Forman I
In his nine and twenty years, Forman Redwyne had amassed as much knowledge as he thought he could. Very little of that knowledge was of the upper floors of the Citadel. As a maester, he would be devoting his life to knowledge, or so he assumed, yet he asked few questions for one in search of truth. That was the way. Subordinates who questioned their superiors rarely progressed.
Knowledge was more about obedience to the lesson than any honest search for understanding. All that needed to be understood was the message dictated to them from their elders. Forman learned that lesson the hard way very early in his time there. He feared he still suffered for it.
As the son of a major lord, Forman expected more deference to his name than he ever received. He was crippled, disfigured with a shriveled and stunted growth where a right arm should have been, but within the domain of the Arbor, he was a Redwyne, and he was treated as such. He was never regarded as highly as his twin Alezander was, the handsome and haunting reminder of what Forman could have been if his right arm had just grown as it should have, but at least he was never verbally reminded of what was plain enough to see.
At the Citadel, unless you were a Hightower, second names meant little. One would go by only their first name, dropping the second once earning their chain. As a young acolyte, Forman was only a Redwyne outside of his studies. In front of the Maesters and Archmaesters that would test him for his links, he was only an abomination named Forman. Even once he'd earned his chain, he was only ever Maester Forman.
In one of his first lessons, a lecture on the ancient histories and lore, Archmaester Romono claimed the Iron Born to have inarguably been the first men who'd sailed to the Iron Islands from either the shores of the North or the Westerlands, and erroneous claims from Maester Kirth of them being of any other origin were to be ignored.
"What of the Seastone Chair?" Forman asked, giddy at the chance. "The stone is said to be the same as that of the Toad of Toad Isle and the ruins of Yeen. What explanation do we have for the chair then?" Forman had studied Kirth's Songs the Drowned Men Sing, and found the chair a very peculiar mystery he wished answered by the seasoned Archmaester while he had the opportunity to ask. Forman had heard of Romono, and was pleased to have the chance to hear him teach.
"Kindly remove yourself from this lecture hall, young man. Interruptions from acolytes will never be tolerated by Archmaesters mid-sentence," Romono ordered softly.
"My apologies, my Lord. I meant no offense," Forman replied meekly. His face flushed the color of a Dornish wine, and the back of his neck began to bead with a nervous sweat. He had not intended to challenge the archmaester, only question him, as he expected Archmaester Romono to have the best answer of anyone in the known world. Before arriving and learning at the Citadel, Forman Redwyne saw the maesters as the supreme sovereigns of knowledge and the wisest of all men in the known world.
Once he started learning, he understood them to be something else entirely.
Romono's face darkened to match Forman's shade of red, but out of anger. The man's soft gray brow tightened, flexing above the wrinkled, spotted skin that hung around his eyes. A stern blue gaze shot down along his long thin nose, and he snarled back at Forman with unexpected heat. "How dare you speak back to me. What is your name, child? You have erred this day with your boldness."
Stuttering and shuttering, fearful and off guard, the young man of six-and-ten mumbled back, "Forman Redwyne, my Lord. I am sorry. So sorry. I just wanted to hear your explanation, is all. Really. I will shut up and stay silent for the rest of your lecture."
"You haven't shut your mouth since interrupting me, boy!"
"I'm sorry,"
"If you wish to ever be allowed back into this building, leave now, before I personally see to it you never earn a single link for the rest of your natural life, and then some."
Forman nodded and ran, grabbing his things and hobbling as quickly as he could out of the hall. As he left, the remaining students roared with the laughter one might expect.
Then, as he reached for the handle with his parchments and quills held tight against his chest with his elbow, the weight of the door made him drop all of his things in a crash. The laughter stopped for a moment, only to come again louder and harsher. As red as he was, he turned redder, and the beads became streams as sweat flowed down from his neck. He could feel the cool air from the half open door as he struggled to grab all of his things and stand.
"Silence, you fools," Romono roared through the noise. The hall immediately quieted and every head turned back to the Archmaester. "The cripple has wasted enough of my time already, as this entire lecture was already as meaningless an obligation as I have all week. An archmaester has much more important matters to attend to than the introduction to history and lore, and the buffoonery of an armless son of a Lord unable to train in the yard and apparently too dim to ever form a chain."
