Chapter 40: The Ex-Maester

Year 291 After Aegon’s Conquest. 

Essos. Slaver’s Bay. Meereen.

The infirmary was wretchedly organized. They had simply gutted a former dwelling of its furnishings, laid down rudimentary straw mattresses covered with mats, and called the matter finished. But Qyburn would not have been himself had he not sought to wring every possible advantage even from such a paltry situation.

Under his direction, the surviving members of the sellsword company had hired slaves from a neighbor and watched with hawk-like intensity to ensure they scrubbed the entire building, floors, walls, and even the ceilings, until they were spotless. The windows were flung wide, letting in the hot but nonetheless fresh air. In the small inner courtyard, fires crackled under vats of boiling water, and the nearby taverns saw a handsome profit as they sold the Brave Companions every drop of strong spirits they possessed; most of it went toward the sterilization of wounds and instruments.

To a casual observer, it might have seemed that Qyburn cared deeply for the members of the sellsword company he served as a healer. The man’s appearance lent itself to such a notion. He had kind, pale blue eyes and long black hair already dusted with the ash of grey. The deep furrows near his mouth, the kind usually found on men who smiled often, and his paternal, all-forgiving manner of speech completed the image of a gentle, grandfatherly leech.

Yet, in life, things that seem simple and plain often prove to be complex, tangled, or entirely different from what they appear. So it was with Qyburn. Had the man been asked whether he was good or evil, he likely would have struggled to provide an answer. What he knew for a certainty was his craft: whatever the task, it was to be done with all diligence and seen through to the end.

The former maester, cast out from the walls of the Citadel but still wearing a threadbare, patched robe, truly did not give a damn for the rabble that made up the Brave Companions. These brigands, gathered from every corner of the world, who preened in their "treasures" of gaudy rags and ostentatious trinkets, were not worth the time he spent bandaging their rents and washing away their pus. But he had a contract with the captain of the Brave Companions, received a steady wage, and held access to bodies both living and dead. That was enough.

Aye, Qyburn experimented on living men. He committed a monstrous crime by the laws of gods and men, yet he felt no guilt. He did not revel in the suffering of others, unlike many "brave fellows" who delighted in tormenting captives. He was merely a scholar attempting to fathom the mysteries of life and death. Qyburn was certain that even now, he surpassed any living maester in the art of healing, and as for the secrets of magic, he had delved so deep that only Marwyn, called the Mage, could hope to rival him, a man as much a fanatic for his work as Qyburn himself. It was a pity his old friend remained in Westeros, forced to restrain his inquiries by the will of the grey sheep in the Citadel's leadership. Though Marwyn was understandable in his own way; his laboratories and equipment were far superior to those of an exiled maester.

Driving away the unbidden thoughts that had begun to plague him of late, Qyburn pulled the final stitch through the gashed thigh of a moaning man.

"Ptfu," the sellsword spat a leather-wrapped wooden peg from his mouth and wiped beads of sweat from his brow. "Well, old man? Will I live?" he asked with a slight lisp.

"You are a strange man, Hoat," Qyburn replied grumpily, beginning to meticulously scrub his hands in a bucket of water. "You kept silent about the wound for a full week, let it rot, and only then came to me. You shall live; the only question is whether it shall be on one leg or two."

"One mutht never... never thow weakneth," the man lisped, jerking his long, wedge-shaped beard. His eyes were glazed with milk of the poppy. "Thethe bathtardth... fat Ghithcari thwine... they lotht to the Valyrian thpawn. Myles Toyne, tho proud of hith dithcipline, looking down on uth like filth... he thimply betrayed the patron and thtruck them in the back! There wath a bloody dragon, Qyburn! A mathive, fire-breathing monthter flying in the thky, damn you!"

Slumping exhausted onto the pillow, the man continued in a much quieter voice:

"Two-thirdth of the company are dead or fled! Of thothe remaining, over half are wounded, utheleth lotherth. And then there are thirty angry, bitter thcum looking for thomeone to blame for the failure. They only obey while they fear, Qyburn. They tremble with terror. If I thowed them even a moment of weakneth, they would tear me into a hundred little Vargo Hoatht with their bare handth."

"Sleep. Your body must gather its strength. The Brave Companions will not man the walls unless you stand beside them. And if they refuse to repel the Targaryen when he arrives at the gates of Meereen, the locals will cut all our throats to avoid unnecessary risk," Qyburn said, patting the captain on the shoulder.

