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