AN: For anybody still wondering; this story is not over. Chapter 34b is the 'canon' chapter and this is the continuation. There is a slight time skip.

Broken Men

Jon sat at the desk that had been arranged for him, finding even this simple task to be painful. It was almost to the point of being something he couldn't actually push himself to do but… but he refused to let Sam or Gendry or anyone else do this. This was something that he would have to do and there was absolutely no getting around that.

"Next name Sam."

Ever the faithful companion, Sam was holed up with him in his room in the Children's Tower. The Moat had been repaired to a standard that Jon would happily say probably exceeded the expectations of the First Men who had defended it in ages past. But both occupants knew that the real reason Sam was in this well-restored room had nothing to do with the décor, such as it was, and had little to do with helping Jon actually write either.

No, Sam was here as his attending 'medical advisor' until that disgraced maester of Bran's get here for Jon's first 'official examination'.

Jon had never been left alone with the disgraced maester and, judging by the looks the man gave his body when he thought no one was looking, that was probably a good thing. But this time? Ah well this time it would be different, this time Bran had insisted that he put up with the way his skin crawled.

His little brother was of the opinion that to actually heal right, Jon would have to use some rather different treatments. Jon looked down at himself for a moment, feeling a pang of bitterness run through him. What gave Bran the right to talk about how he needed to push himself to try new treatments? The boy was the picture of health. Jon was the one who couldn't get to sleep at night for the pain and the complete lack of any resting position that didn't agitate at least one of his many wounds.

His leg ached, even sat in a chair, and Jon found himself wanting to scratch at the bandages around his gut. He resisted the urge only because he knew that Sam would insist on him leaving their duty so that he could undress the wound, poke and prod at it for a good hour, before redressing the wound and insisting that he rest again.

As he was right now, Jon literally didn't have the strength to force the bigger man to let him do what he wanted.

"Robyn Waters."

He paused for a moment, his hand seizing for a moment as a spasm of pain ran through his right forearm. Swearing under his breath, Jon tucked his chin to his chest to better hold in the whimper as his wounded right forearm spasmed, the damaged muscles reacting to being used too much. A fucking quill was almost too much for him… fuck this! He glared at Sam when he felt, rather than saw, the bigger man make to help him.

Invalid though he may be, Jon rejected help at almost every turn.

It was self-destructive and he knew it but he was a stubborn bastard and that wasn't going to change. In fact, it was probably the only reason he actually got himself out of bed in the morning now. That and finishing this Gods' damned letter… he refused to let something so simple beat him because he knew, in the back of his mind, that if something this simple could beat him then there was no hope for him of ever being better than he was right now.

And that? That was not an option as far as Jon was concerned; he might as well bite off his own tongue and choke on it if it ever came to that.

The spasms seemed to peter off, allowing Jon a small reprieve from that pain, even if his gut wound was beginning to itch a bit more. His left arm… well he wasn't left handed anyway when it came to writing so it almost didn't matter that it was taped tightly to his side so he didn't agitate the many wounds along its length.

Picking up the quill again, Jon scratched out the name in a shaking hand before just pausing to let his fingers seem to realise what they were supposed to be doing again. Somehow that fucking arrow to his arm had messed up everything further down. Not too much but enough that it made pretty much every action with that hand harder than it should have any right to be.

Fuck.

This was never going to be getting any better was it? He was never going to be able to raise his sword against him enemies again, all he was going to be able to do is just sit, or lay, as his brothers rushed into danger and his friends died. He swallowed thickly and forced himself to ask,

"Next name Sam?"

The silence was stark.

Eventually, Sam sighed to himself at a volume he was certain his bigger friend thought he couldn't hear. He glanced to his friend from the Reach as he checked a few pieces of parchment. He considered the larger man for a moment before speaking again,

"Tell me the truth Sam…" he caught his friend's undivided attention, "Do you think I'll recover from this? Or am I destined to remain as useless as I am now?"

Calculating eyes took in his broken form and Jon managed to not feel angry at the gaze, even if he did feel a pit of shame rest in his gut. Not even a few weeks ago, his friend would have looked at him and seen a strong warrior and now he would see nothing but the shell of said man. Hells, the only reason he hadn't grown a beard like some of those injured veterans of Robert's Rebellion was that Bran had arranged for a servant boy to help him shave once a day.

