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Pycelle stood there trembling, his throat bobbing up and down.
"Ser, have you decided?"
Jaime glanced at the saw lying on the table, then closed his eyes.
"If you cut off my right arm, you'd better take the left one too."
"Otherwise I swear I'll strangle you with it."
Pycelle wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Very well, ser. I'll use maggots to eat the rotten flesh, then leeches to draw out the poisoned blood. Nothing else."
"After that we'll flush it with boiling wine and pack it with bread mold."
"And that will fix it?" Jaime asked.
"Maybe," Pycelle hedged.
Joffrey leaned against the corridor wall outside, listening.
"And that will fix it?" he whispered.
"I doubt it," the Hound grunted.
Joffrey rubbed his brow. He'd only just learned the truth about Jaime's rout. The Red Keep was still putting out the story that the Kingslayer had slaughtered thousands and sent Stannis running with his tail between his legs.
They couldn't tell the truth right now.
And Jaime's wound was no accident.
Joffrey's Heaven's Will points were still stuck; he hadn't drawn any healing skill. But Cersei had.
She'd been recruiting anyone and everyone to swell the ranks. That band of riverland outlaws had answered the call.
The Brave Companions.
Everyone called them the Bloody Mummers behind their backs.
It was almost too perfect.
The company was a patchwork of exiles and criminals—swarthy Dornishmen, golden-haired Lyseni, Dothraki with bells in their braids, hairy Ibbenese, and Summer Islanders black as coal.
Their captain was Vargo Hoat, the lisping Goat of Qohor.
But Joffrey wasn't looking for him.
He wanted their maester.
Qyburn.
Man proposes, heaven disposes.
Looked like Jaime was finally going to get the cut fate had saved for him.
He found Cersei pacing her chambers like a caged lioness.
"A maester kicked out of the Citadel? Can he even do this?"
"Mother, he was expelled for performing immoral experiments on living subjects and dabbling in necromancy."
"That's exactly why he's an expert on human anatomy," Joffrey said.
Cersei stared at him, green eyes narrowed with suspicion. "How do you know all that?"
"Well…" Joffrey thought for a second. "Jaqen told me."
It was the truth.
"That red-and-white-haired freak?" Cersei's eyes flickered—she clearly knew the man. "Fine. Bring him."
So Qyburn was dragged in.
"You cannot allow this, Your Grace," Pycelle protested, puffing out his chest in an attempt at dignity. "He is an expelled maester! His methods defy every principle of medicine, they desecrate the body, and—"
"Does your method work?" Cersei cut him off.
Pycelle opened his mouth, then shut it.
Under his "expert" care, Jaime's arm had swollen like a sausage and the rot was spreading. The man was also running a high fever.
Qyburn stepped forward with his plain wooden case.
He wore a simple gray robe and walked with a slight stoop, but he was tall, and the lines at the corners of his eyes showed his age. Compared to Pycelle's pompous air, he looked dark and unsettling.
Qyburn bent over the wound, pressed the edges with a fingertip. Pus and dark blood welled up. He leaned in, sniffed, then looked at Cersei.
"Your Grace."
"Whoever treated Ser Jaime only cleaned the surface."
"And they tried to cover the stench with fragrant herbs."
"If you don't act now, he will lose the arm—and quite possibly his life."
Pycelle's face turned purple. "Lies!"
"I have served five kings and been Grand Maester for forty years. I have treated more cases than—"
"Can you save Jaime?" Cersei snapped.
"Well…" Pycelle wiped his brow again. "Ser Jaime refuses amputation, so I must use conservative measures. That takes time."
"I can draw the poison without cutting," Qyburn said.
Every head turned.
"I will excise all the necrotic tissue with a scalpel, then open the flesh to expose the bone."
"Next I will scrape the arrow poison off the bone itself, pack the wound with medicine, sew it shut with catgut, and dress it properly."
Cersei's mouth fell open.
"That sounds horrific. No. Absolutely not."
"Yes, yes," Pycelle agreed quickly. "Utter madness."
"Let him do it," Jaime said, eyes opening. "As long as I keep the arm, I'll take anything."
The patient had spoken. There was nothing left to argue.
"I'll fetch milk of the poppy," Qyburn said.
"No," Jaime turned his head. "What if you all conspire to knock me out and saw the arm off while I'm sleeping?"
Qyburn's brown eyes gleamed with sudden interest.
"This will hurt," he warned.
"I'll scream," Jaime replied.
"It will hurt a great deal."
"I'll scream very loudly. Bring the wine."
Qyburn opened his case, revealing rows of neatly arranged knives, forceps, and needles.
He strapped Jaime's arm to a frame, cinched the leather tight, then motioned for two Kingsguard to pin his shoulders and legs.
The blade came down.
Jaime's whole body went rigid. Sweat beads the size of peas burst across his forehead.
Qyburn's hands were steady.
The heated knife slid along the muscle lines, parting skin that curled back to reveal dark red meat. Blood ran down the arm into the copper basin below with a steady drip-drip.
"The bone is exposed," he said, voice oddly excited.
Pycelle had started with a look of haughty disdain, hands clasped behind his back, chin high.
But as Qyburn worked deeper, the old man's neck stretched longer and longer. A flicker of reluctant awe showed in his cloudy eyes.
Jaime kept his word. His screams could have rivaled a woman in childbirth, mixed with every curse and oath he knew.
He swore he would honor the Seven from now on, never mock the crippled again, and muttered prayers laced with every filthy word in the Common Tongue.
Cut after cut after cut.
After what felt like forever, Qyburn finally stopped.
He examined the cleaned bone and nodded. "That will do."
Jaime gasped for air.
Then the boiling wine poured on.
"AAAAAHHH—"
Qyburn began stitching.
The needle and catgut drew the wound closed. He packed it with salve and wrapped it in clean linen.
When he was finished he washed his hands and dried them carefully with a cloth.
"It is done, ser," Qyburn said. "Do not move this arm for three days."
Jaime gave a weak nod.
He wasn't stupid. Ten days without moving it would be worth keeping the arm.
"Maester, if I recover I'll give you a thousand gold dragons and knight you."
Qyburn shook his head.
He looked at Cersei, then at Joffrey.
"Your Grace."
"I want neither gold nor a title."
"I only ask for a royal pardon—so the Citadel will restore my chain."