Daenerys awoke with a start. Blearily she looked around her, a vast mountain of black scales blocking most of the view. Sensing her movement, Drogon turned to look at her, his jaws dripping gore. Daenerys looked down in horror, but saw he had only taken a sheep, its open guts already black with flies.
She stood up and turned looking at the green hills surrounding her. A stream babbled not far off. In such an idyllic place, it was hard to believe she had torched the capital of the Seven Kingdoms and then fled the horror she had inflicted.
How long had it been until fatigue had forced her to land? How long had she slept? She looked up. The sun was hardly past noon.
She would have to return to the city, or what remained of it. But what then?
Would she explain that she had been taken by an inexplicable rage? To rule by fear was one thing, but a ruler taken by madness had every reason to be conspired against and removed from power.
To beg the inhabitants' forgiveness? Even less likely. To show weakness of resolve after showing an excess of cruelty would cause not just her enemies but her allies to turn on her, and once again, she could not fault them.
Was this the curse her ancestors bore and transmitted to their children? That no matter her lofty goals, she too should finish broken and alone, defeated and friendless, her own good intentions used against her?
Panic and despair threatened to overtake her, and she was about to curl up and break down crying, when her stomach rumbled. Grabbing one of the dead sheep's legs, she ordered Drogon to bite down, snapping the leg off at the knee, and breathe slowly until the smell of roasted meat filled the air. He at least did not judge her, nor question her orders.
Daenerys sat back against a nearby tree. She would think after she had eaten. She had nothing else to do now but think.
In the streets of King's Landing, Jon Snow found Grey Worm standing at the head of a long line of captured Lannister soldiers, an Unsullied standing blank-faced behind each one. Jon's retinue halted, hands not quite on hilts as the commanders stared at each other. With Daenerys missing, it was not yet determined who was in charge of the overall army, and it was an open secret that Jon wanted the heads of the Unsullied who had participated in the carnage.
"What are you doing?!"
"These men served Cersei. They must die."
Davos Seaworth interjected, his tone not pleading.
"They're defeated! They're on their knees, their queen is dead!"
Grey Worm shot a glance at Davos.
"I obey my queen's commands, not yours."
Jon took a step forward, nearly face-to-face with Grey Worm.
"And what are the queen's commands? Has she returned, to tell you that she will start her reign with a bloodbath?"
The two men glared at each other. The first to twitch would trigger a massacre, but there was no backing down now.
This was it then. Without Daenerys to lead so many soldiers of different backgrounds and values, her army would fall apart within the day. But now there was no way out, Grey Worm had no reason to spare the Lannisters, nor would Jon allow him to butcher defenseless men unopposed.
Nothing would prevent them from resolving the dispute, here and now.
Nothing would-
"WORM!"
"There you are, you sneaky little bloodshedder!"
Grey Worm's face twisted in contempt and fury. Jon would have drawn his sword immediately if he hadn't known the cause of such emotion, and indeed felt much the same. The Wolf's hand landed on Grey Worm's shoulder with a ringing slap.
"Been looking for you all day to congratulate you!"
"You what!?"
"Heard from my men how you and your boys handled yourselves at the battle."
Before Grey Worm could react, the Wolf continued.
"The Dragonqueen made a fine choice in making you her general. The brains to bring men to victory and the balls to lead them to it."
The Wolf went on, seemingly oblivious to the stunned looks and hate-filled glares directed at him, looking down the line of kneeling Lannister soldiers and nodding in obvious approval.
"And keeping your hand in at slaughtering them! Good, good. Usually discipline goes to the Warp when the warlord's away, glad to see you have the right idea."
He glanced at Grey Worm's knife and paused.
"You're not using just that, are you?"
Grey Worm did not answer, unsure of what the barbarian meant. The Wolf shook his head.
"The knife-death's too short, doesn't give the others the time to know what's coming to them."
"Let me show you..."
The Wolf's hand closed around the first soldier's throat, whose whimpers were cut off as he squeezed.
"What are you doing!?"
"I am killing this man, Snow. I should have thought that was obvious."
The Unsullied behind made to lower his spear, but looked at Grey Worm, not knowing whether to defend an enemy slated for execution. The Lannister soldier's eyes bulged. Blood ran red beneath the Wolf's fingers.
"They're beaten already! What fame can you hope to gain by butchering them?"
The Wolf did not turn to answer Jon as he squeezed harder, fingers meeting through meat and gristle, leaving the soldier's throat a bubbling ruin. He took a step to the side as the corpse collapsed, grabbing another Lannister soldier in the same way.
