"Your Grace, Your Majesty, and all honored lords," Grand Maester Pycelle said with a deep bow. "I have spent days poring over the medical texts, seeking every possible method to heal Lord Steffon Baratheon's wounds. It is for this reason that I arrived late. I beg your forgiveness."
His voice was humble, his manners impeccable.
Pycelle was thickset, his hair thinning but not yet gone. His round body gave him a somewhat clumsy appearance, and around his neck hung the maester's chain, forged from twenty-four different metals, trailing from his throat to his chest. Black iron, red gold, lead, amethyst, silver, gold—nearly every known metal of the civilized world was represented.
The chain marked his rank.
It did not measure his ability.
With Lord Steffon's injuries as his excuse, none could fault Pycelle for his tardiness. Instead, all saw only diligence and devotion. Whatever else he might be, the Grand Maester appeared to be a conscientious man.
His face was kind, lacking the cold aloofness common to many scholars buried in their books. Instead, Pycelle projected warmth and harmlessness—almost approachable. And often, it was precisely such people who survived the longest in chaos.
Though newly arrived in King's Landing, Pycelle would remain entrenched for over forty years, an unmovable fixture of the capital's politics—an untoppled tumbler doll.
Only Prince Rhaegar continued to quietly observe his performance.
Pycelle was, in truth, older than many present—even older than the king himself—yet he behaved like a devoted servant: earnest, deferential, unfailingly modest.
Rhaegar saw past the act.
Behind the gentle face and lumbering movements lay a man of deep cunning. Pycelle was duplicitous by nature—one who broke rules in private while pretending ignorance in public. He dallied with serving girls under the pretense of "instruction," played the fool when convenient, and nudged events forward from the shadows.
He did not serve the realm.
He served power.
Pycelle also admired strength. In later years, once crushed beneath Tywin Lannister's iron authority, he would become the Lannisters' most loyal hound. That, at least, made sense. A man who ruled the realm for two decades with an iron hand naturally attracted worshippers.
Power always flowed upward toward the strongest grip.
Perhaps one day, Rhaegar thought, he could be whipped into shape—turned into a hidden piece on the board.
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Game of Thrones (Minor Player)
You have seen through Grand Maester Pycelle's performance. Your aptitude as a player has slightly increased.
Rhaegar glanced at his Life Tree once more. Another subtle change.
"Your Grace," Pycelle said with a broad smile, "I have also prepared a few illustrated books for Prince Rhaegar. I hope His Highness will enjoy them."
At this time, Pycelle was still firmly royalist, eager to display loyalty before the king.
The books depicted familiar legends—brave heroes and fair maidens, Brandon the Builder, Garth Greenhand, and even Aegon the Conqueror, riding Balerion as he forged the Seven Kingdoms.
The stories themselves were simple, but the illustrations were exquisite. Pycelle had clearly invested real effort.
"You are most thoughtful," King Jaehaerys II said, accepting the gift on Rhaegar's behalf.
The nobles nodded in approval. Compared to cold, pedantic scholars, they preferred someone flexible—human.
In the past, the Citadel had treated the post of Grand Maester as a burden, sending aged men barely clinging to life. Most maesters despised administrative duties; even the position of Seneschal of the Citadel was often avoided. Choosing a Grand Maester for King's Landing had always been difficult.
This time, the Citadel had sent a young man.
After presenting his gift, Pycelle stepped aside, hands folded.
And the banquet reached its peak.
"Let us toast the king!" a noble lady cried, lifting her glass.
"To the great King Jaehaerys II, true dragon of House Targaryen, who has led us to victory in the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion!"
"King Jaehaerys II!"
"King Jaehaerys II!"
Within the Queen's ballroom, wine intoxicated hearts more than minds. Amid music and fragrant food, even the king himself seemed swept away.
Since ascending the throne, Jaehaerys had known little rest—war abroad, and the tragedy of Summerhall behind him. Now, with the Ninepenny Kings' war nearing its end, the dynasty finally seemed poised for renewal.
"To the Seven, and to our forefathers," Jaehaerys proclaimed, raising his cup.
"To King Daeron II, King Aerys I, King Maekar I, and King Aegon V.
To the knights who gave all— Lord Steffon Baratheon, Ser Barristan Selmy, and many names left unspoken."
"Cheers!"
"Cheers!"
Cups clashed. Faces flushed. Even the smallest man could feel pride in victory—this trembling convergence of nation, power, and honor.
Yet Rhaegar noticed what the king had omitted.
The greatest contributor to the suppression of the Blackfyre rebellions had not been named.
Of the five Blackfyre Rebellions, Bloodraven had crushed the first three—especially the first, the most critical of all.
Brynden Rivers.
Lord Bloodraven.
The unspoken taboo of the dynasty.
Less a knight than a master of power.
For the realm's stability, Bloodraven had embraced darkness—deception, kinslaying, broken oaths. He sacrificed his honor to purchase peace.
And in return, he earned only suspicion, hatred, and fear.
Even those who admired his brilliance dared not call him friend.
Like the crimson birthmark upon his face, Bloodraven inspired dread.
His name alone summoned memories of terror—years steeped in spies, sorcery, shadowed knowledge, war, and famine. To question his authority was to invite charges of treason—and the axe.
The longer he ruled, the more enemies he made. Even after he took the black and went to the Wall, the hatred followed him.
Over time, it became an unspoken agreement:
Do not speak his name.
Even the royal house dared not defy the realm's resentment by praising him openly.
Bloodraven's story was too vast for simple black and white. Brynden Rivers walked a grey path, trusted by Daeron II, relied upon by Aerys I and Maekar I alike.
By now, Rhaegar wondered, Bloodraven has vanished beyond the Wall. Has he already become the Three-Eyed Crow?
The world believed the old lord gone—dead.
Rhaegar knew better.
And within the Red Keep… are there traces left behind?
Decades as Hand of the King—knowledge, records, books.
Where did they all go?