"-. 274 AC .-"
"Maester!" Luwin staggered to a halt in front of the snow hut. "Maester Qyburn? Maester Qyburn!" Lacking anything to knock on, Luwin awkwardly clapped his hands at the tunnel mouth. The noise was swallowed by the winter wind as easily as his shouts. He immediately felt foolish. Then he belatedly spotted the guards standing watch just close enough that the snowdrift didn't entirely hide them from sight and Luwin felt like twice the fool. It threw him from fretful distress so far into the abyss of panic that he got on all fours and crawled into the hut as fast as he could. "Maester Qyburn!"
Qyburn turned from the hearth in surprise, quill frozen mid-stroke over his journal or whatever it was.
Luwin froze like a startled hare right there on his hands and knees at the entrance. What was he going to do, spill all of his master's secrets in the bosom of a total stranger? A total stranger who likes to cut people while they're still alive? He'd not exchanged more than scattered greetings with the man, this was a terrible idea! Gods, he really was an idiot, he'd not planned any further than this!
Qyburn put his stationery away. "Come on, then. Come in."
Before Luwin knew it, he was sitting by the fire with tea mug in hand eating roast chestnuts. He looked around in a daze. Qyburn had at some point moved to the other side of the hut and was putting together a bag of knickknacks. A wax plate for notes, a writing needle, a stack of papers held with iron rings, charcoal sticks, a measuring tape and various other instruments. Feeling like an intruder, Luwin looked away, though he'd have had to shut his eyes completely to avoid taking in the rest of the hut.
It was quite the place. For all that the maester was housed alone, the hut was actually quite spacious. There were two stools, two folding tables, two sets of bedding, two of everything really, along with half a dozen plank mats laid out for other bedrolls or bodies to lay down. But then, there would have to be, wouldn't there? Qyburn had fallen into the role of camp physician. How many of the guards had passed under this same roof? How many more would? Had Lord Stark himself sat where he now sat? No, Qyburn would have gone to him, not the other way around. Unless Lord Stark wanted to make some point or other? How much of this was a test, really? And if it wasn't, did that mean the man somehow trusted Qyburn more than he did his master? But how could anyone think Marwyn was any less relia-
"I'm guessing the Archmaester is off pre-empting potential future problems in his usual manner."
Luwin choked and spat out the tea, coughing violently.
"Oh dear!" Qyburn balked, rushing back to steady him. "Oh dear, oh dear, I am so sorry young one." He knelt down and began wiping him clean with his sleeve. "Perhaps things are not unfolding quite in their usual manner, has the Archmaester…? No," the old man shook his head before Luwin could protest. "No, he'd never do anything that would send you screaming for help, especially not to a maester after what happened to you. And if it were our hosts who took some manner of offence, I'd have much richer company by now. Lord Stark is much more straightforward than most. In spirit at least."
Luwin took a few halting gasps and went to put the mug down. He was shocked he hadn't dropped it. "I should go," he rasped.
Qyburn sighed, but smiled kindly regardless and pushed the cup back. "At least take the tea with you. Would be a shame to waste it."
Luwin blinked in surprise and looked at the Maester. Was he not going to insist he stay? He suddenly had to smother a sharp pang of disappointment.
"Just bring back the mug after."
Qyburn sounded outright fatherly but it only made Luwin regret his flighty decision all the more. He cursed his manners for backfiring on him too. Then he loathed himself for needing the succour in the first place. Bad enough he was a gullible fool, now it turned out he was also a craven. He nodded jerkily and rose to leave.
He was very surprised when Qyburn followed him out.
"I've one last matter to see to as well, nothing to worry about."
Luwin watched the man disappear into the evening before going his own way, feeling foolish, embarrassed and twice as raw as when he'd gone in. The urge to flee to the safety of his bedroll was almost overpowering, but Luwin had just seen what happened when he succumbed to panic. Poor judgment was what. Poor enough to go running to the one person in their whole party that was still tied to the ones who'd consigned him to die in the darkness. It was an unfair comparison, but Qyburn had made it himself.
