Akkarulf roared the name of the Blood God as he struck a snake-headed apparition with his sword. The demon hissed and fell back, just as the fog around the Silence cleared and they found themselves back in the real world, or at least a world, once more.
Perhaps it was the renewed confidence that the successful raid against the dead had given them, or perhaps such a deed had convinced the true gods that they did not so such harsh testing, but Akkarulf thought the crew had fared much better against the demons of the border-realm.
They were once again in the Dark Lands, the pyramid in the distance surrounded by dirty smoke. The Silence and the Morathi's Hand drifted lower, stopping just short of the elf-ship dragging against the ground.
The Wolf went into the Silence's hold and emerged, pulling three bound and gagged elf women behind him. Without a word he tied them together, hoisted them over his shoulder and used a rope to jump overboard. Akkarulf saw him head for the same place he had gone to perform his ritual when they had first arrived, then turned away.
Whatever the Wolf intended, it was not for him to find out, just as he had not sought to find out who or what exactly they had taken aboard the Morathi's Hand the previous night, or where half the elf prisoners had gone. At least they had not returned to the underground caverns.
He ordered the crew to their stations so they could be ready to leave at a moments notice. He looked out towards the fortress. There was some activity near the gates, but at this distance even his eyes could not make much sense of it.
The ship trembled as the Wolf returned. He looked far happier now.
"All good, yarrl?"
"Very much so. Sigvatr's stay in the hereafter will be much improved with three elven servants, I think. Take us towards the fortress, they're probably waiting."
There was smoke coming from where the Wolf had gone. Deciding he didn't need to know more, Akkarulf called out orders. The ships moved slowly towards the pyramid.
As they approached, Akkarulf could make out more details. A creature half the size of a man and covered entirely in small blocks of dark stone stood near the fortress gates. Next to him were similarly short guards in pointed bonnets, spiked and shoddy armor, and behind them a number of crates. Akkarulf stared. The guards were green, and on closer inspection could not be mistaken for human, having enormous noses and ears.
"What the hell are those green things, yarrl?"
"The servants of the dawi zarr, we seem to have been hooked a minor one have so few. Bring the dead and the elves."
The Silence dropped anchor some distance away from the fortress, well out of ballista range. The remaining elven prisoners were brought up from the hold, and the elf captain and the walking corpses unbound from the mast, though still tied to each other.
Several crewmen and marauders descended on ropes, then waited for the prisoners to be sent down. In the distance, the creature the Wolf called a dawi zarr advanced, his bodyguards hauling the crates behind them.
Akkarulf was among the first of the crew to reach the ground, and he helped in receiving the prisoners. Few of them seemed to have the strength to fight back, the elf captain moaning piteously all the while. His fellows looked at him with disgust.
At last the dawi zarr joined them, encased in dark rectangular blocks of polished stone. But is seemed more ornamental than protective, for under the stones was a suit of armor. The only part of him not covered in stone or metal were his eyes, and it seemed to Akkarulf that they glowed inwardly.
The Wolf spoke to the dawi zarr, but this time Akkarulf heard the language as different from the one the giant used with the Norscans, though not dissimilar. The dawi zarr responded in what seemed the same language, though Akkarulf still did not understand it, hearing only the Wolf's words in both tongues.
"You are?"
The dawi zarr responded in a rumbling voice. The Wolf nodded.
"I brought you two of the Southlands dead, Xerhexes, so that you might see for yourself. A prince and a priest."
The dawi zarr pointed at the elf still trapped between the two corpses and seemed to ask a question.
"Oh, that one is no use as a slave, I thought he might be useful in some other capacity. I daresay you don't often get the chance to slay one of their kind. I took the liberty of starting to break him in on the voyage here."
The elf did indeed seem the worse for wear. Panic filled his eyes and he spat back. There was a crack as the Wolf punched him in the nose.
"You see? Not enough skill to pose a threat, too much pride to resign himself to his lot."
The dawi zarr looked the skeletons up and down, then drew a weapon from its sheath. Akkarulf recognized what he held as a dragonglass dagger.
The Wolf coughed as the dawi zarr reached back to strike the skeleton prince, which did not react.
"You might want to leave that to an underling, daemonsmith. One who won't cost much to replace."
The dawi zarr hesitated, then handed the weapon to one of its guards. Now the skeleton reacted, thrashing and trying to loosen itself.
The green-skinned creature struck the skeleton prince repeatedly. It quickly crumbled under the attack, but instead of falling to bits, the fragments of bone changed shape even as they fell to the ground, becoming a swarm of buzzing locusts that engulfed the guard, slipping beneath his armor and into his mouth, ears, and nostrils, chewing their way through flesh.