"Fame? None. Naturally I would rather they be armed and standing, but in the Dragonqueen's absence, her enemies must be dealt with appropriately. I understand if you have not the stomach for it, Snow, it's a trait often shared by you southerlings. There are few men who pass the sentence and swing the sword themselves."
Jon's eye twitched.
"Close your eyes and think of the Dragonqueen, if it helps."
The Wolf looked down. The soldier looked up at him, his face full of defiance, turning his head and spitting on the Wolf's armored boot.
"Trying for a slow death, are you?"
"Fuck off. I've dealt with plenty like you before."
"And yet you survived! My compliments. Were you also on your knees then, and a man ready to shove a long spear up your backside?"
"You so full of shit it's plugged your ears, Wildling? I said, Fuck! You!"
The Wolf tilted his head to the side and laughed. Jon started whispering urgently in Grey Worm's ear.
"I knew there had to be a backbone inside at least one of you! At last, a man who would rather die unarmed but defiant than a sword in hand and wetting his breeches!"
"You're going to kill us all anyway, and it's not like we have a better chance than Ser Gregor, with weapons or without. Do it!"
The Wolf nodded.
"Your name, southerling."
The soldier looked surprised.
"What?"
"Your. Name. It's unseemly to accuse others of deafness and then need a question repeated, you know."
The prisoner sneered.
"I'm Wyllem the son of Hern, the baker of Gropecunt Lane."
"Well then, Wyllem Hernson, have you any last words with which to accompany your death?"
Wyllem's tone was one of mock exasperation.
"Fuck. You. And fuck the queen, both of them!"
"Good words to die by, though only one would have taken you up on it."
The Wolf held his sword to the man's neck.
"And in turn, let me tell you this, that your gods might send you to the afterlife appropriate to such a feat:"
"You were a better warrior than the Mountain."
The Wolf swept his sword, taking the man's head from his shoulders as easily as if he were cutting a dandelion. He caught the head before it fell, looking at it until the eyes became still. Then he sighed, and placed the head on the body.
"Well, southerners, it seems you can die with some dignity after all! Will you follow his example, or will you soil yourselves before falling to my blade? Or will you, though I dare not hope, find the courage to take up your arms and fight as though your lives are on the line?"
Grey Worm looked angrier than usual after Jon finished, but he turned to face the Wolf, who had grabbed another Lannister footman by the hair, pushing the point of his sword towards the man's groin.
The Wolf grinned at the Unsullied spearman and spoke in perfect Valyrian.
"Bet you I can gut him three times in the time it'd take you to stab him once."
"These are prisoners of Daenerys! You have no right to kill them!"
The Wolf looked surprised as he looked at Grey Worm, releasing the soldier, who sobbed as he gulped in lungfuls of air.
"No? While they still breathe they are the Dragonqueen's enemies. You just saw that one die with fire in his belly. The others may show such resolve in the absence of a dragon to keep them in line. Until she returns to say she forgives them, they must die to spread the fear of her name far and wide."
"She doesn't- want... to..."
Jon fell silent, unable to continue the sentence. He took a deep breath.
"What she will do with them is her own business, and we will keep them alive until she makes their fate clear."
The Wolf blinked twice at Jon, then turned to Grey Worm as if the final decision rested with him, or as if the giant valued his opinion more. Jon was unsure which was more insulting, but Grey Worm clearly felt no happier at being forced to choose between agreeing with the barbarian or Jon. His face was clouded, but finally he spoke up, his jaw barely moving.
"Until she returns, they will live."
There was visible relief among Jon's retinue and the kneeling soldiers as the Wolf sheathed his blade, but the barbarian shrugged.
"You sure? It would not do to let the servants of the whore-queen go unpunished for their misplaced loyalty. Leave them all alive, and they will remember her as a weak queen. Maybe you can have some flogged to death, any good slavedrivers among your... What was it again? Unspoiled? Unsolicited? Unsold?"
Grey Worm's hand squeezed the hilt of his sword hard enough to hurt as he fought the bile rising in his throat at the Wolf's crass ignorance. The inhuman training drilled into the Unsullied saved him once again. He managed to spit the words through gritted teeth.
"No. There are none."
Any sane man would have heard in Grey Worm's voice the menace of a snarling guard dog, but the Wolf seemed cheerfully oblivious as ever.
"No? Shame."
The Wolf jabbed a thumb at Jon.
"Snow's brother here had a fondness for flaying his enemies, or so I'm told. Do you share his skill at it, wolf-speaker?"
Jon nearly choked.
"My brother!?"