He decided to walk a full circuit of their latest camp, figuring he'd at least finish the tea before turning in. Even with the wind, the night was relatively mild compared to those before it. By Northern standards at least. He ignored the little voice telling him he was just stalling in the hopes that Marwyn would re-emerge from Lord Stark's hut safe and sound.
Luwin held the wooden mug close to his chest, trying to preserve the warmth. It was a thick and solid thing, but delicately craved into the seeming of an eastern serpentine dragon wrapped around it like a sothoryi constrictor. The tip of its tail was the only part unwound from the whole, forming the handle. The whiskered creature gazed at him almost paternally through knowing, snake-like eyes.
He wasn't even half-way into his walk when he saw Qyburn again. The maester was with the dogs when he found him, calling them over by name and feeding them treats while checking their paws, their teeth, the girth of their limbs, their weight and other features. Already he'd filled half the wax plate with annotations. Luwin thought back to what he'd glimpsed of the man's chain. There had certainly been more than one link of brass in them. With each corresponding to one animal, it was far from unlikely that he knew the care and breeding of dogs among whatever other skills he'd gained over his long decades of life.
Too out of sorts to bother with discretion, Luwin creeped as close as he dared without disrupting the man's work. The fog had cleared a fair bit and the moonlight was bright enough that even the light reflected off the snow was enough to distinguish some colors, at least when combined with the torchlight. Qyburn seemed to have a tic as well, tugging at his chain every time he finished inspecting or writing down something. Luwin let his eyes linger on it, counting each link as the man spun the chain. That he could do it so naturally was saying a lot, considering it was wrapped around his neck three times. The maester had forged the links in sets, making them easy to count, and even easier for Luwin's jaw to slacken with each new metal sheen he spotted.
Two grey steel for blacksmithing. Two black steel for architecture and engineering. Four black iron for ravenry, which meant he could breed and train not just black but white ravens also. Four brass for animal husbandry, four antimony links for survival in the wilds, four mathematics and economics links of yellow gold, even four links of platinum for natural science. There were two red gold for jewelcraft too, perhaps he could finally award Hother the one he deserved? But there were the rarer links there too, which made Luwin feel rather inadequate the more of them he saw. Four white gold links in alchemy. Four zinc in languages. Two links in Valyrian steel for magic and mysteries that Luwin couldn't even begin to guess at. Five links of lead in diplomacy and politics. Five. How genuine was his manner, really? Could Luwin even tell the difference if he knew? And the crowning work to beggar all that came before, the silver. Numbering six.
Six silver links. Six. Luwin didn't even know you could go that high without being Archmaester of healing. It spoke to pushing certain boundaries that weren't to be crossed. Not without consequences that only that lofty position could shield you from. Three silvers meant you knew and could administer every established cure and treatment. Four meant you knew the experimental ones. Five meant you'd proven at least one of said experimental procedures effective. And six meant that you'd found or created an all-new treatment of your own. Or otherwise advanced the knowledge of healing and the body. There was, in theory, a seventh link for those who discovered something so momentous that the entire field had to be redesigned. But that was just theoretical. Silver wasn't like zinc, which you earned one of for every language you knew. Or brass, which you got for every type of animal you learned to breed better strains of. Seven silver links was a symbol of the unachievable mastery over life and death that only the gods could claim.
Ebrose had once tried to make the seven, Luwin recalled from his own learning. Through a treatise on humours based on records of the great spring sickness of 209-210 AC. It coincided with the man earning the Archmaester post, but the findings never held up. The treatments derived from it proved ineffective and even harmful on what ills and pockets of plague they were later attempted on.
That barely found purchase on Luwin's mind though. Forty-seven links. Luwin doubted even Marwyn had so many, especially as he was just forty years of age instead of Qyburn's fifty seven. Forty-seven links. Forty-seven! For all that Luwin himself had learned three links every year, he knew better than to think that was sustainable. At some point you started having to review your existing knowledge lest you fall behind and forget what earned you your links to begin with. How much had Qyburn forgotten? To have collected so many links in so many fields? And if he'd reached his fifties without forgetting most of what he'd learned, then…
"Well, that's us done," Qyburn told the last hound with a pat on the head. The dog licked his fingers. They certainly seemed to like the man. "Same time tomorrow? Good boy, now let me just-eh? Is anyone out there?" Qyburn hunched on himself cautiously, as if expecting a threat despite the army of killer hounds around him and the guards on watch everywhere. "Tom, if you or the boys are out to cause mischief again I'll ask that-wait, Luwin? Luwin, is that you over there?"