Forman left his things and ran through the door before he began to cry in front of all of them. He had respected Romono before he had met him. After the shame and the pain of the moment had passed, Forman thought on what happened. He surmised he'd just listen from then on. He had always feared he adjusted too late. The damage was done, at least under Romono it was.
That was so long ago. Forman had earned his chain soon after. He realized what the Citadel was about. Obey and advance. It wasn't his intellect but his cunning that would earn each link. That, and his father's coin. There was a reason Hightowers had always been so effective at climbing the ladders of the Citadel's libraries and hierarchy. Maesters at the Citadel were always in need of coin.
It was their corruption that allowed Forman his status moving forward, as any of the Archmaesters he'd paid off were now somewhat within his control, or as much as one could expect from such a pompous bunch. They all feared their reputations sullied, however, and although accusations were made all the time, Forman made sure he had the proof.
A ledger held many signatures. Insurance, Forman called it, as each of them signed it. A gold dragon could buy a lot of whores or wine in Oldtown, and their signature cost them so little they freely gave it every time. The agreement came with strings both ways, but as long as Forman could benefit, he cared not for the threats against his integrity.
He could always fall back to the Arbor.
Most maesters would be reduced to traveling healers.
His time spent truly taught him much. Every link he forged was a subject he studied carefully. His intellect was near as impressive as any among their order, yet it was his coin that he entrusted his success to. Once, for his second brass link, Archmaester Cletus remarked, "I'm as comfortable giving you this link as if you'd demonstrated your knowledge on an exam. For this is truly the way of the world, and your knowledge will not mean much without that greater understanding."
Oft as not, Maester Forman would ruminate on his days as an acolyte and wish he had been able to do it differently. He wished he could have kept quiet during that history lecture, and risen through the ranks naturally. What he had done, was sequester himself as a man too threatening to ever turn away or dismiss, but too independent and capable to allow into their inner circle.
It was only Archmaester Merle that tolerated him, for Merle was similarly cast out. Their order kept at least one archmaester for every mystery, to ensure the lessons were always passed down generation to generation. It was rare for a maester to ever pursue a Valyrian Steel link, much less earn one, but the mystery of magic needed an archmaester to pass on the knowledge, despite how harshly most of them rejected its existence entirely.
Merle was one of four left in the world that had a Valyrian link, and the other three earned it specifically to argue against it when stories would flood Old Towns docks of the East and its wonders. Merle may have been the only maester with the gall to champion the wild claims of Asshai, of grumpkins, snarks, and Old Ones. Forman admired the old man, even if Merle despised him half the time.
"Stumpy!" Merle called, using his offensive pet name for Forman, as he always did. It was morning, and Forman spent most nights debating and drinking with the old man, as no one else would have him. His right arm was a short, mangled growth from his shoulder, but the entire right side of him was as twisted, just fully formed. Forman's right leg grew curved, causing him to hobble on the shorter leg and his right causing the structure of it to mutate over time, until his mangled foot was as grotesque as the tip of his arm with three infantile fingers.
He rose with his long chestnut hair in his face, nearly stiff from the nightsoil of his drunken sweat. As quickly as his misshapen body possibly could, Forman rushed to the old man's chambers, his gait rocking up and down from good leg to bad, shaking his aching head far too much to handle without slowing just before the old man's door.
His small clothes were rank, and he could taste the wine on his teeth. The old man didn't mind, but he would surely make a jape of it if there wasn't already something else to poke his ire at. Forman left him plenty of options.
"What is it, Archmaester?"
"Did you hear? The King's new mistress is food for the Stranger."
"The fuck did you just wake me for?" Forman grumbled, seeing the morning sun's glare reflected off the smooth bald top of Merle's head.
"That magical cunt from the east is charred wood for her red god."
"Is that any way to speak of the dead?"
"Fuck the dead," he snickered. "What in seven hells are they going to do but burn down there and rot up here?"
It was best not to argue with the man over things unprovable, for Merle's own opinion was the most infallible source he ever need quote in debate, and of the dead and their destinations, he had many such opinions to quote from. "What of it? May I go back to the torturer's rack you call a cot?"
