A curious mind
If there was one thing Qyburn could complain about his new position, it was the need to wake up early. His old bones weren't as spry as they once were, just as his muscles and his Seven damned hips. But his mind… his mind was as sharp as Valyrian steel. Sharper even.
These few past weeks had been a dream come true. Enough resources to make even the Grand Maesters at the Citadel cry in jealousy, enough time to dedicate himself to his studies, and, perhaps more important, enough subjects for his experiments.
Waking up early? Hah! He even had the luxury to complain about such minor things.
Qyburn knew of many a scholar who would have paid any price to be in his position. A position he got by his own merits, acting as a healer for the Lord Hand.
With a final stretch, he dressed up in his robes and fastened his iron pin to his chest. He left his rooms as a cool breeze twirled with his gray mane.
The walk toward his post was as pleasant as ever, he even allowed himself to hum a song he used to drunkenly sing in his youth. With a casual nod and a polite smile to the guards, he entered the Red Keep dungeons.
"Greetings, Lord Confessor," said the captain opening the door for him.
"Greetings to you, Captain Hobb," Qyburn responded. "How is your arm, my friend? Any lingering pain?"
"No pain at all, my lord! My arm feels stronger than ever, truly." The guard finished with his right arm raised high.
"Good to hear, good to hear. I'll be preparing my tools in the Confession room, care to bring me the Lord Hand's prisoner?"
"He's already there, my lord."
Having competent aides was very pleasant indeed. Just for this, he would have ditched the Brave Companions many times over.
"Thank you, Captain," Qyburn said and went through the door.
This was the part of his new position he didn't quite liked… at first.
Making someone confess their wrongdoings sounded trivial to him. The right amount of pressure applied here, a little cut over there, maybe a little threat and any man or woman would be singing any tune Qyburn wanted.
It was crude, it was bloody, it was intellectually dull.
At least, that's what he thought at first.
Lord Tywin made his post more challenging by adding limitations. No visible cuts with this prisoner, no broken bones with this one, or perhaps his most challenging restriction so far: he had to be kept alive.
He pushed the doors to the Confession room, and there in the center, was his subject.
"Greetings, Lord Baelish," Qyburn said out of habit. A muffled sound was all the answer he got.
He heard the man was remarkably cunning and had a silver tongue. Those two qualities alone, allowed him to rise to his previous post as the Master of Coin.
While he doubted the man's cunning, he couldn't deny he was interesting. His life was a very fascinating story, at least.
Qyburn let out a sigh while going through his tools. In better circumstances, he would've enjoyed a talk with Lord Baelish. Interesting companionship was always in short supply.
Alas, that was neither here nor there. He had a task to accomplish.
The clinking of his various devices elicited another set of alarmed muffled sounds from his subject.
"There, there, Lord Baelish," Qyburn said softly. "I know you've already told the truth. It's just that it wasn't the truth the Lord Hand wanted to hear. I've told you before," he finished with an admonishing tone.
Qyburn knew the routine. He would use one of his many tools; Lord Baelish would scream, threaten, and cry. Qyburn would subtly guide the man toward the truth Lord Tywin wanted to hear; Lord Baelish would refuse his guidance and stubbornly keep babbling about how he's a loyal subject of King Joffrey.
This was why Qyburn doubted the claims of Lord Baelish's cunning. The man could've saved them both days if he simply changed his tune and sang a different song. A more convenient song.
"Well, then. Shall we start?" Qyburn said and sat next to the Valeman. His tools at hand.
In times like these, Qyburn had to make an effort to think from his subject's perspective. It was, admittedly, hard. His subjects tended to be emotional, and thus not particularly rational. He had high hopes for someone described as cunning, but reality was disappointing, he'd learned.
…The issue with Baelish was that as soon as he sang the most convenient song for Lord Tywin, he would be a head short. Perhaps that was why the man kept being as bullheaded as he had been.
The time Baelish wasted days on end had him growing impatient. Qyburn needed to see to his other subjects. He was getting close to uncovering hidden truths, and his time was of utmost importance.