"Good. Watch them for me... entheure they don't drink themthelveth to death while I'm out, or the localth will rip our gulletth open. I know my boyth... what they are capable of after a few pittherth of wine. Thethe bathtardth are no gift even when thober, aye..." Closing his eyes, the goat-bearded sellsword drifted into a fitful sleep.

"It seems the Brave Companions shall soon cease to exist," Qyburn murmured thoughtfully.

Washing the wound and stitching it had been an exercise in futility. Vargo Hoat had turned to him far too late and was destined to die by the sunset of the following day. This entire performance was merely to buy a little time. For if the leader died, the sellswords would first butcher the failing healer before they turned to dividing the "inheritance." And this pack of curs would scatter quickly; only the unimaginable cruelty of their captain, Vargo, nicknamed the Goat, held them in check.

Packing his instruments into a voluminous leather bag and shouldering a heavy valise propped against the wall, Qyburn soon left the house and made for the port. He needed to be gone from Meereen with haste. As soon as word of Viserys Targaryen’s approaching army reached the city, the price to flee beyond Meereen's walls would soar even higher than it already had.

His thoughts drifted from the coming siege to the young Valyrian leading the march of his legions, and from the Targaryen to his dragon. The mere memory of that legendary creature, which Qyburn had been fortunate enough to behold at the Horns of Hazzat, filled the scholar with rapture and an insatiable desire to study the flying monster as thoroughly as possible. Such possibilities! So many discoveries! Decades and centuries of hypotheses to be proven or refuted!

Turning a corner, the man suddenly collided with a hurrying passerby and nearly lost his footing.

"Out of the way!" a portly merchant in an orange ruha barked nervously, his sagging jowls quivering with rage.

The fat man intended to resume his flight, but he let out a groan of pain. With strength unusual for his build, Qyburn gripped the merchant’s forearm, pinning him to the spot.

"What is happening in the city?" Hearing distant cries, the exiled maester fixed his gaze on the round-cheeked face, causing the merchant to pale.

"I... I..." the passerby reached for his belt, but froze as he felt a prick in his side.

"It would be best for you not to act rashly. Simply tell me what is happening in the city, and we shall part ways peacefully," Qyburn said, his lips stretching into his customary paternal smile as he pressed the knife a fraction harder, causing the fabric over the merchant's belly to strain dangerously.

"The watch on the western wall sent word! A fleet flying the banners of the three-headed dragon has entered the mouth of the Skahazadhan! The Blood Dragon has twice the galleys we do! Soon both the Sea and River ports will be sealed!" Realizing he was no longer held, the fat merchant bolted up the street with a nimbleness quite beyond his years.

Qyburn tucked the knife into the folds of his tattered maester's robe and, stepping into a narrow alley between houses, sat directly on the ground, placing his hand-luggage beside him. He needed to think.

Meereen stood at the mouth of the Skahazadhan, possessing access to both sea and river, which was most convenient for traders. The Great Masters, as had been proclaimed in the streets five days prior, did not doubt their defenses and planned to endure a siege for a few months before entering negotiations with the Targaryen. Dozens of ballistae on the walls, vast stores of food, wells brimming with fresh water, and the remnants of the battle fleet, bolstered by merchant vessels, all gave hope for a favorable outcome.

To the two fortresses guarding the approach to the city from the sea, they had dispatched caravans of provisions, livestock, and, most importantly, ballistae and scorpions. The beacons in the fortresses were meant to provide light by night to prevent a dragon raid under the cover of darkness. Ancient treatises from the days of the Ghiscari Empire, which had fought the Valyrian Freehold and more than once brought down Dragonlords and their winged monsters, had been found and read until the parchment grew thin. But it seemed it was all for naught.

Having made his decision, Qyburn rose, gathered his belongings, and resolutely headed back toward where the surviving sellswords of the Brave Companions had made their camp...

******

Year 291 After Aegon’s Conquest.

Essos. Slaver’s Bay. Outskirts of Meereen.

The rolling of the ship, the creaking of timber, the shouts of officers, and the cursing of sailors—all of this had become commonplace to me, though I recall once complaining bitterly about the wretched lack of comfort in this medieval world. Now, I have grown accustomed.

