On the table, the enormous parchment bore no text—only a map. Dense lines outlined the entire city of King's Landing. Visenya's Hill, Rhaenys's Hill, Blackwater Bay, the Dragonpit, the Red Keep... Every building was marked with symbols, drawn with very fine strokes.
Maester Norren was the first to recognize what these symbols meant.
His face changed.
"This is... a population density map?"
The High Septon nodded.
"Within a five-hundred-meter radius of the Dragonpit lies Flea Bottom, the poorest district in King's Landing. Approximately one hundred thousand people."
He pointed to another mark on the map.
"At the Fishmarket Dock, thousands of fishing boats moor every morning—the greatest concentration of people. That is only half a mile from the Dragonpit."
He pointed toward the Red Keep.
"Aegon's Hill overlooks all of King's Landing. If a beacon were lit there, the whole city would see it."
Maester Garth's smile vanished entirely.
"Your Holiness," his voice was somewhat dry, "you..."
"I want to kill the dragons," said the High Septon. "Not one. All of them."
The Ravenry fell so silent that heartbeats could be heard.
Maester Norren's quill slipped from his fingers and made a crisp sound on the table.
"Do you know what you are saying?" said Archmaester Vaermond. "Dragons are not ordinary beasts. Even during the Conquest, Dorne once ambushed them at Hellholt and, by chance, shot a scorpion bolt through Meraxes's eye. Yet the dying dragon fell and destroyed half the castle. Its rider, Queen Rhaenys, was thrown to her death."
He paused.
"After that, Aegon the First and his sister Visenya launched a merciless vengeance. The histories call it the Dragon's Wrath. For ten years, not a blade of grass grew in Dorne. Balerion and Vhagar burned more than a dozen towns in that war, killing perhaps two hundred thousand Dornishmen... In the end, Dorne paid a high price to keep its independence and freedom, nominally acknowledging Aegon the First as King of the Seven Kingdoms."
The old maester's clouded eyes were now clear as water, and he asked:
"You intend to use commoners to kill the dragons? Your Holiness, have you considered how many will die?"
The High Septon looked him straight in the eye.
"I have considered it."
His voice did not waver in the slightest.
"If ten thousand are not enough, use thirty thousand! Thirty thousand are not enough, use fifty thousand! Fifty thousand are not enough, use one hundred thousand!"
There was no regret, no fear. He looked at them all.
"Even if all of King's Landing becomes a sea of corpses and blood! I will see those demon dragons gone from this world!"
Archmaester Vaermond did not avoid his gaze.
"One hundred thousand people," the old maester repeated. "Do you know what that means? The entire population of Oldtown is only four hundred thousand. King's Landing has less than half a million. You intend to kill a fifth of the capital's residents?"
"It is not I," the High Septon said. "It is the Targaryens."
His tone remained calm, but each word came like a honed blade.
"It is their dragons, their arrogance, their dominion over the common folk that has led to this catastrophe. I am merely... giving the Seven Kingdoms a chance to end it."
He lowered his head slightly, as if praying.
"The Seven bear witness. All I do is not for personal gain, not for power. Only so that Westeros no longer crawls beneath dragon's wings."
A long silence.
A raven outside made a low cry, like a sigh.
Finally, the maester called the White Raven broke the silence.
"Your Holiness's plan," he said. "What do you require from the Citadel?"
The High Septon turned to him.
"Ravens," he said. "The Citadel's ravens, at the critical moment, will spread news of an uprising in King's Landing throughout the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused.
"I need one more thing. The position of Grand Maester to the Iron Throne has become vacant."
As the conversation turned to Aemond, the atmosphere in the Ravenry shifted subtly.
Maester Garth spoke first.
"Speaking of which," the smile returned to the corners of his lips, "we have been sitting in this room discussing how to deal with the Targaryens, yet we have never asked each other—has anyone here actually seen Prince Aemond with their own eyes?"
No one answered.
Garth turned to Maester Norren. Norren shook his head. He had never left the Citadel, rarely even left Oldtown.
Garth looked at Archmaester Vaermond. The old maester was silent a moment, then said, "When he came to Oldtown, I saw him from a distance. He was a withdrawn child then, following his mother, Queen Alicent. But I did not meet him."
All eyes turned to Garth.
He did not shrink from their gazes.
"Three years ago, the Citadel ordered me to go to the Red Keep in King's Landing to deliver a collection of books on dragons to Maester Mellos. At that time, Prince Aemond was under house arrest by the king. He was alone, and as I was delivering a book, he was staring out the window. I was curious, and I asked him what it was like to tame Vhagar at twelve years old."
He paused.
"But then he said to me: 'Maester, do you think I tamed Vhagar? No. Vhagar chose me. Because she knows I am like her.'"
No one spoke in the Ravenry.
The young maester continued.
"Then I asked him what His Grace was looking at."
He did not answer immediately.
"After a long time, he said: 'Maester, have you ever wondered why a dragon allows itself to be ridden?' I said: Because of the blood of the Valyrian dragonlords—they were tamed by bloodline. He shook his head and said: No. Bloodline is indeed the key. But what truly makes a dragon submit is that the dragonrider must prove he is stronger than the dragon, more ruthless, more unstoppable. Dragons have no morals. They do not respect kindness. They do not respect virtue. A dragon respects only strength.'"
Garth paused, and the smile vanished completely.
"'So, Maester,' he said, 'if I do not fight, do not take, do not prove that I am stronger than all others—then in this world, no one will give me anything.'"
He stopped.
"He is a madman," Garth said.
"No," Archmaester Vaermond's voice was low. "A madman could not understand himself so clearly."
The old maester slowly stood and sighed.
"He knows who he is. He knows how the world sees him. He is utterly lucid."
The old maester turned.
"That is more terrifying than Maegor ever was. Because Maegor's madness was without reason. But this one is calm and mad at once."
The High Septon was silent a long time.
"Why?"
Archmaester Vaermond shook his head.
"Because Maegor never knew what he was doing. Maegor slaughtered, burned cities, married his niece. Maegor never saw those evils as evil, but as a king's duty."
He paused.
"But Prince Aemond always knows what he is doing. He has his own ideas. He knows that kinslaying is a sin. He knows his actions will make countless people hate him to the bone. He knows—but he chooses to do it anyway."
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