Well, if there was one thing Qyburn was good at, was finding solutions. In this case…
"Did I ever tell you of my travels through Essos, my lord?" For once, no muffled sounds answered his question. "Since we'll be here for a while, I think it would be a pleasant topic of conversation."
Since he didn't receive a response, he picked up his pliers and fidgeted with them. The clacking made his subject flinch and nod immediately. If only he was as receptive to his guidance…
"Hhhmmm, well…" Qyburn put away his tools, deliberately letting Baelish look. "My travels started in Lys the Lovely. Lyseni appreciate skilled healers and the land is lovely and pleasant. I left because I didn't find anything interesting to keep my mind occupied."
He got up from his chair, picked up his pliers and knives, and went to the table to begin cleaning up. From behind him, he heard his subject let out a sigh. He was sorely tempted to make a sudden turn to startle him.
He continued with his story instead. "I went to Myr to find the secrets of glassmaking." Ahh, those days were fun. His talks with Myrish scholars weren't dull. Sometimes, they were even interesting. "My impatience caught up to me, and I had to run away in a hurry," Qyburn said with a chuckle. "I believe you can relate."
His companion didn't find his humor amusing. How rude.
He was going to tell him of Qohor and how his patience was tempered amidst the flames of the master blacksmiths of the city, of Norvos and their strange customs, of Braavos and their impressive city and architecture…
"I stumbled from place to place," Qyburn said while approaching his subject. "However, specifically for… the current circumstances, the story that matters is of the time I boarded an Ibbenese ship."
Baelish tensed up when he saw him getting close. Good.
"Opposite to the Ironborn, the men of Ib are disciplined sailors. Each mistake is harshly punished. I was witness of one of those punishments." Qyburn sat down in front of his subject and offered him a kind smile. "I can't remember what the fool did, but he was stripped to his waist and his wrists tied to a pole. The captain appeared, and when I expected the lashes to begin, he took up a knife and… well, he carved up the sailor's back and pulled his lungs out. A 'blood eagle' the Ibbenese called it."
His subject became increasingly tense with his little story.
"It was then, I learned men can live with only one lung," Qyburn said.
He let the silence be. It was just another one of his tools.
The tolling of bells made him stand and look through his window.
"I wonder, Lord Baelish," he said softly. "Which one of the kings will give me the best price for you? Do you think anyone will care if you have both lungs?"
I wish you were here
Regrets.
Oberyn knew of them. He'd been carrying them around for what felt like a thousand years.
They settled on his chest. A heavy burden dragging him down. Pulling him back like chains tied to his heart.
Unpleasant. Unrelenting. Ever present.
He tried drown himself in wine. He tried to run away in an endless adventure. He tried to find a warrior's death.
It was all for nothing.
While drunk he heard Rhaegar's songs all around him. Running away made him remember his long journey with Elia and his mother. On a battlefield, every enemy was Rhaegar or Robert, sometimes both.
And the worst of it all were the dreams he had of Elia.
Those dreams always found him at his worst. When the pain was unbearable, when he wanted to rip his heart out of his chest, his sister found a way into his dreams.
She would embrace him and sing him the way his mother used to do. He would cry until his eyes were as dry as the Dornish desert. She would hum and hold him tighter. He would ask for forgiveness. Elia would simply say, "There's nothing to forgive Oby. You did nothing wrong."
He hated it.
He wanted her to scream at him, to lash out and accuse him of leaving little Rhaenys and Aegon. He wanted her to be angry and take it out on him.
"It wasn't your fault," she would keep repeating. No matter how much Oberyn begged her to say otherwise.
Mayhaps, that was why he chose to help a fool of a Northerner with his sister. He stole a glance at the favor around his arm.
Elia would have loved having her as a lady in waiting for Rhaenys.
His temporal mount slowed down to keep pace with the group of fake knights accompanying him and returned him to the present.
"Useless Antler men," he said through gritted teeth as his group reached the Hook's square.
A group of rich merchants decided to arm themselves to support Stannis. Oberyn could appreciate the sentiment, if not for the fact that these were not warriors. They were barely above militia, and it showed.
First, when they turned away from the soldiers at the River Gate. And now, when they slowed down and stopped in front of the Lannister's banner.