Sam shifted slightly on his feet, shifting his not insubstantial bulk from one foot to the other for a few moments,

"What you have to remember, Jon, is that you aren't defined by how effective you are on the battlefield. Or, at least, you don't have to be." He reasoned, "Look at me. My own father sent me to join the Night's Watch because he was convinced I would never be anything other than a disappointment to him and his name. Now? He's written to me Jon. He's heard about some of the things I've done… like the incidents with the Whitehills."

That episode had been… well it had been a Gods' honest nightmare at the time is what it had been. It was something that had pushed him to accept that battle could seldom ever be glorious like the stories said.

The Whitehills and the Forresters hated each other to such a degree that it was barely possible for members of the same family to be within the same league of each other. Of course the incident Sam was referring to was a Whitehill-backed raids on some of the Forrester loggers, that Jon, Sam and the Lords had been commissioned by Lord Gregor to investigate and put an end to.

The ambush had been brutal and man of his men had been injured but not killed, to serve as both warning and distraction. And their deaths would serve to make almost any victory seem worthless when it was weighed against how many deaths there had been. Jon had counter attacked hard but the simple fact was that those who had been downed by the first few volleys of arrows would have died… had Samwell Fucking Tarly not gone briefly fucking mad.

That was how Jon and the others referred to it when time and safety had allowed.

Sam, completely unarmoured since they hadn't even reached the Forrester lands, had dashed across an active battlefield to grab an injured man from the edge of the battle, cast down and forgotten, and carry him to the more defended rear of their column. It was something that everyone agreed had been mad and they'd made him promise not to do it again. Instead he'd encouraged fighting men to pull their wounded friends back if it was possible. Honestly, the fact that he gave such a damn about every fighting man earned him a lot of good will from the men.

Apparently it had a similar effect on the Tarly patriarch.

"He called me mad." He revealed with a small smile, "Mad or brave. He was convinced that it was either fake or that it was proof that I might just be his son… I kept doing it and he kept writing me. My point, Jon, is that I was seen as worse than you are right now because my efforts to become a warrior were doomed to failure. So I didn't try and become a warrior. I pushed all of my efforts in a different path and I gained, at least some of, the respect that I always wanted."

A nice little speech.

Very motivational for most people he would think.

Of course there was a little bit of a fucking difference between not being able to stomach killing another man and being crippled beyond most reasonable use after all. Even the Tyrell heir was still able to get around under his own power and could fight if he absolutely had to. Jon didn't have the luxury of such an easy disability; his left arm would literally never work again, his right leg would never support his weight again and his right arm was no prize either. That was what Sam had reported to Gendry and Bran when they had thought he was asleep.

Honestly, he didn't know why he'd bothered to actually ask the question of Sam. Maybe some kind of desperate hope? A mad little part of him that thought that his friend actually had some hope that he would be able to regain what he had lost? Fuck knows.

Didn't matter; Sam might as well have agreed with his worst feelings when he went on to explain how Jon could be useful in other ways.

Basically saying he didn't believe he'd ever return to what he had been before.

Fuck.

He'd dropped the quill and picking things up was something of a chore right his only usable hand at the moment. There was a pain near his elbow but he ignored it as best he could as he grasped the instrument again, scratching out one of the names he could remember off the top of his head. He paused for a long moment before tossing the quill aside, an action he noted gained a raised eyebrow from Sam.

Ignoring his friend, Jon pushed the piece of parchment away from him with a light wave of his free hand,

"Seal and sent it Sam." He told his friend with a scowl as he braced himself against the table with his free hand and his chair with his left shoulder. Ignoring the burst of pain, Jon surged to his feet, clinging to the table so he didn't fall when his right leg buckled under him. This gave him enough time to strengthen his left leg enough for him to stand.

Fuck's sake.

Standing was really fucking hard. Walking unaided?

