Early the next morning, Daenerys' army was hard at work. Fires were extinguished, corpses were gathered into piles outside the city in preparation for the great burning, and every artisan, craftsman and apprentice had been drafted into evaluating the damage and start the repairs.

Jon Snow leaned over the table in the command tent, having been looked to as the general in Daenerys' absence. The pillaging had mostly stopped, and Grey Worm had been persuaded to recall the Unsullied from their rampage after it was pointed out that destroying the Queen's capital city in her absence was hardly likely to please her. The Unsullied had set themselves to ratting out every last Lannister soldier they could find and forcing them to kneel on the cobbled streets.

Jon's gloves were still spattered with blood from personally executing the first batch of Winterfell pillagers, who'd been caught attacking their own allies for a bigger share of the spoils. He knew there would be others, but had to hope the execution would discourage most attempts. He looked over a map of the city, officers delivering reports and pushing markers to show which areas were still salvageable.

"We need more men to put out the blazes. There may be more caches of wyldfire still left."

"We'll need more food soon."

"Tyrion is doing what he can."

"Hey! You can't-"

A brief cry from the sentry outside was quickly interrupted. The Wolf entered the tent, two of his marauders behind him. One was the broken-nosed barbarian Jon had stared down during his duel, the other unknown to him, as his face was covered with an ornately-designed helmet in the shape of a bear's head. Hands went to swords, but the Wolf spoke before any were unsheathed.

"Jon Snow?"

Jon took a moment to think before answering. The intruders had not drawn their weapons, as he realized their hands were occupied, one with the axe that had nearly taken his life the previous day, the other the ornate breastplate he had last seen on the madman's torso. The Wolf himself carried a burlap sack containing something round. Jon had an idea of what it contained.

"What do you want, Wolf?"

Jon's tone and the absence of a "Ser" would have been met with instant hostility by any highborn man of Westeros. The Wolf either did not notice or care.

"You killed one of my men yesterday. Gunnar Ragnarsson."

Jon nodded cooly. He would not show fear in front of this man, not when all the others in the tent looked ready to piss themselves.

"I did."

Strangely, the Wolf did not sound angry in the slightest.

"Alone."

"That's right."

Jon looked the Wolf in the eyes. Clearly this lunatic only respected strength, like a caricatured and twisted version of the Free Folk.

"Didn't need anyone else to deal with him..."

Jon nodded at the marauder behind the Wolf.

"… Or is it my word against your man's there?"

The Wolf shook his head.

"No. Your tale is the same as his."

This was unexpected.

"Then why are you here? Compensation?"

"I am not."

The Wolf jabbed a thumb at the broken-nosed marauder.

"From what Erik Bloodspear here tells me, Gunnar attacked you first, and so you were well within your rights to slay him. If you hadn't beaten me to it, I'd have executed him myself, along with the others who killed men of the Dragonqueen's army yesterday, and whose heads will soon decorate the city's gates."

The Wolf shook his head.

"No, you killed him in single combat, and therefore, this belongs to you."

The Wolf reached inside the sack. Even though he was half expecting it, Jon still could not suppress a shudder on seeing the dead marauder's head held up by its hair. Death had not removed its expression of frenzied brutality. The Wolf dropped it to the table, heedless of the disgusted noises from the men in the tent.

"By his betrayal Gunnar Ragnarsson has forfeited any weregild I might have demanded, or profit from his death by seizing his belongings. By right of victory these too are yours, as he leaves no children nor kin to claim them."

"Always was better at getting his axe wet than his cock, was Gunnar. But at least he died with a weapon in his hand, and so the halls of his forefathers are opened to him."

The Wolf clicked his tongue and his men stepped forward, setting the dead marauder's arms and armor on the table with a loud thump. His attention focused on the grisly relics, Jon nevertheless caught the helmeted marauder stealing a glance at him before pulling back behind his captain. He looked with an expression of distaste at the head.

"And what exactly am I to do with this?"

