Archmaester Vaegon
Quentyn, gangly and awkward like all the novices, was practically shaking as he handed Vaegon the scribbled sheets. Under the Archmaester's scrutinizing gaze, the boy swallowed loudly, his sharp Adam's apple bobbing on his scrawny neck. For some reason, all the students considered the Archmaester strict almost to the point of cruelty, though he never struck them, merely attempted to impart a modicum of knowledge into their thick heads. Some of his brethren in the Conclave occasionally supplemented their instruction with a few cuffs and blows for the particularly negligent, but Vaegon considered the raising of hands unworthy of an Archmaester, and thus he flogged the dullards not with rods, but with words and fresh assignments.
Scanning the notes presented by the student for the first time, Vaegon allowed himself an approving grunt: the lad had had the wit to rewrite everything cleanly before presenting it for his judgment. The hooks, ticks, and dashes of the Valyrian glyphs lay in even rows, rather than jumping about like a palisade built by drunken peasants.
"You can do it when you wish," the Archmaester muttered, beginning to read in earnest.
At what point the Archmaester of mathematics and economics had become the Citadel's foremost authority on the Valyrian tongue, he himself would have been hard-pressed to say. The Conclave had not laid additional duties upon him, and certainly did not pay him extra for it, but soon after Vaegon received his chain, his brethren began coming to him to verify translations, or to ask for clarification on the polysemous terms for which the High Language was famous. Later, after listening to his students mangle the ancient speech entirely godlessly, Vaegon deemed it his duty to correct their errors, and since then had hung yet another yoke around his neck.
Every fourth novice came to study under him not so much for the golden link in their chain, as for the opportunity to later tell their lord that they had learned Valyrian from a descendant of the Dragonlords. Not all of them succeeded in this; few mastered the spoken tongue well enough for Vaegon to listen without wincing at their incorrect pronunciation, and fewer still transitioned from writing the ancient language with the common alphabet to using the hieroglyphic script. Quentyn happened to be one of those few.
The essay of several pages, reflecting on the trade policies of the Old King, had turned out somewhat dry, lacking the refined turns of phrase characteristic of a true master of letters, but accurate enough in terms of facts, figures, and their interpretations. Save for... A slender finger pressed against a word:
"What is this?"
"E-e-elekor, Archmaester," Quentyn drawled, stuttering.
"According to you, King Jaehaerys lowered import duties on ears? More precisely, on earwax?"
The student's Adam's apple bobbed again; his eyes darted in panic across the page, his bitten lips moving as he silently mouthed the words. Finally, understanding dawned on his pimply face.
"Duties on whale oil (qaedar), Archmaester."
"Then what have ears to do with it?"
Quentyn shifted his gaze from his papers to the waiting Vaegon, struggling to understand where he had erred. Taking pity on the lad and on himself, the Archmaester sighed bitterly and poked his finger at the glyph again.
"Two dashes—and elekor becomes qaedar. Two more pages—and your scrawls will be readable again. But this shall stay with me," with these words, Vaegon set the sheets aside.
"But, Archmaes..."
"No matter, you shall rewrite it from memory. And another thing: you pay too much attention to Lord Tyrell and his lady wife. A master of economics and numbers should not concern himself with gossip; it matters not who did what with whom. What of it that the wife counted better than the husband? What matters is that the great henpecked husband found the coin for my father's roads. And, for the sake of all the gods, do not call Rego Draz 'Lord of the Winds'."
"But he called himself that!"
"He called himself 'Lord of the Air'," the Archmaester corrected the youth. "But 'Lord of the Winds' in Valyrian sounds like 'Master of Farts'. Though he did indeed let loose notable winds. That is all, go. I wish to read all of this before supper. If you are not in time—you shall go without it."
Quentyn bowed and hastily slipped out of the study. Vaegon sighed again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The lad was certainly no dullard if he could expound his father's tax policy in High Valyrian script across seven pages, but the petty, utterly foolish mistakes born of inattention outweighed his diligence. In a language where one extra stroke turned "whale oil" into "earwax," this was unacceptable.
"Still hounding the youths, Archmaester?" a cheerful voice rang out from the threshold.
Lord Tyland Lannister froze in the doorway like a spot of gold. The former student, and now Master of Coin, dressed in brocade with a massive golden chain upon his shoulders, stood in the doorway.
