Jaime awoke the next morning to the sound of the Wolf opening the door of his cell. As they left, Jaime saw he had been actually been assigned half a dozen of the Wolf's typically huge marauders as guards, three of which held spears which they thrust mockingly in the air as he passed. He felt better justified in making no attempt to escape.

The Wolf led Jaime through darkened corridors to a much larger and better-lit room, where a man in chainmail shirt and trousers fitted to his muscular form waited, striking his thigh with a shortsword with every sign of impatience.

As Jaime approached and his eyes adjusted to the brighter conditions, he realized the armored man was not wearing tight-fitting chainmail at all, but was in fact entirely naked, every last inch of his skin pierced with tiny nails no longer than a fingernail that glinted as they caught the light.

"This is Kruisslla Iron-Skin, a Kurgan of the eastern tribes, and a favorite of the Serpent. You will fight him, gold-hand. For every six blows he lands on your sword-hand, he will take out one of his nails and stab it somewhere on your body."

Jaime looked down. Even the man's member had not been spared the mutilation, glittering like a freshly-caught fish.

"And what crime did he commit to have so many on him?"

"Crime? He wears those as badges of honor. Each one is for a single kill, be it man, woman, beast or child."

Jaime did not hide his disgust, but the Wolf seemed to mistake it for apprehension.

"He didn't fight all of them, if that's what you're afraid of, I know at least a hundred of them came from butchering his way through a Shallyan nunnery. Eh, Kruisslla?"

The Wolf said something in a foreign language to the man, whose lips twisted in a cruel sneer.

"He did this... to himself?"

"He's a Kurgan, and his mother devoted to the Thirsting Princess. Not the best sailors, and the Hung are better horsemen, but they can be decent warriors when they feel like it."

The Wolf spoke as though belonging to the Kurgans explained easily explained such willing self-mutilation. No tribe beyond the Wall practiced it to such a hideous degree, to Jaime's admittedly limited knowledge, were they from a particularly distant part of Essos?

"And you aren't afraid of me killing a man who fights in the nude?"

The Wolf smiled.

"Confident, aren't you? Good to see your spirits haven't fallen. You are much like your brother in that regard."

Jaime put his hand to his sword, crouching slightly and watched his opponent do the same. If only he'd had Widow's Wail instead of this nameless blade Tyrion had scrounged up for him. But too late for that now.

"For the principle of the thing, what if I don't fight?"

"Then it'll be very easy for him to strike your hand, won't it?"

Jaime nodded. The Wolf's whims were the only thing keeping him alive. The Wolf stepped back, leaving both fighters in the middle of the room.

Jaime knew he was out of practice, but not so much that he could not draw his sword and keep it steady. And against a man who fought in the nude, a great many things could happen.

The Kurgan held up his shortsword and took a slow step to the left, then suddenly surged forward, faster than a pouncing cat.

Jaime yelped. A bright red pinprick was visible on the back his wrist. The Kurgan jumped back, and made a mocking flourish with his free hand, miming a kiss.

"A hit! Five more, gold-hand!"

Jaime stepped back, but before he had taken two steps the naked man struck again, another sharp pain shooting through his hand.

"Two! Come on, gold-hand, you could at least make it difficult for him!"

Jaime snarled. Holding his prosthetic hand up, he stepped forward and slashed down at the man's thigh, but the blade merely bounced off the studded nails, though it drew blood. The Kurgan giggled, an oddly girlish sound.

Kruissla's sword thrust out, but a heartbeat before it struck, Jaime shifted his grip, parrying the blow.

"Thr- ah, good."

Jaime thrust out at the man's shoulder and heard the clink of metal striking metal, but also felt flesh yielding under his blade. Kruissla let out an ecstatic moan more disturbing that any other sound he'd made previously, and stabbed the point of his sword into Jaime's hand. Jaime snarled and pulled away, the point of his blade now red with the Kurgan's blood.

"Three!"

Kruissla jabbed to Jaime's left, stepped in and struck his hand before he could fully react.

"Four! You sure you didn't kill the real Jaime Lannister and take his place, heavy-hands? If you did, best slit your throat now before I show you what happens to people who waste my time!"

The Wolf's tone was facetious, but Jaime had no doubts that he was entirely serious. The Kurgan's knee thrust upward into Jaime's groin. Jaime fell to his knees, barely registering the stab of pain in his hand.

"Five! Last chance, gold-hand!"

