It was Ser Balon’s shift again, thank all the Gods, and we swiftly made our way out of Maegor’s Holdfast and across two conjoining courtyards to the rookery, a squat tower made of the same pale red stone of the Keep that housed the ravens at its top and the Grand Maester’s rooms beneath it.

After an assistant pointed us the right way, we found Pycelle sitting inside a side den next to his chambers, hunched over a large tome. Aside from the space directly occupied by a few chairs and an examining table, the room was a mess. Dusty books were piled haphazardly atop open chests on the back and flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling like vines. On the walls, tiny glass jars and vials stood side to side with larger ceramic jars, and whole cabinets were filled to the brim with different medicines.

I knocked gently on the door.

“Yes?” Grand Maester Pycelle said, eyes fixed on the book.

“A minute of your time, Grand Maester, if you will,” I said.

Pycelle had a moment of surprise. “Your Grace.” He closed the tome and rose quick as a man twenty years his junior. “I wasn’t informed you were coming. I apologize for all the clutter. Acolytes, these days,” he grumbled, then cleared his throat. “Please.” He pointed to a chair across his own.

“Thank you, Grand Maester. And make no mention of it.” I walked inside the room proper, dodging book hills and grasping plants. The air inside smelled sharply of greenery and old parchment. I gestured so Ser Baelon stayed behind, and he moved to stand by the door. “I would be suspicious if a Maester’s room was not a mess. I heard it’s a common trait of intelligent men.”

“Oh you shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Your Grace.” He stroked his long white beard. “A King must have a keen ear for veracity and falsehood, oh yes. Why, my own mentor in the Citadel, the now deceased Archmaester Yarwin, was one of the most organized creatures I have met in all my ears. Everything had to be spotless in his rooms, Your Grace. Spotless! He used to drive us acolytes raw cleaning all his belongings.”

I nodded wisely. “I see,” I said. But I didn’t. I had stopped listening when he mentioned the Citadel. “Once again, you have given me something to think on, Grand Maester. I will take it to heart, be sure of that.”

“I have been advising kings for a long time, Your Grace. I’m only glad I can still help,” he said. The Grand Maester called for one of his servants and bid them bring out drinks. We made pointless conversation until Pycelle had his iced milk and I had my iced wine. “Now, to what do I owe this honor, my King?”

“I’m afraid I’m not here to honor you,” I told him, sipping my drink. “Just giving you more work.”

Pycelle’s chest rumbled with soft laughter, the chains on his neck tinkling like bells. “Healing the infirm is a Maester’s honor,” he informed me. “What currently ails Your Grace, then?”

I put down my wine, took out my left arm and rolled up my sleeves. The wrist had started to swell, but only just. “I believe I sprained it in practice yesterday.”

“A common enough injury,” he said. He rose from his seat and approached me. “May I?” I nodded, and he gently cradled my wrist. He turned it from side to side, pressing different spots and looking for signs of discomfort. His knotted fingers were more like gnarled tree roots than anything else, but he was genuine in his care. After a few moments, he released me. “Indeed, it is just a sprain, Your Grace. It should heal by itself in a few days. But—” he lifted a finger “—I do have a compress I can make to speed up the process.”

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He moved over to the medicine counter before I could even agree. He started taking powders off of cabinets and plucking herbs out of the small garden he kept on the ceiling. Despite his age, his hands moved deftly over the ingredients, grinding and mixing then grinding again.

“Have you finished reading Barth’s diary, Your Grace?” The Grand Maester asked as he worked. “I do not want to rush you, far be it from me, but any of his writings are extremely rare and valuable. Not many of them survived Baelor’s purge, you see.”

I allowed myself a smile. There it was, an opening. “I am, in fact, finished with it, Grand Maester. I will make sure to have it sent your way.” The Grand Maester nodded, so I continued. “The insights on the reign of Jaehaerys the first were truly a joy to read. He is one of the Targaryen kings I admire most.”

“As should everyone,” he said absentmindedly. “King Jaehaerys is perhaps the most competent King Westeros has ever seen. His work on reforming our codes of law is, to this day, the lynchpin that holds the Seven Kingdoms together.” The Grand Maester resumed grinding for a moment, until he seemed to realise his faux pass and hurriedly spoke again, “After your father, of course.” He coughed awkwardly over his sleeves. “King Robert was a man amongst men. His exploits during the Rebellion, and later during the invasion of the Iron Islands, are legendary.”

Brown-nosing alert. “As was the Kingdom’s debt,” I said.

Relieved by my good humor, Pycelle just shrugged. “All men have vices, Your Grace, kings more than most. It comes with the rigors of the office.”

“I look forward to discovering my own, then,” I said. Pycelle chuckled and turned back over the counter. After a while of hearing the crack of the pestle hitting the mortar repeatedly, I pushed the conversation to where I initially intended it to go. “In any event, Grand Maester, I truly found the Barth’s writings interesting. Reading about governance through the perspective of a High Septon was enlightening as well.”

“Oh no, Your Grace,” Pycelle said. He even stopped working again, turning to address me. “While Septon Barth was most certainly a man of great faith, he never held the position of High Septon, only Hand of the King.”

“Is that so?” I asked. “He never really mentions his titles before he took up handship, so I just assumed.”

“A harmless mistake, Your Grace.”

“Of course,” I said.

With no more distractions, Pycelle finished the concoction quickly and applied it to my wrist, wrapping it all up with white bandages. “All done, Your Grace. Give it two days and you will be back to form.”

I tried the range of motion for my wrist and found it acceptable. “My thanks, Grand Maester.” I crossed my legs over each other and reclined back on the chair, trying to look as nonchalant as I could. “Do we have any writings by a High Septon here in the Red Keep, then? Septon Barth focuses mainly on the Kingdom’s administration and laws.” I sighed deeply. “But with all my losses in these last two years… I’m not sure, Grand Maester. I feel myself all the more drawn to the Faith. I believe I need the guidance of the Crone just as much as the wisdom of man.”

“Hum.” He swiped a hand over the small wisps of white hair still atop his head. “No. I do not think we have them at hand, Your Grace. However, I do know they keep it several at the Citadel. I’ve transcribed enough of them to know it well,” he said, laughing gaily.

“Do you believe you would be able to acquire them for me?” I inquired.

“Why, of course, Your Grace. You are the King. The Maesters of the Citadel serve at your pleasure,” he said. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps something from previous High Septons?” I hummed, looking into empty space as if in deep consideration. “The more recent the better, I would think. They would know of the Faith’s doctrines as it relates to our day and age better than older ones, no?”

“Well thought, Your Grace, well thought. Now let me see,” he said, stroking his beard. “High Septon Maynard served as the leader of the Faith of the Seven for nearly thirty years before his passing. And he left extensive notes in diaries about his spiritual missions inside the Faith. Would that be acceptable?”

“Yes, Grand Maester.” I smiled warmly. “High Septon Maynard’s diaries sound just fine.” Because one Targaryen capable of riding dragons was more than enough for me.