Author's note: All previous chapters have been solely from the Delivery Girl's POV. From now on until the end of this story, each chapter will be from a different character's POV. I hope this is not confusing.

The elderly man was always meticulous in packing away his tools. For each pocket and pouch in his bag there was an ointment or powder belonged to it; for each strap or sheath there were scissors or a scalpel to fit. Everything in its proper place. Maester Qyburn hated disorder. Work places must always be kept tidy.

Once the bag was re-packed, he tipped the pot of discoloured water out onto the ground, bundled up the bloody rags and other detritus and threw them onto the small fire he had burning. Re-filled another pot with fresh water from a flask, then hung the pot over the flames to boil. He was ready for his next patient, but he was tired. His sore hip was giving him trouble, from leaning forward for hours. It had been a long day, and it still wasn't over.

He lowered himself onto the circular stump of a tree he'd been using as a seat, positioned by a similar one for his patients. Steelshanks had helped him set up the make-shift treatment area earlier, under the shade and sheltered from the wind. Steelshanks himself had been his first patient, with a long gash to his forearm that needed several stitches. Locke's men may have died or fled, but they didn't do either without putting up a fair fight.

Steelshanks could not have been in a better mood though, despite his cut. He was chatty and cheerful throughout the suturing procedure. He even smiled once. Quite out of character for the normally taciturn soldier, but Qyburn wasn't surprised. Steelshanks had, after all, just gone from escorting a disgraced and little-known Noblewoman, of somewhat dubious worth to the Tyrells or Lannisters, to now escorting Jaime Lannister himself. He'd already sent a messenger boy on his fastest horse back to his liege Lord, Roose Bolton, to let him know of the good news.

As the Maester stitched and cleaned, Steelshanks had commented that he hoped Roose would recieve the news before setting off to the wedding of Lord Frey's daughter at the Twins. Apon hearing of the Stark's attendance at the event, apparently Jaime Lannister had sent his regards. Roose would love to hear that, Steelshanks said. It would make his day.

Qyburn knew Steelshanks' happiness was partly relief. After the initial shock of seeing Jaime Lannister again, everyone's next thought had been that he was about to get himself killed or captured. Locke had evidently seen a way to get his hands on the reward that he considered unfairly snatched from him when Roose insisted he give up the Tarth woman. Never one to take orders or vows of loyalty seriously, Locke. Always seeking the profit in it for himself, Qyburn mused. Well, it would have worked out for him too; Jaime Lannister confusing bravery with foolhardiness as Knights are prone to do, if not for the Tarth woman. She'd been the one demanding they investigate that gods-awful screeching in the first place.

Qyburn was by nature a curious man, but that sound had not made him want to run towards it. Quite the opposite. It sounded like a sinner being tormented in the deepest of the seven hells, but Lady Tarth is an awfully pig-headed woman.

Qyburn shook his head as he pondered the strange ways the gods worked. He was more a man of science, but sometimes events played out with such effect it made one believe a higher power must be in charge. If Steelshanks' party hadn't been riding past close enough to hear that shrieking, if they'd not been delayed in their travels by stopping to treat the Cole boy, if they'd been ten minutes longer here, or another decision had been made there... well, the outcome could have been very different.

As it turned out, investigating those hellish screams was the first in a series of blessed decisions. They'd encountered the Kingslayer also headed toward the sound from another direction, and he'd immediately sent them around behind the ridge to ambush Locke's men, while he, as he'd put it, 'Bought some time'. Steelshanks had been reluctant to go along with this, but Jaime was as fired-up as a man could be, Qyburn remembered, so it hadn't seemed like a good idea to start arguing with him. He only would have left and gone on alone if they'd declined to help him.

Qyburn himself had been sceptical the plan would work. Locke had more men, and without the element of surprise the odds would have favoured him. But then, Qyburn thought, I under-estimated the Kingslayer's gift of the gab. His skill in being captivatingly irritating. Jaime had indeed succeeded in distracting Locke and his men long enough, and completely enough, for Lady Tarth, Steelshanks and his men to come around from behind the ridge, and Locke was subsequently disarmed, his men disadvantaged.

So, it had been a good day. For Steelshanks, for Jaime and Lady Tarth, neither who had suffered injury, and for Qyburn himself, who's appearance at KingsLanding would be looked on much more favourably now that he was accompanying Jaime Lannister. It was a fortuitous decision to come on this trip. And the only damage out of the whole incident had been to two commoners. Yes, the gods had surely been smiling today, whether Qyburn had personal faith in them or not.

