Grand Maester Pycelle was 84 years old this year. Just a few years ago, he had still been a sprightly old gentleman with a handsome white beard.He used to spend nights stargazing with the ladies of Silk Street, but after being frightened by Tyrion and thrown into the black cells for several months, everything changed.
Though his body had been released, it seemed as if he had left a kidney behind in the dungeon—he could no longer hold his head high or walk with ease.
Trembling, the old man climbed the tower and hurriedly took a letter from a raven's leg. After just one glance, he cried out excitedly, "The Seven be praised!"After a round trip that took half an hour, and still several steps from the council chamber doors, he raised the letter high and shouted:
"Your Grace! Your Majesty! Wonderful news! The dragon witch has been repelled! Her army suffered heavy losses, and even her magic dragon was severely wounded! We've won!"
"What? They shot down the dragon?" Ser Harris exclaimed in shock.
"Is the dragon queen dead?" the Little Rose asked eagerly.
"She's not dead," Pycelle said, gasping for breath as he leaned against the doorframe.
"Then how badly is she injured? How much longer can she hold on?" Ser Boros quickly rose from his chair, walked to the door, and took the letter.
"Uh…" After reading for a while, the twice-knighted white knight said awkwardly, "The battle hasn't even started yet. This… what does it mean?"
"Sigh, can't you read between the lines?" Grand Maester Pycelle snatched back the letter and read aloud loudly:
"Scorpion ballistae completely restrain dragons. The magic dragon hesitated, advancing cautiously. After a volley of arrows, it was forced to retreat in frustration.Our forces hold the high ground. From atop the Dragon Tower, ballistae can rain bolts down upon the Stone Drum Tower. Victory is assured; defeat is impossible. We can hold for at least a month.Ser Meryn Trant is advised not to march in haste. If the warships are not equipped with Scorpions, they must not set sail, to avoid a direct encounter with the dragon queen's fleet."
"See that? Between the lines, I can practically see Ser Lucion's confident smile. Everyone knows his character—Honest and steady, serious and stern, never one for empty boasts. If he says it's fine, it's absolutely fine," Pycelle emphasized.
"Yes, I watched Lucion grow up. That boy never exaggerates," Ser Harris of the Westerlands nodded in agreement.
The Little Rose lazily slumped back into her chair, annoyed. "The dragon isn't dead, the dragon queen isn't even injured, and not a single person on their side has died. What are you all getting so excited about?"
"Your Majesty, you don't understand. Scorpions were invented by us maesters, and we've got five hundred brand-new ones in the Red Keep's armory.Now that their effectiveness has been confirmed at Dragonstone, we no longer need to lose sleep worrying about the witch burning down the Red Keep with her dragon," Pycelle said seriously.
Margaery thought for a moment and nodded in agreement.After being rescued from the Great Sept by Lord Tarly, she had seriously considered fleeing straight back to Highgarden.Not only because she feared the High Sparrow's occupation of King's Landing, but also out of concern that the dragon queen might torch the Red Keep and roast her like black-hearted Harren.
Margaery had received a letter from the Citadel three days after leaving the Sept.If the Scorpions were truly as powerful as the letter claimed—(note: by this point, no dragon in Westeros had yet been killed by a Scorpion)—then the Red Keep's safety was at least assured.
"The dragon queen has only been in Westeros for a few days. How did you manage to build five hundred Scorpions so quickly? Are they easy to make?" she asked curiously.
"Quite the opposite," Pycelle replied. "Only the toughest goldwood, the strongest sinew, and the highest-grade steel shards can be used to construct the Scorpions.The crafting process involves complex mathematics, and top-tier craftsmen must painstakingly shape standardized parts with great time and effort.Only then do the maesters personally assemble the parts into functioning weapons, step by step, according to the blueprints."
"Moreover, each Scorpion costs 150 gold dragons—more than the ransom for a common knight.Even with a top craftsman, it takes a month and a half to complete one," Pycelle added with a sigh.
"Then why are there so many Scorpions in the Red Keep?" Ser Harris asked in confusion.
"It was Lord Tywin!" Pycelle said with reverence. "He had incredible foresight. About a year and a half ago, when the War of the Four Kings hadn't yet ended, he wrote to me asking to retrieve the blueprints for the Scorpions from the Royal Library.He then ordered materials from across the world, hired dozens of top craftsmen from Myr, Qohor, and Tyrosh, and purchased over a thousand experienced blacksmith and carpenter slaves."
The Little Rose stared, stunned. "He knew about the dragon queen even back then? He foresaw today's situation?"
Pycelle looked deeply at the Queen of Highgarden and said, "Have you heard of the Brave Companions?"
"The Bloody Mummers?"
Ser Harris muttered disapprovingly, "The worst decision Lord Tywin ever made in his life was hiring those Qohorik mercenaries. The Bloody Mummers are uncontrollable and dishonorable.Back when Lord Tywin was still at Harrenhal, they dared to kill my squire. Later, they defected to the Northmen and even cut off Jaime's sword hand."
"Perhaps," Pycelle agreed, clearly not fond of the Bloody Mummers either. It was their rampage through the Riverlands that had left the people with no choice but to flee to King's Landing and become Sparrows.Yes, even the High Sparrow had come from the Riverlands.
Margaery mused, "So perhaps when he hired the Brave Companions, Lord Tywin heard rumors about the magic dragon and began building Scorpions as a countermeasure?"
"Countermeasure?" Pycelle sneered at first, then sighed with a trace of melancholy. "The Scorpions were merely a contingency plan—for the worst-case scenario.Who would've thought the 'worst-case' would actually come to pass?"