"How are you not Archmaester?" Luwin blurted, his voice sounding unnaturally loud to his own ears. Looking around furtively as if he'd broken some law by speaking, he scurried over to the improvised pen which surrounded the various dog houses, made of snow blocks like everything else. "How are you not Archmaester? You could earn the links for every other field from skill crossover alone."
Qyburn gathered his things and set out for his hut, Luwin in tow. "I'm not certain it's my place to explain that to you. Has Marwyn not touched on this yet?"
"Why does everyone treat me like an extension of him? I barely studied under the man before this whole mess!"
Qyburn thinned his lips at his outburst, not saying anything.
"I'm sorry, maester, it's just… I'm so frustrated."
"I can see that." The lack of pardon was a lot more obvious than it once might have been. "To answer your question, it's politics. As you said. I should have earned links in every subject just from the skill crossover. Assuming I didn't decide against that recognition, which I assure you I did not, why would I be denied so many worthy extensions to my chain? The Archmaester post is as much a reflection of your knowledge as it is of your influence."
It took a moment for the pieces to come together, then Luwin dropped his head and palmed his face with a groan. Because he clearly wasn't sufficiently disgusted with himself already. Gods, how blind was he that even the politicking right under his own nose escaped him? To be declared Archmaester meant you had the most links in one subject and at least one link in every other subject. Of course other maesters and Archmaesters would hem and haw whenever someone vied for such a post. Why wouldn't they squeeze every aspirant for personal favors? And what if they felt threatened? Marwyn had all but spelled it out to him and the others too.
"Try not to worry about it too much?" Qyburn awkwardly tried to console him. "It's not exactly you it reflects poorly on, you know, that the Conclave doesn't live up to its good name."
"I appreciate the thought maester," Luwin said, all but clinging to the tea mug. "But that doesn't change that fact I apparently lack all shreds of discernment."
"Now don't say that…"
"I'm starting to think I should've just stayed home." The words felt bitter on his tongue. "Become a tradesman like my father and be done with it."
"That would have been a waste."
"Would it?" Luwin found himself unable to withhold the tide of frustration anymore. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's best I went far away from the family business. I can't imagine what I'd have done to match this selective blindness I seem to possess now. Maybe I'd have become the first trader to think coin somehow isn't the lifeblood of commerce, that would've been a riot. Because I can't imagine what else would be preposterous enough to match this."
"Ah, but it isn't."
"What?"
"Coin. It is not the lifeblood of commerce."
The three gold links in the pouch at his belt seemed to weigh more than all the rest combined all of a sudden. "I'm sorry, maester, but I don't follow."
"Time, Luwin. It all boils down to time. Coin is important, but not the most important or there wouldn't have been trade at all before the first coin was cast. It's time that's important. It doesn't matter if you get twice the gold for a deal if it takes thrice as long to strike it. Harbor fees have to be paid, guards hired, watchmen bribed, ships maintained…"
"Oh…" It turned out he'd not quite struck the bottom of the well of idiocy.
"And it goes even further than that," Qyburn said, almost enthusiastic now. "The time you spend selling cargo for the perfect price is time you could have spent bringing forth another batch, or doing anything else to your benefit… this applies to everything, not just caravans and ships, but the grain trade, smallfolk labor, even war… Time is the true coin, Luwin. The universal currency that all things follow."
"… I've done you a disservice, maester," Luwin said glumly.
"I don't see how. We've never spoken before this."
"That's part of it. I thought…" He trailed off as they came to a halt at Qyburn's snow hut. "Well, I thought a lot of stupid things."
"But?"
"You've the heart of a teacher." Luwin immediately felt embarrassed at the admission and hid his face in the mug. Just one last mouthful of tea left. He wished it were more, if only to delay their parting. He seemed to have grown distressingly dependent on authority figures. At least Lord Stark would be happy, Luwin thought gloomily. "Thank you for the lesson."
