magnifying lens into a concave shape—grind two small ones—and I'll give you a frame later."
It was just trash from the fishing feature: broken glasses.
Unfortunately, the broken lenses were for reading glasses; otherwise, he could have just given them to him to make do.
"Really?"
Maester Harvy was overjoyed. "I'll try it as soon as I get back. Thank you so much."
Maesters at his level were each comparable to professors from top-tier universities in the information age.
With just a little guidance from Daeron, he immediately understood the concept.
"Your Highness, I'll find you some pre-prepared wound medicine right away."
Maester Harvy walked to a lab table and rummaged through a stack of drawers.
Clang!
His nearsighted hands knocked over a vessel on the table, spilling a milky white liquid that gave off a strong scent of alcohol.
Daeron dipped his finger in a bit and asked, "What is this?"
"This is... a calming draught made of Milk of the Poppy mixed with strong spirits."
Maester Harvy hesitated.
"Milk of the Poppy!?"
Daeron was startled and quickly shook his hand clean, wiping it back and forth on his clothes.
To put it bluntly, it was opium.
When poppies mature, the sap is milky white; once harvested and dried, it becomes a milky white paste.
Diluting that paste with water creates Milk of the Poppy.
The Maesters on the Westeros Continent often used Milk of the Poppy as a substitute for anesthesia.
But even so, it was a strictly regulated drug.
"You're saying this thing is a calming draught made of Milk of the Poppy mixed with strong spirits?"
A flash of inspiration struck Daeron, and he quickly asked, "Is this what the Grand Maester has been giving my father to drink?"
Milk of the Poppy as a calming draught, and mixed with strong spirits at that.
It must be the poppy and alcohol knocking out the brain's nerves to achieve that 'calming' and sleep-inducing effect.
Maester Harvy's face turned pale, but he still insisted, "Y-yes."
He had strongly opposed the Grand Maester when he first used this secret recipe.
Long-term consumption of Milk of the Poppy would not only lead to addiction but also severely damage the brain's nerves.
The Citadel forbade it.
Daeron suppressed his rage and asked through gritted teeth, "Besides the Grand Maester, who else was involved in making this stuff?"
"No one else."
Maester Harvy explained, "The Grand Maester is highly respected; he never lets others handle the preparation of medicine."
"Heh, 'highly respected' indeed."
Daeron's tone was bone-chillingly cold.
He had wondered why his father, Aerys, had been so quiet lately, doing nothing but sleeping or sleeping with mistresses; turns out he was high on drugs.
Maester Harvy's face was pale, his legs were trembling slightly, and he was secretly lamenting his luck.
But he really wanted to expose this matter.
Maesters had ethics, too.
"Maester Harvy, prepare some wound medicine for me. I'll come to pick it up later."
Having learned this bombshell news, Daeron no longer had the heart to care about anything else.
Leaving those words behind, he turned and left without looking back.
"Pycelle, you deserve to die!"
...Dusk.
Daeron stayed in his bedroom, looking at the dim yellow sunset outside the window.
On the windowsill by his hand sat an opened bottle of red wine.
"The vast Red Keep is truly as full of holes as a rat's nest."
Daeron's eyes were gloomy.
He had already gone to find Barristan and Ser Gerold to verify what kind of calming draught his father, Aerys, had been taking recently.
Pycelle really was mixing Milk of the Poppy into Aerys's calming draught.
"When someone is looking for death, they'll do anything."
Daeron had already decided to get rid of him tonight.
He couldn't sleep knowing such an old, immortal scourge was still alive.
The red wine splashed down, flowing along the walls of the goblet to the bottom, gradually forming half a glass of Grape-red vintage.
"Old dog, I'm here to send you to hell."
Daeron took a deep breath, picked up the wine glass, and drained it in one gulp.
He turned and picked up the black robe prepared on the table.
Walking to the wall on the north side of the room, he tapped it gently with a rusted iron sword until he heard an inconsistent hollow sound.
"Found it."
Daeron pushed hard with both hands.