"That was the last this land was going to see of magic. Since the dragons died, ain't shit here but the parlor tricks of the men upstairs, wasting our budget with miraculous inefficiency while these men's houses grow rich with their sleight on hand of the grandest scale."
"It's too early for this. I raced in here like you needed me."
"I did. My chamber pot needs emptying. I'm going back to sleep. This world doesn't need me until midday the earliest."
"No. I'm no servant. What does your chamber pot have to do with earning my link for the higher mysteries?"
"It's magic, you see. You must make it . . . . disappear," the man waved his hands in a comical shiver with his mouth open wide to feign amazement.
Half of the time, Forman hated the man right back.
After dealing with what Merle had left him, which was inexplicably full for a man that seemingly never ate, Forman limped down to the Honeywine to clean himself, which was just beyond the archmaester's apartments, on the outside of the Citadel proper, a residence which was as far away from the other flats, halls, and manses the other maesters resided in as those upstairs could put Merle. It was quiet, save the rushing water of the shallow river. At its edge, even a cripple could withstand the smooth current, and Forman used the movement of the water to help get him cleaner.
Once as clean as he could get himself in a river, he dressed, which was a chore, but he managed. He wriggled his feet into his sandals, and began his walk to the Citadel.
Once inside, Forman made his way to Archmaester Morton's solar. It wasn't much for a solar, but he referred to it as such, the Archmaester of Medicine, the only man Forman couldn't bribe for links, had given the young man six on merit alone, and required his aid in his written work.
Cures for the Common Ills was going to be Archmaester Morton's masterpiece. To hear him tell it, every major structure from the tip of Dorne to the Wall would have a copy, and it would be he that the common man turned to, in his pages, until forever, saving more lives than any maester ever could with just his hands. Morton said he would live for eternity in these pages.
Forman hoped he would die within the fortnight.
"Ah, Forman. It is good to see you as always."
"I am obligated to be here, Archmaester," he replied sullenly.
"Indeed you are. I have some notes I need you to read through for me. Let me know if you see any slight errors. You know how my mind can think unnaturally quick," Morton said with an air of arrogance. I'd say unnaturally slowly, and even if I were in agreement, I'd say unnaturally quickly. Forman knew better than to correct the man's grammar. Obey and advance.
"Very well, Archmaester. I will see to it, though, we both know it'll be near perfect as it is."
"Likely so," the man chuckled. "That'll be all until you're finished, lad. Allow me to see you to the door." Morton walked with Forman as if it were charity. It wasn't like he offered him the aid of his arm, or led him through a path Forman wasn't aware of. He just walked slowly beside the cripple as Forman limped next to him. Redwyne kept an awkward smile while the archmaester could still see him. When Morton waved and turned back to return to his solar, Forman let out the disgust in a sigh like it had manifested physically into his mouth.
Morton knew little of healing or medicine. The reason his life's work would only be about the common ills, was he knew little else. He became an archmaester by default, as his four links were the most at that time, so many men dying at once before him. Forman knew more than almost any of the maesters did of healing, as it was his wish to somehow cure, fix, or rid himself and the world of his own afflictions.
It was his admiration of Peremore Hightower, the one legend says was the founder of the Order of the Citadel. A cripple, Prince Peremore of the Hightower was fond of discussion, learning, debate, and the mysteries. It was said he held discussion with priests, alchemists, wizards, and learned men and women, all in the pursuit of knowledge. Forman had modeled himself after Peremore the Twisted, and came to the Citadel to fulfill his life's destiny.
If he had to, Forman could deliver a dying child, save the mother from infection, treat her for pain without harming the newborn, sedate the child's father from panicking at the sight of the blood, and pull out the harmful tumor from her womb all at the same time and with only the one good hand. His peers all knew it. He'd demonstrated his skill, his steady hand, and his knowledge as the realm's most qualified and capable healer.
Yet, hilariously ironic as it was, no one would ever let the hobbling freak treat them for even a bout of pox. He had spent most of his younger years in search of a knowledge he could never use. The worst waste of a life anyone could have ever lived. At least up until then it had been.
Within the library, Forman found a workstation where he could sit down and comb the archmaester's notes. The chapter Morton was currently working on was Minor Cuts and Abrasions.
Great, Forman thought. What ground breaking wisdom might we find in here?
