The Ravenry, The Citadel.
On the tabletop, the massive sheet of paper bore no text, only a drawing. Dense, meticulous lines sketched out the entire layout of King's Landing.
Visenya's Hill, Rhaenys's Hill, Blackwater Bay, the Dragonpit, the Red Keep, every structure was marked with a symbol penned in ink.
Steward Noren was the first to recognize the significance of those symbols. His face paled.
"This is... a population density map?"
The High Septon nodded.
"Within five hundred yards of the Dragonpit lies Flea Bottom, the poorest district of King's Landing. Over a hundred thousand people live there."
He pointed to another marking on the map.
"The Fishmarket docks. Every morning, thousands of fishing boats dock there. It has the highest foot traffic. It is barely a mile from the Dragonpit."
He then moved his finger toward the Red Keep.
"Aegon's High Hill, overlooking all of King's Landing. If a beacon is lit there, the entire city will see it."
Maester Garth's smile vanished completely.
"Your Holiness," his voice was dry, "you intend to..."
"I intend to slay the dragons," the High Septon said.
"Not just one. All of them."
The Ravenry fell so silent that one could hear a heartbeat.
Steward Noren's quill slipped from his fingers, clattering sharply against the floor.
"Do you realize what you are saying?" Archmaester Vaemond spoke.
"Dragons are no ordinary beasts. Even during the Conquest, when the Dornishmen set an ambush at Hellholt, they only managed to strike the dragon Meraxes in the eye with a scorpion bolt by pure luck. Even then, the falling carcass of the dragon destroyed half the castle. Queen Rhaenys was thrown to her death instantly."
He paused for a moment, letting the history weigh on the room.
"Afterward, Aegon the Conqueror and his sister Visenya began a campaign of frantic retaliation. History calls it the Dragon's Wroth. For ten years, not a blade of grass grew in Dorne. Balerion and Vhagar burned over a dozen towns and killed an estimated two hundred thousand Dornishmen. In the end, Dorne paid a staggering price to maintain its independence, only acknowledging Aegon as King in name."
The old Archmaester's clouded eyes were now as clear as water.
"Are you planning to use commoners to kill dragons? Your Holiness, have you considered how many people will die?"
The High Septon met his gaze directly.
"I have."
His voice did not waver in the slightest.
"If ten thousand are not enough, we use thirty thousand! If thirty thousand is not enough, we use fifty thousand! If fifty thousand are not enough, we use a hundred thousand!"
Showing neither regret nor fear, he surveyed the group.
"Even if the entirety of King's Landing is turned into a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, I will see these demonic dragons vanish from this world!"
Archmaester Vaemond did not look away.
"A hundred thousand," the old man repeated.
"Do you understand the scale of that? The entire population of Oldtown is barely four hundred thousand. King's Landing is less than five hundred thousand. You would kill a fifth of the capital's residents?"
"Not I," said the High Septon.
"The Targaryens. Their dragons, their arrogance, and their rule that treats commoners as chaff, that is what causes this disaster. I am merely... giving the Seven Kingdoms a chance to end it all."
Immediately after, he bowed his head slightly, as if in prayer.
"The Seven be my witness. All I do is not for personal gain, nor for power, but so that Westeros no longer crouches beneath the wings of dragons."
A long silence followed. Outside the window, a raven let out a low croak, sounding like a sigh.
Finally, the Maester nicknamed "White Raven" broke the silence.
"Regarding Your Holiness's plan," he said, "what does the Citadel need to provide?"
The High Septon turned to him.
"Ravens. We need the Citadel's ravens to spread the news of the King's Landing riots across the Seven Kingdoms at the critical moment."
He paused. "And we need a man. The position of Grand Maester on the Small Council is now vacant."
As the conversation turned toward Aemond, the atmosphere in the Ravenry shifted subtly.
Maester Garth was the first to speak.
"Speaking of which," his smile returned faintly to the corners of his mouth, "we are in this room discussing how to deal with the Targaryens, yet we have never asked each other: of those present, who has actually seen this Prince Aemond with their own eyes?"
No one answered. Garth turned to Noren.
Noren shook his head; he had never left the Citadel and rarely even ventured into Oldtown. Garth then looked at Archmaester Vaemond.
The old man was silent for a moment before saying, "I saw him once from afar when he came to Oldtown. He was a lonely child then, following behind his mother, Queen Alicent."
"But I have seen him," Garth said.
Everyone's gaze turned to him. He did not evade them.
"Four years ago, I was ordered by the Citadel to go to the Red Keep to deliver books on dragon lore to Grand Maester Mellos. At that time, Prince Aemond was under house arrest by the King. He was alone. I delivered the books to him myself, and he was staring out the window. Out of curiosity, I asked him what it felt like to have tamed Vhagar at the age of twelve."
"And what did he say?" the High Septon asked.
"He looked at me and said: 'Maester, do you think I tamed Vhagar? No. Vhagar chose me. Because she knows I am of her kind.'"
No one spoke in the Ravenry.
The Maester continued: "Then I asked him what His Grace was looking at. He didn't answer immediately. After a long time, he said, 'Maester, have you ever wondered why dragons allow themselves to be ridden?' I told him it was because of the Valyrian bloodline. He shook his head and said, 'No. Blood is merely the key. What truly makes a dragon submit is that the rider must prove himself stronger, crueler, and more undeniable than the dragon itself.'"
"Dragons have no morals," Aemond had told him.
"They do not respect kindness or mercy. Dragons only respect power. So, Maester, if I do not fight, if I do not seize, if I do not prove myself stronger than everyone else... no one in this world will give me anything."
Garth stopped there, his smile having vanished completely.
"He is a madman," he said.
"No," Archmaester Vaemond's voice was very low.
"A madman does not possess such a lucid understanding of himself." The old man rose slowly and sighed.
"He knows what he is. He knows how the world sees him. He is perfectly sober."
The Archmaester turned around.
"This is more terrifying than a pure Maegor the Cruel. Maegor's madness was a matter of temperament. This boy... his madness is wrapped in cold logic."
The High Septon was silent for a long time.
"Why?"
Vaemond shook his head.
"Because Maegor did not know what he was doing. Maegor slaughtered, burned cities, and married his nieces, but Maegor never believed those things were evil; he saw them as his duty as King."
"Prince Aemond, however, knows exactly what he is doing. He has his own philosophy. He knows kinslaying is a sin. He knows his actions will make countless people hate him to the bone. He knows, and yet he chooses to do it anyway."
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