Rumble—
The wall carved with murals slowly rotated, accompanied by the cold, damp whistle of wind, revealing an unknown secret passage.
When The Red Keep was first built, Maegor the Cruel had hidden countless secret passages within it.
After killing all the craftsmen, Maegor himself was assassinated, and the secret passages became lost knowledge.
There was a secret passage in Daeron's room.
He had discovered this passage while reading history as a child; he saw in the 'the chronicle of the dance of the dragons' that Rhaenyra Targaryen, during her youth, used secret passages in The Red Keep to sneak out and meet her uncle, Daemon Targaryen.
Daeron had been curious then about where the entrance to the secret passage was.
He guessed it was most likely in Rhaenyra's bedroom.
He specifically asked the Maester who recorded court occurrences which room was Rhaenyra's bedroom.
The answer he got was: "The one you're living in."
This was the first time Daeron was making use of the secret passage.
Entering the passage, the space wasn't as narrow and cramped as he had imagined; instead, it was quite empty.
Daeron walked all the way down, counting which floor he had reached.
He passed several exits but ignored them all, continuing downward.
Finally, he arrived at The Red Keep's cellar.
In the center of the cellar, a circular platform was built of stone.
On top of it sat a massive dragon skull.
This was the skull of Aegon the Conqueror's dragon, known as Balerion, The Black Dread.
Balerion was a legendary dragon.
On the path of the Targaryens' conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, it was always at the forefront, symbolizing death and power.
Even today, it was still enshrined here.
Daeron looked up at the ink-black dragon skull, his gaze calm: "I'm about to send someone to see you."
Balerion was an Old Valyrian pronunciation, which translated to 'God of Death'... The sky gradually darkened.
"Oh, my old bones."
Pycelle sighed and groaned, clutching his old lower back as he climbed the stairs.
In a time without Petyr Baelish, the 'Littlefinger', if the old man wanted to vent some steam, he had to sneak off to the lowest-tier brothels in Flea Bottom.
Fortunately, the broad-minded girls were kind and helpful, doing a good job of solving his physical needs.
"I must send a letter to Prince Rhaegar, telling him to make plans early; we cannot let that Second Son gain power."
"I cannot neglect the Hand of the King either; the court relies on him."
Pycelle mumbled as he climbed, momentarily filled with grand ambition.
He felt as if the Nine Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms on the continent were all resting on his shoulders alone.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed overhead.
Pycelle was startled and looked up in confusion. "Who are you?"
A person stood at the corner of the stairs, wearing a hooded black robe, blocking his path.
Daeron looked down at him.
"This is The Red Keep, and I am the Grand Maester!"
By now, Pycelle also sensed something was wrong, shouting in panic as he retreated.
The next moment, the figure in the black robe moved.
Rapidly closing in on him.
Pycelle turned pale with fright and quickly turned to run.
His originally hunched back straightened, his weak legs found strength, and he flew up the stairs with ease.
Bang!
Daeron kicked him hard in the lower back, violently knocking him to the ground.
Pycelle was already running, so his legs immediately lost their footing, and he tumbled all the way down the high spiral staircase.
A person falling down stairs cannot scream.
Daeron remained expressionless, following him down the stairs step by step.
"Spare... spare me..."
Pycelle rolled to the corner of the next floor, his whole body aching terribly, his face and head covered in blood.
Bang!
The response was another kick, sending him tumbling down to the next flight of stairs.
Daeron continued to follow.
By the time Pycelle stopped again, his consciousness was blurred, breathing more out than in.
"Who... who are... you?"
Pycelle's eyes were blurred by blood, and he couldn't see the killer's true face.
Daeron remained silent.
He gripped the other man's shoulders and began slamming him against the wall.
He slammed him very precisely.
Using the momentum of his shoulders, he made the head hit the wall, letting go a split second before impact to create the illusion of an accidental collision.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
After several consecutive hits in a venting manner, Pycelle's brain matter splattered, his body went limp, and he stopped breathing entirely.
"Old dog!"
Daeron gave a cold laugh.
He turned and returned the way he came through the secret passage.