Within Harrenhal, the lord's chambers lay in the Kingspyre Tower.
Tyrion had the girls lodged there, while he stood on the balcony, running his hand along the battlements.
Black Harren, King of the Iron Islands and the Riverlands, had built Harrenhal in his own honor—an arrogant fool.
He meant it to be the greatest castle in all Westeros, a monument to his power, towering above all others. It took him forty years to complete. Thousands of captives from other kingdoms worked to death in the quarries or on the five colossal towers. Countless weirwoods were felled to provide beams and rafters.
When it was finished, King Harren boasted that his fortress was unassailable—and he was right. But he had not reckoned with Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons. High walls and tall towers meant nothing to dragonfire. Harren burned alive in the highest tower, and ever after it was called the Kingspyre Tower.
The heat had blackened and melted the stone, leaving the whole keep looking like a huge black candle.
Even by night the scorch marks were plain to see. Tyrion brushed the stones; they seemed almost warm beneath his fingers.
"This was melted by Targaryen dragonfire," said a voice behind him.
It was Qyburn, the exiled maester, stepping from the stairwell shadows.
"That sellsword Bronn is downstairs," Qyburn said as he shuffled into the moonlight. "Don't fear me. Even without him, these old bones could do you no harm."
"You mentioned dragonfire, Maester Qyburn," Tyrion said, still stroking the scorched stone. "Can it truly melt rock?"
"Perhaps you wish to know more of dragons, but I know little of them, my lord," Qyburn replied.
"Then tell me why the Citadel cast you out." Tyrion leaned against the parapet, the night wind lifting his golden hair, his eyes catching the moonlight.
"They accused me of vivisection and of studying the black arts," Qyburn said. "After that, I left Oldtown. There was no place for me in the Seven Kingdoms, so I crossed the Narrow Sea and joined the Brave Companions to survive."
"Necromancy…?"
"Have you never heard the tale? The last Hooded King, Morgon Banefort, was said to be a mighty necromancer. They claim he cursed his conquerors with his dying breath, swearing he would rise again from the grave," Qyburn said.
"The Hooded King? Morgon Banefort?" Tyrion frowned. "I think he was once a vassal of my father's."
"Indeed. The Baneforts still hold the Crag, though they wield no sorcery now," Qyburn said. "Loreon Lannister I, King of the Rock, defeated Morgan and had his body hacked to pieces and fed to his lions. Two years later those lions escaped Casterly Rock and killed three of Loreon's sons."
"Necromancy… dragons…" Tyrion murmured. "Tell me, Qyburn, can dragons overcome such sorcery?"
"That I cannot say, my lord," Qyburn answered with a bow.
"Then why are you here?" Tyrion asked. "Since you've spoiled my pleasant night air, I trust it's for something of importance."
"I came back to Westeros with the Brave Companions, and I've heard whispers," Qyburn said. "Rumors concerning you, my lord, and House Lannister."
"What rumors?"
"No offense, my lord," Qyburn said carefully. "They concern you, Lord Tywin, and King Aerys, the Mad King."
"I may be forgiving, but my father is not," Tyrion said. "If he hears of anyone repeating such tales, they'll be lucky if all he does is rip out their tongue. I remember a jester at Casterly Rock who once made that jest. I never saw him again."
"But my lord, do these whispers trouble you?" Qyburn asked cautiously.
Tyrion only stared at him.
"Across the Narrow Sea there's a curious sickness, called heterochromia, my lord. Do you know the iris?"
"So the Citadel's charges were true. You've done dissections—of the living, or of corpses?" Tyrion was taken aback. The iris—such knowledge sounded more like modern science.
"The maesters of the Citadel are but gray-robed sheep. How could they grasp my genius?" Qyburn smiled faintly. "My lord, within the human eye there is a thin membrane, and the color of the pupil comes from it."
"So this heterochromia is a change in eye color?" Tyrion asked.
"Exactly, my lord." Qyburn nodded. "It's a mild contagion tied to inflammation of the head. It's been known to spread in Braavos. The sick run a slight fever, but their lives are not in danger."
Tyrion listened intently.
"After the fever breaks, the color of the eyes will change—sometimes one, sometimes both," Qyburn explained.
"An interesting bit of medical knowledge," Tyrion nodded. "Well then, Maester Qyburn, thank you for the lesson. I doubt such enlightenment comes free."
"My lord, your wisdom is like that of Lord Tywin himself," Qyburn said, bowing low, his back bent.
"I saw you tend Shagga's wounds. Even without your lecture just now, your skill alone proves you could serve as a maester," Tyrion said. "I'll not take your life. If it's position you want, or gold, only say the word."
"Such things mean little to me," Qyburn replied. "My life has been devoted to greater studies. If you would allow it, I ask only permission—and aid—to continue my work..."
"Your skill proves your worth, Maester Qyburn, but what you lack is loyalty," Tyrion said. "When I've dealt with Vargo Hoat and destroyed the Bloody Mummers, I promise your talents will be put to use."
"My thanks, my lord." Qyburn gave a deep bow. "Then I shall take my leave."
Clearly, Tyrion's words were permission enough for him. As he himself had said, so long as he could pursue his research, it mattered little whom he served.
When Qyburn was gone, Tyrion looked down from the tower at the ruins of Harrenhal—the twisted towers, the split stones.
The thick, sheer walls rose like cliffs. From such a height, the siege engines and trebuchets below looked no bigger than insects. The far-off gatehouse loomed as large as the great keep of Casterly Rock.
Tyrion turned over Qyburn's lesson in his mind. It hadn't sounded like a lie, and Qyburn was hardly the sort to conspire with his father.
It seemed his dream of becoming a dragonrider was no dream at all.