Yeah that was even more of a pile of 'nope' than the idea of standing on that fucking leg of his. Taking a few deep breaths, Jon was saved the indignity of asking Sam to fetch his crutch by his friend appearing beside him, the offending piece of wood in hand. Tucking its padded end under his right arm, Jon tested it gingerly.

Some part of him was always convinced that the wood would snap and he'd tumble to the ground like some kind of demented circus acrobat.

Once he was fairly certain that it wasn't going to send him on a painful trip to the stone floor, Jon moved further away from the desk,

"Why are you even moving Jon?" Sam asked from his side as Jon moved to his bed-side, aiming for a goblet of water before anything else, "Healer Qyburn will be here soon; I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you sat for most of your examination."

It was a precarious balancing act, but Jon managed to prop his crutch in such a way that it supported him as he used his salvageable hand to snag a goblet. As was always the case these days, the goblet wasn't anywhere near full, for fear that he wouldn't be able to hold it if it were too heavy, what with the pangs of pain that seemed designed entirely for ruining his limited control of his only usable hand.

Taking a few gulps, he half placed and half dropped the goblet back where he had picked it up from, grabbing hold of his crutch with renewed determination,

"Everything in my life has been about strength, Sam." He answered his friend through gritted teeth as he rode out another spasm of pain down his left arm before trusting himself to move again, "Strength of body made me a warrior. Strength of conviction made me the bane of the Ironborn. And, with any luck, strength of will may allow this twisted healer a chance to mend me."

"Ah… a very useful attitude my Lord."

As much as he wanted to spin round at the speaker, present some kind of defence against what may well be a threat, Jon was limited to what his body would allow. Which at this point consisted of a flinch and a half-turn that allowed him to see the speaker at the cost of his right leg almost disappearing from his feeling entirely, so acute was the protesting pain.

He had managed to avoid screaming like a woman so… small victories in this war eh?

Finally able to see the man who had spoken, Jon's eyes narrowed suspiciously almost immediately.

There was no logical reason why he should be distrustful of the person who had spoken; indeed, Sam seemed to positively relax upon catching sight of the man. And for all appearances, he looked like nothing more than a kind old man. Kind of like what he imagined a child would think of a grandparent to look like if they had never had the fortune of seeing their true grandparents themselves. He had an easy smile and bright eyes that caught the light in what, he assumed, looked like a playful sparkle to others.

To him though?

There was just something about the man that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his shoulders tighten, his muscles attempting to coil themselves in the way they had always done before he launched himself into combat. But for the life of him, Jon couldn't explain why he felt so uncomfortable around the old man. Still, at least he wasn't the only person in the room who looked wary.

Bran stand to the side of the ex-maester, a deep frown making his face look even more narrow and severe than it already was. For though Bran had taken his mother's colouring, his bone structure marked him as much a Stark as any who had shared his name throughout the years. He was tall for his age but appeared to be rather slight, like he was capable of fighting but hadn't thrown himself into it with the same fervour as Jon and Robb had.

Honestly, his younger brother reminded him of his lord father, complete with the seldom smile and the severity that made men twice his age look to him whenever any matter of import came along.

And he was giving Qyburn the darkest look he had seen in a long time, doing absolutely nothing to hide his distaste for the man. This… well it actually spoke well of the ex-maesters skills if he was honest with himself. If Bran, who quite clearly hated the man, could put that aside to let the man attempt to treat him, it suggested that this Qyburn had some truly remarkable skills in the healing arts.

Jon tried not to entertain any thoughts about why such a talented healer had been stripped of his chain by the Citadel.

He was certain that Sam or Bran would have told him in a heartbeat if he had truly cared to know but honestly? Jon didn't want to know. If this man could heal his broken body, even partially, Jon wouldn't care what the man had done. No matter how many laws of Gods and men the man had broken, Jon would chose the same choice again and again.

He just preferred to do so with some ignorance intact for his weak morality's sake.

"Healer Qyburn?"

There wasn't really a need to ask but it was more of a greeting than a question to be honest and everyone in the room knew it. The man's smile held a comfortable warmth but somehow still managed to make his stomach churn for a moment,

"That is what they call me." He agreed amicably, "I think of myself more of a scientist than a healer but I admit; I likely know more about the human body and it's workings than any man of the chain."