The Kurgan turned around and walked away. Even the soles of his feet were studded through with the tiny nails. He turned around and took a nonchalant pose, clearly waiting for Jaime to get up.

Jaime pulled himself up to one knee, then lunged forward, his golden hand ramming into Kruissla's midsection. He heard the Kurgan's breath leave his body, and struck again as savagely as he could. Kruissla was bent over double and gasping.

Jaime remained in a crouch, too certain the Wolf would not have made it so easy. And the Kurgan did indeed look up a moment later, licking his lips, disappointment flashing across his face. He had probably been waiting for Jaime to step in and leave his guard open.

Jaime took a cautious step forward, but Kruissla jumped to the right, his sword flicking out with unnatural precision. Jaime held his tongue, but the Wolf's voice fell like a lead slab.

"And six."

Jaime stepped back from the Kurgan, but felt two enormous hands grasping his shoulders, lifting him with no apparent effort, and just as suddenly pushing him down on his back. He struggled, but could not escape the Wolf's grasp.

"You lose, you pay the price, gold-hand!"

Kruissla stepped forward and straddled Jaime, bringing a hand to his cheek. The Kurgan ripped a nail from his skin, shuddering as blood spurted from the wound. He held it up, and Jaime saw that it was not an ordinary nail, resembling a short, barbed arrow.

"No! No!"

Grabbing Jaime's chin in one hand, the man forced the jagged nail into and through Jaime's lower lip. Jaime punched and thrashed as he screamed, but to no avail. If anything Kruissla's breath became shorter, he seemed to be enjoying himself, even as Jaime's golden hand smashed into his lips and smeared them with blood.

"Right, that's enough for today. Kruissla!"

The Wolf yelled something at the torturer, who looked at Jaime with what seemed like regret, before backing away. The Wolf hauled Jaime up with one hand.

"Up you get, gold-hand. You lasted longer than I expected, if that's any comfort to you. Don't fiddle with it, now, or he'll have to put it more next time."

The Wolf dragged Jaime through the dim corridors of the keep he had not deigned to name, walking with complete confidence even where the torches grew rarer and long stretches of hallway were left pitch black. Though he had taken little notice of the path to the courtyard and he was distracted by the burning pain in his lip, it seemed to Jaime he had not walked this long from his cell to the courtyard.

"Where are-"

Jaime winced as he felt the barbs of the nail shift around.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To a more comfortable cell. Unless you prefer the previous one."

Jaime said nothing as the Wolf pushed him inside a doorway. This room was indeed clearly intended for use as a living place, containing furniture, food and drink on a table and a bed rather than a mattress. It was far larger and airier than the previous one, although it too had no windows, only dayholes even the Wolf was not tall enough to look through. The throbbing pain in his lip had died down enough to let him speak.

"When will-"

But the Wolf had already closed the door. The key turned in the lock. Jaime sighed and collapsed on the bed. It was only midday and yet he felt tired as though after a day's worth of incessant fighting. With Cersei dead, what was left for him in this world? Tyrion was still alive, but working for a woman who had sworn to kill him for killing her father. And if she found out Tyrion had freed Jaime, not even that.

From what the Wolf had said, Daenerys had gone down much the same road as the Mad King, even if the story of Cersei using magic was true. The last time Daenerys had spared him for killing her father, it was because she needed every sword she could oppose against the Night King. There was no chance she'd forgive him now.

His mind wandered. He was likely not going to be held for ransom, the Wolf seeming to have no interest in gold and his motives utterly unknowable. Why work for Daenerys, but abduct him instead of removing his head? Was he even working for her, and not planning to betray her at the worst possible moment?

Jaime smiled wryly, and regretted it as the wound on his lip stretched taut. For all her intention to rule the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys might find the Red Keep a more daunting battlefield, one where ownership of a dragon did not guarantee victory. As his own father had once said, winning was not ruling.

His head hurt. Such thoughts were the province of his brother, or the late Varys. Seeing a decanter of wine on the table, he poured himself a glass and drank it. It was even better than the one from his last meal, rivaling the sweetest wines of the Reach. Even the pain in his lip seemed to fade on drinking it. Wherever the Wolf had hidden him away, it was almost worth being captured for its hospitality.

On this thought, he lay down on the bed and drifted off into deep slumber.

Daenerys looked at the afternoon sun. Another day gone by, and still she was no closer to reaching a decision.

