About half an hour later, after sightseeing some of the landmarks of the Citadel, the group finally entered the Scholar's Tower.
During their tour, they stopped by the renowned Scriptorium in the main hall.
The Citadel prided itself on being a servant of the people, naturally engaging in endeavors that benefited the populace.
The Scriptorium was a place where assistant scholars provided writing services to the common folk.
Located right at the entrance of the Citadel, the Scriptorium lowered the barrier for civilians seeking assistance.
### Scholar's Tower
True to his word, the lanky elder personally registered their visit at the Steward's Office and notified the other scholars of their arrival.
Rhaegar observed the entire process, familiarizing himself with the internal workings of the Citadel.
Lord Laenor had once studied here, earning six scholar's chains in various fields. He often reminisced about his time at the Citadel, describing it as both fulfilling and exhausting.
According to Edmyn, Laenor had privately complained that being the Hand of the King was even more taxing than studying at the Citadel.
The thought amused Rhaegar.
Some people dreamed of becoming the Hand to exploit power for personal gain, while others found the weight of the position burdensome.
Fifteen minutes passed. The lanky elder led them up the tower to a spacious reception room to rest.
Unlike a castle, the Citadel had no grand halls for banquets.
As Rhaegar walked through the corridors, he noticed rows of neatly arranged wooden doors on both sides—small rooms where scholars lived.
There were also special infirmary chambers for patients, their doors reinforced with iron bars.
Rhaegar silently nodded, acknowledging the Citadel's strict approach to academic research.
Extreme, yet highly disciplined.
Seated at a scarred oval conference table, Rhaegar and his two younger brothers waited patiently.
Meanwhile, Mondrag took the dead-eyed elder aside for a hushed conversation.
A dozen knights stood guard outside the door, with only Earl Bulwer accompanying them into the reception room.
Fifteen minutes later...
Aegon grew impatient, slumping over the table, absentmindedly kicking his chair.
Looking around, Rhaegar broke the silence, "How long do you think the conclave will keep us waiting?"
"Who knows? A bunch of old celibates who've never tasted a woman's warmth," Aegon scoffed in disdain.
The Citadel forbade women from entering, and its scholars were required to remain celibate, dedicating themselves entirely to academia.
To Aegon, it was nothing more than a monastery.
Rhaegar chuckled, ignoring his lust-driven younger brother.
Edmyn pondered, then said, "You killed Archmaester Fisher. The Citadel is probably wary of you."
"Oh? What makes you think that?" Rhaegar asked.
Edmyn frowned. "You have dragons. The Citadel does not."
"A fair point, but not a strong one."
Rhaegar shook his head and warned, "Don't underestimate the Citadel. These scholars are so obsessed with research that they see even marriage as an obstacle."
"A bunch of self-castrated fanatics—clearly not right in the head."
Edmyn's frown deepened. "But we have dragons."
Rhaegar shrugged. "Rather than fearing dragons, I imagine they're more interested in studying one up close."
Edmyn didn't understand, idly playing with his fingers.
To him, dragons were everything.
As long as his dragon was by his side, he'd charge into any danger—be it a dragon's lair or a lion's den.
Whoever challenged them would burn in dragonfire.
Rhaegar smiled but said nothing, unwilling to challenge a belief so deeply ingrained.
Aegon and Edmyn had too little experience with the Citadel. If anyone knew its inner workings, it was Maelor—the old hound.
Rhaegar knew the Citadel all too well.
As a child, had it not been for the scheming of the Dragonpit scholars, Dreamfyre would never have gone to Helena for taming.
And the former Grand Maester Maelor? He was far from a kindly old man.
On a grander scale, the political landscape of Westeros spoke volumes.
Every noble castle of note had a maester in its service, managing the affairs of its ruling lord.
The late Borros Baratheon, a prime example, had been practically illiterate—relying entirely on his maester to read, write, and run Storm's End.
Such dependence was unheard of in Essos.
Comparing the two continents, Rhaegar found the Citadel's influence grotesque—like a cancerous growth on a mighty tree.
Westerosi nobility had become overly reliant on the Citadel, leading to intellectual stagnation.
Meanwhile, in Essos, where culture thrived and competition among the elite was fierce, there was a constant influx of new blood.