Well now… wasn't that ominous as seven different Hells?

Bran seemed to think so as well, shifting slightly in place, is gaze never leaving Qyburn for even an instant. Sam seemed perfectly at ease however,

"I like to think the maesters don't know everything either." He agreed with the ex-maester, "They're a good start but some of their material is a bit… out of date maybe? I've got a notebook of all the improvements I've found myself."

Qyburn's eyes seemed to positively glow as his smile stretched and his attention left Jon for a moment to fix Sam with his undivided attention,

"A fellow believer!" he declared with a clap of his hands, "Oh young man we shall have to compare notes sometime in the future! For now though…"

Jon found himself pinned with that unsettling gaze again,

"I believe I've read enough of your notes on Ser Jon's condition to do a brief examination and begin the first procedure." He declared, turning to Bran even as he left Jon blinking in confusion, "The men will bring my supplies?"

Bran ground his teeth before nodding, barking the relevant orders to a few men outside the door before moving closer to Jon as Sam and Qyburn had an animated conversation by the door. Making sure that he wasn't taking hold of anything wounded, Bran gripped Jon's right shoulder in his hand rather tightly,

"I'll be here for the procedures brother." He assured him, his voice hard and cold even though Jon could see the same tenderness as before in his dark grey eyes, "I know this healer is incredible at his work… but what he does isn't nice. I'll keep watch to make sure that he keeps himself on fucking topic alright?"

Jon had to admit that he rather appreciated that. But still…

"Watch your fucking language you little shite." He immediately retorted with, amused by how Bran's face kind of dropped in shock until he noticed that Jon was obviously ribbing him, "Father would never stand for such language."

Slipping into the mind-set that Jon had wanted to encourage, Bran just rolled his eyes, arms folded,

"Aye, says the man who can't even stand."

Ouch.

Okay so that one had hit home a bit too keenly for Jon to really just accept it but it wasn't like it was untrue. Instead he just smirked a little bit, the expression noticeably lessened,

"Aye."

His little brother deflated but Jon just waved off his concern and took off towards the bed, his crutch a godsend at the moment. He didn't exactly want to linger around Bran after that last jab and leaning on someone to be able to walk kind of brought them close to linger with you. Reaching the bed, Jon gave both Bran and Sam a brief wave as they left; Sam to fetch some more materials and Bran to check on something or other.

Strangely enough, he was more focused on the healer he was being left alone with.

After all, he knew that he was beyond most forms of medical aid and any kind of aid that this ex-maester could offer would either be experimental or banned. Or both knowing his luck. Hells, maybe this was one of those maesters who believed that magic was still something that could be harnessed?

What a fucking joke they were.

Magic was as absent from this world as The Others and the Children of the Forest. He believed that it had existed but there was almost no chance that either of those groups would return so magic wasn't something to worry about. Or obsess about like some of the maesters with their Valyrian steel links would.

Laying himself down, with much difficulty, Jon decided he might as well satisfy his curiosity and distract himself from the pain such movement had brought him,

"Tell me healer Qyburn… did you have many Silver links in your Maester's chain?"

The old man paused in his, rather engaged, watching of Jon's movements. There was a moment where Jon could have sworn he saw something dark and ugly flash in the old man's eyes but it was gone in the blink of an eye, the old man undisturbed by the question,

"Oh yes, yes." He answered distractedly, giving Jon's right knee a poke with a bony finger. Thankfully the knee was one of the parts that didn't hurt so he didn't swear at the elderly healer, "I have almost a dozen Silver links – I knew more about medicine than most of the council combined. But I only had one other type of metal in my chain. I wanted to make sure I studied what I wanted to the ends that I desired; so less distraction from useless subjects like economics or, gods forbid, ravenry."

Huh.

Seemed like Qyburn had almost been as focused as Jon himself had been. Of course now he had an even more burning question in mind. He waited until he was laid on his back, reasonably comfortable, before actually asking the question,

"And that other metal I wonder…" he glanced at the healer, keeping an eye on the man as he opened up a small wooden box, keeping the contents hidden from Jon's sight, "Wouldn't happen to have been Valyrian Steel would it?"

