Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 472: It’s a Pity, You Shouldn’t Have Moved

Chapter 472: It’s a Pity, You Shouldn’t Have Moved

After about half an hour, the group finally entered the Citadel Tower after touring some of the Citadel's notable sights.

During the visit, they came across the famous Scribe's Hearth in the lobby. The Citadel prides itself on serving the people, and the Scribe's Hearth exemplifies this by offering writing services to the common folk. Positioned at the entrance, it lowers the threshold for the common people to seek assistance.

In the Citadel Tower, the old man with the straw staff kept his word, personally registering Rhaegar’s presence in the Archmaester's Office and notifying the other Archmaesters of their visitor. Rhaegar observed the entire process, gaining familiarity with the internal rules of the Citadel.

Lord Lyonel had studied at the Citadel and earned six scholar's chains, each representing a different area of study. He often reminisced about how fulfilling yet exhausting his days at the Citadel had been. According to Aemond, Lord Lyonel privately complained that being Hand of the King was even more taxing than his studies at the Citadel. The thought made Rhaegar smile. Some people dream of high office for personal gain, while others find the responsibilities overwhelming.

After half an hour, the old man with the straw staff led everyone to a spacious guest room in the tower to rest. The Citadel, not being a castle, had no halls for banquets. Rhaegar noticed only neat wooden doors along the corridor, each leading to small rooms where scholars lived. There were also special wards for the sick, secured with iron bars.

Rhaegar nodded in approval of the Citadel's disciplined approach to academic research, though he found it somewhat extreme. He and his brothers took their seats at a stained oval conference table, waiting patiently. Ormund and the old man with dead fish eyes stepped outside to confer privately. A dozen knights stood guard, and only Lord Bulwer entered the reception room.

A quarter of an hour passed. Aegon grew impatient and fell asleep on the table, kicking his stool back and forth. Rhaegar looked around and started the conversation. "How long do you think it will be before the Conclave arrives?"

"Who knows? A bunch of old farts who've never tasted a woman," Aegon grumbled, rolling his eyes.

The Citadel's strict rules forbade Maesters from falling in love, ensuring their total dedication to their studies. For Aegon, it felt like a monastery.

Rhaegar smiled, ignoring his second brother's crude remarks. Aemond mused, "You killed Archmaester Fischer. The Citadel must be afraid of you."

"Why do you think that?" Rhaegar asked.

Aemond frowned. "You have dragons; the Citadel doesn't."

"That's true, but it's not everything," Rhaegar cautioned. "Don't underestimate the Citadel. These Maesters will sacrifice everything for their research, even marriage. They're not normal."

Aemond frowned even more deeply. "We have dragons," he emphasized.

Rhaegar shrugged. "The Citadel might be more interested in studying dragons up close than fearing them."

Aemond, still puzzled, played with his fingers. To him, dragons were everything. As long as Sheepstealer was around, he felt invincible. Who would dare provoke a dragon and not expect to be incinerated by its fire?

Rhaegar smiled and said nothing, knowing better than to try and change their opinions so easily.

Aegon and Aemond had had too little contact with the Citadel to know much beyond what the old Maester Mellos had taught them. Rhaegar, on the other hand, knew the Citadel very well.

If it weren’t for the secret dealings of the Dragonpit Maesters when he was a child, Dreamfyre would never have been tamed by Helaena. And former Grand Maester Mellos was far from the kindly old man he pretended to be.

The structure of Westeros was deeply intertwined with the Citadel. Every notable castle and house had a Maester managing their lands. The late Borros Baratheon, a typical illiterate lord, relied entirely on his Maester to read and write letters and manage Storm’s End. Such dependence was unheard of in Essos.

The more Rhaegar thought about it, the more he saw the Citadel as a grotesque institution, a tumor on the tree of nobility. The nobility's over-reliance on the Citadel had corrupted their thinking. In contrast, the culture of Essos was flourishing, with fierce competition among the powerful ensuring a constant infusion of fresh blood.

Another half hour passed. Finally, the slow, steady sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Rhaegar turned his chair, making a loud creaking sound as the floorboards scraped together, and looked up at the door.

Six scholars in Maester robes entered, each with a chain hanging from their necks. They varied in age: three were very old, two middle-aged with extraordinary bearing, and the last one quite young. Upon entering, they greeted the Targaryen princes with their distinctive hair. "Welcome, Princes of House Targaryen, to Oldtown. May the Seven watch over you always."

The old man with the walking stick pointed to the eldest of the six. "This is Archmaester Luwin, the most knowledgeable scholar in the Citadel."

Archmaester Luwin was short and stout, with white hair and a rosy complexion, exuding a sense of vigor and wisdom.

As the old man was about to continue, Rhaegar interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Gentlemen, let's get to the point."

Archmaester Luwin, with his hands in his sleeves, looked serious. "What brings the heir to the Targaryen throne to the Citadel?"

Unlike High Septon Corben, Luwin did not bow. The Citadel considered themselves above the politics of who sat on the throne, focusing instead on their scholarly pursuits and managing the kingdom's Maesters.

Rhaegar knew this and asked directly, "Before we proceed, I want to ask what the purpose of the Citadel is?"

Archmaester Luwin frowned slightly, then replied with conviction, "To explore unknown knowledge, cultivate useful talent, and provide learning opportunities for anyone on the continent eager for knowledge."

These three points had allowed the Citadel to endure in Westeros for many years.

