The air shivered and roiled before splitting open. A long iron shaft emerged from the hole, which soon became the reinforced ramming prow of a massive ship. A snarling dragon's head of wood soon followed several feet higher, just before a swivel-mounted ballista. The hole widened until the whole of the Silence emerged, the Iron Throne dangling precariously below it from chains like an insect in the legs of some monstrous black-winged dragonfly. Crewmen above and below tossed and caught ropes, hauling then lowering the flagship and its prize to a great dais in the middle of the courtyard.
Men swarmed around the throne as it landed, carefully holding it in place as support beams were placed under it. Once the throne sat securely on its platform, the chains were released, and the Silence hauled away until it hovered above the wooden cradle that had served as drydock for the Seafang.
The ship was pulled downwards with no less care than the Iron Throne until it came to rest securely in its moorings. Ropes were tied and the sails furled, while the Wolf descended quickly, addressing the hulking warrior waiting at the bottom of the gangplank.
"Akkarulf, have her restocked in full, there's a long trip ahead."
"Yes, yarrl. Did it go we- You're wounded!"
The Wolf laughed happily.
"So I am, but it is a token of my success. The Worm still has something in his trousers and thinks no more of fleeing, the call to war was heard, and hopefully the Shield-slayer will look more like himself when I see him again."
Not for the first time, Akkarulf wondered if the Wolf was aware of the particular mutilations inflicted on Grey Worm- and indeed, on the Unsullied as a whole- and whether it amused him to twist the knife at every occasion, or if he was entirely and embarrassingly sincere, and it was part of his curse that a honest compliment in his mouth became an odious insult.
"Now off I go to spread the good news."
The Wolf headed off towards a high tower, humming cheerfully. Akkarulf watched the giant leave, wondering who could have inflicted a wound on a fighter he had never even scratched in all their sparring. He called out orders before boarding the ship, and soon lines of marauders and Ironborn were ferrying crates and barrels onto the Silence.
Missandei shivered as she drew closer to the fire. Even piling all the blankets and furs in the room on herself, it was still cold in the stone chamber she had occupied in the months since the mute Ironborn had dragged her from Dragonstone's waters and dropped her before the Wolf. The supply of firewood was growing low again. She heard the key turn in the lock and stiffened. Thudding footsteps echoed, coming closer.
"Good news, girl! Your lover comes for you at last."
So it had finally happened. Her time of value to the Wolf had ended, and now she was to be his bedwarmer. Ever since he'd ordered her bound, blindfolded and gagged, then brought to this anonymous cell in some unknown and badly-heated keep, she had dreaded this moment, but it had been more than enough time to prepare her mind. Her mouth set tight.
Come what may, she would not give him the satisfaction of having broken her. He would have her body, but not her spirit. Even as she steeled herself for his hateful embrace, she noticed the Wolf was not approaching her, but had stopped moving. She turned around.
The Wolf stood in the middle of the room, looking at her. There was a fresh wound along the side of his face, not more than a day old by her reckoning.
"Well now, I was expecting a slighter warmer welcome than that to such joyous news."
Missandei spat back in Naathi.
"May vultures eat your manhood!"
The Wolf paused and smirked before responding in the same language.
"Is that an expression of gratitude among your people? I shall have to remember it, I've been thinking of paying them a visit."
Missandei's voice was full of contempt.
"You should. Be sure to spend the night."
"I think I will. Several, even. I've heard the climate and the religions are quite invigorating, no one seems to need to spend more than a day there."
The Wolf's eyes went to the pile of blankets.
"You Southerlings really can't handle brisk weather at all, can you? I'll have that seen to."
The Wolf turned his head to the door and barked an order.
Missandei stared in confusion. Ever since her capture at the hands of the Ironborn- or those she thought were Ironborn, but whose helmeted leader had handed him off to the Wolf without comment- she had known only this stone cell, furnished enough to make it livable and attended by two women with hair almost as pale as their skin, whose tongue she had strived to learn for lack of anything better to do. She recognized what the Wolf had said as their word for wood.
The Wolf had only occasionally showed up to ask questions of her, but never anything that could have been used against Daenerys as she first thought. Why was he so solicitous now?
"What do you care?"
"You wound me, girl."
There was that insufferable grin again.
"I have need of you in the best of shape, I wouldn't want to be accused of hawking damaged goods."
Missandei gave him a bewildered and terrified look. Was she to be sold off again?
"Of course, I'll need you to look somewhat pitiable for the day you're reunited, to properly excite his heroic virtue. Ash in your hair, sackcloth for clothing, and so forth. Though all the vermin washed out of it, of course, wouldn't want you scratching yourself in front of him and ruining so happy a moment."