"Whatever you wish, you won it fairly. You can wear it, display it in your keep's treasury or feasting halls, make it into a drinking cup... Hrolf Wife-Seizer used to nail them to his bedhead so conquered chieftains and champions could witness him taking their wives, mistresses, daughters, sisters, mothers, and slaves, one after the other. He went through five beds because they kept collapsing under the weight."

"And of course it's never too late to start collecting them."

The Wolf laughed, the myriad skulls adorning his armor shaking and rattling.

"Not a bad one to start with, all things considered. Good day to you, Chosen-slayer."

The Wolf turned and left, his marauders following him. Jon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Why did we ever... Forget it, I'll handle him later. Throw the head to the dogs. Has Davos set up the picket lines in the bay?"

One Night's Watchman looked up from the map.

"Three deep, with orders to fall back to the city as soon as they see Euron's sails, commander. The last raven from Dragonstone reported no sightings, but that was days ago."

Jon nodded. It was possible they'd have another fight on their hands. And so soon after the massacre, their sacks full of plunder, the troops might well desert as one rather than face the Iron Islanders. Where was Daenerys?

Tyrion wiped his brow. He'd spent most of the night organizing the quartermasters to be able to relieve the city's thin-stretched stocks of food, and after a few hours of fitful sleep, was about to take a firsthand look at the damage. From what he'd heard, his sister had tried to murder Daenerys with some foul sorcery, after signaling her surrender. It certainly seemed the kind of desperate act his sister would resort to, though he shuddered at the thought of magic able to strike at such distances.

As he made his way though the camp, he noticed the Seafang had been beached. He felt in urgent need of a drink, and the sight brought the Wolf's promised wine barrels to his mind. Strangely, he saw no marauders around the ship. Certain that it wouldn't take long to find what he sought, Tyrion climbed the gangplank as boldly as if he owned the ship, which was equally deserted. Even the prow, which was known to move and bite at the air, seemed asleep.

Tyrion turned and headed into the hold.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Sailcloth, lengths of wood, and weapons were all strewn haphazardly around the hold, and he threaded his way over and through them on his way to a pile of barrels at the back. He thought he heard a scrabbling noise from the wooden partition, but put it down to rats.

Looking at the casks, he lifted a small one that he recognized from the feast, covered in angular symbols that looked like no letters he knew of. "Bugman's Best", the Wolf had called it, and it had indeed been the best ale Tyrion had ever tasted. He grabbed the barrel carefully and set it down. When he looked up again, it was to see a helmet with entirely too many spikes and horns in the space behind the cask.

The same helmet he had seen worn by Euron as the Silence sailed out of Blackwater Bay.

Despite the hold now feeling entirely too small and a voice in his head screaming at him to run like hell, Tyrion stood as if petrified for some time, holding the helmet in both hands. There was another scrabbling sound that he ignored, too deep in exploring the ramifications of his discovery.

If Euron's helmet was here, then where was Euron? The Iron Fleet had not been seen in Blackwater Bay since the final parley, how had it ended up in the Wolf's hands?

The Wolf's comings and goings from Dragonstone had not been watched, had he met up with Euron and renegotiated with him? Or had it been Euron who reneged on the deal and the Wolf slain him, taking the helmet as yet another grisly trophy? But then why had he not announced his success to Daenerys? Was the man Tyrion had seen not Euron but someone else entirely, drawing attention to himself so the true master of the Iron Fleet could escape unnoticed? Where was Euron, then? What was his helmet doing here?

Was the Iron Fleet making full sail for its home islands, or was it waiting in ambush near Essos, or even gone north to strike at Winterfell? Sansa could doubtless organize a defense, but with only the men too injured to participate in the siege of King's Landing available to her, they would take hideous losses.

Tyrion shook his head, and carefully replaced the helmet on the shelf, shoving the cask in front of it. Now there was another sound from behind the partition, and a definite if feeble knock, as if trying to get his attention. In light of his discovery, Tyrion turned very slowly, and thought he saw movement between a crack in two planks.

And suddenly there was less light in the hold.

"Hoi! Dvergur!"

Two marauders stood in the doorway, blocking Tyrion's path completely. Neither looked friendly in the slightest.