"Yes, bit of a whiner. Ramshead or Ramshackle or something."
The Wolf seemed to think for a moment.
"Come to think of it, he took offense at being called Snow, he preferred Bolter or Button or something. But then, maybe the time he spent practicing on prisoners you spent fighting. He certainly wouldn't have lasted any longer against Gunnar than against me."
The veterans of the Battle of the Bastards stared in horror at the barbarian's casual confession.
"You- you killed Ramsay?!"
The Wolf snapped his fingers, though his gauntlet was slick with gore.
"Ramsay, that was his name. Yes, I did... Not that there was any glory or gain in it. At least Worm here carving up these wretches will gain the approval of the Dragonqueen once she returns, I had to wring a fight from him like wrenching out a miser's last golden tooth."
The Wolf sighed.
"Well, hopefully she won't take her time coming back. They'll spoil if left too long."
The barbarian grinned again, his eyebrows waggling suggestively.
"Bet that's one dragon's belly you're eager to stab your spears into, eh?"
Jocularly slapping Grey Worm and Jon on the shoulders, leaving them reeling, the Wolf turned and walked off, headed for the harbor.
Grey Worm and Jon Snow chanced to look at each other once the Wolf was out of sight. Their feud was forgotten for the moment, overshadowed by the sheer hatred conjured by the Wolf's insufferable joviality.
The Lannister soldiers looked at Grey Worm with pure fear in their eyes. Grey Worm snarled.
"Put them in the cells. Remove the corpses."
Jon said nothing. A single word, be it taunt or thanks, would only end in violence. Swallowing his own anger, he turned on his heel, his retinue following him.
At the harbor, Tyrion and Brienne went straight to the first Unsullied they saw on the docks.
"The Wolf! Where is he!?"
"He just left the harbor."
The guard pointed out to sea, where the Seafang's sails were rapidly shrinking.
Tyrion cursed. Who knew how long the Wolf would stay out to sea. And yet he had not seemed particularly nervous or ready to betray them. But the answers he'd gotten at the River Gate demanded an explanation.
"Send the word around to the other guards and picket ship crews. When his ship returns, I want to be warned immediately, day or night."
Brienne left to address the combined forces of the Queensguard and Goldcloaks which she was to thrash into a dependable guard once more. Tyrion wandered back to his tent, where he was surprised to see the two marauders who had nearly killed him aboard the Seafang standing outside, looking nervous despite carrying weapons and shields. The hairy one nudged the other, pointing excitedly at Tyrion. The tension left their faces.
Tyrion approached them warily, unsure of what they wanted. Then he saw the barrels stacked behind them in his tent. The Wolf had been as good as his word after all.
Tyrion entered the tent, but saw the marauders were still standing there. He looked questioningly, with the hairier one speaking to him in his unknown tongue. The only word he recognized was "Wulfrik". He was unlikely to forget it now.
"Wulfrik sent you, yes. I was there when it happened. Why are you still here?"
The marauders looked blankly at him. Tyrion sighed. As if he didn't have enough problems at the moment.
He turned around, letting the tent flaps close and dropped onto his cot. He felt his forehead starting to pulse. The same barrel of Bugman's Best that had caused the morning's troubles sat on the table just across him, placed on a heap of parchments stating figures and estimates for the number of victims tallied thus far, the quantities of food still available, the value of what had been pillaged by the liberators and the cost of rebuilding the city.
Resolving to drown his incoming migraine before all other issues, Tyrion tapped the barrel and drew a mug. He had it to his lips and was about to drain it when the combination of the day's events struck him.
The Wolf had Euron's helmet. The Wolf had sent men outside Tyrion's tent. The Wolf wanted Tyrion to join his crew. The Wolf had an alchemist working for him.
The Wolf had sent him barrels of wine.
Slowly he placed the mug on the table. A muttering outside drew his attention. The marauders were still there, talking to each other. It occurred to Tyrion that perhaps the Wolf had left them there to guard him in his absence, and not for any more sinister motive.
Still...
He dug up two drinking cups of much greater size and filled them with the brew, then carried them outside. The marauders had been looking to either side, but now looked down. Their faces lit up on seeing the goblets Tyrion was extending towards them. Taking them, they looked expectantly at him. He lifted his own mug.
"Skull?"
The marauders laughed briefly, and tossed the drinks back. They grinned at Tyrion, who felt he had gained some measure of acceptance. And what were the odds that this particular barrel had been poisoned or filled with sleeping draught, and that both men had been given its antidote?
He returned to his cot and applied himself seriously to the business of getting properly drunk. Evening fell without anyone to disturb him.