Wands, spells, magic.
Viserys mused over the possibilities. If I established a school dedicated to magic, future generations would certainly be baffled—if any remain. But for now, this was all still in the experimental phase. He might provide some support in terms of resources and manpower, but he would never make the mistake of fully relying on such ancient and unpredictable powers.
The next day, Viserys and Dany made their way to the Citadel.
Robert Baratheon had gambled by going to great lengths to suppress the news of his burning of the Seven Gods' statues, but after yesterday's coronation, that effort seemed futile. The Citadel was already drafting documents to announce the Faith of the Seven's break with Robert to the entire realm. Once the letters were sent, within three to five days, all of Westeros would know how Robert had corrupted the ways of the world.
The Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the Crownlands housed many soldiers devoted to the Seven. It wouldn't be surprising if the tides of battle turned against him.
"Your Grace, this is the document drafted by the Citadel. Please take a look," said Norren, the Citadel's steward, handing Viserys an envelope.
Almost all the Archmaesters of the Citadel had gathered to witness Viserys and Dany's arrival. Being well over fifty years old, they brought with them an air of twilight, a sense of looming finality that filled the room.
Viserys glanced at Dany, noticing her discreetly placing a finger under her nose. 'And no incense either,' he muttered to himself before turning his attention to the letter.
It began with a striking opening: [The Godless and Usurper, Robert Baratheon...]
Good. A strong start.
Viserys continued reading, the letter detailing Robert's offenses—not only his sacrilegious acts against the gods but also his crimes against the Targaryen royal family. The document concluded with a firm declaration: all Septon who continued to serve Robert would no longer be recognized by the Seven.
Satisfied overall, Viserys felt the Citadel had done a competent job. Yet there was something about their tone—a detachment, a sense of remaining aloof—that displeased him. To them, this was merely another task, another document. He handed the draft to Dany and turned toward Norren.
"Archmaester Norren, I'm curious—does the Citadel, or do the Maesters, hold any particular beliefs?"
Norren paused, understanding the underlying question. Viserys wanted the Citadel to take a definitive side, to commit. But such partisanship was not in the Citadel's interest.
"Your Grace, the Maesters certainly have their personal beliefs, but they are trained by the Citadel. They are one with it, part of it," Norren replied carefully.
Viserys leaned back slightly, his tone sharp. "I'm well aware of the Citadel's rules. So, before I went to war with Robert, he was able to get advice on warfare from the Maesters, was he not? And they could use messenger ravens to pass along information?"
Norren's drooping eyebrows twitched in response, but it was Theobald, seated to his right, who spoke first.
"Your Grace, the Maesters' duty is simply to serve."
Viserys cut him off sharply. "In other words, no matter how the political winds shift, the Maesters remain untouched by it all?" His tone carried a sharp edge.
"Not exactly, Your Grace," Theobald replied cautiously.
"Then what is it?" Viserys pressed, his voice growing more intense. "The Maesters provide their services but refuse to swear loyalty?"
Neither Theobald nor Norren had a quick answer.
"Is that really the case?" Viserys's gaze hardened. "Then why didn't you stop Maester Cressen from following Stannis to Dragonstone?"
The room fell into a tense silence.
"And if the Maesters are so above it all, why did Grand Maester Pycelle lie to my father, Aerys, and say that Tywin was here to aid the king, when in truth he was marching to sack King's Landing?"
Norren tried to answer, his voice shaky. "Your Grace, the Maesters do make mistakes from time to time—"
"Mistaken judgment?" Viserys's eyes flashed with anger. "And for that 'mistake,' Rhaegar's wife and children were slaughtered? That's what you call a mistake?!"
The Maesters around the room grew visibly uncomfortable. The air grew colder, and a few of them shifted in their seats, hands and feet numbing as if a chill had gripped the chamber. Some felt a rising panic, the need to excuse themselves—anything to escape the growing tension.
Viserys didn't need dragonfire to express his anger. His words cut deeper. He didn't care about Pycelle's reasons for his betrayal; what mattered was that these were not isolated incidents. They were part of a larger pattern, proof that the Citadel was not as impartial as it claimed.
If they've sold themselves before, they shouldn't pretend to be pure now.
Viserys looked at the group of aged men before him, most over fifty, some even past seventy. He realized if he pushed too hard, fear might cripple them. And that fear would tarnish his reputation, not theirs.
"My lords, with a population of over 20 million in all of Westeros, having only one Citadel is far too few. In the future, I plan to establish three additional schools—in King's Landing, Harrenhal, and the Westerlands—to serve the crown. I ask for your support in this endeavor."
Archmaester Norren felt a wave of weakness wash over him. He understood Viserys's true intent. This wasn't about strengthening the Citadel—it was about breaking it apart.
"The Citadel will support Your Grace with all its strength," Norren replied, though it took him a moment to steady himself.
"Good," Viserys said, his voice unwavering. "In that case, I require a large number of Maesters who can read and write. I expect Archmaester Norren to recruit 500 for me as a first step."
Five hundred?! Norren's heart sank. There were fewer than 2,000 Maesters in the entire Citadel. Releasing 500 was like throwing meat to a pack of dogs—they would be gone forever. Worse still, these couldn't just be novices or assistants; Viserys would demand Maesters with real knowledge, true scholars. It would cost the Citadel dearly, perhaps even some of its Archmaesters.
"Yes, Your Grace," Norren said, his voice tight.
Viserys had no intention of demanding the Citadel revoke the titles of Maesters still serving Robert—that would have been impractical. After all, in a direct confrontation between Robert and the Maesters, Robert had the stronger hand. Weakening the Citadel's influence, however—that was his true goal.
Before leaving, Viserys made sure to add a pointed notice regarding Grand Maester Pycelle. The document stated that Pycelle had shown undue favoritism during the Usurper's War and had betrayed the rightful monarch. As a result, the Citadel was formally stripping him of his title as Maester. It was a clear message: spare the rod, spoil the child—Viserys would not tolerate disloyalty.
Yet, before departing the Citadel, Viserys extended an olive branch. "I'll teach the Citadel how to print," he announced casually.
The old men lit up at the prospect. For years, they had longed for the printing press that Tyrosh had developed, believing it would greatly enhance cultural prosperity. This offer from Viserys was a gift they hadn't anticipated.
Their enthusiasm for the printing press was also why, despite everything, they favored Viserys over Robert. This Targaryen, after all, was an inventor. He had brought innovations like soap to Westeros, which was a hit even in the Citadel—though its steep price kept it out of many Maesters' reach.
As a parting gesture, Viserys proposed that everyone should show proper respect for books. "I'll send the Citadel a supply of soap so you may wash your hands before reading," he said with a sly smile.
This, once again, improved his standing with the Citadel. The loss of 500 Maesters suddenly didn't seem like such a high price to pay in the eyes of these scholars.