"Why are you doing all this!?"
Missandei panted from the outburst. It was all very well for the barbarian to talk as though only he mattered in the world. Which was probably not far from his opinion of himself.
The Wolf looked surprised.
"I told you. Your lover comes for you."
The Wolf sighed deeply after Missandei gave him another blank look.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten about him already! And here the paragon of chivalry comes at the head of an army, full of wrath and righteous indignation, sword drawn, banners flying, ready to beat down the doors by force of love alone, only to find his lady has broken faith with him! It's something a Bretonnian would cry at. Admittedly, there's few things the lance-lickers wouldn't cry at, including a sad love story, a happy love story, or a perfectly-cooked snail."
The Wolf suddenly looked worried.
"You haven't fallen for one of my men, have you? I knew I should have boarded up that window."
The Wolf waggled his finger at Missandei.
"Very bad idea, that, my crew are famously unfaithful, two wives and five bastards in every port! But still, I suppose it was inevitable."
The Wolf paused.
"After all, what woman could hold herself to such impossible standards, would accept to cut herself off from society, friends and family, to endure public shaming and the loss of all reputation, all for the love of a man who willingly bears the name of so pale and so insignificant a creature as a grey worm?"
Missandei stood straight up, her tongue seemingly frozen. The Wolf answered as though she'd asked.
"Yes, he's coming... or so I should hope."
The Wolf pointed at the wound on his cheek.
"Gave me this, seems to think your name in my mouth becomes an insult."
"Then... Then Daenerys too is coming? For me?"
The Wolf frowned.
"No. I've no idea where she is. And neither do they."
The door opened. The servants assigned to Missandei's care entered, bent double from the weight of the firewood they carried. One added logs to the fire while the other pumped the bellows. Once the flames roared high, the Wolf dismissed the pale women with a short command and turned back to Missandei.
"Gods know where her dragon took her to die."
Missandei felt a chill despite the blaze. Daenerys dead? How?
"She's upset a great deal of things by getting herself killed, that girl. If not for that, you might well have been reunited with your lover long ago."
"How? Did- did you kill her?"
The Wolf gave her a cold glare, then sighed.
"It was my blade that struck her down, yes... but only because she threw herself on it."
The Wolf sounded angrier now, as though repeating a conversation he'd had with himself many times.
"I was aiming for the dragon, told her to get out of the way, but you know how mothers are with their children, always seeing them as helpless as the day they were born..."
Missandei collapsed on the pile of blankets, holding her head in her hands. Finally she looked up.
"But... If he knows I am here, why didn't he come sooner?"
"Because he only knows since this morning, when I told him."
Missandei hesitated.
"And if... if he doesn't come..."
The giant shrugged, his skulls swinging.
"Let's just say you'd better hope he comes."
The Wolf smiled. It was almost reassuring, if not for the pointed teeth made more prominent.
"But given what I told him of you and all that you've suffered here, I've no doubt that he'd tear the castle stone from stone until he finds you. I hope you won't contradict me on that point, by the way, as far as he knows you're here as a lamb among wolves, whose virtue is under siege every moment of day and night. Disabusing him of that notion might bank the fire in his loins, and we don't want that happening, do we."
The Wolf turned on his heel and left. Missandei sat up and hugged her knees as the key turned in the lock. For the first time in months, she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.
Akkarulf watched the Wolf stride up the gangplank. The giant looked quite pleased with himself.
"Well, Akkarulf?"
"It's all aboard, yarrl."
"Good. Now get me those... what was it? Dragonglass?"
"Yes, yarrl?"
"A little of everything. Arrowheads, arrows, axes, spears, swords and daggers. Two bags full at least, and enough for both crews besides. And whichever bow you think best for long distances."
Akkarulf paused.
"You need me on the trip, yarrl?"
"That I do. Or do you have a more pressing reason to stay here?"
There was no hostility in the Wolf's voice, but Akkarulf knew not to trust to it.
"Not at all, yarrl, but the men are starting to grumble again. I've tried to get them to bear it, but I'm living proof of what can happen if the favor of the true gods falls on them, and it only makes them more impatient to prove their worth in battle."
"And you can't simply crack their skulls together if you're with me."
"Well, yes."
The Wolf sighed.
"I would leave them in your charge, but I need an archer for this trip. And you know this tub better than I do."
Akkarulf felt nettled that the greatest ship ever built by the Ironborn should be treated so contemptuously.
"What's wrong with the Silence?"