"Do you miss the lessons, my lord?" Vaegon inquired acidly.
"Not in the slightest, Archmaester," Lannister laughed. "I dropped by to check on you."
If he mentions my health, I shall drive him to the Seven Hells (Peklo), the Archmaester decided inwardly. Aegon would not prattle about such things, but Marlon or someone else from his numerous retinue of maesters and novices could well have let something slip, and walls have ears, especially in the Red Keep.
"Most kind of you. Nestor!"
From the adjoining room floated a sleepy maester in a robe stained with ink. Copyists generally had aprons to catch the blots, but the native of the Vale had managed to soil his robe as well. For all his outward slovenliness and perpetual drowsiness, Nestor possessed an excellent memory, could quote transcribed pages by the sheaf, and got on superbly with ravens.
"Serve Lord Tyland wine, cheese, fruit... Conjure something up."
"We have no wine," Nestor replied indifferently. Curse it, did Marlon instruct them all?
"Would you offer the Master of Coin a drink of well water?" Vaegon asked sweetly.
"No. There is ginseng decoction, chamomile..."
"You have no shame. If you do not bring Lord Tyland wine, there shall be no chain either. Go, you are told!"
Nestor sighed mournfully and, just as slowly as he had appeared, drifted away to execute the order.
"Forgive him, my lord," Vaegon addressed his guest. "In all that does not concern the copying of books and ravens, he is slightly simple of mind. Sit, I pray you."
Lannister chuckled, but availed himself of the offer and sat in the chair before the desk. The Archmaester noted with pleasure that his former student, even now, held himself straight and decorous before him, as if he were about to sit an examination once more. Tyland must have realized his behavior as well.
"Master of Farts, the Great Henpecked Husband..." he repeated the nicknames of his predecessors. "And what have you dubbed Lord Beesbury?"
"The Industrious Drone."
"I confess, I am curious what nickname you will bestow upon me."
"I—none. Better ask my novices in some thirty or forty years."
Lannister laughed again, quite sincerely as always, and Vaegon allowed himself a smile as well. Having calmed himself, the Master of Coin announced:
"I came to ask your forgiveness, Archmaester."
"I do not recall that we quarreled."
"No, but I behaved disrespectfully toward you, my old teacher."
"Careful with your words, Lord Tyland—my nephews are ready to take the head from the shoulders of anyone who calls me old."
The other raised his hands as if surrendering:
"I take your word for it! I beg forgiveness, I did not mean that."
"I forgive you. So, to what do you refer?"
"I should have come to you sooner, but I had to take up my duties, and then there were these weddings... Not the best time to assume office, but praise the gods and Lord Beesbury, I survived it, though not without labor. I wished to thank you for your patronage and the letter of recommendation you sent to our Sovereign."
"Viserys asked my counsel and received it," Vaegon answered simply. "I set forth my opinion and gave a recommendation, guided by the good of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Your incorruptibility is known to all the Citadel. I know there were objections to my candidacy; not all were glad to see me in the Small Council chamber. At least, at such an age. But here I am, Master of Coin, styled 'Lord' while my brother lives—and all this at two-and-twenty years! Let no one ever exaggerate the importance of a simple letter again!"
Vaegon was about to grimace but restrained himself in time. Tyland was famous for his eloquence, and the proof of the simplest theorem became a minstrel's performance in his mouth.
"True, but far more important are the identities of the author and the recipient of the letter," he remarked.
"That is precisely of what I speak. You placed great trust in me; I owe my seat to you. We Lannisters know how to be grateful and..."
At that moment, the door swung open again, and Nestor entered the study backward, tray in hand. Just as leisurely, he shuffled to the table and, gauging the distance, set his burden down directly onto the sheets Quentyn had soiled. suppressing his irritation by an effort of will, Vaegon sent him away. While the junior maester drifted back to his room, his mentor peered into the elegant silver goblets towering over a small bowl of nuts and a round of coarsely cut cheese. The wretch ought to be put on bread and water for such neglect, but it would be useless—unlike Marlon, Nestor cared not what he chewed; he would skip a meal without a reminder. In the goblet nearest the Archmaester splashed that very decoction of accursed ginseng, while in the far one, judging by the color, was Arbor Gold. Sighing sadly, Vaegon raised his eyes to the Master of Coin.
"You Lannisters know how to be grateful..."
