The temperature grew colder as we climbed down to the dungeons. Qyburn's workshop didn't rest beneath, or within, the black cells, instead it sat in one of the many cellars that made up the lower floors of the Red Keep. The air was heavy here, smelling of old dust and damp stone. It was only my second time paying him a visit, as the gloomy feel of the place wasn't particularly inviting.
Ser Lyle Crakehall walked before me, carrying a torch at arm's length. I'd thought of leaving him behind for this part, but he'd seen me supposedly bringing a man back to life by praying too hard. What was a bit of necromancy and blood magic going to do?
The flames on the torch writhed as a draft of air blew from down the passage, then a bloodcurdling scream followed in its wake, echoing against the cramped stone walls.
I smiled in the dark. We were getting close.
Ser Lyle came to a full stop in front of me. "Your Grace," he cautioned.
Slipping past him, I clapped him on the shoulder. "Worry not, ser. It'd be worse if it was silence we were hearing. The screams mean our host is home."
In the torchlight, I could see the Strongboar's brows furrowed in apprehension. It was a strange emotion in a face so used to broad smiles and loud guffaws, but he had probably never guessed the things he'd start coming across after donning the white cloak in my service.
Best get used to it.
Turning to face the pitch black darkness, I started back down the sloping passage, an anguished scream ringing every once in a while, growing louder by the minute. I knew we were nearly there when, from further down the tunnel, I heard the soft patter of sandalled feet on stone quickly shuffling away, and could only imagine it was one of Varys' little birds that Qyburn had repurposed.
From what I knew of him, I had no need to fear treachery from Qyburn. But I also had my fair share of reasons to be cautious recently, so I let Ser Lyle overtake me for the final stretch.
Soon, we came upon the stone-hewn bench I recognized, and the door was already open to welcome us.
"Your Grace," Qyburn said, his voice soft as a whisper. With his mild demeanor and crinkled blue eyes that radiated warmth, he could easily pass as someone's kind old grandfather. Except the sleeves of his black robes were rolled up, and I could see the barely-washed blood stains climbing up to his elbows. "I would have prepared had I known of your coming."
"It is no problem, my friend," I said. Over the former maester's shoulders, I could see stairs leading down to his dungeons, torchlight dancing over the final steps. "I came to speak with Ser Balon, if he is well. I have much to thank him for yesterday."
"Ah, of course." Qyburn wiped nervous hands over his robes. "Ser Balon is physically sound, but his mind… well…" he trailed off, then made a sound in the back of his throat. "Pardon me, Your Grace, please, do come in. Ser Balon is within, too. It is rather improper for me to bar you entrance into the cellars you've personally provided me with."
I lifted an eyebrow. His mind?
I didn't have time to formulate the question, as Qyburn turned around and made his way down the stairs, beckoning us to follow. Ser Lyle threw a glance at me, but I just nodded. Qyburn had his oddities, but I didn't feel it was a cause for concern just yet.
The Strongboar took the lead again, and I followed behind. The descent down the wide stone steps was short-lived; the stairs hugged the wall on one side, while the other opened up into a room large enough to be called a gallery, with tall, arching ceilings, littered with tables and stands filled with dusty books, green leaves and herbs, tiny glass vials, and medical contraptions I'd never seen the likes of. Barrels lined the long wall behind the stairs, and two door-less passages that led to pitch-black corridors could be found in the back of the room.
Ahead of us, Qyburn stopped at a small table set against a wall. "Some wine, Your Grace?" He hovered a hand over a small selection of bottles. "Or maybe some mint tea?"
Trust or no trust, the horridness of his workshop didn't stimulate consumption of anything. I smiled faintly. "Perhaps another time," I said as I took the final step into the cellar. Ser Lyle stuck close to me. "And about Ser Balon?" I prompted, frowning. "You talked of his mind. Is he growing mad?"
Qyburn sighed. "Not quite that, Your Grace. I might have misphrased it. His willwould have been a better answer. He's grown disheartened by his condition. He loathes what he has become."
"Ah." I nodded slowly. I could see how someone who grew up in a society as attached to normalcy and codes of honor and conduct—and heavily influenced by a magic-hating religion—might be horrified by turning into a proto-vampire. "I shall speak to him about it, then. But for now, tell me of the man I sent to you a few days ago. Addam, he called himself."
"Oh yes." A small smile wormed its way to Qyburn's face. He sat himself down on a chair, gesturing to the one on the other side of the table. "Quite an interesting subject, Your Grace. He had many tales that will interest you. I had thought to put it in the report, but it is all the better you are here now."
