"It's Sunday the day after tomorrow, Sam. Please put in a little more effort," Qyburn encouraged softly.
Samwell Tarly looked up from the ancient scrolls scattered across the floor and the faintly glowing glass. The old man in front of him had an earnest gaze, like a grandfather hoping for his junior's growth.
Sam forced a smile. "I understand."
Qyburn left, satisfied.
It wasn't until the old man's back completely disappeared that Sam finally let out a sigh of relief. He touched his neck; it was slick and wet. He was actually sweating.
Good, I shouldn't have been discovered.
Sam lowered his head. The light from the piece of glass on his lap had completely vanished, its surface reflecting his own image.
Staring at the pair of eyes on the screen that belonged to him, Sam was lost in a daze.
He was a little tired.
From the heir of House Tarly to the Grand Maester's apprentice, and now this, Sam's plans had almost never come to fruition.
He knew his father disliked his fat and cowardly self, and that the heir would eventually be his younger brother Dickon. So he wasn't too resistant to the new life in King's Landing. At least he could continue reading and studying to become a knowledgeable Maester, without worrying about making a living.
At first, it was stable, even pleasant.
The Red Keep's library held countless books, some extremely rare, impossible to see anywhere else. With Grand Maester Pycelle's permission, he buried himself in the stacks day and night, like a greedy little mouse, desperately gnawing at the tempting knowledge in every book.
Every biography chronicled a person's life, every history depicted scenes of events that had happened, every song sang the deepest praises or laments of people's hearts.
There was also countless delicious food, harps and music, and Maesters equally dedicated to knowledge. Aside from having no friends, it was almost perfect.
Sam thought these days would last for a very long time. Just as everyone discussed, the Crown Prince had probably only taken him on a whim, and in the end, he was still just an unremarkable apprentice under Pycelle.
But the changes in the Red Keep were so fierce and abrupt.
In just one morning, two crucial members of the Small Council became prisoners accused of treason. Gold Cloaks entered in full squads, looking particularly fierce, as if trying to kill everyone with their eyes.
Did this have anything to do with everyone in the Red Keep? Sam really wanted to say no, but clearly, everyone else didn't think so.
The Grand Maester became busy and idle.
Outwardly, the Grand Maester was unwell, his daily work reduced to almost nothing.
Inwardly, Sam saw with his own eyes the Grand Maester hunched over his desk, writing letter after letter. Some were burned directly, some were sent out, and some he personally tied to ravens, only feeling relieved after watching the ravens take flight.
There was also Steward Hannah, who was currently riding high, busy summoning the Red Keep's servants for lectures all day long.
Sam didn't know the inside story. He only saw people go in looking worried and come out with serious faces, or disappear without a trace.
Those things made Sam realize that a living person could disappear so quietly.
Sam could only silently miss the life he had gradually adapted to, adapting to the new cook, new faces, new rules, and new atmosphere.
But these new balances were quickly broken again.
News of King Robert's death reached the city. That day, bells across the city roared madly, making people's ears ache. Even lying in bed, he would occasionally wonder if the bells were still ringing.
That night, Sam couldn't see clearly, but something in the Red Keep must have changed again. It was an indescribable feeling that made it impossible to read in peace.
After the night of the bells, people gradually began advising him to have more contact with the outside world. The Grand Maester also started taking him out more frequently. Sam vaguely guessed it was because of the Crown Prince he hadn't met yet.
This feeling seemed good. Sam began to look forward to seeing the new King.
It wasn't until the Master of Laws Renly disappeared, the Knight of Flowers Loras and the Redwyne twins mysteriously kept a low profile, that people made the Red Keep uncomfortable again.
Sam still couldn't see the truth, but he had a premonition of future unrest.
He just didn't expect the change to come so quickly.
He was suddenly appointed as the dedicated historian, responsible for recording the proceedings of the Small Council Meeting.
Sam was initially excited, but after just one Small Council Meeting, his heart was filled only with intense confusion and fear.
Every word the King spoke was appalling, as if he couldn't wait to completely overturn the Seven Kingdoms.
Duke Tywin sat proudly directly opposite the King. A single look from him could sway half the Small Council. Every word he uttered was neither humble nor arrogant, well-reasoned and justified.
Hand of the King Eddard opposed almost every proposal; honor and tradition were the words he used most frequently.
Queen Mother Cersei sometimes helped Duke Tywin, sometimes agreed with the King, sometimes mocked Hand Eddard, and sometimes capriciously cursed someone who was not present or was present.
And then there was his master, Grand Maester Pycelle, unremarkable among the attending ministers, who would almost only echo Duke Tywin's statements.
Is this the Small Council Meeting I'm supposed to record?
Sam quietly shrank into a corner, his pen daring only to move silently and cautiously, afraid that too large a movement would attract the attention of some minister.
Sam keenly realized that the ministers would not like the records written by him, the historian. The more truthful and detailed, the more they would be disliked. But to conceal it slightly? The King clearly wouldn't agree.
Sam endured the days uneasily like this until a few days ago.
For some reason, after Duke Tywin left King's Landing, the King sent him to the Research Department, saying it was a "temporary transfer."
Sam had been deeply engrossed in this room ever since, unable to extricate himself.
His tasks were quite complex.
Initially, it was organizing ancient books and scrolls, finding specific snippets;
Later, it was filtering and inputting content in a fixed format into the "database," which was the glowing glass scattered on the floor;
Also, testing the performance and effectiveness of various "Divine Grace Modules," rating the user experience, attempting to provide suggestions, and making improvements;
When doing these tasks, by simply using different Divine Grace Modules, one can easily obtain dozens or even hundreds of slightly different Divine Grace Light Screens, and there are also many variations in the operations that can be performed on the Light Screens. What he had to do was choose the easiest one to use.
So this was the secret of Divine Grace, that mortals could also touch such great miracles. At that time, Sam couldn't help but feel secretly excited.
Unfortunately, the work of the Research Department was not just this.
That kindly smiling old man was actually responsible for the most crucial and darkest "work" of the Research Department. All experiments that required consuming materials were under the old man's management.
Sam could never have imagined that such normal suggestions as "the sound is a bit harsh," "the vibration is too weak," and "the pattern looks a bit awkward after looking at it for a long time" would ultimately cost five lives and create two mentally deranged madmen.
No wonder the old man had been expelled from The Citadel and had his chain, symbolizing his status as a Maester, taken back.
Sam sighed and still clicked on the "Workstation" on his lap. The glass screen lit up, displaying his unfinished tasks for the day.
The tasks on the Workstation were counting down.
Before the end of tomorrow, he had to divide half of King's Landing into four hundred small blocks, with roughly equal populations, for easy lockdown control, and also mark all the passages.
Drawing lines is fine, even though it's tiring, at least no one will die, right?
Sam comforted himself.
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