Once you’ve chosen your field, I’ll assign you a maester from that discipline as your tutor.
You’ll work as his apprentice, following him everywhere.
When you feel you’ve learned enough, you can sit the maester’s exam.
Pass it, forge the proper links, and you’ll earn the chain.
The Citadel no longer charges tuition.
Instead you’ll receive a monthly stipend.
The amount depends on how many links you’ve forged—more links, bigger stipend.
The maester continued laying out the rules as they walked: no drinking, no brawling, nothing that brought shame to the order.
Break them and you were gone.
No second chances.
They reached the empty Hall of Affairs.
Gavin’s fingers brushed the pouch at his belt.
Thirty gold dragons.
Hard-earned from Emond’s occasional gifts, salt sales, and his pay as a guard captain.
A fortune for most men in Westeros.
Two silver stags fed a family for a month.
One gold dragon bought ten.
He swallowed the reluctance and counted out most of it.
The maester’s eyes widened when he felt the weight—more than double the usual sum.
A broad, genuine smile cracked across his face.
“I’m Maester Mysh.
Call me Maester Mysh.
Plenty of empty cells left.
I’ll fetch the roster and you can pick whichever you like.
Once you’ve chosen, I’ll get you settled.
Acolytes need leave to go outside the walls.
You want out, you come to me.
Made up your mind on a discipline?
I can recommend if you like.
I know the strengths of most of the maesters here.” Gavin frowned, thinking fast.
This was the moment.
“Maester Mysh, I want to study medicine under Maester Qyburn.
And magic research as well.” Mysh’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t look surprised.
“Solid choices.
Qyburn’s work in medicine is respected.
For magic, most would point you to Marwyn—he’s the best alive at it, even if half the Citadel thinks he’s mad.
But first-year acolytes are limited to one field.
I’d steer you toward Qyburn.
He dabbles in the higher mysteries himself, and the smart money says he’ll forge a Valyrian steel link before long.
You get medicine and a foot in the door on magic.
Best of both.” Gavin didn’t hesitate.
“Thank you for the advice.
I’ll study medicine with Maester Qyburn.” Mysh shrugged, still smiling.
“Done.
If you need anything later, find me.” Gavin thanked him again, accepted the plain acolyte robes, and carried his few belongings to the cell he’d chosen.
That night he lay on the narrow cot, staring at the ceiling.
Food and a roof were covered.
That was the good part.
The bad part was coin.
He couldn’t just sell his knowledge outright—that was short-term thinking, burning the bridge before he crossed it.
Starting his own venture?
No capital, no muscle to protect it.
His mind turned to the tourney.
House Tyrell held one every year in the Reach.
Prizes weren’t the obscene sums Robert threw around, but still real money.
Joust winner took five thousand gold dragons.
Entry required knighthood at minimum.
A bastard had no chance.
Team melee and archery were open to anyone.
Two thousand gold each for first place.
Seven months away.
If he had to, he could burn a couple energy points and push archery from mastered to something even sharper.
Four thousand gold would solve a lot of problems.
He took mental stock.
At fourteen his body already outpaced most full-grown knights.
Swordsmanship?
He was willing to bet he stood in the top two in all Westeros.
The panel hadn’t failed him yet.
Maester Mysh moved fast.
The next morning everything was arranged.
Gavin officially became Qyburn’s apprentice.
Five months later the Citadel felt smaller, the days longer.
In a low-ceilinged workroom lit by a single sputtering lamp, Gavin bent over a veteran whose arm had been shattered in some forgotten skirmish.
The old soldier bit down on a strip of leather, sweat pouring off him in sheets.
Gavin worked without pause, tweezers moving with clean precision as he lifted away blackened, rotting flesh.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Qyburn watched from two steps back, arms folded, eyes tracking every cut and probe.
Slowly the older man’s stern face softened into something close to awe.
“Gavin,” he said quietly, “you’re performing at a level most acolytes don’t reach in three years.
You could forge the silver link for medicine today if you sat the exam.” Gavin kept working, voice steady.
“All credit to your teaching, Maester.
I’ve still got years of learning ahead of me.” He finished the debridement, cleaned the wound, and wrapped it with neat, even bandages.
Qyburn stepped in, checked the work, and gave a short nod of approval.
“Good.
Very good.
Clean your tools and come with me.
There are others who need seeing to.” They moved through the long infirmary halls.
Sunlight slanted through high windows as Qyburn talked—techniques, pitfalls, the small tells that separated a living patient from a corpse.
Gavin listened, asked sharp questions, and occasionally offered observations drawn from a lifetime the maester could never know.
Qyburn’s replies grew longer, more thoughtful.
The line between master and student was already blurring.
Weeks turned into months.
Gavin’s progress was relentless.
The panel helped, yes, but so did Qyburn’s willingness to treat him as something more than an errand boy.
The older man began discussing real problems with him—cases that had stumped him for years.
Gavin’s answers, sometimes blunt, sometimes strangely insightful, often cut straight to the heart of the matter.
Qyburn started to consider something he had never considered with any other apprentice: bringing the boy into his private work.
That work was dangerous.
Forbidden.
The kind of research that got maesters expelled, or worse.
He had tested the waters carefully, dropping hints, floating hypothetical questions about blending the higher mysteries with medicine.
Especially the parts that involved living flesh.
Gavin had never flinched.
He had met every probe with calm interest.
When Qyburn spoke of combining magic and the healing arts, Gavin agreed it was worth exploring.
When the conversation drifted toward human subjects—dissection, experimentation, the line between life and death—Gavin had simply nodded and offered practical suggestions of his own.
No moral outrage.
No hesitation.
Just quiet, focused curiosity.
Now, in Qyburn’s private study, the older man stood before a wall covered in anatomical sketches that were clearly inadequate.
He tapped one with a knuckle, frustration plain on his face.
“These diagrams are crude.
Half of them are guesswork.
I’ve petitioned the Citadel three times to allow proper anatomical study again—real work on the human body, not these children’s drawings.
Every time they refuse.
They’re afraid of what we might learn.
Afraid of what we might do with it.” He turned, studying Gavin with eyes that had seen too much and still wanted more.
“What do you think, boy?
If the rules weren’t in the way… how far would you be willing to go to truly understand how a body works?
How a soul clings to it… or lets go?” Gavin met the maester’s gaze without blinking.
“As far as the work requires,” he said quietly.
“Knowledge doesn’t care about rules.
Only results do.” Qyburn’s mouth curved in a thin, satisfied smile.
For the first time, he looked at Gavin not as an apprentice, but as a partner.