The guard's squeals and the elf captain's screams were soon lost in the horrifying drone. Then the swarm dissipated as soon as it had appeared, and the guard's armor collapsed just as the prince's ornaments fell to the ground.
The locusts had left nothing but bone inside, and even those looked scarred and chewed.
The Wolf spoke up as though nothing had happened.
"These Southlanders take defeat very badly."
He gestured towards the remaining skeleton.
"And here, we have the dead-priest. We removed his hands and tongue for ease of transport, but I daresay you'll be able to make something of him nonetheless."
The Wolf snapped his fingers. Two marauders stepped forth, one bearing the wizard's staff, the other his desiccated hands. The giant frowned and turned around.
One of the Ironborn looked guilty. The Wolf stepped up to him and squeezed his mouth open, reaching inside with the other and pulling a withered-looking thing from within.
"You an idiot? Putting anything that belonged to a sorcerer in your mouth?"
The mute struggled and croaked harshly.
"If the gods want you to regain a voice, Ironborn, they will make their will known. To act ahead of their schedule is to precipitate your own doom."
The giant punched the Ironborn in the gut.
"The rust-spawn should've cut off your head and saved everyone trouble."
The Wolf returned bearing the grisly morsel.
"Now: a score of druuchi, a dead-priest and his accessories, and a trove of wight-slaying weapons. Payment enough, I think."
The dawi zarr nodded, and snapped his fingers. The green-skinned things immediately spread out to haul the prisoners back into the fortress. Meanwhile, the Wolf whistled to his marauders, who started loading the dawi zarr's crates onto the Silence. Rope ladders were thrown down, and the crew returned aboard.
Halfway up the ladder, Xerhexes pointed at the elf-ship, but the Wolf shook his head.
"You wouldn't like the company."
The crates were hauled aboard and put in the Silence's hold. The dawi zarr was about to join them, but the Wolf held a whispered conversation with him. The giant then roared to the crew as Xerhexes went down below.
"Make ready, Ironborn! We return to your waters, and the gods will test us harshly on the way back!"
The dragon prow screeched, and advanced into the hole between worlds.
Gorion ran up to Sven as he traced complex figures in the churned mud with his staff.
"It's done, sorcerer."
"Then we go."
The last group of Ironborn returned to the ships, carrying the heads of several Green Men by the hair or antlers. The air was thick with ash and much of the forest was ablaze, enormous furrows marking the passage of felled trees. The Iron Islanders had served the Ruinous Powers well, more than threescore face-bearing trees floated in the water, tethered to the sterns of their ships, and each ship sported at least half a dozen severed heads culled from the island's priests.
The sorcerer set up his ritual implements as Gorion gave the signal to raise anchor. The Iron Fleet pulled slowly away from the island, taking care to remain in sight of each other as the mists fell again, despite the ropes connecting each ship to at least two others.
Sven Swordeater mumbled indistinctly and began moving his staff. Gorion watched him closely to call out corrections to their course.
The seer had told him that the Wolf would doubtless want the Seafang rebuilt to his exacting standards as soon as possible, abandoning the Silence once his ship was complete. In his mind's eye Gorion saw his triumphant return, the Wolf granting him the Silence as his well-earned reward for conducting the massacre on the Isle of Faces.
Jaime spat as he rose from the floor. Another day, another sparring session against the Kurgan that had ended in his defeat. But he was starting to last markedly longer against the man. He had even spied a disgruntled expression on what little was still visible of Kruissla's face, which had warmed Jaime's heart to no end.
Even as another barbed arrow was forced through the skin of his shoulder, he realized it no longer hurt as badly, more like the prick of a thorn.
The marauder brought him back to his cell, where the day's supper awaited him. He ate and fell asleep.
It seemed to him that he had barely closed his eyes when the door opened. The Wolf entered, the first time Jaime had seen him in weeks. Without saying a word he went straight to the bedstead, took the golden hand, and left.
"What- what the hell!?"
The key clicked in the lock. Jaime was left alone and fuming.
As the morning light danced through the dayholes, the door opened and the Wolf entered. Jaime snarled.
"What now!?"
"Get dressed and follow me, Lannister."
"Wha-?"
"Now."
There was an edge to the Wolf's voice. Jaime quickly dressed as well as he could with only one hand.
The Wolf turned and waited outside. Confused, Jaime followed him. They set off down the dark corridor.
"Bjarnhilda has not tormented you these past days?"
