Qyburn

"Harrenhal ith my cathle. Mine! The thmallfolk and prithonerth are mine to do with ath I pleathe. Roothe Bolton himthelf gave me the fucking title and yet that leech-loving cunt expecth me to athk hith permithion before harming any of hith thervanth. I am the Lord of Harrenhal and the thmallfolk are my property, not hith. That blue-eyed thit had betht get uthed to that before I turn him into one of thothe flayed men he loveth tho much," growled Lord Vargo, slobbering all over the floor of the rookery as spoke. Mayhaps you should tell him so.

"As you say, my Lord," Qyburn responded, nodding politely. He had never cared for Vargo Hoat, even before the fool began interrupting his work with daily tirades about whatever slights he believed he'd suffered. Qyburn had tolerated the ignorant boor of man because Lord Vargo was among the few who allowed him to indulge his curiosity, but the man was near as bad as the maesters in his way. Was there ever a man so lacking in imagination as this one? He has had the services of a truly learned man at his disposal for years and all he did was have me check women for disease before he raped them. At least Lord Vargo comes by his ignorance honestly which is more than can be said for the maesters, I suppose. I could have overlooked his lack of intellectual curiosity, but the wastefulness... The man must have discarded hundreds of perfectly good hands and feet. Does he think they grow on trees?

"I thould have fed Roothe Bolton to that bloody bear along with Amory Lorch. Who the fuck doeth he think he ith? How dare that thon of a whore place my property under hith protection?"

"You know how Northerners are, my Lord," replied Qyburn, playing the kindly, deferential old man yet again. Vargo Hoat may hold the title Lord of Harrenhal, but a blind man could see that the castle belongs to Lord Bolton in every way that matters. Even the goat plainly fears the Leech Lord. Else he would've tried to kill the man a long time ago. Can he truly believe that I would keep a word he tells me from Lord Bolton? If it didn't amuse Lord Bolton to provoke him, the fool would be dead already, most like. The Starks would not grieve for the leader of Brave Companions any more than the Lannisters would. Even so, it would not do for me to make an enemy of the man. He is still dangerous in his way.

"Aye, I know their kind all too well. Bunch of brooding, thutck-up cunth. I thould put Roothe Boltonth bloody head on a thpike," bellowed the Goat of Harrenhal. Roose Bolton. There is a man I can be proud to serve. A wise man who understands the value of my work. He has promised that once he brings me back to the Dreadfort, I shall never want for live subjects to experiment on. It was folly to try to ingratiate myself to him by offering him a bedwarmer. Lord Bolton had the girl fed until she could eat no more and then instructed me to slice open her belly so that he could see what happened to food after a person ate it. It was in that moment that Qyburn knew he had found a kindred spirit in the Lord of the Dreadfort.

"Not even Lord Boltonth bloody cupbearer treath me with rethpect. That ugly little cunt told me to watch where I wath going after bumping into me. The dumb bitch threatened me when I began to dithcipline her. Apparently that bathtard ith telling the thmallfolk that I can't hurt them without hith permithion," Vargo Hoat seethed through clenched teeth.

"His cupbearer? Was the girl's name Nan, my Lord?"

"Ith that the whoreth name?"

"I believe so, my Lord." A false name, most like. Lord Bolton does a good job hiding her, but not half so good a job as he believes. And isn't that a curious thing, come to think of it? It was not unheard of to see Nan outside of Lord Bolton's solar, although the girl would always scamper away the moment she saw one of the Brave Companions. That alone would have been unremarkable, but there were flashes of defiance he'd seen her direct at Walton Steelshanks. It was almost as though she didn't fear the man at all. That would've been strange enough, but rather than punishing "Nan" for her insolence, Walton oft behaved deferentially on such occasions. Lord Bolton's orders, no doubt. Mayhaps Walton was assigned to watch over her, but why? Roose Bolton plainly has little and less interest in bedwarmers of any age. I wonder...

