GOT: Molten Crown

In the round hall of the Stone Drum Tower, the atmosphere was tense and somber.

A single thin letter had nearly blown away the joy of their recent victory. Its contents left everyone with a sense of abandonment by the world.

Even Gerold and Arthur, usually unwavering pillars of support, wore shadows on their faces.

The recently surrendered "Old Crab" looked restless once again.

Lamy, too, wore a troubled frown.

The Citadel had written to the lords of Westeros, reiterating its stance of strict political neutrality.

They even attempted to defend Pycelle, claiming that he had not betrayed King Aerys—that it was Aerys's paranoia that had led to Pycelle's execution.

"Your Grace, we must tell the world the truth! It was Pycelle who betrayed the realm!" Willem said passionately.

He had been a direct witness to the events surrounding Pycelle's treason.

From the hurried trial to the final handling of the evidence, he had been involved in every step.

Tywin, too, had covertly planted spies in the city.

The Citadel's letter felt like a blatant insult.

Unlike Willem's righteous indignation, the rest of the council looked weighed down by worry. It signaled that Westeros as a whole held little hope for the Targaryen restoration.

Some even believed that Dragonstone wouldn't last much longer.

Outside the window, a flicker of light caught Viserys's eye. He turned and saw snowflakes beginning to fall beneath the grey sky.

He remembered—it was still winter across most of Westeros.

And this long winter was expected to last another four or five years.

"No need," Viserys said calmly. "No one will believe us anyway. Since the Citadel has made it clear they won't send us any more maesters, we might as well train our own."

He turned toward Faelor, who sat silent and dazed.

The Citadel's letter not only refuted Pycelle's betrayal, it also harshly criticized Faelor.

They accused him of making rash conclusions without sufficient evidence and unilaterally stripped him of his maester's chain.

They no longer recognized any of his acquired links.

Though Faelor had effectively bound himself to Dragonstone when he was sent here, the letter still hit him hard.

In simple terms—he had lost his roots.

"Maester Faelor," Viserys called out, but Faelor didn't respond.

"Maester Faelor!"

"Your Grace?" Faelor finally answered.

Viserys looked at him seriously.

"Would you like to become a Grandmaster?"

"Your Grace?" Faelor was confused.

"What I mean is—come with me to Essos. I will fund you to build an academy even greater than the Citadel. Bigger, better, more brilliant."

"Your Grace… I…"

From the Citadel's stance, Faelor had clearly been cast aside.

If Viserys were to leave Dragonstone without him, he would have nowhere to go.

But Viserys made this promise not just for Faelor's sake, but to boost morale and counter the blow delivered by the Citadel's letter.

"Lords and knights," Viserys said, "this Citadel, blind to truth and justice, is no longer worth our loyalty.

The road to reclaiming the Iron Throne is long.

In that time, we can build our own Citadel.

A new academy, to train our own maesters, administrators, even officers. A place of learning more advanced than any before it!"

His passionate words gradually lifted the oppressive gloom.

"We will start with the children I brought back," he continued. "Maester Faelor, Maester Xavier of Tides, Maester Boren of Crab Isle, and I—we will educate them together."

Hope returned to the faces gathered around him. But none of them pointed out one simple fact—

Your Grace… aren't you a child yourself?

"But Your Grace," Faelor said, "we will need many books. Countless books! The Citadel has gathered knowledge over a thousand years. We cannot compare."

Though he still sounded discouraged, at least he was considering the idea.

Which meant Viserys's words had struck their mark.

"Don't worry. I'll make it happen. We'll begin by opening my brother's private library. I promise you, the crown will never be stingy about books again."

Of course, compared to the Citadel's vast troves, Rhaegar's collection was like a beggar's purse next to a king's vault.

Still, with Viserys's promise, Faelor no longer felt lost.

Words alone, though, were not enough. Something symbolic was needed.

Viserys took out two Valyrian steel rings—one large, one small.

He handed the smaller one to Faelor.

"The new Citadel shall be called 'The Academy.' I'll be the headmaster, you the vice headmaster."

"The Academy…" Faelor murmured, staring at the ring in his hand. It felt like a dream.

Though the Academy was small and poorly resourced, perhaps—just perhaps—he really could become a master of renown, as Viserys had said.

After all, Viserys had a kingdom to reclaim. He wouldn't manage the Academy directly.

Which meant Faelor would be in charge.

"Your Grace! I accept… let me serve you," he said, dropping to one knee.

For a maester, such a gesture was highly irregular—but no one seemed to mind.

Seeing Viserys so effortlessly lift the gloom left by the Citadel's betrayal, Leila's violet eyes sparkled with admiration.

The Kingsguard, too, felt encouraged. Their confidence in retaking the Iron Throne had grown.

In truth, Viserys had initially thought of calling the new Citadel a "school."

After all, he had been a teacher in his previous life.

But then he imagined students addressing him as "Headmaster" instead of "Your Grace," and the image didn't sit right.

Especially when combined with the fact that he was hiding out on a tiny island while shouting about taking back the continent…

It just didn't feel auspicious.

With that matter resolved, the council turned to a more urgent topic—finances.

Maintaining an army was expensive.

Maintaining a navy was even more so!

Robert now held the Crownlands and the Stormlands, with tax revenue flowing in from all over the realm. Even so, sustaining a fleet of a hundred ships was a struggle.

Viserys had only a small Dragonstone… and yet over two hundred warships.

Though Robert had no means to attack Dragonstone within the next five years, with only 3.2 million gold dragons in the royal vault, the Targaryens would not last that long.

And Dragonstone couldn't even feed itself—expenses would only grow.

There was no time to rest. They had to relocate to Essos as soon as possible.

But where exactly to go sparked fierce debate. No one could convince the others—because no one had enough information.

While they argued, the diplomatic mission of Oberyn and Davos finally returned.

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