There had been several midnight scratchings at his door, but he had not answered them. Cersei was dead, and though their love had been forbidden by laws of man and nature he still felt guilt over his dallying with Brienne.
"No."
"Ah, good. I still have some authority over hir then."
They continued down the gloomy hallways until the now-familiar door of the sparring room, flanked on either side by burly marauders.
Inside the room, Jaime's eyes first saw his golden hand resting on a table. The Wolf picked it up and inspected it, looking satisfied. As far as Jaime could tell, the straps had been removed, its end had been outfitted with gold spikes, while strange carvings had been applied to its surface.
The Wolf whistled, and the marauders at the door entered, one grabbing Jaime in a chokehold, the other grasping his intact arm and pinning it behind his back.
Jaime struggled to no avail, and felt something grabbing his legs and holding them even tighter than the marauders.
"Gk-!"
"Yes, yes, this won't take a moment, one-hand. Hold still, will you?"
The Wolf grabbed Jaime's stump and thrust the prosthetic onto its end. Pain as Jaime had never known exploded at the end of his forearm, and he screamed as he'd never done before. Stars burst across his vision and he thrashed like a trapped animal, helpless in the iron grip of the marauders.
After what seemed an eternity the pain became a dull throb and he went limp. He barely registered the marauders releasing him, nor the shock of his knees hitting the flagstones. Jaime drew in a ragged breath, and through tear-filled eyes saw the Wolf grinning at him. That was too much.
"Fucking bastard KILL YOU!"
He threw himself forward, but the Wolf's hands descended on his wrists and held him still. Jaime struggled again, but he might as well have tried to lift a boulder for all that the Wolf's arms budged.
He glared up at the Wolf, his breathing the only sound in the room. The barbarian was not looking at him but his hand. Jaime turned his head. The golden prosthetic was now a trembling fist.
As Jaime stared, the golden fingers opened, then closed again, as he willed it. The metal bent and slid as easily and naturally as would his hand of flesh and bone.
"Good, isn't it?"
Jaime hardly heard the Wolf, absorbed as he was in the contemplation of his new hand, fingers rubbing together, the sensation of touch blooming in his mind after years of absence. Finally he looked up. The Wolf said nothing, but released him and pointed towards the far end of the room. Jaime turned his head, and saw two men.
One was Kruissla Iron-Skin, who bore an expression of pure envy that made Jaime feel elated. Strangely enough, his new hand felt warmer at the sight. The other was not even half as tall, about the same size as Tyrion, though broader. Where Kruissla's skin was pierced through with nails, the short man was entirely encased in blocks of what seemed to be dark stone, leaving only a gap at the eyes.
"Kruissla I believe you know. This is the dawi zarr Xerhexes, a son of Khorakk, once Thegn of Dronangkul. He made those improvements on your hand, and I'm sure you're as anxious as he is to see how well it works. Kruissla!"
Kruissla drew his sword. The dwarf stepped back, his eyes on the hand.
"On with it, gold-hand, and give us a good show!"
The Wolf's gauntlet landed heavily on Jaime's shoulder and pushed him forward. Jaime's gold hand went to his sword by pure reflex, and he drew it faster than he would have been able to in his prime.
For the first time since their one-sided duels, Kruissla looked uncertain. Jaime lunged forward, and his sword thrust out at the Kurgan's shoulder. Kruissla made to parry it, but before Jaime had even thought to react, his hand twisted impossibly on its wrist, stabbing the Kurgan in the gut.
Kruissla yelped. Jaime did not hesitate, but shoved the sword deeper before dragging it out and striking at the man's shoulder.
Kruissla snarled and twisted, the sword passing in the air above his shoulder, and grabbed Jaime's golden hand. In response, it quivered and erupted into spikes that pierced the Kurgan's iron-studded palm. The Kurgan moaned in ecstasy, but there was more than a hint of fear in his voice.
Jaimed released the sword, the spikes still pinning the Kurgan's hand to his prosthetic, snatching the hilt out of the air with the other. He struck Kruissla a blow to his sword-hand, and for once the Kurgan was too slow to avoid it. Blood spattered the edge of Jaime's sword.
Ripping his golden hand free in a spray of blood and iron arrows, Jaime felt rather than saw the spikes flow back into his hand, the fingers melding together to form a jagged spike. Ignoring the Kurgan's disturbing expression of rapture, he plunged the spike into the man's belly, rewarded with the clinking of nails falling to the floor. Even as he pushed further, he felt the golden spike extend to become a long, thin tentacle, reaching up through Kruissla's organs, seeking his heart.