"The cunt ithn't really from Maidenpool. Did you know that? What ith the girl to Lord Bolton? If I knew that, I could find a way to get rid of her. I jutht need to convince the bloody Leech Lord to let me and I can't do that unleth I know why he ith protecting her." In truth, I can't say I blame him for hating the girl. I fear she will have to be dealt with, one way or another. Before she arrived, Lord Bolton would send me as many subjects as I required and oft asked to observe my work himself. I fear he has grown more cautious of late. He still sends me what subjects he can, to be sure, but not half so many as he used to. Lord Bolton plainly does not wish for her to know that he permits me to experiment upon prisoners and why would such a thing concern him unless the girl were a highborn Lady whose sensibilities he did not wish to offend? One would think the safest course of action would be to send the girl away or at least make her identity common knowledge were that the case. It doesn't really matter, I suppose. She will have to be disposed of sooner rather than later. Lord Bolton is sending me fewer subjects and this has slowed the pace of my work. That will not serve. Roose Bolton may be a wise man with the right instincts, but I fear he is still a Lord. And even the wisest Lord will always stray from the path to enlightenment if doing so will provide him with even the smallest advantage when playing the game of thrones. It is a folly, of course. The game, power, family, honor, the Gods, compassion, love...merely distractions, nothing more. The quest for knowledge – true knowledge – is all that matters and the work must continue, whatever the cost.

Suddenly, the door to the rookery swung open and Lord Bolton entered the room. "Nan" stuck her head through the door and cautiously followed behind him like a frightened deer. Qyburn glanced at her and the girl's eyes grew wide with fear. She is terrified of me, the former maester realized. One should be grateful for life's small pleasures, I suppose. Mayhaps Lord Bolton has no further need of her and has brought me a new subject. He so enjoyed watching me cut prisoners on various parts of their bodies to see how long it took for men to bleed out after being wounded in different places. Men bleed quickly once they've been unmanned, but I have oft wondered if that is entirely incidental or due to the gender-specific structures on the male body. I could perform more interesting experiments on her, I suppose, but mayhaps it would be a polite gesture to cut the girl above the groin. I imagine Lord Bolton would find it most amusing.

Every trace of fear vanished from the "Nan's" face the moment her sad, grey eyes made their way to Lord Vargo. This was a different sort of defiance than the one Qyburn had seen her display around Walton Steelshanks. Anger burned in the girl's eyes like wildfire. A man could not survive among the Brave Companions for a week, much less seven years, unless he knew how to read other men and Qyburn had learned to do long before the maesters expelled him from the citadel for the crime of possessing an inquiring mind...for daring to seek the answers to life's great questions. The things I've learned by studying the living could've saved thousands of lives were it not for those cowardly, weak-willed fools. With the proper resources, mayhaps I could have even cured death itself by now. I've already brought ravens back from the dead. Why not men? The maesters would see us all blinded by ignorance before they dared provide the world with even a touch of illumination.

"Lord Vargo tried to choke me to death this morning, m'Lord," whimpered "Nan," plainly doing her best to sound like a frightened child. "I know I should have been watching where I was going. I didn't mean to bump into him. I was sorry, my Lord; I really was! I tried to beg Lord Vargo's forgiveness, but before I could he...he grabbed me by the throat and –"

"You lying, horthe-faced, little cunt..." "Nan" glared at the Goat of Harrenhal for a few seconds almost as though something he said made her briefly forget that she was supposed to be playing the scared, innocent, little girl. The Lord of the Dreadfort yawned.

"Are you finished wasting my time or will I have to have your tongue out," asked Lord Bolton calmly. Ripping tongues out. How utterly predictable. We both know that you are a far more creative man then that, my Lord, thought Qyburn with a disappointed sigh.

"Sorry, m'Lord. I wouldn't have said anything at all, it's just...Lord Vargo disrespected you is all. I tried...I really tried to tell him that he wasn't supposed to hurt your servants without your permission, but he said he could hurt whoever he wanted. The stup...I mean...Lord Vargo grabbed me by the throat and said he'd crush my windpipe." Roose Bolton hid his emotions better than anyone Qyburn had ever met, but even his face could be read like an open book if you knew the language it was written in. At least someone is enjoying themselves... At this rate, I fear we might even see Lord Bolton laugh.

"Thut your lying mouth right now and maybe I won't fuck you bloody with a hunting knife before I dip you in boiling oil. Lord Bolton doethn't need to hear any more of your lieth, whore."

"Don't I? Am I to understand that you now presume to speak for me, Lord Vargo."

"No, I...I beg your forgiveneth, my Lord."