Qyburn seemed surprised, but then his nervousness and awkwardness seemed to evaporate. "You are most welcome." He looked so pleased at that simple acknowledgment. Luwin wondered how long he'd been denied that simple thing. Come to think of it, he'd never seen his name on any lectures. If he really deserved to be Archmaester but they didn't- "Then perhaps you'll accept another lesson. One I actually mean to give this time."
"Oh," Luwin was so surprised he nearly forgot to give the man his cup back. "Of course!"
Qyburn accepted his mug, stood there looking at him uncertainly – wondering if he should invite him back inside perhaps? – then he nodded sharply and steadied himself as if to- "Then my lesson is this: don't bother with prophecies."
Luwin blinked, taken aback.
"I've no way of knowing what all occurred to leave you in this state, but I'm assuming at least some of it has to do with that dwarf woman at High Heart."
"… I suppose?" He'd not seen this change of topic coming at all. "Marwyn says that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman who takes your member in her mouth and makes you moan from the pleasure only to then… well, bite your prick off." Luwin looked away, feeling the heat of a blush fill his face. "Or that's the gist of the quote he gave at least. Gorghan of Old Ghis, or so he says."
"Indeed," Qyburn said, pretending not to notice his embarrassment. "Did he explain why?"
"No." Not that he had much time with the raven and Lord Stark and-
"I respect the Archmaester greatly, and his way of guiding one to truth and self-discovery is to be revered. But I disagree with him on this. Of those things he considers a pinnacle of insight one should strive towards, I believe some work better as foundation. Especially for people like you who are still building it. This, then, is the lesson: don't bother with prophecies. The only ones fit to interpret them are those who make them. Or they would be, if they weren't all driven insane by their own gift."
Luwin blinked at the other man. "Alright, I think."
Qyburn shook his head and looked stern for once. "Don't just agree. There is good reason for what I'm telling you. Can you tell what it is?"
He really did have this in common with Marwyn. "My surety in my own reasoning has taken a rather harsh beating recently."
"Then know this. Wherever prophecy comes from, it ultimately comes through in whatever portents and symbols the prophet understands. So, the dwarf woman. Unless you think in precisely the same way and understand the world through precisely the same terms and symbols and metaphors and half-remembered visions from your dreams, you're not likely to get anything but poison by trying to use her foretelling for anything."
"Oh, that's what you meant," Luwin finally understood what he was getting at.
"Quite so. Whatever information comes, wherever it comes from, it still has to translate in concepts the seer understands and works with. That's not counting that we can't even be sure she didn't deliberately use oblique symbolism just to mess with us, being so old and starved for fresh entertainment. Take this passage for example. 'I saw the Blind Seer walk beneath warm stars in lockstep with the son of the burned woman and the corpse cutter.'" Luwin forced himself not to react at Qyburn apparently not knowing the Blind Seer in question was right in front of him. "The son of the burned woman and the corpse cutter. Who is the burned woman? Is it any burned woman? If so, why single her out? Is it Jenny of Oldstones who was supposedly her friend and died at Summerhall? But then who is the corpse cutter whose son the Blind Seer will walk in lockstep with, whatever that means? Or perhaps the passage doesn't even mean that? Maybe it means that the burned woman's son will walk with the Blind Seer and a completely unrelated corpse cutter that never met any of them even once in their life. In which case it may as well be any necromancer or silent sister or maester or cannibal, or just some random brigand who finds pleasure in cutting up dead bodies." Or maybe it's you, Luwin thought but didn't say. "Do you see my point?"
"I do," Luwin answered, already thinking about the rest and how little time he'd spent not thinking about it all since High Heart. The god of whales? What did that even mean? A banner? A house crest? An Ibbenese whaling ship? And the king that was promised, promised by who? For what? It really was all just a downward spiral of madness, wasn't it? "Thank you, Maester. I think I might actually be able to rest tonight." It wasn't even a lie. He felt lighter than he did before their conversation now that he no longer felt the need to dwell on the whole thing. Not that it was all or even most of what was currently stressing him, but it was a load off his soul.
"I hope I helped at least a little," Qyburn said, clearly knowing the direction Luwin's thoughts had gone. "Goodnight, Luwin. Be well."
"Goodnight, Maester. Thank you again."