Qyburn chuckled obligingly but seemed to have had enough of talking about himself. Before Jon could react, the ex-maester withdrew his hand from the box and lunged at his prone form. Jon's eyes widened as he watched the man plunge what looked like a fucking porcupine quill into the side of his neck. He tried to speak but found that what little of his strength had remained was fleeing his body rapidly.

Still, his frantic eye movement must have told Qyburn what sort of questions he wanted to ask. The elderly healer seemed in absolutely no rush as he removed the object from Jon's neck and dabbed away at the blood pooling from the puncture wound,

"Oh now Ser, there's no need to look so afraid." He tutted, "I had come to think you were somewhat educated; surely you know that a good surgeon never operates without some form of anaesthesia? Well here is a concoction of my own. Yes, you may begin sweating and, yes, you will have a fever but you may also notice that you can no longer move yes?"

Not much of a difference considering his sorry state but when Jon attempted movements he knew he was still capable of, he found his entire body unresponsive. Good Gods he wanted to fucking scream! This was like all of the fears and worries he'd been having since he first awoke with his injuries, piled on top of each other and burying him alive.

Was it getting hard to breathe? Holy fuck. It was! The mad fucker had poisoned him with something that paralyzed him and it was working on his breath! He was going to suffocate lying awake in his own fucking bed!

Qyburn seemed to notice his predicament and, in rather an unhurried manner, selected another box and produced a more typical potion. Pouring some in Jon's mouth, the healer massaged his throat to force him to swallow the mixture. After a few more agonising moments of frantic, shallow, breaths, Jon was relieved to find that his chest seemed to loosen enough to allow him to breathe properly again… even if he still couldn't move.

"You probably think that something terrible is going to happen to you." Qyburn stated, there wasn't a question to be seen, as he began unwrapping Jon's injuries to lay them all bare before him, "You're quite right, I'm afraid. But terrible things have to happen sometimes you see. To put it a way you may be familiar with; I'm quite certain that being healed till glowing and then hammered wouldn't be pleasant for a length of steel. But it is required to forge a sword. Do you follow?"

Fucking hells… the man had drugged him the very second that no one was around to stop him, was going to be doing unspeakable things to his vulnerable body and he was monologuing. And he surely was monologuing because there was no way that Jon was going to be able to answer with his jaw and tongue being so uncooperative. Instead he did his best to burn through the man's face with the intensity of his gaze.

"Oh of course. The dose was rather strong; I was working under the assumption that you would be around the same weight as the last time your brother saw you. You've lost quite a bit of weight since then so this dose may be too much…" he seemed to be mildly annoyed at that part but Jon would bet his sword that it was more of a professional annoyance than any annoyance at having increased the risk of death to Jon himself, "But I digress. Blink once for yes, twice for no and three times for what, I am certain, would be very long insult, involving lots of curse words."

Oh he wanted to curse the man out of the room alright, but the fact that the healer had 'predicted' that as a response was something that annoyed Jon enough not to respond with that option. Qyburn hummed as he poked around in Jon's lower leg, moving the ruined limb around to see the interior of the wound better, a candle held close for light. He hated the toxin he had been injected with, he hated being paralyzed but he would admit that he did enjoy the respite from all the pain.

"Now, Ser, I will warn you that this next part will hurt. No toxin or mixture I have come across or created has ever been able to make this sort of pain go away." The healer told him, that damned easy smile never leaving his face even though his hands were now, literally, covered in blood, "This entire process will hurt more than acquiring these wounds. I am certain of that. And of one last thing; if you survive this process you will begin your road to recovering the life you once lost."

He placed his hands on either side of Jon's head and peered down at him. From Jon's perspective the older man was upside down but it didn't do anything to hide the excited gleam in the healer's eyes,

"Do you want this Ser Jon? Do you want to recover what you have lost? Will you stand the pain?" he urged, "Remember… twice for no…"

Jon blinked once, resisting the urge to blink three times to simulate swearing at the deranged ex-maester. But in the end… what would that accomplish? This might not be something he would ever be comfortable with, but it was something that he would accept if it was going to be giving him his life back.

In the end the choice was as certain as the pain.