"Very well, I shall forget your insolence this once, Lord Vargo. Of course, if you continue to prove yourself unable to act the Lord, I fear you will leave me with no choice but to find out if another man in your company can. Go on, Nan, finish your tale."

"I would, m'Lord. It's just...it seemed to me making Lord Vargo angry is all. I'd never want to do anything to upset him."

"Nonsense. Vargo Hoat is a Lord in name alone, you needn't concern yourself with what he thinks. And he was enjoying your story, wasn't he?" The Lord of Harrenhal ground his teeth, clenched both of his hands into fists, and nodded his head. "You'll have to speak up if you expect anyone to hear you," said Lord Bolton in a voice as soft as a whisper.

"Yes, I was enjoying it very much, my Lord," growled Vargo Hoat.

"Good. You see, Nan, Lord Vargo doesn't mind. Now then, how else did Lord Vargo disrespect me?" The girl is a terrible liar and a fool to draw such attention to herself, although I have no doubt Lord Vargo attacked her. Why is she still alive? Lord Bolton must know she is not providing a true account of whatever happened and yet he has plainly chosen to side with her over Vargo Hoat. The whole business grows stranger with every word. Sadly, I have no time for such curiousities. This should be settled elsewhere. I need the rookery to do my work. I require silence. Is it not enough that Lord Vargo contaminates my workspace with his slobber on a daily basis.

"I tried to tell him that your servants are your property, m'Lord. He said...he said that what you thought didn't matter because he was the Lord of Harrenhal and promised to beat me bloody. When I told him that he needed your permission to hurt me, he threw me across the hall. I hit my head on the ground. It hurt, m'Lord," whimpered "Nan," rubbing her head.

"I want that fucking whore punithed. I'll rip your lying tongue out of your mouth! Do you hear me, you ugly little thlut?"

"Yes, yes, yes, you're quite right, Lord Vargo. The girl will need to be disciplined, but not by you, I think. As it happens, I am of a mind to do so right now." Lord Vargo's smile is curious, to say the least. I suppose I shall have to experiment upon prisoners mouthes. I would not have thought a man could smile so widely. I wonder...how far can a person's lips stretch before they begin to rip. The man is missing a few teeth. Mayhaps I should pull out some from the back of my subjects' mouthes to get more complete results. Of course, that could artificially influence said results. Decisions, decisions...

"Nan, you should have been watching where you were going."

"I'm sorry, m'Lord. I really am!"

"Liar," snapped the Goat of Harrenhal.

"Very well, you will apologize to Lord Vargo and we shall consider the matter settled," replied Lord Bolton mildly. Fascinating.

"Yes, m'Lord," grumbled "Nan." The girl took several steps toward the Goat of Harrenhal, never taking her eyes off of Qyburn. "I'm sorry I walked into you, m'Lord. I didn't mean to scare you, I just forgot to watch where I was going is all."

"The girl has apologized, Lord Vargo. Now you will accept her apology, I think."

"I'll do no thuch thing."

"Tell me, my Lord, are you left-handed or right-handed? It matters not at all. If you disobey me again, I will decide for you," said Lord Bolton calmly.

"I accept your apology," muttered the Goat of Harrenhal.

"Thank you, my Lord. I never meant to upset you. I know! I can show how to pronounce the letter 's.' It's not hard. Even a half-wit can do it. You probably just need some help is all." My Lord? That answers one question, I suppose. The child of some Westerlands Lord mayhaps? That can't be it. She'd be in a cell were that the case and Lord Bolton would never indulge a Northern Lordling half this much, let alone a hostage.

"Mock me all you want, but you will come to rue thith day. You'll be dead, thoon enough. You can't even imagine the thingth that I'm going you once Lord Bolton leaveth Harrenhal. I'll have you begging me to thkin you alive in ten minuteth. Do you underthtand, cunt?"

"You'll do no such thing, Lord Vargo. I am of a mind to bring the girl with me when I depart from Harrenhal. She will remain my cupbearer. I trust there are no objections."

"No, my Lord. The cunt ith yourth." Suddenly, "Nan" did something that shocked Qyburn. It was only for a second, but the girl smirked at Vargo Hoat and stuck her tongue out at him.