Another half hour passed.
Finally, a slow but steady series of footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Rhaegar turned his chair, the wooden legs scraping against the floor with an ear-piercing creak. He looked toward the door.
Six scholars entered, clad in their distinctive robes, their chests adorned with various maester's chains. They varied in age—three were elderly, two were dignified middle-aged men, and one appeared quite young.
Upon stepping inside, their eyes immediately landed on the three silver-haired Targaryen princes.
In unison, they greeted, "Welcome, Princes of House Targaryen, to Oldtown. May the Seven always watch over you."
The lanky elder gestured toward the oldest among them. "This is Archmaester Lewyn, the most knowledgeable scholar in the Citadel."
Lewyn, a short and stout man with a full head of white hair and a ruddy complexion, carried himself with vigor.
The lanky elder prepared to introduce the others, but Rhaegar waved a hand to cut him off.
"Let's get straight to the point."
Archmaester Lewyn clasped his hands in his sleeves, his expression serious. "Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, what brings you to the Citadel?"
Unlike the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, he did not bow and scrape.
To the Citadel, it made no difference who sat on the throne—they were just a group of useless scholars.
Their only value was in providing maesters to manage affairs for the kingdom's nobility.
The rest of their time was spent devoted to scholarly pursuits within the Citadel.
Holding firm to the professional ethos of "I am useless, so I will not interfere with anyone," most maesters of the Citadel carried themselves with pride and integrity.
Rhaegar understood this well and got straight to the point: "Before we continue, I'd like to ask—what is the purpose of the Citadel?"
Archmaester Lewin furrowed his brows and answered solemnly, "To explore the unknown, to cultivate useful talent, and to provide anyone on the continent who seeks knowledge with an opportunity to learn."
It was on these three principles that the Citadel had stood strong in Westeros for generations.
"Well said!"
Rhaegar applauded lightly and smiled. "I deeply admire the Citadel's spirit of discovery. I wish to establish a Royal Academy in King's Landing, where noble children can learn to read and write. I hope the Citadel will lend its support."
The Citadel's foundation relied on the nobility's general disregard for learning, which allowed knowledge to remain monopolized.
To destroy the Citadel's hold, one had to break this mindset and eliminate the continuation of that monopoly.
Hearing this, Archmaester Lewin fell into deep thought before replying, "Establishing a new academy is a good thing. If you wish, I am willing to send scholars to teach there."
Smart men saved their energy when speaking.
He could see through Rhaegar's hidden intentions—this was merely another way to maintain a monopoly.
After all, the maesters assigned to castles already had the duty of educating noble children; stationing them at a so-called Royal Academy made little difference.
The real concern was whether the nobles would trust this institution enough to entrust their children to it—otherwise, the whole endeavor would be meaningless.
Rhaegar had anticipated this and replied seriously, "There is no need to send maesters specifically. I will recruit my own scholars. All I require is for the Citadel to open its library and allow the transfer of books to the Royal Academy."
He dared not rely on the Citadel's people—Trew had already recruited dozens in secret.
The Royal Academy was modeled after the Reformation's strategy of replacing the old order, seeking to supplant Oldtown's Citadel.
Moreover, it would not only enroll noble children but would also be partially open to commoners.
This idea had taken root during his three years in exile at Harrenhal.
At that time, Harrenhal was in ruins, and though the nobles respected him, none were willing to send their children to help him develop his lands.
There were plenty of soldiers, but most were illiterate.
The only valuable man among them was Trew, a dismissed maester who still knew how to make wildfire.
Now, as Regent, he had far more noble vassals and plenty of maesters at his disposal.
But he lacked the kind of subordinates who would obey his every command without question.
Nobles, after all, remained nobles. They could be loyal hounds of House Targaryen, but they were not mere dogs to be summoned at will.
Rhaegar had dragons—he did not lack loyal hounds.
What he wanted were obedient dogs.
Archmaester Lewin was unaware of these deeper intentions. Instead, he focused on the request to open the library, stating, "The Citadel safeguards many rare and lost manuscripts. While we can provide common books, we cannot part with precious tomes."
The gaunt old maester beside him took over the conversation. "Prince, how many books do you need?"