The old man rested his hands on his knees and considered asking a passing someone for a cup of tea. His mouth felt parched. If only anyone were still nearby, he thought. Unfortunately his previous patient, the Cole boy, had driven any interested observers away by screaming his lungs out during the cleaning of his stump. Two of Steelshanks' men had been required to hold the boy to his seat. There was a limited supply of milk of the poppy, and the boy had already had his share.

Such a waste of medicines and gauze, on a commoner lad. A waste of time to stop for him in the first place, the old man rued. Infection had already set in when they found the boy sitting by the King's Road yesterday, and it was a tricky procedure to slice away the bad flesh and sterilise what little then remained of his arm. And for what? The boy is a poor villager, with no gold. 'My father is a smith, he will pay you with steel and weapons,' he'd said, well, what use are they to me? I'm a man of science and practitioner of alchemy, not a Knight. But again, Lady Tarth had insisted.

The Maester sighed, stretched his fingers out to relieve the ache in the joints.

He only had the one more patient to treat before he could have some long-awaited supper and retire to his sleeping furs, and she had not uttered a peep since being tied to a tree by Lady Tarth. Had not so much as twitched, even during the Cole boy's wailing. So Qyburn wasn't in a hurry to begin on her. He needed a break to reflect. He sat back against a tree and meditated for a little while. He might have dozed off.

'Are you ever going to get around to treating that girl?'

Qyburn started, opened his eyes. The light was dimmer, evening having fallen. Lady Tarth was standing over him and scowling down like an angry bear.

'I was about to see to her,' the Maester said, mildly. He had lived long enough and dealt with enough disapproval of his methods to not be intimidated by grumpy Knights. Even grumpy bear-like women Knights.

'Ser Jaime has requested news of her condition. He would have come down to see you himself, but luckily for you he's busy discussing travel itineraries with Steelshanks. I told him you were currently tending to the girl and wouldn't want to be disturbed.' Lady Tarth narrowed her incongruous blue eyes. 'And I hate lying.'

Qyburn regarded her with solicitude. 'I was considering how to best treat the girl's rather... complicated... lacerations.'

'Were you? It looked like you were taking a nap.'

'My mind needs peace and quiet to function properly.' He got up, set about arranging his equipment. Lady Tarth loomed beside him, her presence off-puttingly oppressive.

'Perhaps you could fetch the patient?' Qyburn suggested, to get her out of his space.

The woman marched over to the tree where the commoner girl was tied, and undid the knots in the bindings. She half-carried her around to the little fire and sat her down on the seat opposite Qyburn. He nodded his thanks and hoped the woman would now leave, but she remained standing steadfast behind the girl's seat.

Qyburn switched his attention to the patient in front of him. 'What is your name?' he enquired, smiling. He found most people responded well to his kind smile, which he'd been told made him look like a benevolent grandfather. This patient though, looked particularly hostile.

His first impression was of wariness like a wild animal, and on closer inspection her appearance did nothing to alleviate Qyburn of this notion. Apart from the obvious recent trauma to her foot and eye, she was also covered in numerous other scratches and scabs, most noticeably on the palms of her hands. The top half of her face was half-swathed in bandages, the mouth below them set in a mutinous straight line. What hair showed through was stiff with dried blood, but was otherwise a pale copper colour, cut shorter than most women's hair to barely reach her shoulders. Qyburn guessed this was for convenience, if she lived as she looked she did; wild.

He studied the rest of her body. Her clothes were basically village garments that were now, like her hair, copiously stained with blood. She was thin, even for a commoner, and her skin was dark from the sun but also from some foreign breeding. Essos, he surmised. Although there was so much dirt and muck covering nearly every inch of her, it was difficult to get an accurate idea. All in all, he couldn't remember when he'd last seen a more pitiful specimen. Is this really a good use of my considerable expertise and knowledge? Treating savages?

As she hadn't yet answered Qyburn's question, he wondered if she was deaf or mentally impaired. 'Do you have a name, my dear?'

'Tell him your name,' Lady Tarth commanded, giving the girl a slight push.

'Robberta,' the girl said.

'Robberta. Good,' Qyburn smiled again. 'And how old are you, Robberta?'

'Twenty-five.'

Lady Tarth snorted. 'You're hardly older than a child. Why bother lying?'