Standing on the raised quarterdeck, I rested my hands on the bulwark and surveyed the high, monumental walls of Meereen, upon which the tiny figures of soldiers scurried. The warriors were lighting fires beneath vats of pitch to be poured onto the heads of the attackers, stringing their bows, readying ballistae, and donning their mail. In short, they were preparing for the imminent assault.

My ship remained in the rear of the battle formation, intended to avoid the struggle for control of the ports already erupting ahead. The Meereenese had precious few war galleys; the bulk of their fleet currently consisted of lumbering merchantmen that lacked even rams and were ill-suited for such engagements. Their greatest strength was repelling pirates through sheer weight of numbers.

The crack of splintering hulls and the screams of men were so loud they likely reached the summits of the twenty pyramids looming over the city walls. In this battle, the fleet would also test an innovation which, to my shame, I had only recently recalled. These were "ravens"—boarding bridges on a pivoting base, with a sharp spike beneath to prevent ships from drifting apart. Such a design severely limited the vessels' maneuverability, but in the heat of combat, it proved its worth. The Meereenese sailors were simply unprepared for boarding actions, relying instead on their rams and more massive war galleys, and for that, they paid the price. The Roman invention that had allowed victory over the Carthaginian fleet showed itself in all its glory.

"A fine contraption. A pity it cannot be made a permanent fixture," Narvos said, shaking his head as he pulled the myrish eye from his face.

"We could mount these boarding bridges on the galleys guarding our city ports. But aye, they should not be fitted to ships intended for the open sea," I agreed. Narvos had arrived in Yunkai just before our army’s departure, bringing sixteen galleys fresh from the shipyards of Astapor and New Ghis. Only four were true warships, but even that did not dampen my joy. Because of them, we were able to ferry more troops and provisions to Meereen, leaving the entire cavalry under Daemon's command as a temporary garrison for Yunkai. Horses took up too much space and required meticulous care; moreover, they would be of little use in the operation devised by the "General Staff" with myself at its head.

"It is a shame the dragon shall not join today’s sport," Narvos said, wincing slightly as he noticed several plumes of water rising a hundred yards off the starboard side. "Idiots," my admiral commented on the mental faculties of the wall-bound ballista crews who had decided to try their luck at ships beyond their reach.

"Avero was far too exhausted yesterday. Moreover, I do not wish to risk the dragon so heavily; they have built far too many ballistae and scorpions in Meereen. Truly, they baked them like meat pies rather than crafting siege engines."

Yesterday’s assault had indeed taken a heavy toll on both me and my dragon. It had been necessary to neutralize the two fortresses sealing the passage into the mouth of the Skahazadhan. These strongholds not only threatened my fleet with their ballistae and catapults but were a menace to the portion of the army that had landed earlier and was now, under Willem Darry’s command, making a forced march toward the southeastern walls of Meereen. A grand plan had been hatched to neutralize them. The light of dozens of fires in braziers atop the walls and the beams of the beacons made it impossible to burn the enemy's artillery with a night raid; the risk of losing the Valyrian Empire’s only dragon was too great. Thus, I acted with more cunning. Avero took crates of pitch barrels, requisitioned in Yunkai, in his talons, rose to a height beyond the reach of ballista bolts, and dropped his burden into the Meereenese fortifications. I spent half a day exhausting our entire supply, but the deed was done. When flaming projectiles launched by onagers assembled on the shore flew into the fortresses, thick clouds of smoke billowed into the sky.

The defenders had wells for water and access to sand and earth to smother the burning pitch, as well as genuine experience in firefighting, so the stone fortresses were not entirely razed. But the time bought by the fires was sufficient to lead the fleet into the river mouth and leave detachments to blockade the surviving defenders within their walls.

"The last enemy galley is taken," Narvos said with satisfaction forty minutes later.

Zirarro commanded the battle itself, while Narvos kept me company on the flagship. My admiral was still quite weak, having caught three crossbow bolts in his precious hide at the Horns of Hazzat. For most of the day, he either sat or reclined; truthfully, he had no business in the epicenter of a battle, but he had proven quite stubborn in his desire to accompany me and was undeterred even by threats of being sent to patrol the waters near the prison where Maegor is held.

"Signal the fleet commander to proceed as planned: seize the Sea and River ports immediately," I tossed over my shoulder.

Standing behind us, the flagship’s first mate snapped to attention and loudly relayed my command to the signalman, who then sounded it on his horn. The struggle for Meereen had begun...