Summerhall.
The apse, decorated with a natural atmosphere, was decorated with a natural atmosphere.
Aemon leaned against the marble sill of the glass window, the clear glass behind him reflecting warm sunlight.
"King's Landing sent a raven. My father said the Grand Maester is too old." Rhaenyra took a deep breath, holding one hand for someone to examine while the other hand tightened the beige skirt wrapped around her legs.
"So, what does my uncle mean?" Aemon asked curiously.
Rhaenyra smiled helplessly. "He wrote to ask if there is anyone worthy and virtuous enough to succeed the Grand Maester."
Grand Maester Mellos was over sixty, a true old man. As the saying goes, a treasure in the family is like an old man. But then again, old people are useless. Especially since Mellos has recently shown signs of senility.
Just in case, Viserys's letter made it clear that it would be best to be "somewhat" prepared before his death.
"The selection of Grand Maester should be left to the Citadel to recommend." Aemon glanced with interest at Maester Muqun, who was examining Rhaenyra.
"Your Highness, you are in excellent health. Absolutely perfect, without a single flaw." Maester Muqun finished and motioned for Rhaenyra to lower her sleeve.
Rhaenyra forced a smile, clutching her aching arm.
"That's unnecessary," Aemon teased.
Speaking of examinations, we can't help but mention the cutting-edge medicine of Westeros.
Bloodletting!
Early in the morning, before eating anything, Rhaenyra dragged Maester Muqun into letting out two ounces of blood. The result was still healthy. Undeniably healthy.
Maester Muqun put away his medical kit, washed his hands in a copper basin, and explained, "Women have a chance of conceiving and giving birth. Your Highness is young and capable, so there's no need to rush."
"Is there any way to increase the chances of conception?" Rhaenyra pleaded.
Four years had passed since Jaehaerys' birth. Logically, with plenty of sexual intercourse, pregnancy should have been stirring by now.
"Rhaenyra, why not just let nature take its course?" Aemon whispered.
Having a daughter had become almost an obsession for Rhaenyra. They were still young; there was really no need for this.
"Either you think of a solution or keep quiet, okay?" Rhaenyra turned her head and offered a faint smile.
"Okay," Aemon said with a wry smile.
It wasn't a hello, but a warning.
Soon, it was directed at Maester Muqun.
"Um..." Maester Muqun hesitated, then quietly suggested, "If necessary, some knowledge of female dominance might be helpful."
He carefully observed the two men, trying not to say the wrong thing.
Rhaenyra's expression was serious, her head lowered in thought.
"Huh?" Aemon froze, casting a resentful look at Maester Muqun.
Then my marriage would have been in vain.
"I'm just suggesting. The key lies in the specific details of sex. Timing, mood, and so on are also important factors." Maester Muqun quickly corrected himself, trying to save His Royal Highness.
Unexpectedly, Aemon's expression changed.
How dare you!
You can question my knowledge, but not my timing.
Your Royal Highness knows the key.
Rhaenyra glanced at Aemon and said with increasing resignation, "Maester, timing and mood are not the problem."
He dared to marry four wives and even keep a black swan. Aemon certainly had a good physique. She had discussed this privately with Alicent and White Worm Mysaria.
When Daemon was still a young man in his twenties, his physical fitness was still top-notch, and he was quite capable in bed. After reaching middle age, he was only slightly better than his father, Viserys.
Not much!
At most, it's about looks: either good-looking but useless, or neither. In comparison, her increasingly beautiful face with age indicated a harmonious married life.
"Then I have no further opinions. I'll leave it to the Seven to decide." Muqun gave a helpless smile.
"Very well." Rhaenyra, disappointed, maintained a polite smile. "Thank you for your trouble, Maester Muqun."
"You're welcome. This is what I'm supposed to do." Maester Muqun respectfully withdrew.
After the others left, Aemon hopped down from the windowsill, approached Rhaenyra, and leaned over to ask, "What do you think, Uncle?"
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. She'd thought he was being sympathetic, but it made her heart flutter.
"Hmm?" Aemon stared at the charming face, blushing, and caught a whiff of something ambiguous, beyond the delicate scent of cream.
"What do you think of Maester Muqun?" Rhaenyra suggested.
"Not much." Aemon stood up straight. He had his own priorities. If he pulled out such an important one and handed it over to the royal family, who would fill his shoes? Besides, Maester Muqun had a good personal relationship with him, and he also loved the customs and people of the Vale. Asking him to give up his position as a maester in Riverdale and go to King's Landing, where power is at stake, to become a Grand Maester...
…It doesn't seem plausible no matter how you look at it.
"What about Maester Mellos?" Rhaenyra asked another candidate.
Aemon shook his head slightly: "If you recommend Maester Mellos, Alicent will also recommend Maester Alfondor."
The names of these two scholars are relatively unfamiliar, but they are actually popular representative figures of the Black and Green parties.
Maester Mellos was a kindly old man, a full-time maester at Dragonstone. He had served a succession of heirs, including his great-grandfather Jaehaerys, his great-uncle Aemon, his grandfather Baelon, and his great-uncle Viserys. Rhaenyra trusted him greatly, and she often took her uncle to Dragonstone for checkups and to ease the pain of the Iron Throne. In the later stages of the Dance of the Dragons, this old man met a tragic end. While applying medicine to Aegon, who had taken over Dragonstone and was suffering from burns, he was brutally murdered by the maddened Aegon. He endured three rounds of suffocation, had his entrails ripped out, and his legs severed to feed Sunfyre. Half of his body, dangling from its entrails, was hung from a spear in the Stone Drum Tower.