In its tedium, editing the archmaester also gave him the only flicker of power he ever felt. Judging the elder maester's words and opinions was like combing the sand for treasure. With each misspelled word or awkwardly phrased sentence, Forman could administer his superior knowledge of medicine, and correct the archmaester's blunders and misconceptions. Once, Forman had found a line about the treatment of brain pain with sweet sleep. The dosage Morton called for would be deadly to most women and children, and there were no instructions to inform the reader otherwise. Forman nearly cried as he laughed at it. It was also almost as sad that it was Morton entrusted with the greater health of the realm than he.
This chapter, unfortunately, had little in the form of errors. Combing through each line of rudimentary drabble became hypnotic, and the crippled maester began to ponder the death of the King's mistress as Merle had mentioned that morning.
She was said to be the most beautiful woman alive, well, when she was, and her haunting golden gaze was discussed from the wine sinks of the docks in their bawdy songs of wenches to the quiet whispers in the halls of the Citadel.
Stories were also told of her sorcery. How she could transform the King into the form of his youth to copulate. How she had delayed winter for years with blood sacrifices to her god. How she could enslave the minds of anyone she wished, including the King, who some said was now a sovereign without agency, controlled by the woman herself.
"None of its true, lad," Merle explained to him once, when he had questioned him over a tankard of ale. "Much more often than not, rumors are the exaggeration of a core truth. The woman may work magic as they say, but none of those louts know a thing of what they're talking about. Magic isn't some handwave to cure all ills on a whim. It is a give and take. A balance. What is gained must equal that which is given up."
Forman had always wanted to meet her. He wanted to know if there was a mystical cure for his ailments. If anyone did, she would know or know who would. Whispers all agreed she had spent time in Asshai'I by the Shadow, and it was there that men spoke of the foulest and wildest of things.
As foul as Forman was, he surmised it would be that type of magic needed to aid him, if any could. Merle knew nothing but theory. The glass candles the Citadel had, were just for show. They hadn't burned in millennia, to hear them tell it, and if they lied, no one could remember first hand. Merle was told the same lie, and the man before him, if it were one.
Magic had left Westeros with the death of the last dragon. Even the eggs were naught but beautiful stones.
"Maester Forman," a voice called softly behind him, hushing just above a whisper to keep courtesy while inside the library.
"What is it?" Forman questioned in his full voice, looking up from the chapter with a frown despite his joy in breaking from its monotony.
"The archmaesters have sent me to fetch you. There is something of import they wish to discuss," the portly acolyte whispered, gesturing his arm as if to lead him to the top floor. Forman simply nodded, stood, leaving Morton's masterpiece splayed out on the table, and replied, "Thank you, lad. I know the way. Stay here and mind Archmaester Morton's work. Don't read it, or he'll have me crippled worse, but don't let it move. I will return with haste, I assure you."
"As you wish, Maester Forman. Thank you."
Forman would likely grab some ale at The Quill and Tankard before returning to Morton's assignment, though, it was humorous to sentence the boy to hours of excruciating boredom. Without instruction from another maester that outranked Forman, the acolyte would have to wait there until the cripple returned, even if it was on the morrow.
Forman wouldn't make him wait that long, intentionally, but it was the way of the Citadel. One of the only instituted norms he enjoyed.
Hobbling through the halls to the grand stairs, Forman wondered what they could want. He hadn't made any threats on them, and there was truly nothing else the highest level maesters had ever shown interest in him. So, what could it be?
He reached the top floor and was escorted into a great chamber with two immense hardwood doors, sphinxes carved into the center panels of each. They were painted black, save the bright white trim that encased them. They swung in, all twelve feet high of them, to the creaking moan of their iron hinges, and a vast showroom opened with a desk at the far end near the stained-glass windows, surrounded on each side by three story bookcases, filled with bound volumes, chained together and locked.
Within, as he limped as nobly as he could, carved limestone pedestals rose from the marble floor displaying all sorts of treasures from the history of the seven kingdoms. Runed armor pieces from the North and the Vale, broken clay colored brass horns with glyphs etched into what remained, queerly shaped skeletons and non-human skulls, spotted and striped furs from animals of the far east, and even charred pages of books said to be lost to time or conquest. Forman gazed not at those he was there to meet, but the vast wealth of history and culture that surrounded him. There were so many displays, it was almost hard to navigate, a maze of wonders which only made his mind race to more questions he knew he could never ask or try to answer.