"Half," Rhaegar answered, waiting for this moment.
"How many?"
The gaunt old maester was momentarily stunned, thinking he had misheard.
Rhaegar held up a single finger and patiently clarified, "Half."
If the goal was to break the Citadel's monopoly on knowledge, then demanding half of its books was perfectly reasonable.
"Impossible!"
Before Archmaester Lewin could respond, a middle-aged maester in the group exclaimed, outraged, "The Citadel holds over a million books! Even the royal family has no right to seize half of them."
"Hmm?"
Rhaegar's lips curled into a smirk as he fixed his gaze on the man.
Sure, I am robbing you, but saying it out loud is just rude.
Archmaester Lewin took a deep breath and stopped the middle-aged maester from speaking further. After a moment of silence, he said, "Prince, we are merely representatives of the Citadel—we do not own it."
"Your demand is too severe. We cannot make such a decision on behalf of thousands of scholars."
First, he gave a reason. Then, he refused. Finally, he applied subtle pressure.
Rhaegar listened intently and thought, As expected of scholars, always speaking in neatly arranged layers.
But they had misunderstood one thing.
Rhaegar continued staring at the middle-aged maester and sighed lightly. "Archmaester Lewin, despite your age, you don't see things as clearly as he does."
I am already robbing you, and you still want to reason with me?
You've grown too comfortable—you don't understand reality!
As soon as those words left his lips, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Everyone caught the underlying meaning.
Aegon's eyes lit up, and he perked up from the table like a salted fish suddenly coming to life, eager to watch the drama unfold.
Aemond, always prepared, pulled out his signature dagger and idly played with it in his hands.
Rhaegar turned his head toward the door and beckoned, "Lord Mound, if you would, please close the door."
Mound gave an awkward smile, took a step outside, and shut the chamber doors.
Suddenly, only Rhaegar, his brothers, the Citadel's archmaesters, and Lord Bulwer remained inside.
"The numbers are just right."
Rhaegar glanced at the nine maesters present and smiled. "Let's play a game. It's called 'One, Two, Three—Freeze.'"
Archmaester Lewin's face darkened, and he protested, "Prince, we cannot agree to your demand. Please do not make this difficult for us."
"If you don't object, I'll take that as agreement."
Rhaegar ignored him and rose to his feet, extending a pale, sculpted hand.
The maesters instinctively took a step back, their eyes filled with wariness.
Rhaegar's expression grew cold, and fire magic coursed through his veins, circulating in a distinct pattern.
Zzzzt!
Sparks flickered from his fingertips, glowing with a faint crimson light.
In the blink of an eye, tiny red sparks ignited at the center of his palm and along his index finger.
Rhaegar stood still, his robes billowing as if stirred by an unseen wind.
Archmaester Lewin's pupils contracted in shock, and he gasped, "This is magic!"
"That's right—the very thing you've spent centuries studying."
Rhaegar replied calmly.
The next moment—
Seven sparks erupted violently within his palm, expanding at a speed visible to the naked eye, as if gasoline had been poured onto a fire.
Boom—
The seven sparks detached from his hand, instantly transforming into seven blazing crimson fireballs, each the size of a washbasin.
A glint flashed in Rega's eyes as the fireballs followed an arcing trajectory, suspending themselves around the nine doctors, radiating intense heat.
"Prince, what are you trying to do?!"
The frail old man was terrified, stumbling backward and collapsing onto the ground in fear.
Rega glanced at him and sighed regretfully. "Sorry, but you moved."
With a slight flick of his right index finger, one of the fireballs shot forward like a puppet on a string, smashing directly into the old man's head.
Splat—
His skull burst open, and flames consumed everything above his collarbone.
In an instant, the fireball scattered like bursting bubbles, its embers falling onto the headless corpse, gradually reducing it to ashes.
Witnessing this gruesome scene, the remaining eight people, including Dr. Levin, were horrified beyond words, their eyes wide with terror.
Rega spoke calmly, "This is a fire magic spell I recently developed. It consumes a lot of mana, but it's highly controllable."
Then, sweeping his gaze over the eight remaining doctors, he asked, "There are six fireballs left—who's next?"
(End of Chapter)