The main sticking point was the responsibility of the citizens. Had they rung the bells in good faith, and the attack been something only Cersei as responsible for? Or perhaps Cersei's agents had rung the bells to lure her in, and Daenerys had spent her wrath on innocent victims. No apology would ever make up for that, but if they understood that she had not been herself, that it was all Cersei's fault...

Daenerys sighed.

Sooner rather than later, she would have to face her army, her children, her subjects. They had seen that she could rule them through fear. Now she had to persuade them that kindness still had a place in her heart. That she would break the wheel for good and not merely stop it.

She thought back to the advice she had received over the years from her advisers born and raised in Westeros. The commoners cared little for who ruled them, it was the Houses she had to win over if she wanted a peaceful reign. She certainly would have no aid from the smallfolk now, did she even have the support of those who had been ready to follow her at the start of the siege? Had they decried her as a tyrant, the same as her mad father, and already fighting amongst each other for the throne?

She shook her head. Jon had the best claim, even before her flight, but he wouldn't have taken the throne even if he was by all accounts the best choice by birth or by skill. Would he?

Would Tyrion push him to do so, perhaps in memory of her, rather than let her life's work come to such a pitiful end? Or would he fall back into the life of whoring and drinking that he so enjoyed?

Surely Grey Worm would prevent them from doing so, by force if necessary, but he was a stranger in Westeros, would he lead the Unsullied to their deaths here just to avenge her honor? Or would he find Missandei, or more likely Missandei's body, and return to Essos? Would the Dothraki sail with them, or go on a rampage, killing peasants and razing villages in her name until they were all dead?

So many possibilities. The only way they would all act as a single, unified force was if she was there to lead them.

She looked at Drogon, who was feasting on a dead horse. Here she was, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms by right of birth and of conquest, and she had to steal food from her own subjects to survive. This would not do.

From a pool of water she was able to see her reflection. Her face was still grimy with ash, with pale streaks where she'd cried, and even her hair seemed gray. This was no way for a queen to look. She washed in the cold water as long as she could.

Flying east would bring her to the coast eventually, and from there she would easily find King's Landing, and woe to any who thought to stall her any longer.

A key scraped in the lock, and Varys turned from the window to look. As was now usual, the Wolf's sorcerer entered the stone-walled cell, carrying a wooden board and a small cloth bag under one arm, his staff topped by a dead raven in the other. Varys nodded a greeting, surprised that the sorcerer had apparently been in a fight, and went to a small table in the middle of the room.

"You eat good, geldr?"

"I have, thank you."

Sven Swordeater placed the board on the table where Varys was sitting. Though this was hardly the first time it happened, Varys was moved to ask a question.

"I would like to know, Swordeater. Are there none among your kind who can play?"

The sorcerer looked at him for a moment before answering.

"Not lot, no... and those smart enough for it, not smart enough win. Know cannot hit seer to Jarl Strong Wolf, so grab board, throw across room. Need pick up pieces after."

The sorcerer set up the pieces. Sven had told Varys its name, but it sounded like a horse sneezing, and so Varys had contented himself with learning its rules by trial and error. One side needed its king to escape capture, the other needed to seize him. This time the sorcerer had given him the king.

"And one of them...?"

Varys pointed at his own eye. Sven gave him a baleful look from the blackened eye.

"That from Jarl Strong Wolf."

The sorcerer's tone prevented any further discussion. Varys changed the subject as fast as he could.

"I don't suppose there are any news of the outside world today?"

"City taken, but dragon-queen gone."

"Gone!?"

"People say, slut-queen cast spell, make dragon-queen angry. Set half city on fire. But hear bells, scare her off. Not seen yet."

Varys stared. He wanted to feel surprised or shocked, but in his heart he knew he'd been expecting this.

"So she attacked the city after all."

Varys felt his heart sink. So it had happened as he feared, and the old saying about the Targaryens had come to pass once more.

A piece slid across the board, taking one of Varys' bodyguards. He frowned.

"Wait. A spell? What do you mean, a spell?"

The king moved a single square, putting him out of danger for the moment.

"Not know, not see. What hear is: Bells ring, dragon land, ball of fire in sky at keep. Fire hit dragon-queen, dragon burn city. Then, fly off when bell ring. Dragon-queen still on dragon, so..."

Varys looked into nothingness as he wondered about this. Could it be true, that Daenerys had indeed agreed to let the city surrender? Had it really been the bells that drove her off? Had he been wrong about her, as he had so devoutly wished when he saw Grey Worm coming to arrest him, just before the Wolf's sorcerer had abducted him? Something seemed off.

