[Year 283 After Aegon's Conquest]
Bat Hour.
Bat Hour was how Westeros referred to the first part of night, starting just as the sun began to set.
The last golden rays of the sun withdrew from the world, and the Red Keep was swallowed by darkness.
After the king received the news that his heir had fallen at the Trident, a heavy cloud of sorrow hung over the castle. Tens of thousands of rebel soldiers were marching toward the capital.
In at most twenty days, they would reach the gates.
A pale moon hung in the sky like the eye of a corpse, staring coldly at a crumbling dynasty.
In a somewhat secluded room, a young Targaryen prince sat reading intently.
As he read, he lightly tapped his fingers against the table in a slow, rhythmic beat, almost hypnotic.
The candlelight, lit early against the encroaching darkness, cast a golden glow over his silver hair, making him look as if he were bathed in holy light.
"Maester Pycelle, could you tell me more about the Dance of the Dragons? I still get confused between the two Aegons," the prince said quietly, without looking up.
"Of course, Your Highness," came the reply.
The speaker was Pycelle, Grand Maester to King Aerys.
His bald head gleamed with oil under the candlelight, dotted with age spots like patches of mold.
His face was sagging with loose skin, but the chain around his neck, made of twenty-four different metals, was a testament to his vast learning.
Each metal represented a field of study he had mastered.
As he looked at the young prince, his gaze was filled with contempt, as if he were looking at a particularly stupid mule.
This so-called prince still had the heart to study after hearing of his brother's death. Truly heartless.
As for his fate, it was already sealed. After House Targaryen fell, he would be executed. At best, he might end up as a minor lord in some small castle, if the rebel leader showed mercy.
But for now, he still had to treat him as royalty.
In truth, this little prince was always quite polite, often bringing Pycelle some warm milk when he visited.
"The two Aegons came from King Viserys I's daughter and his second wife…"
As Pycelle droned on, the young prince pondered silently.
He was thinking about how to kill the old bastard who frequented brothels without paying and now dreamed of betraying his king.
The young prince's name was Viserys, the second son of King Aerys II.
Only a few days ago, however, his body had been taken over by a soul from another world.
The new Viserys had accepted his identity, and with his knowledge of the story's plot, began to analyze his precarious situation.
The current king, known as the Mad King, was surrounded by enemies.
Pycelle, the Grand Maester, secretly longed for his idol, Lord Tywin, to seize the throne. The spymaster was a supporter of rebels, plotting to usurp the crown.
Even the King's own Kingsguard, his personal protectors, would murder him at the fall of King's Landing.
Viserys had no interest in saving Aerys. The king's downfall was his own doing. But Viserys needed to save himself.
Which meant that Aerys's enemies were his enemies as well.
Viserys knew that Aerys would, in a rare moment of clarity, send him and his mother to Dragonstone before the end.
Before they fled, Viserys needed to eliminate Pycelle.
This man had suggested opening the gates to Lord Tywin under the pretense of loyalty, leading to the premature fall of the capital. Had it not been for Pycelle, King's Landing could have held out longer.
Viserys decided that the Grand Maester had to die, to buy more time for himself and his mother. As for restoring House Targaryen... he was not particularly confident.
Ever since he arrived in this world, Viserys had noticed something odd in his mind:
[Target: Execute Grand Maester Pycelle]
[Participation: 15 percent]
Whenever he entertained the thought, this information would appear in his mind.
There was no system interface, no status screen. Only this. The target was clear enough, but what the "Participation" percentage meant, he had no idea.
When he thought about leaving this world or returning home, there was no reaction at all.
So for now, he had to make use of this meager cheat, better than nothing. He would kill the Grand Maester and see what happened.
But it couldn't be a public killing.
If the son of the Mad King also appeared mad, no one would follow him.
Viserys planned to gather evidence of Pycelle's treason, and have Aerys execute him. If that failed, poisoning was always an option.
But first, he needed to lull Pycelle into deeper complacency.
"So, I am a descendant of Princess Rhaenyra, the Realm's Delight?"
"Indeed, Your Highness. Though, according to tradition, it would be more accurate to say you descend from King Viserys II…"
As he spoke, Pycelle let out a massive yawn, unable to resist the pull of sleep.
Viserys knew his chance was coming. That was why he always brought warm milk when he visited.
"Grand Maester, if you're tired, please rest. I'll just read a bit more before I leave."
"I am not so tired as that. I can still keep you company, Your Highness," Pycelle said, trying to resist.
He didn't really believe the young prince could do anything, but he felt obligated to remain at his post until the end.
However, the overwhelming drowsiness was too much to resist. And the steady tapping of Viserys's fingers, that soft "tap, tap, tap," was like a lullaby.
Pycelle's eyelids grew heavier and heavier, until he began snoring softly.
The opportunity had arrived.
Viserys did not stop tapping immediately but gradually slowed the rhythm.
"Grand Maester? Grand Maester!" He called out twice. Receiving no response, he got up and carried the candle carefully into the adjoining bedroom.
Viserys moved with slow, measured breaths and light steps.
The only sound in the room was the thud of his own heartbeat.
The Grand Maester's quarters were cluttered with documents. The air was thick with the smells of ink and the mustiness of old age.
Viserys, though no spy in his previous life, had enough experience dealing with students smuggling phones into school to know the basics.
Important documents would never be left in plain sight.
He immediately focused his attention on the bed. He ran his hand quickly over the mattress but found nothing unusual.
Then he pressed down on the goose-feather pillow.
There it was—the faint sound of paper rustling inside.
"Old fool," Viserys sneered.
With a quick tear, he ripped open the pillow. A few sheets of parchment fluttered to the floor.
Opening one at random, he saw it was sealed with a red lion—the Lannister sigil. The letters were filled with Tywin Lannister's instructions and encouragements, urging Pycelle to continue spying on Aerys.
Pycelle's adoration of Tywin was laughable. He hadn't even thought to burn the evidence.
Viserys had what he needed.
The torn pillow would be discovered soon. He had to deliver the letters to Aerys immediately.
Knowing the Mad King, Pycelle would likely be burned alive.
No trial, no mercy.
As he slipped out of the bedroom, Viserys glanced back at the sleeping Grand Maester. The old man looked like a crumbling tombstone.
Just as he stepped out of the room, the information in his mind shifted.
[Target: Execute Grand Maester Pycelle]
[Participation: 55 percent]