Chapter 160: The Necromancer, Qyburn
"Name?"
"V–Vargo… Hoat."
A calm voice answered, followed by another that sounded like a broken bellows—ragged, wheezing.
One voice flowed like still water.
The other struggled, breath leaking, words slurred, saliva slipping from the corners of his mouth.
Yet the questioning continued.
"Where are you from?"
"Qoh…or…"
"Qohor? Fine… gender."
"Gender?!"
"I… I'm a man…"
"Good. I can see that. No need to dwell on details. I won't ask your age. Now—why did you attack us?"
Amid a battlefield littered with corpses, Podrick wiped the sticky, drying blood from his hands with a torn scrap of cloak, not even bothering to look up as he questioned the man before him.
The man calling himself Vargo Hoat was still pinned beneath the zebra's corpse. Blood loss from his torn shoulder had left his face deathly pale.
Even lying there, it was clear he was tall and gaunt, with a pointed beard and a necklace of coins strung around his neck.
Now, that necklace lay soaked in the pooled blood of both man and beast.
---
"Yeah… why did we attack you…"
At Podrick's last question, Vargo Hoat opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
The commander of the Brave Companions lay there weakly, staring blankly up at the sky, his eyes hollow and unfocused.
As darkness crept into his vision from blood loss, even he seemed to wonder the same thing.
Why?
Why had he reached out and provoked death itself?
In the end, he couldn't answer.
His mouth hung open, a half-formed sound dying on his lips as his eyes emptied completely, filled only with despair and regret.
Watching him die like that—without even a sound—Podrick clicked his tongue softly.
Since he couldn't get anything useful, he shifted his gaze to another person nearby.
A tall old man knelt not far away, his body hunched, trembling uncontrollably.
Though tall, his back was slightly bent. Wrinkles surrounded his protruding brown eyes. His hair was mostly gray rather than white, making him look less like a frail elder and more like a worn-down middle-aged man.
"Name?"
Podrick repeated.
The old man raised his head, glancing at Podrick, then at the blood-soaked battlefield… and finally at the dead Vargo Hoat lying before him, eyes still open.
He swallowed hard and spoke with a trembling voice.
"Honored Ser Podrick Payne… you may call me Qyburn."
"You know me?"
Podrick raised an eyebrow slightly. He hadn't expected that—and thinking about it, he had no recollection of this man at all.
Then, as the name registered—
He paused.
"…Wait. You said your name is Qyburn?"
"Yes, Ser Payne…"
Qyburn looked puzzled at Podrick's sudden reaction, clearly not understanding why his name had caused such a change.
The smell of blood hung thick in the air.
Qyburn caught it the moment he inhaled—and whatever curiosity lingered in his mind was instantly crushed beneath raw survival instinct. He lowered his head at once and answered obediently.
"I recognized you… when you displayed your might just now. But before that… I, too, thought the stories about you were just Lannister exaggerations after their defeat…"
"My stories?"
Podrick frowned slightly, genuinely puzzled.
What stories? And why would the Lannisters boast about him after losing?
He had even taken Sansa Stark with him when he left—what reason would they have to glorify him?
Seeing the confusion on Podrick's face, Qyburn was momentarily taken aback. Then realization dawned, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"The tale of your stand at King's Landing… at the Mud Gate… has already spread across the Seven Kingdoms."
"…Ah. That."
It clicked.
A blind spot.
Only then did Podrick realize what Qyburn meant.
As the man who had fought that battle, he knew better than anyone just how terrifying his own performance had been.
And more importantly—
That had been intentional.
A display.
But that wasn't why Qyburn was talking.
And it certainly wasn't why Podrick was questioning him.
The faint smile returned to Podrick's face, calm and detached as ever.
"Flattery suits you. It's at least pleasant to hear… but it doesn't change anything between us."
He tilted his head slightly, studying the man.
"You don't look like a fighter. More like a maester."
"So—where are you from? And why are you running with a pack like them?"
That question made Qyburn visibly uncomfortable.
His lips twitched before he forced the words out.
"You are correct, my lord… I was once a maester of the Citadel."
"…Until certain… differences in philosophy led to my expulsion."
"As for my homeland…" He paused, voice turning quieter. "It no longer exists. Destroyed by war—no different from the ruins you've seen in the Riverlands."
"And as for joining them… I simply wished to survive."
---
He finished with a faint, self-deprecating smile, gazing off into the distance.
Podrick didn't care.
Not even a little.