He wanted to hurt the Kurgan, make him squeal, make him pay for what he'd done. He could feel the golden hand quivering, vibrating in the Kurgan's innards like a fly caught in the hand as it pushed its way upwards. Dimly Jaime became aware that he was being pulled away, and he struggled as his prosthetic left the hole it had created, still whipping about.
"All right, that's enough."
Three marauders had grabbed him, the tentacle wrapping around one's arm. The Wolf slapped the back of Jaime's head. The tentacle retracted and became a hand once more, and the marauders released him.
The Wolf jerked a thumb at Kruissla.
"You kill him, you no longer have the second-best swordsman in the entire castle to train against. You want to face the best one?"
His blood still pumping, Jaime snorted arrogantly and responded an instant before he realized he knew the answer.
"And who is tha- oh."
The Wolf smiled.
"Good man. Not that I'd mind the exercise, of course, but I'm not sure it'd be good for your pride to be beaten down every day."
Jaime's eye twitched at the Wolf's cheerful arrogance, even knowing it was all too true.
"Well now, gold-hand, any ideas for what should be done with him? I could take a nail from your skin and shove it somewhere in his, but I don't think it will carry quite the same significance."
Jaime breathed heavily, struggling to clear his mind. A thousand tortures all suggested themselves to him. Finally he shook his head, feeling himself once more. There was a sharp pang from his gold hand, which then subsided. He turned to the Wolf.
"You're serious."
"I am. Your first victory in quite a while deserves some kind of celebration, and it is only fair that the victor decide the loser's fate. What manner of leader of men would I be that only punishes failure without rewarding success?"
Jaime had plenty to say on the subject of the Wolf's ideas of leadership, but held his tongue. The barbarian had been entirely serious about becoming Jaime's next opponent, he was certain of it.
"What to do with him? Chain him to a wall, and..."
The thought occurred that flogging Kruislla would be anything but punishment to him, the Kurgan seeming to appreciate pain and pleasure in equal measure. He could not say where his next idea came from.
".. and feed him nothing but stale bread and water."
There was no other word for it. The Wolf was impressed. The giant nodded and grinned.
"We'll make something of you yet, little lion. Kruissla!"
The Kurgan had stood up, one hand over the gash in his belly. Whatever the Wolf said to him, Jaime could recognize the pleading tone in Kruissla's voice. The Wolf called out to the marauders, who seized Kruissla with the same detachment as they had grabbed Jaime.
"Some rest will do him good while that wounds heals. You find Xerhexes' work satisfactory?"
Jaime looked at his hand again. The Kurgan's juices staining the gold had disappeared, as though drunken by the hand. With but a thought it became a fist, then a ball of spikes, a long whip that coiled like a living snake, then back to a hand. It rotated in a full circle with no apparent articulation.
"It is... amazing. How did..."
Jaime had a sudden doubt regarding the Wolf's generosity.
"What will it cost?"
"Oh, don't worry about that. He doesn't know it, but he owes me a debt."
"He does?"
"Yes. I killed his father, after all, and something like twenty-seven others of the brood. Xerhexes now has only five more of his half-brothers to murder in order to inherit his late father's position. He doesn't know it, of course, or he'd be obligated to kill me, and then how would he return to make his claim on the throne of Dronangkul?"
Jaime felt the Wolf was eluding the question.
"And what will it cost me?"
The Wolf smirked.
"You're well on your way to paying off that debt, Lannister, fear not. Now come along, I have a surprise in store for you."
"What's the-"
"If I told you, then it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? Rest assured your performance will not go unrewarded."
The Wolf spoke a few words to Xerhexes, who nodded.
They left into a maze of dark corridors, going up and down stairs that creaked with every step. At one point they passed a door lit by a pair of torches, and Jaime was shocked to recognize the androgyne who'd attempted to seduce him standing guard.
"That's-"
The Wolf spoke to the creature, who answered with an indifferent air, giving Jaime a look of pure venom.
Grunts of effort and moans of passion were audible from the other side of the door, which faded into guttural mutterings. Jaime stared. What the hell was going on?
The Wolf struck the door and roared out. The voices quieted instantly, and a short time after, a pair of blonde marauders left the room, naked to the waist, their faces burning, one of them still pulling up his breeches.
"In you go, gold-hand. I'll see to it you aren't disturbed until nightfall."
Not knowing what was going on anymore, Jaime entered the room. He did not hear the door closing behind him, his entire world now reduced to him and the figure on the pile of furs in the middle of the room.