"I'll kill you, you bathtard," roared the goat, unsheathing a dagger from his belt. A bastard? Could she be some baseborn child of Lord Bolton's whom he feels responsible for? She certainly has a Northern look. No, the girl is too old to have been born during the war and if she were born before it, he'd have left her at the Dreadfort. And she has none of his features besides. "Lord Bolton, the girl thaid 'my Lord' a moment ago. I knew the wathn't from the Riverlandth."

"Enough. Lord Vargo, leave us. Now," snapped Lord Bolton in a voice as sharp as a knife. Not amused anymore, are we, my Lord? Vargo Hoat stormed out of the room. As soon as the Goat of Harrenhal left the rookery, Lord Bolton whacked "Nan" in the back of the head with his right hand.

"Oww! Hey! What was that for?"

"Even a whipped dog will bite if you kick it too often. Thanks to your display that fool knows you are highborn. And you're a far better liar than that, I think." Lord Bolton trusts me enough to speak of such matters in my presence? That is good to know.

"But you said that the best way to get revenge on enemies you couldn't kill was to play games with them. And I didn't lie...not really. I just changed a few things is all. And you were doing the same thing to him besides," replied "Nan." Lord Bolton's lips twisted into a thin smile and he nodded approvingly.

"I will not chide you on that score, but you must be more careful. Vargo Hoat fears me, but he would think nothing of butchering you. A wise man only plays such games as he can win. Remember that, Nan." He speaks to her like a man teaching his son. Mayhaps the girl is Lord Bolton's bastard after all and simply takes after her mother. The daughter he never wanted, most like. What other explanation could there be?

"But Lord Vargo can't hurt me...not really. You wouldn't let him." Did the girl stumble upon the aftermath of one of my experiments? Is that why she keeps looking at me like that? Lord Bolton plainly intends to legitimize her. It would not serve for young Nan to become Lady of the Dreadfort someday should her half-brother ever die. If she fears and mistrusts me this much already, she would never allow me to continue my work at the Dreadfort if I am still alive whenever Domeric dies. And I very much intend to be. The message from the blue-eyed raven promised me the secret to immortality if I followed its master's instructions, after all. The first raven Qyburn re-animated flew out the rookery's window only to return in a week with blue eyes and the first of several messages he'd secretly exchanged with his other master...one from beyond the Wall. I can only imagine the knowledge they've gained after all of these years. He promised to tell me secrets as old as time itself. As the Starks are fond of reminding us, winter is coming, Qyburn thought to himself with a smile.

"And what if you should come across him again when I'm not around? Who will protect you then?"

"Sorry, my Lord. I just wanted to get back at him for hurting me is all. I thought you'd be proud of me."

"Then there will be no more outbursts?"

"No, my Lord," mumbled Nan, looking down at the floor of the rookery and biting her lip. Nan Snow. It is odd that he would bring her with him, but it is no stranger than his fondness for leeches, I suppose. Roose Bolton may be the wisest Lord in the Seven Kingdoms, but he is a most peculiar man. It would explain why he has taken such pains to hide her identity. Vargo Hoat would think nothing of kidnapping the girl and using her as a hostage. That's the answer right there. No, no, the goat has to die along with the bastard. It would not serve for him to gain any leverage over Lord Bolton. I fear Lord Vargo is far too much of a loose cannon and he has scant appreciation for my work besides.

"Good. You did a fine job of toying with Lord Vargo though, I think. I fear I've never been able to enrage the fool half so much as you did." Nan's face lit up the moment the words left the Lord of the Dreadfort's mouth. All bastards crave their father's approval, I suppose. This one is plainly so desperate for a pat on the head from hers that Lord Bolton could probably make her his pet were he so in/clined.

"Qyburn."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"My cupbearer seems to believe that you are torturing prisoners in the rookery. I trust that you can dispossess her of such foolish notions." And the humiliations continue. It would seem that I have been reduced to sanitizing my work for highborn bastards. Sanitize...a maester's word if there ever was one, Qyburn thought to himself bitterly.

"Of course, my Lord. Little girl, I merely ensure that prisoners remain disease free. You wouldn't want any of your little friends getting sick, would you?" The girl gulped audibly and bit her lip. "Come now, little one, do I truly frighten you so? Would you like a chocolate plumb?" Surely there must be one around here that isn't drugged. Candy was undeniably the best way to test the effects of different poisons on small children. Nan shook her head vigorously and took several steps back. Stubborn little thing, aren't you. Yes, I'm afraid you'll have to go. She looked up at her father pleadingly, but the Lord of the Dreadfort simply yawned at her.