Qyburn immediately shrank back, obedient again.
Podrick smirked slightly, then returned to the point.
"If you were expelled from the Citadel… then tell me—what exactly did you do to deserve it?"
This time, Qyburn smiled again—though now there was a trace of eagerness beneath the humility.
"I conducted certain experiments… ones they deemed unethical."
"Experiments on living subjects. And… research into necromancy."
"For that, they stripped me of my chain and title… and I was forced to survive as I could."
Podrick's eyes narrowed slightly.
A faint glimmer appeared beneath them.
"…So you understand magic?"
He asked it casually—but there was something probing beneath the tone.
"Strange. I thought maesters denied the existence of magic… even dragons."
Qyburn's lips curled faintly in disdain.
"If that were truly the case, no maester would ever earn a Valyrian steel link through the study of the arcane."
"It is merely… a public stance."
"In truth, the Citadel seeks to build a world without magic. Without dragons."
A world without magic.
Without dragon
Arrogant, Podrick
Qyburn continued, voice growing steadier as he spoke.
"After the Doom of Valyria, most believe magic vanished… or choose to deny it entirely."
"There are no records of successful spellcasting since."
"…Of course, that does not include me."
Podrick rubbed his chin with a now-clean hand, looking at him with growing interest.
That was… interesting.
"So," he said lightly, "you believe in magic… you can use it… and you're even somewhat skilled?"
"I would not claim mastery, my lord."
Qyburn bowed his head slightly.
"Only… some understanding."
His posture was humble.
His tone was not.
Podrick laughed.
Openly.
"You're trying to prove your value to me."
"Just like you did with the Brave Companions."
Qyburn lowered his head further.
"I believe… my lord has need of someone like me."
"Need?"
Podrick let out a soft chuckle—colder this time.
"You mean… funding your research. Protecting you."
"While making an enemy of the Citadel?"
The air shifted.
The humor vanished.
What remained felt like a blade resting against the throat.
Qyburn froze.
In that instant, he understood—
Podrick Payne was considering killing him.
And he knew exactly what that meant.
He had seen it.
A man wielding a greatsword like cutlery. Moving faster than a galloping horse. Tearing apart nearly two hundred men as if they were nothing.
And not just him—
The dark-skinned archer whose arrows never missed.
The young man in the bull helm whose hammer crushed bone like fruit.
This was not a man.
This was something else.
Qyburn panicked.
"My lord!" he blurted, voice rising.
"You are a noble—your strength and achievements will surely earn you lands, a castle—"
"I swear myself to you! I will serve you for life! Become your personal maester—only grant me a place at your side!"
Words spilled out faster and faster.
Desperate.
Frenzied.
"I am not merely versed in magic—I am skilled in medicine as well! I have earned a silver link—my understanding of the human body is unparalleled!"
"I can make you stronger—far stronger than you are now!"
"And necromancy—!"
His voice trembled with excitement.
"It is a forbidden art, yes—but one that governs life and death itself!"
"The Others—raise the dead as wights through such power!"
"The Bloodstone Emperor—he brought forth the Long Night through forbidden arts!"
"Even kings of the Reach once sought witches to awaken the dead!"
"I can give you an army that feels no pain—no fear—one that obeys without question!"
"My lord—please!"
He threw everything he had onto the table.
Every secret.
Every sin.
Every ounce of value.
And for the first time—
Podrick hesitated.
"…You said the Others raise the dead… through necromancy?"
His voice had changed.
The calm was gone.
"Are you certain?"
Qyburn caught it instantly.
Hope flared.
"Based on my research—what else could explain it?"
"How else could the dead rise and obey?"
"…So you believe in the Long Night."
"And in the Others."
"If I did not… I would never have studied such forbidden knowledge."
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Unnatural.
Even Gendry and Jalabhar, standing guard nearby, turned to look.
Then—
Podrick spoke.
"…You've convinced me."
He stepped forward.
Placed a hand on Qyburn's head.
His grip tightened.
Like iron.
Qyburn was forced to look up—forced to meet his eyes.
"I will give you protection."
"And the resources you need."
Podrick's voice was steady.
Cold.
Absolute.
"But I need results."
"Everything you do—will be under my supervision."
His fingers tightened further.
"If you lie to me…"
"I will crush your skull."
"Do you understand your value?"
Pain shot through Qyburn's head—
But he smiled.
Wildly.
"Yes… my lord…"
"I understand."
"I swear—everything I do will be under your command."