"Damn those Braavosi bastards… took so many gold dragons…" the old maester muttered under his breath. His voice was so low, no one else could make out what he said.
"What about the craftsmen and slaves? Can we produce more Scorpions and fully arm King's Landing?" Ser Boros asked.
"That's something Lord Kevan would know. All the craftsmen, slaves, and materials are in the Westerlands, at Casterly Rock."
"Kraa—"From beyond the rain outside the window came a faint raven's call. The lords and queen in the council chamber paid it no mind, but bored Tommen, staring out the window, suddenly shouted:"Maester Pycelle, I saw a raven! Black wings, bringing black news."
Pycelle paused, walked to the window, and peered out. Seeing no raven in sight, he casually replied,"Your Grace, whether the news is good or bad, we always use black ravens for messages.There are white ravens in the rookery too, but they're too fragile—not nearly as fierce as the black ones."
"I really saw a raven," Tommen insisted.
"This is the Red Keep. Nobles send messages here all the time," the Grand Maester replied indifferently.
"Since Ser Lucion is confident in dealing a heavy blow to the rebels, should Ser Meryn Trant be sent to reinforce Dragonstone? According to the plan, he's supposed to lead a thousand Goldcloaks to set sail this afternoon," Ser Boros asked.
"What do you think, Ser Harris?" Grand Maester Pycelle said uncertainly.
After a brief pause, the bald old man made a slashing motion with his hand and replied in a cold voice, "We should send reinforcements. The terrain of Dragonstone is treacherous, allowing for a ten-to-one casualty ratio—one of ours for ten of theirs.
With the news of the Targaryens returning on dragonback, it's inevitable that some within the Seven Kingdoms will grow restless and disloyal.
We must turn Dragonstone into a slaughterhouse, annihilating the rebel forces who still remain loyal to the Dragon Queen."
"Hmm, you're right, Ser," Pycelle said approvingly, giving the bald knight a look of appreciation. "We can allocate fifty scorpion ballistae and mount them on the warships."
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Thump-thump-thump! The sound of urgent footsteps outside interrupted the Grand Maester's words. Everyone frowned and looked toward the violently flung-open doors, ready to scold the intruder.
A gray-robed maester rushed in, shouting, "Terrible news! Lord Pycelle, my lords, Your Grace—Dragonstone has fallen! Ser Lucion is dead! The Dragon Queen has taken Dragonstone!"
"What?" the five nobles exclaimed in unison. Even Tommen, who had looked indifferent until now, cried out in alarm.
The chubby boy was already nine—old enough to understand who was friend and who was foe.
"Maester Davinci, what are you saying? I just received a letter from Ser Lucion," the Grand Maester stammered, holding up the parchment in his hand. "You were just in the rookery with me. You saw me receive it yourself!"
Maester Davinci, a man in his early thirties with a round face, a rounded nose, and a balding head, was Pycelle's assistant.
Yes, even the Grand Maester's assistant was a learned scholar.
"A new raven arrived—also from Dragonstone. The battle's over. The Dragon Queen seized the island within an hour."
"How is that possible? Dragonstone has anti-dragon ballistae—even dragons wouldn't dare approach. Could that woman really be using magic?" Pycelle's face turned pale.
"Uh… she actually does know witchcraft!" the others muttered, looking at the panicked Grand Maester, struggling for words.
"I mean—" Pycelle flailed his hands aimlessly, "what kind of magic could possibly—never mind, hand me the letter."
With that, the old maester stepped forward and snatched the parchment.
"The letter came from that woman. She wants ransom for the prisoners. If we don't pay, she'll send them to the Wall to join the Night's Watch. But why are there only thirty-two soldiers?" he murmured.
The Little Rose's expression shifted, her voice filled with shock and fear: "They're dead… Four hundred guards, and only thirty-two survived?"
"Hiss… What a vicious witch!" the bald knight said, his scalp tingling.
"Not only vicious, but greedy," Pycelle muttered as he set the letter down. "Ten gold dragons ransom for each soldier. Five thousand for Ser Peck."
"She's mad!"
"Are you mad?!"
At Dragonstone, inside a great hall shaped like a reclining dragon, Ser Titus Peck forced open his bruised eyes and glared at the Dragon Queen seated atop the high black stone throne.
"I'm just a knight! A knight's ransom has never gone above three hundred gold dragons. Five thousand? Do you think I'm Jaime Lannister?"
"Idiot. Would Jaime Lannister still be alive and kneeling before me, shouting like you are?" Daenerys tilted her head and said with disdain.
"But I'm not worth five thousand gold dragons!" Titus Peck protested.
Daenerys had been waiting for this. She immediately said, "Then don the black and join the Night's Watch."
"I have a wife—I can't bear to leave her!"
"Is your wife beautiful?" Daenerys asked, curious.
"His wife is an ordinary-looking Lannister cousin," said the Old Crab.
The black-armored knight, who had earlier bragged about slaying dragons, now looked at the Dragon Queen with pleading eyes and said sincerely, "Margaery's not pretty, but having a wife is better than not. I can't give up my noble life!"
Daenerys's mouth twitched slightly before asking, "Then how much can you offer?"
"Four hundred gold dragons… How about that?" the knight gritted his teeth.
Daenerys waved her hand with a disgusted expression. "Bronn, drag him out. If we don't get the ransom within a week, send him off to the Wall."
"No—!" the black-armored knight screamed in despair, his cries piercing the air.
(End of Chapter)
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