"No, I'll find an excuse to whip Aegon later," Aemon thought, growing increasingly angry. He had to teach the unfortunate boy a lesson.
I'm applying medicine to you, and you're going crazy? I'll break your legs soon.
As for Maester Alfondor, he was an old man who served the Oldtown Hightower. Alicent distrusted Mellos, the traitorous old dog, and whenever he had a headache or a fever, he sought the help of Maester Alfondor.
"My uncle wants to find a successor to the Grand Maester. Isn't that just an excuse for you and Alicent to fight?" Aemon suddenly realized.
"Alicent?" Rhaenyra's lips curled slightly, and she said proudly, "I can beat her to a pulp even with one hand."
Just as the maesters had examined her. Her body was healthy, undeniably healthy. Alicent had given birth to several children in succession, and she looked fine on the outside, so how could she not be suffering on the inside?
Smash her beautiful head.
"You two siblings are truly extraordinary," Aemon was speechless.
He only wanted to beat Aegon, and forget about you, didn't he?
"Then what should we do?" Rhaenyra said unhappily.
"If my uncle asks that, there must be a reason." Aemon thought for a moment, and realized the crux of the matter.
"The Citadel!"
Rhaenyra's face darkened slightly upon hearing this, and she exclaimed in disgust, "Oldtown and Hightower again."
"It's not just Hightower; every institution in Oldtown is a bad one," Aemon said calmly.
Even before the marriage, friction had existed between the royal family and Oldtown. First, the High Sept of the Starry Sept came forward, questioning him for violating his covenant and marrying more than one man. Then the Citadel sided with him, sending ravens to Grand Maester Mellos, asking him to remonstrate with the king. It was quite a commotion, with half of Westeros buzzing about it.
In the end, Uncle Viserys was nearly furious.
It was Aemon who arrived at Oldtown on his horse, Vermithor, circling Oldtown three times, then circling the towering tower of House Hightower three times, before landing at the gates of the Great Sept of the Starry Sept. The High Sept at the time had shut himself in, secluded in his chambers, declaring he would seek answers from the Seven, just as the High Sept had done before Aegon the Conqueror's coronation.
Aemon and Vermithor stood guard in the Starry Sept for seven days and seven nights, while the Archbishop remained in the Vault without a drop of water.
On the eighth day, the Archbishop, dizzy and dazed from hunger, was carried out.
Satisfied, Aemon uttered, "The Seven have consented." Satisfied, Aemon rode Vermithor away calmly.
The "Great Archbishop" was fed rice broth, and his pale face miraculously regained color, and he gradually recovered. But even among the elite nobles of the Seven Kingdoms, the Seven's answer was a lie. The Archbishop, fearing the dragon's flames, had holed himself up in the Vault for seven days. During that time, he'd never been short of rice broth, even if he'd eaten enough. He feigned respect on the eighth day, claiming the Seven had consented, thus maintaining a good reputation. Otherwise, how could anyone survive seven days without a drop of water? The last Archbishop who did so died of starvation right after he'd spoken.
"What's the Citadel doing?" Rhaenyra exclaimed in disdain.
"I don't know, and it doesn't matter," Aemon said nonchalantly, reassuring him. "Don't worry about it. At most, they'll wait for Mellos to die one day and send a spy to annoy them."
The conflicts between the royal family and the Citadel were even more numerous. During Aemon's infamous "Oldtown Dragon Slip" incident in the Seven Kingdoms, he completely disregarded the Citadel. This was a slap in the face. Upon returning to King's Landing, he approached Alicent, who was deeply concerned for his family. The next day, House Hightower cut its funding for the Citadel in half. Furthermore, under Aemon's insistence, all the Citadel maesters assigned to observe and record dragons at the Dragonpits and Dragonstone in King's Landing were dismissed and sent home. This maximized Targaryen authority and mystique while also tarnishing the Citadel's reputation.
The Citadel lacked the influence of the Faith of the Seven, so it dared to provoke them. Despite suffering heavy losses, it dared not express any dissatisfaction. Fast forward several years, and finally, there were signs of retaliation.
"How about I ride Syrax back to Oldtown?" Rhaenyra asked with a firm expression.
"Sit down, Rhaenyra," Aemon said, stopping her in her tracks. Threats are only effective once; repeated threats become superficial and hollow. And Syrax's size doesn't offer much of a deterrent.
"Hmph, let's spare the Citadel for now, until Mellos is dead," Rhaenyra snorted, her proud nose almost raised.
"Mellos won't die," Aemon assured. He was fine at the beginning of the year, so healthy he could eat two bowls of corn a meal, and with his medicine box, he pestered his uncle to change the treatment for the cuts on the Iron Throne. How could he suddenly die after just a few months? According to the records in A Dance with the Dragons, the old dog lived for six years, only to die accidentally from a fall. The contents of his uncle's letter were full of doubts. Perhaps this old dog, in collusion with some ambitious individual, had set up this trap.
Knock, knock, knock—
There was a knock on the palace door, and a thin maid said timidly: "Prince, Princess, Prince Aegon sent a message that Prince Aemond ran away after a wild dragon."
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