"And were you anywhere near the city when this... spell was cast?"

The sorcerer grinned. Varys found he was slowly growing used to the hideous spectacle of rippling scars. He likely did it on purpose. A piece was moved back, retreating, or feigning retreat.

"Me? How me in city? Me dead, burned by dragon. Same you."

So the sorcerer would say no more. If of course he did have more to say, and was not merely bluffing as so many informants had over the years.

Varys shifted one of the king's bodyguards, neutralizing a flanking attack. Sven frowned.

"And how badly burned is the city?"

"Not too bad. Many dead, many building burn, but be more if army take city."

A warrior moved up the field, seeking an opening in Varys' defenses. A bodyguard moved between two others, forming an impenetrable shieldwall.

"And Cersei?"

"No one know in city. Jarl Strong Wolf say she run away."

Varys shook his head.

"Where to? She couldn't have thought that far ahead, never could."

Sven shrugged.

"Find lots body in cellars. Not hers. Maybe burn, maybe fall."

The sorcerer moved a piece. The king was surrounded. Varys nodded and toppled it over.

"A good game, Swordeater."

"You get better, geldr. Last longer anyway."

The sorcerer packed up the pieces and the game board, picked up his staff, and left. Only when the key had scraped in the lock did Varys get up. He was in luck today, three feathers had fallen from the dead raven. Hastily he stowed two of them away in his robes, then pulled out the long strip of linen he had painstakingly pulled apart from his bedsheet.

The knife he was given with which to eat his food was taken away at the end of every meal, of course, but he was left alone to eat. Snipping away at the bedsheet for a few minutes every day, he had managed to remove a piece of sufficient length to write on.

His cell was far too high above the ground for him to attempt escape, and the window showed only a courtyard anyway. He did not know why he had started putting everything he knew or suspected about the outworlders and their powers into writing, but it passed the time as well as anything else, and there was always the chance he might find a messenger. Several of the servants who'd brought up his meals and change his clothes looked as Westerosi as any he'd ever seen, and though they had never spoken a word to him, he was fairly certain they were local to the fortress and not brought in from whatever hellhole had spawned the Wolf and his kin.

Suddenly he wondered if Sven's regular visits were approved of by his overlord. For that matter, this was quite a comfortable prison. He remembered the open contempt the Wolf had shown for his seer. Was it the disdain of a brute for a man of more intellectual persuasion, or something else? There was an interesting line of thought.

The feather was sharp enough. Without hesitation, he pricked his finger, waited for blood to accumulate inside the quill, and began to write.

That evening, the Seafang swarmed with activity as marauders loaded cargo into the longship. At the gangplank, the Wolf stood bellowing orders when two men approached him.

"Well, Akkarulf?"

"She took it... rather well, all things considered, yarrl. Gunnhildr and Eohallia were showing her the bath when I left, and I sent her Snorri and Hrothgar for tonight."

"Good."

"But I'm not sure if they were properly warned, yarrl, they looked a bit too smug about it."

"No fear of that, I impressed on them all the fate they would encounter by forcing themselves on her. She'll take them willingly or she'll not take them at all, but in a few days she'll be requesting more, you'll see. She's hardly the type to deny herself any form of enjoyment. Sven, how's the spymaster."

The sorcerer was watching a flock of ravens flying around a tower. He muttered under his breath and shook his head.

"Geldr still angry, jarl. Try playing king's game with, him lose, him try hit me with board."

Akkarulf glanced curiously at the sorcerer, but the Wolf smiled.

"Good! He at least has not lost his spirit. You sure he didn't just catch you cheating?"

The Wolf laughed and turned back to his lieutenant. Akkarulf noticed the sorcerer did not laugh.

"Now then, Akkarulf, you'll be leading the fleet north."

"Yes yarrl. Do we avoid giving battle this time as well?"

The Wolf seemed to think, then shook his head.

"I leave it to your judgement, but I want numbers at their strongest. Warn the captains that they will answer to me if I deem them to have wasted their men. In any case, no land raids. Do not risk going ashore until I return to tell you."

"Yes yarrl."

"Sven, you know what to do."

The sorcerer nodded, turned around, and left.

The Wolf and his lieutenant boarded the ship. The ropes were loosened, the crew not rowing took up their weapons, and with a triumphant hiss, the dragon prow lifted into the air, a glowing hole opening in the air before it.

The Seafang surged forward, propelled by shouting rowers, and disappeared into the hole which closed behind it. All was still once more.