I sure hope the woman who wrote a Mary Sue fic about Gregor Clegane writes a romantic epic about Rorge next. Though, that would be a betrayal cos everyone KNOWS that Biter is his one true love. Maybe Vargo Hoat then? Or Shagwell?
The sigil on his banner looked like a man dipped in blood. “On your knees for the Lord of the Dreadfort!” shouted his squire, a boy no older than Arya, and Harrenhal knelt.
Vargo Hoat came forward. “My lord, Harrenhal ith yourth.”
- Arya IX, aCoK
Roose Bolton taking Harrenhal, featuring Vargo Hoat and Arya Stark
Half her gown was hanging off in tatters, and her left arm dripped blood where the bear had raked her.
At least they gave her a sword.
Brienne inside the Harrenhal bear pit (and Jaime preparing to vault in) as illustrated by Charles Vess in the Subterranean Press editionofA Storm of Swords
“Not bad at all,” he said when he paused for a second to catch his breath, circling to her right.
“For a wench?”
“For a squire, say. A green one.” He laughed a ragged, breathless laugh. “Come on, come on my sweetling, the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?”
Vargo Hoat: Take her over there where it’s dark. You’d like a little privacy. Jaime: You know who she is don’t you? Vargo Hoat: Some big dumb bitch from who cares where? I’ve never been with a woman that big. Jaime:She’s Brienne of Tarth. Her fathers Lord Selwyn Tarth. Heard of Tarth? They call it the Sapphire Isle. Do you know why? Every sapphire in Westeros was mined on Tarth. Sapphires are gemstones, blue ones. Vargo Hoat: I know what they are. Jaime: Lord Selwyn would pay his daughter’s weight in sapphires if she’s returned to him, but only if she’s alive and honor unbesmirched. Vargo Hoat: Bring her back here. Unbesmirched? Jaime: Not defiled. Vargo Hoat: A fancy word for a fancy man… Your father, would he pay your weight in gold to get you back? Jaime: You’ll be a rich man until the end of your days. And your sons will be rich men and their sons after them. Lands. Titles. You’ll have them all. The North can’t win this war. You’re a smart man. You understand that. We have the numbers. We have the gold… Vargo Hoat: Hard to argue with that. Jaime: Now that we’re speaking together man to man, I wonder if you need to keep me chained to this tree? I’m not asking to be freed from my contraints, but if I could sleep lying down my back would thank you for it. I’m not as young and resilient as I was once. Vargo Hoat: None of us are. Unchain Ser Jaime from the tree. Suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat? Jaime: Famished actually. Vargo Hoat: We’ve got a spare partridge on the fire…Bring the bird over here and the carving knife. Will this work as a table, Milord? Jaime: Why yes, yes this will do nicely. Aaahhh! Vargo Hoat: You think you’re the smartest man there is. That everyone alive has to bow and scrape and lick your boots. Jaime: My father… Vargo Hoat: And if you get in any trouble all you’ve got to do is say “my father”, and that’s it. All your troubles are gone. Have you got something to say? Careful. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. You’re nothing without your daddy and your daddy ain’t here. Never forget that. Here, this should help you remember! *Clink* Jaime: Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!
