"What did he steal?" Dany asked in disbelief.
"Waffles."
"Why would he steal waffles?"
"Gluttony, obviously. It's not the first time Zion has snuck into the kitchen to steal food," the tall, lanky scholar shrugged.
He then gave Dany a once-over and asked, "You're Ser Layla, right? I'm Park, a scholar of economics. I was just heading to the Quill & Cask to find you."
"Nice to meet you, Scholar Park. I am Layla. What's the urgency?"
"It's quite urgent. After your reminder, Dr. Perestan stayed up all night reviewing nearly twenty years of customs and trade records. The trade deficit is far worse than we imagined."
"To be honest, I didn't even know Westeros had that much gold." The tall scholar gave a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.
As they spoke by the steps, two burly assistant scholars dragged the food thief, Zion, out through the main doors.
By the entrance stood a small wooden shed, about the size of a phone booth. The assistants were trying to shove Zion inside.
Zion appeared terrified of the tiny hut. He gripped the doorframe tightly, struggling desperately, and shouted, "I'm starving! My family's poor—we can't afford to eat out. I was so hungry I stole a doctor's cookies! Have mercy!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! The two assistants ignored him completely and kept kicking, forcing the middle-aged apprentice to howl in pain. Eventually, he let go, and with a loud slam, the wooden door shut tight.
After locking the thick oak door, the assistants cursed and walked off, leaving only the sounds of Zion pounding on the door and wailing miserably.
It was a pitiful sight.
"What's going on? Apprentices at the Citadel go hungry?" Dany asked.
"Not usually. They earn some coin helping the scholars. But Zion's too old and has yet to earn even one link of a chain. The scholars don't seem to think much of him, and he, in turn, looks down on doing menial chores. So…" Park shrugged and didn't finish.
Dany couldn't help but think of the aging apprentices selling books outside the Citadel gates or writing letters for Oldtown's commoners. Apparently, Pate wasn't an exception—life as an apprentice wasn't exactly comfortable.
Still, compared to ordinary folk, apprentices were considered a cut above. So how much harder must life be for a peasant farmer?
Behind the steward's gate was a spacious hall of over 500 square meters. The marble floor gleamed, and the high arched windows on all sides let in ample sunlight.
The clinking of Dany and Barristan's iron boots echoed across the floor. Compared to the many grey-robed scholars, their armor made them stand out conspicuously.
But the name "Layla, Champion of Arms" had begun to spread. The scholars passing by were already guessing her identity, many casting curious and intrigued glances her way.
Ignoring the stares, Dany turned to the tall economics scholar guiding them. "How long will Zion be locked in that little black room?"
"A day, maybe two. Hard to say."
At the far end of the hall stood a raised platform. Atop it was a thin-faced old scholar in grey robes. Upon seeing Dany approach, he continued writing in a ledger with a quill while asking, "Layla Waters, correct? And your knight squire, what's his name?"
"Arstan. I'm Arstan Storm," the white knight replied.
"Storm? Another bastard," the old man muttered as he jotted the name down, then handed them two small wooden plaques and a bronze key. "You're honored guests of the Citadel. With these plaques, you may borrow books from the library."
Dany took the plaques and key, examining them. Her plaque read: Layla Waters, Distinguished Guest. Access level equivalent to a full scholar. Arstan's plaque had similar wording.
"What's the key for?" she asked, holding up the bronze key.
"You'll understand once you get to the library," the old man said, waving her along as he turned to the next visitor.
As they climbed the stairs, Scholar Park explained, "In addition to books written by generations of scholars, we also purchase any books brought in—no matter the city, people, or language.
After thousands of years of accumulation, the Citadel now holds the most extensive collection of books in the world.
There's far too much to fit in one room. That's why scholars carry keys to unlock the archive rooms."
The doctor was waiting for Dany in a large meeting room on the second floor. Two small bronze Sphinx statues flanked the entrance. Inside, the warm-toned room, roughly a hundred square meters in size, featured only a ten-meter-long, two-meter-wide rosewood table and high-backed chairs—no other furnishings.
When she arrived, seventeen or eighteen elderly doctors were mid-argument, waving stacks of parchment as they bickered. The golden sunlight streaming through the arched windows caught the spittle flying from their mouths as they quarreled.
"Ah, Miss Layla, there you are," Dr. Perestan quickly rose to greet her. "You must've run into Scholar Park? He just left."
"Yes, we met at the main hall entrance."
"Everyone," the red-nosed old man clapped to get their attention, then gestured to Dany. "This is Miss Layla Waters—well-versed in knowledge and unmatched in martial skill."
"Greetings, Miss Layla. I'm Gallado," said the nearest doctor, rising and offering a polite bow.
Perestan added at the right moment, "Gallado, like myself, is a historian. He once traveled the Summer Isles, translated the ancient Songs of the Talking Trees, and authored the famed Children of Summer."
"Dr. Gallado, I've long admired your work!" Dany's eyes lit up as she smiled and praised, "I even came across your masterpiece in the Free Cities!"