"What isn't wrong with it?"
The Wolf's hand swept the length of the ship.
"Look at this thing, what kind of raiding ship has no oars? How're you supposed to sail upriver, against the tides and wind, slide in and out of battle like a sword between a ghoul's empty ribs? I put the Seafang's prow to it because there was no other choice, but even she knows she's been put on a second-rate fishing boat, barely capable of ambushing merchantmen and ships at anchor."
Akkarulf looked over at the figurehead, which seemed more agitated than usual.
"Then why not build another?"
He immediately regretted his question when the Wolf shot him a murderous glare.
" 'Another Seafang?' You have a Trolltree or two running around the place?"
"A... trolltree?"
"The last of the treeblood in Norsca, we carved the whole of the Seafang from its corpse. Where else will I find such timber, infused with magic and older than cities?"
Akkarulf could not say what prompted him to speak without thinking.
"The Isle of Faces?"
The Wolf stared at him with an utterly blank expression.
"The what."
"It's an island in the middle of the Gods' Eye where the trees are said to have faces, carved on them when the Children of the Forest allied with the First Men generations ago. Supposed to be haunted by priests of the Old Gods."
"Indeed?"
The Wolf looked quite interested.
"Easy to reach, this Isle of Faces?"
"No. From what I heard it's surrounded by mists, only appearing when it wants to."
The Wolf nodded.
"Tell the Swordeater everything you know about it. Then make ready the fleet. Sven will find them a way to the island, and tell them they'll cut down every tree and priest they can find, and bring back both back here. Go, I'll be waiting."
Akkarulf turned and ran off to the tower where the sorcerer had established himself, while the Wolf went towards the vaulted cellars that served as Qyburn's workshop and prison.
"Fleshcrafter! New orders."
"Yes, lord?"
Qyburn removed his viscera-stained gloves and rubbed his hands together. He had grown accustomed to the cold, but his fingers were stiff after long hours of working with unyielding and near-frozen flesh.
"Those bolt throwers with which you outfitted the rust-born's fleet. You're going to make more of them. Can the bodies wait?"
"Certainly, lord. I need only look in on them from time to time to make sure the anti-decaying reagents are-"
The Wolf cut him short.
"Then there's no problem. I will be gone a few days at least, possibly some weeks, and on my return you will finally have what I promised you to make those corpses move. Now, what do you need for your engines?"
Qyburn stared, but as always, his inventor's pride won out. He counted on his fingers as he spoke.
"Steel, lord Wolf, and a good deal of timber, green for the arms and well-hardened for the frame. A forge for the more delicate moving parts, but there's one in the castle, if I may be given access to it."
The Wolf nodded.
"I will send you the carpenters from the rust-born's fleet. Make any improvements to your machines that you deem necessary. Press-gang any Ironspawn and any of my men you find lazing about."
"But how will I tell th-"
The Wolf was already gone. Qyburn sighed. He could not disappoint his new master, and yet the only one of the barbarian's men who had shown any knowledge of the Westeros tongue was his soothsayer, the disturbingly-named Swordeater, who had repeatedly visited Qyburn's laboratory to jeer at his efforts and describe the horrible fates the Wolf had inflicted on those who failed him.
He wondered if the Wolf had ordered the Swordeater to do so, or if the sorcerer used his free time in this way. Was it some personal ambition or unknown hatred that pushed the seer to mock and threaten Qyburn? Was he less devoted to the barbarian's cause than it seemed? Perhaps he feared being replaced as the Wolf's right-hand man? Ridiculous!
He, Qyburn, had no intention of usurping anyone, especially not a sorcerer wearing fleabitten robes and carrying a necrotic totem around. He was a man of learning, not a mangy shaman throwing colored powders into fires for the astonishment of credulous barbarians. He blew on his hands, grabbed a quill and parchment and began to sketch. At least this would get him out of the cellars for a few days.
When Akkarulf returned, hauling two bulging sacks and an unstrung bow almost as tall as himself, the Wolf was pacing the deck of the Silence, the crew waiting at their posts. Marauders below stood ready to unleash the ship from its moorings.
"Well?"
"He was starting the scrying ritual as I left, yarrl. The fleet will be ready to sail by morning."
"Good... you have the dragonglass? And for the crew?"
Akkaruf patted the sacks at his shoulder.
"The crew already had theirs from the raid on the Lorathi, yarrl. Everything you asked for is now on the ship."
"Then off we go."
The Silence lifted ponderously into the air, its figurehead snarling, and slid through the gap between worlds that opened before it. From a window above, the Wolf's seer watched it go and smirked.