I obliged and sat, while Ser Lyle came to loom behind me. "Go on."
"His real name is Edmund," he told me, "a young knight who's spent almost all his life with the Golden Company. He was sent to the capital and told to await contact from your Master of Whispers, Lord Varys, though he only knew him as the Spider."
"He let that slip when we met, too," I said. "I hope that wasn't all. I was sure you had a talent for making unwilling tongues wag."
"Oh no, Your Grace. He spoke a great deal of his beloved Company, though the pain inflicted on him didn't seem to hurt as much as his perceived betrayal of his fellow sellswords."
I nodded. Having been on both sides of quite a few interrogations myself, I had found that when a true professional was at work it didn't take long for the victim to realize that they held no greater love in their heart than their love of themselves. Father told on son, wife pointed to husband, brother blamed brother.
Trivial things like blood and kinship stop mattering that much when pain overtakes your world.
Qyburn continued, "He had no notion of a hidden king or an Aegon, but he knew the Golden Company was not currently accepting contracts while also preparing for war. They're recruiting any men with experience as a soldier, even swelling their ranks by folding smaller companies into their own."
I clicked my tongue, and I heard Ser Lyle sucking a breath behind me. He might fit the bill for the large boisterous warrior, but he was smart enough to put two and two together and come to the right conclusion on what we were speaking on. Aegon and king could hardly go in the same sentences and not provoke this sort of reaction from Westerosi.
Finally I had confirmation that they were coming, and sooner rather than later. I had hoped to have more time to finish up Stannis in the North, but if Aegon and Jon Connington were about to come knocking at my door, those plans had to go into the back burner.
Stannis was not a man to be underestimated and left to his own devices, but what choice would I have if elephants came suddenly charging at King's Landing's gates?
In the books, they had landed in the Stormlands, taking several castles and making plans to seize Storm's End itself, which was still held by a man in Stannis' employ. But this world had proven to be different from both the books and the show, and I couldn't be certain of anything.
Dorne was another likely beachhead, or even a straight attack at King's Landing.
Qyburn shifting in his seat broke me out of my thoughts. I glanced back up at him, smiling. "You did good work," I told him. "Enough that it might just save my kingdom. Is there anything else I should know?"
"I have learned a lot about how the company works, Your Grace. How they recruit men and who are some of their agents in the free cities. I believe this will make it easier to plant spies on their camp."
"Do so at once," I said. "We must do everything short of calling the banners to prepare for an invasion, at this point. I will speak with my council to begin making proper arrangements." Standing up, I fixed the sword belt on my waist. "Now, is our friend Edmund of any more use?"
"I'm afraid not, Your Grace," he said, sadness tinging his voice. Like a child whose toy broke.
"Then take me to him, Qyburn. I believe you will want to see this."
xxxxx
The naked Edmund looked like a broken wretch as he cowered on the corner of his cell. We had come down one of the tunnels from the main chamber, passing several occupied cells until we came to the final room.
The smell here was worse than Flea Bottom when it still stood in all its glorious wretchedness. But the strangest thing was that, when Qyburn opened the barred door, I saw that Edmund still had all his fingernails and the members to boast them; legs and toes were all in place, and when he opened his mouth to moan, squinting against the bright light of the torch, his teeth looked the same as the last time I saw him.
Wondering over Qyburn's methods of torture for only a moment, I stepped into the room. "The Gods have given me many blessings," I said, glancing at my two companions. "What you are about to witness is just one of many." Lightbringer slid out of it's scabbard with a whispering rasp. I turned to the naked man cringing on the rush-covered floor, sword in hand. "Ser Edmund of the Golden Company, for the crimes of high treason and espionage, I hereby sentence you to death. Do you have any last words?"
Poor Edmund tried to form words, mouth opening and closing—and I could see his tongue was still in there—but only groans came out.
Shrugging, I brought a hand against the valyrian-steel blade and ran it down the length of its sharp edge.
"Your Grace!" Ser Lyle almost rushed to stop me, but I lifted my bloodied hand.
"Patience, ser," I told him, then let the blood soak the leather over the ruby. Soon the sword came alight with dark flames. The shadows in the room thickened with the black light.
For the second time today, Lyle Crakehall wheezed in a breath. Behind him, Qyburn stared wide-eyed at the sword, completely enthralled, his hands wringing against each other frantically.
After my failure to contain the fires yesterday, I thought that perhaps the Lord of Light simply wanted to eat up more souls through his ruby. It was only a guess, I knew, but it was worth the shot.
Edmund's agitated groans grew louder as I approached him with Lightbringer, but they hardly stopped me from driving the blade into his heart.