It was true. Just as the Citadel obsessively gathered books from around the world, Dany was building a grand library in Slaver's Bay. Merchant ships often arrived in Astapor laden with all kinds of books, leaving with gold, sugar, and fine spirits.
Children of Summer was well-known in the Summer Isles—much like how ancient texts were once engraved onto bronze cauldrons in the East, the Summer Isles had their own tradition: long-living, massive trees known as Talking Trees.
The canopy of a single tree was enough to cover the entire town.
Every year, the local priestess would inscribe major events that occurred—or were heard of—during that year onto the bark of the tree, in the form of songs and legends. The bark of the tree was white as paper, and the species had a unique trait: as long as the tree lived, the carvings on its bark would be preserved forever.
Thousands of years passed, and their history continued to be recorded and preserved through this massive tree.
As an additional note, due to this unique property of the tree, artisans from Slaver's Bay once proposed using its bark to produce "Queen Daenerys Paper."
While Perestan was introducing the scholars one by one, the others were whispering among themselves, discussing the peculiar female knight before them.
"She's so young."
"Indeed, very young—no more than eighteen. But she was the first to raise the concept of trade deficit. Just that alone is enough to forge a chapter in economics."
"The question is, does she have a solution to the deficit? During King Robert's fourteen-year reign, the Seven Kingdoms lost sixteen million gold dragons. Frightening!"
"Actually, the 'Noble Collective Default Strategy' she proposed last night might be worth trying."
"That would nail all of Westeros to a pillar of shame, cursed by foreign tongues for ten thousand years."
Among the eighteen scholars—excluding the archmaester—nearly all wore at least two rings of red copper (History) or gold (Economics), and carried staffs and rings made of copper or gold alloys.
In the Citadel, a novice's neck is bare. Once they forge their first metal link, they are qualified to become an acolyte. When they've gathered ten links to form a chain, they are promoted to maester. If they delve deeply into a subject, or if they forge more than three links of a specific metal, they become eligible to be called a scholar (or "doctor"), and will wear a mask, staff, and ring of the corresponding metal based on their primary field.
Take Maester Perestan, for example—his chain includes links of silver, gold, lead, iron, black iron, and platinum. But his main area of study is history, represented by five red copper links.
Thus, his ring, staff, and mask are all made of copper.
In the Citadel, if you run into a grey-robed man, you can usually determine his identity and area of expertise just by looking at his attire.
Only after introducing all the scholars did Maester Perestan lead Daenerys to the elderly man seated at the head.
"Archmaester, this is Miss Leila."
"Snore—snore—" The old man's neck lolled to the side, lightly snoring.
The warm afternoon sunlight bathed him as he slept soundly in the midst of the room's ceaseless debates. His face was incredibly aged, with nearly all his hair gone, revealing baby-pink scalp. His cheeks were sunken, his pale, wrinkled skin dotted with liver spots the size of soybeans and broad beans.
"Maester Walgrave," Perestan finally stepped forward and gently nudged him. "Maester, Archmaester, Miss Leila is here. We can officially begin the meeting now!"
"Huh, huh? The meeting has started?" The old man rubbed his nose and slowly sat up. He glanced at Daenerys, then froze, suddenly struggling to rise while shouting, "Your Highness, forgive me! I didn't realize you were here! Cressen, Cressen, help me up to pay respects to Her Highness!"
Daenerys was utterly confused, her expression blank. Maester Perestan looked embarrassed, his face flushed as he exclaimed, "Maester, you've got the wrong person. This is Miss Leila. And Cressen passed away half a century ago at Storm's End!"
Just then—thump thump thump—a small door on the left wall swung open. A young apprentice jogged in from the next room and caught hold of Maester Walgrave.
"Maester, what are you doing?"
"Pet?" Daenerys was surprised to find that the apprentice was Pet, someone she hadn't seen in days. His complexion was no longer rosy, instead pale like someone suffering from blood loss. However, his crossed eyes were even brighter than before.
"Hello, Miss Leila," Pet offered a sheepish smile and whispered, "I'm Maester Walgrave's assistant. I help him with his work. But he often forgets my name and mistakes me for his former assistant, Maester Cressen."
Gradually, Daenerys began to frown. She had noticed something—Pet no longer carried that pitiful aura that once made her feel sympathy. In fact, there was now something unpleasant about him—calling it loathsome might be too much, but whatever it was, it unsettled her.
Still, with so many people and things happening at once, she didn't have time to dwell on the change in the young apprentice. The old maester was still making a fuss.
"What are you all waiting for? Hurry and pay your respects—" Maester Walgrave spoke again, then paused and muttered to himself, "Was it Princess Rhaelle? Or Princess Leila? I didn't catch it."
"This meeting really should be presided over by Maester Theobold," one scholar sighed, covering his face.
"Well, it's hard to blame him," another said, shaking his head. "Maester Walgrave is ninety-four this year. He was perfectly fine during last year's election for Archmaester, but just a month later, he fell into dementia."
As the room buzzed with murmurs, Daenerys stood there—both embarrassed and shocked—unaware that two older scholars with bronze rings were observing her with strange, unreadable expressions.
(End of Chapter)
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