"And we always pay our debts. If ever I can be of any service to you..."
"I exchange your debt for your goblet," the words slipped from the Archmaester's tongue before he could think.
The debtor blinked in bewilderment, but silently reached for the tray and turned it toward himself. Raising the goblet, Tyland proclaimed:
"To the dragons of fire and blood, may their House be glorified!"
"To the dragons of gold, may the treasury be filled with them," Vaegon saluted him in return.
Bringing the goblet to his lips, the Archmaester closed his eyes and cautiously inhaled. The scent of ripe apples, warmed by the sun and not yet fermented on the branch, struck his nostrils, diluted by a light floral aroma. "Dry Gold" or "Sunset Ray"? The first sip resolved his doubts: "Dry Gold" after all. It stung his tongue slightly, and Vaegon smiled blissfully.
Although many of his brethren in the Citadel abused wine, and often fortified at that, the Archmaester did not consider himself a drunkard, oh no. He religiously observed the unwritten maester's commandment "not a cup before midday" and, when the lot fell to him to be Seneschal, he would descend upon the Conclave and the entire Citadel with caustic criticism, denouncing not so much their intemperance as their lack of discrimination in what they ate and from what they grew intoxicated. For all his strictness and economy, Vaegon changed anger to mercy as soon as good wine appeared on the table at supper. He rarely drank more than a flagon in an evening, but every goblet and every sip he savored, prolonged, and analyzed the aftertaste, deriving great pleasure from the process.
He gave particular preference to Arbor Gold; whether the fault lay with Alyssa, who had talentlessly wasted that pitcher, or simply that the Redwynes made the best wine in all Westeros, remained for the Archmaester a problem to which he could find no answer. Far more terrible than an early death for a connoisseur of fine wines sounded the verdict of the council, which had placed the Archmaester on the strictest of diets, and thus even "Dry Gold" was sweeter to him this day than nectar.
Licking his lips, Vaegon said, vainly attempting to lend his voice dispassion.
"Well, your debt is paid, my lord."
"A goblet of wine does not count," if Lannister suspected anything, he gave no sign. "I asked where I might truly be of service to you. The treasury, despite all the wars, construction, and weddings, is full, and the Iron Throne can afford to dispose of surplus funds, to spend them on something useful and long-postponed. Perhaps the buildings of the Citadel need renovation? New books? Expeditions to distant lands?"
Vaegon pondered. The Hightowers and other benefactors satisfied the Citadel's usual needs, but money was never superfluous anywhere or for anyone. The Sphinx Gate immediately came to mind, the bas-reliefs on which had crumbled completely. One could tear down and rebuild the Ravenry at the mouth of the Honeywine, one could rebuild the Seneschal's Court where the Archmaesters lived, one could outfit ships to Leng, Ibben, the Basilisk Isles, even into Sothoryos...
And then Vaegon remembered the pack of hungry dogs, his brethren of the rods, rings, and masks, who for an extra star distributed not in their favor were ready to tear each other's throats out. Vaegon revered the Citadel and the knowledge it had stored within itself for long millennia, was grateful to it for making him who he was, but his fellow Archmaesters he despised; he barely tolerated their narrow-mindedness, selfish interests, petty intrigues, empty squabbles, and myopia in absolutely everything. To give a whole train of gold into their hands? No, gods forbid!
Precisely for this reason, the former Prince chose not to notice the obvious offer of the Master of Coin. Instead, he sipped from the goblet again and, swallowing the golden drink, chose to step aside:
"You know, my lord, my nephew—the younger of my nephews—is quite often visited by sound thoughts. I speak now not only of finances. Several years ago, he had to overcome considerable resistance in the Small Council to push through the necessary reform of the Order of Dragonkeepers."
"Yes, I heard of that."
"I would be grateful if the sensible initiatives of Prince Aegon, should they be truly sensible, had support."
"Not only in terms of finances?"
"Precisely."
Teacher exchanged glances with student.
"I have already had occasion to be convinced that Prince Aegon possesses an uncommon mind," Tyland spoke. "I liked his reasoning, and the polemic with Lord Otto and Prince Daemon regarding the restoration of the Tyroshi lands and the Stepstones was quite witty. I am certain we shall be able to find a common language."
Vaegon smiled with satisfaction and raised his goblet.
"To mutual understanding?"
"To great prospects," Lannister returned the courtesy.
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