He lifted his gaze to look at his feathered guide. It was circling the formation. Right at the center, were the gold on crimson lion stood tall.
Patience, Oberyn, he thought to himself.
Get back, Oby, someone's voice responded from the back of his mind.
He let out a short sigh and took a small crystal vial from his tunic. When his mount stopped, he poured its contents over the blade of his spear.
The fake knight to his right gave him a look. Oberyn smiled graciously at him.
"I wouldn't want my spear to get rusted due to some traitor's blood. I heard this helps."
The fool nodded and started oiling his sword. It would have been funny, if this wasn't his ally. Sometimes you couldn't choose your allies.
The leader of the Antler men moved forward along the stag banner.
"Surrender, Lord Tywin! It's over! There's no need to spill more blood."
Ah, an offer to surrender. Oberyn would have raged and charged alone if he didn't know what Tywin's response was going to be.
The leader, Garrick?, stood in front. With every heartbeat that passed, his fake confidence started to erode.
In front, the Lannisters were moving behind their front lines. Archers, most like.
Oberyn looked to the sides. These were not warriors, these were fakes barely above militia. But who said militia couldn't defeat knights?
If starved smallfolk were able to kill dragons back in the Dance, why couldn't fake knights defeat real ones?
He could come up with a hundred reasons on the spot, but it didn't matter. There was no need to defeat the knights in front, all he wanted was to end a single man's life.
When he saw doubt creeping over his allies, Oberyn roared in laughter. "Look at them, they are scared!" he shouted. "They fear Stannis so much they are trembling in their boots!"
"Aye!" said a few men around him.
"If they are cowering, then why are we offering them surrender? Are we cravens?"
"No!" more men roared.
They were getting there. He just needed the correct words and Tywin would meet his spear. Sadly, he wasn't Doran, he didn't know the perfect set of words to get these fake knights to charge against mortal danger.
So, Oberyn pushed forward until he was first in line.
"Did Stannis back down when he saw the whole Reach at his gates?"
"No!"
"Did Stannis thought it twice before facing the Ironborn in Fair Isle?"
"No!"
"Did Stannis doubt before assaulting the River Gate?"
"No!"
"Then why do we? Charge!"
"Charge!"
Oberyn spurned his mount but held himself back a little. Being the first line of a charge was an easy way to die, after all. And he wouldn't die, not before facing Tywin.
He raised his spear and roared, "King Stannis!"
"King Stannis!" the fake knights responded.
The thundering of a real charge emboldened his companions as they picked up the pace and hollered their war cries to the sky.
He lowered himself on his mount. The Lannisters were baffled by the charge. Baffled enough not to counter charge, but not baffled enough to lay down and die. They raised their shields and spears to wait for them.
Before a hail of arrows hit them, Oberyn hid behind the rider in front.
Lowering himself, he was reminded of the many times he fought ahorse. Rabble would break long before a clash, while real soldiers would stood their ground. He knew the right thing to do was to make a sudden turn and prepare a new charge, but his fellow riders didn't.
So he took out a ceramic flask from his tunic, gave it a lover's peck, and threw it to the Lannister vanguard to his left. The flask shattered, and a yellow cloud enveloped that side.
The poisonous cloud would tear open that side, which in turn would make the Lannisters directly before him rush to close the breach.
Now, all he needed to do was not die for the next few minutes.
For a second, the world stood still.
Oberyn could feel the slight breeze from behind. He could hear his mount's heart powering its every muscle. For a moment he saw what his next move would be.
And then, steel crashed on steel. Men were impaled, men were crushed. Men went flying.
He pulled his mount right with all his might. An arrow graced his helmet as he straightened his route.
One slash, and a Lannister man was left trying to piece together his neck. One parry, and another one lost his sword.
The men behind him pushed harder.
Lost in battle frenzy they fought without rhyme or reason. Hacking and swinging forward with all their might, they were able to bend the Lannister lines.
"King Stannis!" the war cry was repeated over and over.
Oberyn left them and turned left again. The Lannister lines were looking worse for wear, as if they would break at a moment's notice. It wasn't enough.
His fake knights would crumble before long, he needed to give them a small victory. Or the illusion of one.