It was a shame as much as it thrilled him. All this is here for but a few small-minded men to ever see.
When he finally looked up to the desk, he was surprised to see only one man when the acolyte had suggested it was archmaesters in the plural. Above the desk, hanging down from the ceiling on three runs of silver chains, was a dragon skull, no larger than a tomcat, swinging gently in the breeze from the open arched windows of the domed structure.
"Come, maester," a voice called. "Sit." The man was old in his grey robe, so it was hard to discern which rat sat the chair at the desk. The man's tone was kinder than he thought it would be, but he still couldn't figure what the topic might be.
Forman hobbled as gracefully as he could, and slunk down into the chair as was his way. The face he saw looked familiar, but withered so far it was hard to tell who. Then, he saw it and nearly gasped aloud. Romono. What does he want? We haven't spoken in thirteen years.
"I am rarely wrong, lad," he began, without as much as acknowledging the social norms of greetings and courtesy. "As long as I have been within these walls and these vows, I have truly only erred but twice before, now with you is the third."
There was a long pause. Forman didn't dare speak. He had learned that lesson well.
Romono continued, pleased with Forman's silence. "And you have learned. Good. We all are aware of your deceit and the ledger. This is the Citadel full of wise men. Knowledge of all kinds we find valuable, so anything that happens within the confines of these halls and lands, we know and have judged. I once thought you too dim to earn links. And that might have been so, once. Yet in your purchasing of so many, you never failed an exam, and I have followed you for some time, quite amused that for just the third time, I was wrong. I was wrong about you, Forman. We have come to appreciate you, for what it's worth."
Forman kept his mouth closed for longer. Romono smirked, nearly chuckling, saying, "You may reply."
"I thank you, Archmaester. It has always been my goal in life to learn and grow within these halls and walls, into a man of esteem like yourself. How can I serve our order?"
"There is first some business we must discuss and conclude before anything further takes place," Romono stated succinctly. Forman was intrigued. Whatever the archmaester said next figured to be most interesting. "Your ledger."
"What of it, Archmaester. It has been concluded that it benefits both the Citadel and myself that it exists, making sure the whole thing is kept quiet, less we all suffer the consequences for our indiscretions."
"Yes, but before any business, we must trust you. As of this moment, we do not. Not with your ledger." Romono kept his cool, as old as he was it might have been fatigue, but none of the more unsavory parts of the discussion seemed to phase the old man even the slightest. "So, we have taken liberties to seize it from your quarters. All the archmaesters who signed it agreed upon its location, and it was confirmed this afternoon whilst you were going through the ever-important work Morton keeps scratching at."
Clever gents, Forman jested to himself. Unphased with the knowledge of undisclosed information only he knew, Forman let Romono continue, merely nodding in response to the seizure.
"Now we begin anew. You have a fresh start with us, with me. Just know, if you cross us, we have the ledger. It can be adjusted to avoid our own members involvement and still incriminate you. I was wrong about you. Do not make me right."
"Of course, archmaester. It is my life's purpose to serve the Citadel in whatever way I'm needed."
"Good. We are in agreement then. We will send you to King's Landing. Due to the King's health needs, Larkin has requested another of our order qualified enough to contend with his many, many, needs. We will ask that you keep your discretion and follow any orders from Larkin or me directly."
"And what of the King's orders?"
"We serve the King as best we can, but we serve the Citadel and the realm. I pray you understand. It would be unwise if you did not."
"I understand clearly, Archmaester. As I said, anything I can do to serve."
When Forman was dismissed, after allowing Romono to go on about a few of the items of his collection for longer than he found enjoyable, the crippled Redwyne hobbled back through the huge doors to the grand staircase. When he knew he was out of view, he allowed a smile to sneak back across his face.
Luckily the ledger they took was of my wine transactions in the shorthand of bribes. They couldn't have the ledger they claim to.
For it is right here.
Forman let out a laugh as he brought his left hand to his chest to feel at the book he had strapped around his bad shoulder. No one ever looked that closely there.
Thankfully, maesters are far less clever than they think they are.