Qyburn busied himself measuring out some powder into a cup and adding it to a pitcher. He stirred in a dropper of oil. Now why did Jaime Lannister risk his life for this scrawny little thing? A mystery. Sometimes, when he wasn't sure of the facts about a person, he found it useful to take his time preparing his medicines and allow them to fill the silence. This girl didn't look too chatty on her own, nor was the Tarth woman on a normal day, but he sensed the two of them together may create enough antipathy for the desired information to sprout forth. They weren't exactly bonding.

'Does this mean your name is also a lie?' Lady Tarth demanded to know, seeming determined to get some truths about this person they'd all put so much effort into saving.

Showing a distinct lack of gratitude, the girl grunted. 'It's a name. Use it.'

'I'd prefer to use your real name.'

'Why? Jaime didn't care.'

'Do I look like Ser Jaime?'

'No. He's prettier than you.'

'Everyone's prettier than me,' Lady Tarth shrugged. 'You think that provokes me, girl? Pretty is not something I concern myself with. And have you seen yourself lately?'

Qyburn unwrapped the bandages from around the girl's foot that he'd used to staunch the bleeding with earlier. She'd been nearly comatose then, and unresponsive to his removal of three of her toes. There was no saving them after Locke's men had removed all the nails, skin and flesh. Qyburn began to pick off some loose bits of remnant skin with his tweezers. The girl sucked air in through her teeth but held still.

'When can I leave?' she asked Lady Tarth, as Qyburn painted on ointment.

'Leave? You need your wounds treated daily for at least a week, and you need to rest and let them heal. You'll stay with us until you can walk on your own, and we're going to KingsLanding, so that means you are too. You and the Cole boy both.'

'Where's my bag? Did you take it?'

'Why, do you have weapons in it?'

'No! I need... I need stuff for... Fuck! Can I see Jaime?'

'Ser Jaime. And, no.'

'I'm not calling him Ser fucking Jaime, for fuck's sake,' the girl muttered, as Qyburn re-wrapped her foot in a clean bandage.

'You really need to stop swearing so much. It makes you sound common.' Lady Tarth was clearly fed up.

'I am common.'

'And I'm ugly,' Lady Tarth pointed out. 'Should I also choose to walk with a hunchback and squint?'

'Do what you want. I need my bag, and I need to talk to Jaime.'

'Once you convince me that you're not going to try and attack him again at the earliest chance -'

'You don't even understand! I need to take the stuff in my bag because Jaime... because I could be... ' The girl shut her mouth, but too late. What she hadn't said hung loud in the silence.

Qyburn, head down, gave a small smile. Could be... with Jaime's child? And tried to attack him? Now there were secrets worth knowing.

'No, girl. It's you who doesn't understand,' Lady Tarth said, stiffly. 'But you need to get a whole lot smarter, fast, before you open your mouth around the wrong people and make a huge mistake.' The tall woman walked from behind the seat to stand in front of the girl. 'Understand this, for your own good. Ser Jaime is a member of the Kingsguard. It's a prestigious position with certain expected standards. He is also a valued member of the most powerful family in Westeros.'

The girl didn't respond, so Lady Tarth continued.

'Ser Jaime is who we're taking to KingsLanding, Ser Jaime is who I took a vow to deliver safely, and Ser Jaime is who Steelshanks and his men will be rewarded for when we arrive. You, on the other hand, are of less worth or interest to anyone than horse manure. The Maester here would not even be treating you if Ser Jaime hadn't requested it. So before you go alienating every single person around you with your attitude, because you think no-one understands you, start understanding your own situation a little better. Or you're going to find things very hard when we reach KingsLanding.' Lady Tarth then addressed the Maester.

'Maester Qyburn? Please return Robberta here to the wagon with Callem when you're done. The back locks from the outside. I will try and locate her bag and make sure she gets it. Then come up to the main fire and get some supper. Thank you.' With that, she turned and walked away.

The girl said nothing.

Qyburn began to unwrap the bandage covering her head. She didn't look at him. 'Is your eye hurting you, Robberta? ' he enquired in a gentle tone. As the wrappings fell loose, the swollen right side of her face was revealed in the flickering fire light, making her appear deformed. A grotesque.

'No,' she said, but flinched.

What do you look like under all this swelling? Qyburn wondered. Under the injuries and blood and filth and dirty peasant clothes? Certain people in the Capital might be rather more interested in you than Lady Tarth thinks. You, and the Kingslayer's baby that you might be carrying in you. The Queen, for instance. Lord Tywin. They might be very interested.