He charged forward with his spear high over his head and swung down with all his strength. It was enough to cave in a helmet.
With a swift motion, his spear found the neck of another man.
"Die, Lannister dogs!" he shouted.
"Die!" his fake knights echoed.
He pushed forward. Always forward. He couldn't give his enemies time to breathe, nor his allies time to think.
Right here and now, Oberyn was death. The Stranger was by his side, guiding his spear.
He felt his mount lose strength and jumped off before it could hit the ground.
The poor horse fell with a spear lodged through its neck.
Oberyn landed into a crouch and lunged toward the man who killed his mount. He pulled back and parried a man's sword to the side. Before any of them could recover, one of his fake knights impaled his enemy.
"Death!" he roared.
The push had been successful. Enough to make his allies believe in victory, but not enough to make his enemy consider a retreat.
This far into the Lannister formation, new lines began to form. Now, all he needed was a final push, and Tywin would be his.
It was finally time for the poison in his spear to earn its worth. Manticore poison kills the moment it reaches the heart after all.
Right behind the front line, the Red Viper lived up to his epithet and sliced and nicked every man who gave him the slightest of openings. A scratch was all it took. If he timed it well, the lines would collapse at the same time, giving him an opening to get himself to Tywin.
When the count in his head was close, he pulled his spear back, and cleaned the blade with a white cloth. He took the last of his vials and poured its contents on the blade.
This poison was special. He had used the depths of his knowledge and resentment to brew it. It was as lethal as Manticore venom; with the difference that, by the time his victim died, they would be long begging for the Stranger's gift.
When his count reached zero, the Lannister lines started faltering.
Out of nowhere, half the men in front fell dead as if the Others themselves had pulled their souls out of their bodies.
Silence fell to the battlefield.
"DEATH!" Oberyn thundered.
His fake knights followed suit, roused from their sudden shock.
Just a little more.
A panicked man couldn't react and had his neck pierced. Oberyn parried a desperate attack, kicked the legs from a terrified knight, and impaled a poorly armored archer through his chest.
It was then he saw him.
Jon Stark may have killed Lorch, and Lord Edmure Tully, the Mountain. But Tywin… his life was Oberyn's. He wouldn't grant him a painless and dignified death he didn't deserve.
He took off his helmet, and with renewed strength, he threw himself forward.
"Tywin," he said.
A knight tried to stop him, Oberyn dashed right at the last second and cut the hamstrings of the unfortunate knight from behind.
"Tywin!" he screamed and continued his frenzied run.
Only twenty yards separated him from his objective.
Two knights moved forward to meet him. Oberyn picked the one on left and aimed at his neck. The gorget was crushed under the force of his spear.
Meanwhile, the second knight tried to bash him with his shield. Oberyn stepped to the side dodging the shield by mere inches and once again cut the hamstrings of his opponent.
He just needed to keep moving forward. Only ten or so yards left.
By the time he heard the twang of arrows being shot, it was already too late. His arms felt heavy, and his legs, as if made of lead.
If he looked down, he would see two arrows sticking out of his chest.
So he didn't look down.
"TYWIN!" he howled and kept running forward with a manic smile on him.
A spearman rushed to stop him from the side. Oberyn knew his legs would betray him if he tried to dodge.
So he didn't.
He didn't even felt when the spear pierced him.
He kept moving forward.
"DEATH!"
He used the last of his strength to throw his spear at his sister's murderer.
As if guided, his spear evaded Tywin's human shields and pierced his armpit.
The moment he saw that, Oberyn felt his body lose all its strength and collapsed to the ground with the spear and arrows still lodged.
It was done. The last of his sister's murderers would be getting what he deserved.
He heard the men around him. They were still fighting, they were still dying. It no longer mattered to him.
He took a peek at the sky one last time. It was all gray, clouds covering the sun.
He raised his right arm, the one where the Northern princess tied her favor. It was dirty. Soiled with mud and blood.
Ah, I have to wash it before returning it. Otherwise, Elia will be furious.
###
A/N: We have a second interlude to conclude with KL.
You can read two chapters ahead: p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m / yorud
Anyways, give me your comments! ( ´～｀ヾ)