"Well said!" Rhaegar praised, chuckling. "I admire the Citadel's spirit of exploration. I hope to establish a royal Citadel in King's Landing to teach literacy to the children of the nobility. I trust the Citadel will support this endeavor."

The Citadel's power stemmed from the nobility's undervaluing of knowledge, leading to a monopoly on education. To break the Citadel’s influence, Rhaegar aimed to dismantle this monopoly and foster a broader dissemination of knowledge.

Archmaester Luwin pondered deeply before replying, "Establishing a new Citadel is commendable. If you wish, I will send scholars to teach there."

He saw through Rhaegar's intent and aimed to maintain the Citadel's monopoly through this offer. Maesters assigned to castles already had the responsibility of educating noble children, so stationing them at a royal Citadel would make little difference. The nobles would be hesitant to entrust their children to such a place, making the teaching superficial.

Rhaegar was prepared. "There is no need to send maesters specifically. I will recruit lecturers myself. What I need from the Citadel is access to its library and the transportation of books to stock the royal Citadel."

He didn't trust the Citadel's people, so he secretly recruited dozens of individuals. His plan, modeled after the Protestant Reformation, aimed to replace the Oldtown Citadel's status. It would not only serve noble children but also be open to commoners. This idea had been brewing for three years during his seclusion at Harrenhal, where the lack of educated individuals had been a glaring issue.

Now, as Regent, he had many nobles under his command and a greater selection of Maesters. However, he lacked the ability to command them at will. Nobles, even as Targaryen supporters, were not as easily controlled as obedient dogs.

Rhaegar had dragons; he didn't need loyal followers, he wanted obedient servants.

Archmaester Luwin, focused on preserving the Citadel's library, replied, "The Citadel holds many rare and valuable books. We can provide ordinary books, but we cannot part with precious ones."

The old man with the cane asked, "Prince, how many books do you need?"

"Half," Rhaegar responded without hesitation.

"How many?" The old man was taken aback.

"Half!" Rhaegar reiterated.

The room fell silent before a middle-aged Archmaester, outraged, shouted, "The Citadel has millions of books. Even the royal family cannot take half of them!"

Rhaegar's mouth curled slightly as he looked at the man.

Although I am demanding it, it is rude of you to say so.

Archmaester Luwin took a deep breath, stopping the middle-aged Archmaester from speaking further. "Prince, we are representatives of the Citadel, not its owners. Your demands are too harsh. We cannot comply on behalf of thousands of maesters."

He gave his reasons, then rejected the demand, and finally applied subtle pressure.

Rhaegar, appreciating the scholarly rhetoric, knew they misunderstood his resolve. He looked at the middle-aged Archmaester and sighed lightly, "Archmaester Luwin is too old and doesn't see as clearly as you do."

I've already taken it by force, and you're still trying to reason with me. You've been too comfortable for too long and don't realize the reality you're facing.

As soon as these words were spoken, the atmosphere in the guest room shifted dramatically, and everyone could sense the underlying threat.

Aegon's eyes lit up, and he sat up from the table like a fish flipping over, watching with keen interest. Aemond, always ready, pulled out his dagger and began to play with it.

Rhaegar glanced sideways at Ormund by the door and beckoned, "Lord Ormund, please close the door."

Ormund smiled sheepishly, stepped out of the reception room, and closed the door behind him.

Now, only Rhaegar, his brothers, the Archmaesters, and Lord Bulwer, who was left to guard the door, remained in the room.

"The number is just right," Rhaegar remarked, surveying the nine Archmaesters with a smile. "Let's play a game. One, two, three, wooden man."

Archmaester Luwin frowned and said, "Prince, we cannot agree to your request. Please do not make things difficult for us."

"If you don't object, I'll take that as a yes," Rhaegar responded, standing up and extending a hand as pale as carved jade.

Archmaester Luwin and the others took a step back, their eyes wary.

Rhaegar’s eyes grew cold, and the magic of fire in his blood surged, following a special course of operation.

Zila—

A sparkle of light appeared, and the flesh of his fingers glowed red. In the blink of an eye, a faint red light appeared on the second knuckle of his index finger and the center of his palm.

Rhaegar's expression remained unchanged, his body did not move an inch, and his clothes fluttered in an unseen wind.

Archmaester Luwin's pupils constricted, and he exclaimed, "This is magic!"

"That's right, the kind you've been studying for thousands of years," Rhaegar replied.

The next second, seven tiny sparks burst forth from his palm, expanding rapidly.

With a loud boom, the seven sparks broke free from his palm and instantly turned into seven fiery red balls the size of washbasins.

Rhaegar's eyes flashed, and the seven fireballs hovered around the nine Archmaesters, following a curved trajectory and emitting a searing heat.

"Prince, what are you doing!" the old man with the walking stick cried out, terrified, and fell to the ground in shock.

Rhaegar glanced at him with regret. "It's a pity, you shouldn't have moved."

With a flick of his right index finger, a fireball smashed into the old man's head like a marionette.

Pop

The skull burst open, and the flames engulfed the area above the collarbone. The fireball then scattered like a bubble of sparks, falling on the headless corpse and reducing it to ashes.

The eight remaining Archmaesters, including Luwin, were almost scared out of their wits.

Rhaegar said lightly, "A new fire magic I've been studying. It consumes a lot of energy, but it's easy to control."

He glanced at the remaining Archmaesters. "There are six fireballs left. Who would like to see it?"