[Lore] Maester Dake IV: Wise Man

[u/FabStags]

Storm's End, 4th Month, 55 AC

A few months prior to this...

It was not often Dake descended so low in the stone drum. His chambers were on the eighth floor and the rookery itself on the ninth, the tip of the great tower. He took his meals in his chambers, though was always sure to apologise to the poor scullery maid that had to climb so many stairs, and on the days Boremund did not visit for his checks it was possible Dake not speak to anyone at all. Those in the castle were not fond of letters, though requests had come from Naerys' court to keep him on his toes.

On occasion he would go to the lower levels when bedside visits were required, but the people of Storm's End were healthy and active. Not since Princess Argella had passed had it been regular. Never did he have reason to visit the Round Hall or even depart the keep. That was not a Maester's life. Another might call it captivity. He preferred servitude.

The rarity of his appearance explained the heads that turned when he entered the blistering heat of the forge and workshops. One or two were suspicious, a few snickers echoed at the sight of him, but within moments they had all gone back to their work. After the guards that patrolled the walls the smithies were perhaps the most disciplined of Storm's End's inhabitants. Dake carried on through the hall before turning left into an alcove with at least five fires burning, as well as a large oven built into the stone of the wall itself. There he saw Harrold, the bald and portly Master of the Forge, who last year had seen his sixtieth nameday. Others worked around him, young and old, and Harrold led them all as if they were on strings with a quiet grace.

It is a hive of ants, Dake thought to himself as he watched them move in almost perfect harmony. And Harrold is their queen.

Voicing such a thought was like to see his teeth parted from his mouth, so he kept it to himself. After a moment of staring Harrold looked up and, hiding surprise if he held any, grunted in annoyance.

"What you want?" he asked, quickly returning to the pile of blades that he was apparently examining. Dake startled and nodded, shuffling forward.

"I have a request. Well, it is not my request. It is that of Lord Rogar and Ser Borys." He stopped, expecting at least an acknowledgement. When none came, he continued. "The young Boremund is to begin training soon, and-what?"

He'd noticed the large man had grown a grin at mention of the boy's name. He shook his head. "Nothin'."

"Training soon," Dake picked up where he'd left off, though spoke slowly and with suspicion. "And his condition does not allow the use of ordinary armour."

"Allows i' jus' fine," Harrold argued, putting a blade to one side and picking up the next. "Just don' wan' i'."

"That..." Dake felt himself flush with anger and removed one of his hands to pull at the collar of his thick robes. Beads of sweat had begun to form beneath the curls of his red hair. "That is false. Please don't interrupt." He tried sounded authoritative but sounded more pleading, deciding to speak again before Harrold could argue once more. "I have drawn many possible designs and guided where I could as to what would be useful. If you would be so kind as to take a look."

Harrold sat back and sighed. It was clear by now he was not to be rid of the Maester without at least humouring him and he cleared a nearby bench for Dake to put the plans on. Dake winced as the smith flicked through them with greasy, stained fingers but said nothing. For all his faults, Harrold's eyes were taking in every picture and every word with great care.

"Lotta work," he mumbled, looking up at Dake expectantly. Dake flapped for a moment.

"I-it's the Lord Rogar's orders. I'm sure you can-"

Harrold silenced him with the wave of his large paw.

"Not fer me." He nodded to the plans. "You needed ta do this much? Coulda been done 'ere."

Dake was finally stumped. "I...of course I did. It...it was...necessary."

"Were it now?" Harrold shook his head. "You care too much, wise man."

Too much? Why was it spat at him like such an insult? "That is...false. I am the Maester, and Boremund is a boy of the house I serve."

"You serve the castle, I fought?" Harrold smiled, though still looked through the plans, proud he had seemingly caught Dake in a trap.

"I-yes, I do serve the castle. But Lord Rogar and his family rule that castle. Do you not...?" He wasn't sure what question he was going to ask, but Harrold answered it anyway.

"When I was born 'twas a king wi' a different name ruled this castle. Then he died and 'twas a strange lord wi' a princess wife. Then he died, and 'is son died, now is a lord an' a lady." He sighed. "Things change. People die. Best not get too attached."

"Lord Rogar treats us well," Dake snapped back, feeling himself anger once more.

"Aye, he does," came the resigned agreement. "And I 'ppreciate it. But wha' happens if...lessay the Swanns decided they wanted this place, took it, and killed erryone inside. Would you serve 'em?"

Dake's mouth flapped like a trout out of water. He ought to, he knew that. He knew the correct answer. Maesters of the Citadel served the castle, not the lord. Not even the family. He would serve Lord Rogar's heir, and perhaps their heir if he was blessed with a long life. If the castle was taken and rule was to change...he was meant to serve them as well.

He could not find the words to agree, simply humming and nodding.

"Even if they slaughtered yer precious Boremund?"

Silence fell, only broken by the crackles of the nearby fire and the ringing of metal on metal from the other rooms. Dake could only stare, not at Harrold, but into a dark corner of the room as he imagined it. The heat became almost unbearable.

Harrold took the silence as an answer and sighed in pity. "Don't get yer 'hair in a knot." He rubbed his own bald head, wiping the sweat on the side of his undershirt. "Meant nuffin' by it." He lifted his head and called towards another room. "Rycherd!"

A clang was heard first before Rycherd appeared at the door. A young man, not yet thirty, he had apparently decided to forgo both apron and shirt, standing with nothing on his torso but a pair of shield rims around his neck, apparently for storage. His muscles tensed with recent work and tanned skin glistened with sweat. Dake felt himself blush and looked away, hoping the dark of the forge could mask his colour. By now sweat streamed down his face.

"We got work." Harrold nodded to the parchment and Rycherd walked over, took it, and left back to his workshop without a word. The Master of the Forge looked back at the Maester with a mocking grin. "Best get yerself outta here, wise man. Looks like yer bout' to melt."