I shall bring the wine. Lie back, I must needs strap down your arm.” With a bowl and a sharp blade, Qyburn cleaned the stump while Jaime gulped down strongwine, spilling it all over himself in the process. His left hand did not seem to know how to find his mouth, but there was something to be said for that. The smell of wine in his sodden beard helped disguise the stench of pus. Nothing helped when the time came to pare away the rotten flesh. Jaime did scream then, and pounded his table with his good fist, over and over and over again. He screamed again when Qyburn poured boiling wine over what remained of his stump. Despite all his vows and all his fears, he lost consciousness for a time. When he woke, the maester was sewing at his arm with needle and catgut. “I left a flap of skin to fold back over your wrist.” “You have done this before,” muttered Jaime, weakly. He could taste blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. “No man who serves with Vargo Hoat is a stranger to stumps. He makes them wherever he goes.” Qyburn did not look a monster, Jaime thought. He was spare and soft-spoken, with warm brown eyes. “How does a maester come to ride with the Brave Companions?” “The Citadel took my chain.” Qyburn put away his needle. “I should do something about that wound above your eye as well. The flesh is badly inflamed .”
Jaime closed his eyes and let the wine and Qyburn do their work. “Tell me of the battle.” As keeper of Harrenhal’s ravens, Qyburn would have been the first to hear the news. “Lord Stannis was caught between your father and the fire. It’s said the Imp set the river itself aflame.” Jaime saw green flames reaching up into the sky higher than the tallest towers, as burning men screamed in the streets. I have dreamed this dream before. It was almost funny, but there was no one to share the joke. “Open your eye.” Qyburn soaked a cloth in warm water and dabbed at the crust of dried blood. The eyelid was swollen, but Jaime found he could force it open halfway .
Qyburn’s face loomed above. “How did you come by this one?” the maester asked. “A wench’s gift.” “Rough wooing, my lord?” “This wench is bigger than me and uglier than you. You’d best see to her as well. She’s when we fought.” “I will ask after her. What is this woman to you?” “My protector.” Jaime had to laugh, no matter how it hurt. “I’ll grind some herbs you can mix with wine to bring down your fever. Come back on the morrow and I’ll put a leech on your eye to drain the bad blood.” “A leech. Lovely.” “Lord Bolton is very fond of leeches,” Qyburn said primly. “Yes,” said Jaime. “He would be polar. ”
TYRION