"Can we...can we go now, my Lord? I believe him; I...I really do. Can we please go back to your solar," whispered Nan, her fingers twitching nervously at her sides. Qyburn smiled gently at the sad, grey eyes staring at him, each as wide with fright as a full moon. I suppose the best course of action would be to persuade Vargo Hoat to kill the girl, but how? The Gods alone know what he'd do if he knew Nan was Lord Bolton's bastard, and one likely to be legitimized, no less. I will have to convince him that she is some other highborn, I suppose. Hmm... The girl has a Northern look and she is of more or less the right age, if Lord Bolton's raven can be believed. Yes, that should be simple enough.

"Do you know why I have Lannister men killed in the rookery, Nan," asked the Leech Lord.

"No, my Lord."

"Men fear most that which is born of their own imagination. They hear screams from the rookery and, like you, they fill their mind with all the ways men could be tortured in this room. Some fools even say Qyburn performs black magic. They come to fear the rookery far too much to ever dream of disobeying an order. Do you understand, Nan?"

"I think so, my Lord."

"Then I will hear no more of this 'Gendry's' wild tales about the rookery?" I know that look, Qyburn thought to himself as he forced himself to contain his excitement. Whoever Gendry is, I fear he is not long for this world. Not if Lord Bolton has anything to say about it, at least. It would seem that I may get a new subject today after all.

"No, my Lord."

"Good. In that case, we may return to my solar as you requested. I'm sure Qyburn has little and less time for such interruptions."

"The work continues, my Lord." For you and for the King Beyond the Wall...

...

"I thould kill them both. Dumb bathtardth! Lord Bolton knew the bitch wath lying. A blind man could have theen it," snarled Lord Vargo.

"As you say, my Lord. I have news which may interest you though. You were quite right, the girl is indeed highborn. I learned her identity from a message that Lord Bolton had me write," replied Qyburn.

"What? You know who the ith?"

"Yes, my Lord. She's not from the Riverlands either. You were most clever to realize it."

"Why would you tell me any of thith?"

"I fear you more than Lord Bolton. And I have seen how he treats his friends when they are of no more use to him. He favors a little girl because he has need of her, despite everything you have done for him. I imagine he'll discard me too when the time comes, mayhaps even violently. And I would like to think that you are a man who remembers his friends."

"You are a withe man. Who ith the cunt? Tell me!" And you are brutish, violent, and stupid. A perfect catspaw!

"The girl is Arya Stark. Lord Bolton sent a raven to her brother informing the King Who Lost the North that he had found his younger sister." If you had half the wits the Gods gave a turnip, you'd laugh me out of Harrenhal. Arya Stark. The girl is rotting in a cell somewhere in King's Landing, most like.

"The Lannitherth have her. Lord Bolton once thaid they wanted to trade the two Thtark bitcheth for the Kingthlayer."

"Apparently the girl disappeared when the Lannisters seized the Iron Throne. It doesn't matter, I suppose. Robb Stark has already lost the war."

"He hath won every battle."

"Winterfell is a pile of rubble. Tywin Lannister is rumored to be negotiating an alliance with the Tyrells. Don't you see the writing on the wall? Of course you do, you're a...wise Lord." It took all of the former maester's self-control to say the last two words with a straight face.

"Lord Karthtark will protect me if I can capture the Kingthlayer. The Young Wolfth mother releathed him. Dumb bitch."

"But why take a chance? What if you never find the Kingslayer? Surely the Lannisters will pardon you for your company's betrayal if you return such a valuable hostage to them. Mayhaps they will even pay you a ransom. Lannisters always pay their debts, my Lord. It would be simple enough to break into the room across from Lord Bolton's chambers one night and kidnap the girl, I think." Qyburn could practically see the gears turning inside the goat's head.

"It would be thimple enough, aye. When the Lannitherth retake Harrenhal, I thall thee to it that they thpare your life, my friend." How sweet it is to kill two birds with one stone. Soon I shall have Lord Bolton's undivided attention once more and you will never drool in my rookery again.