Entirely naked, her swollen belly trembling, cheeks flushed and chest heaving with every breath, Cersei looked up at him and spread her arms wide.
Their senses appeased, the lovers held each other tight.
"I thought you were dead."
Cersei took a long time to answer, drinking deep from a goblet of wine.
"I nearly was. The dragon-bitch paraded before the gate, those lowborn scum opened it, and then... There was some kind of lightning that hit her. The next thing I knew she was flying over the city, burned down the Red Keep."
Jaime's embrace tightened. His golden hand quivered again, as it had during his fight with Kruissla and his reunion with Cersei.
"The Wolf said you cast the spell to kill her."
"Me!? If I had sorcerers capable of that I'd have used it long ago!"
"So was it him? But if he works for Daenerys, why capture you?"
"I don't know."
"But how did you make it out? And how did you get caught by that monster?"
"He showed up from above the Keep, while the bitch was burning the city, killed the Mountain, had me taken to his ship. Qyburn works for him now."
Cersei's voice became venomous.
"Qyburn, and of course the little shit is best of friends with him. I saw him in the ship, digging through wine kegs he could drown in that the Wolf gifted to him."
Jaime felt he had to defend his brother, far away though he was.
"He wanted to save you."
Cersei gave him a look of utter scorn.
"He'd gotten a ship ready. I would have taken you from the city, I tried to sneak in on the night before the siege, but one of the Wolf's men caught me. I thought it was Euron at first."
"I know the one you mean."
"We would have gone to Pentos, or one of the Free Cities."
Cersei gave him the same look she'd given him when he'd gone to fight the Night King what now seemed like years ago.
"What good would that have been to us? You think the bitch would have been satisfied with just the Seven Kingdoms? No. She would have hunted us down from here to Yi Ti."
Cersei shook her head.
"Gotten a ship ready... ready to sail straight back into Daenerys' fleet, more like. And you believed him, of course."
Jaime hesitated.
"So that part's true, at least."
"What is?"
"The Wolf said he wants to keep us safe from her."
"You too?"
The twins fell silent, each pondering what fate held in store for them. Jaime spoke up first.
"And what did he do to you?"
"Nothing. Yet. He said he needs me for something."
Jaime nodded.
"And... those men..."
"What of them?"
Cersei's voice grew cold, as it did when the conversation turned to a subject she had no intention of discussing.
"They bring me food and wine, and company. Rarely the same two."
Jaime looked his sister in the eyes.
"And you..."
He could not finish the sentence, but she could.
"What do you think I do? Beg them to preserve my virtue? I fuck them dry, two at a time. And like sailors, they're not interested in women. Remember that little bitch Loras? He would've been jealous of how easily I get them off."
Jaime was silent, which did not stop his sister from twisting the knife.
"I'll do what it takes to keep me alive. I'd sleep with the brute if it came to that, but he's yet to force himself on me. Neither have his men, or the servant girls that sometimes accompany them, for that matter."
"What!?"
"It's all about acting eager to please."
She knew how it hurt him to see her with other men, and yet she showed no mercy in telling him about it. Jaime sighed and looked away.
"So what happens now?"
Cersei took a moment to answer.
"I don't know. I'm safe... at least until our child is born."
Jaime ran his hand over his sister's swollen belly.
"So that gives us some time, at least..."
Cersei looked at him. Her spiteful resentment had boiled over, now she looked just as uncertain as he felt.
"What do you think he's going to do with us?"
"I don't know. He gave me back my hand, had me fight one of his men for weeks now. Today he worked some magic on it, that let me win for the first time."
Cersei touched the nail the protruded from Jaime's lip. He winced, and she withdrew her hand.
"I won... and he brought me to you. I think... I think he plans on using me to fight for him. But who or what..."
She kissed him. They stayed entwined until the light dimmed outside, and a regular thudding noise outside heralded the Wolf's return. He opened the door without knocking.
"Ahhhh, love, what a beautiful thing it is. Clothes on, gold-hand. Wouldn't want you setting hearts aflame on your way back."
Jaime slowly dressed. Cersei had hastily covered herself in the furs as the Wolf arrived, but he laughed, a vulgar, bawdy sound. The marauder outside peeked in and leered at Cersei.
"Going about naked again, slut-queen? Shall I move you to a colder room in the cellars where clothes will be a lighter burden to bear?"
Cersei's cheeks flushed, but she said nothing. The Wolf pulled Jaime up and out of the cell. In the corridor outside several half-dressed marauders were waiting, carrying baskets of food and casks of wine, as were several female servants carrying what looked like combs, hairbrushes and cosmetics. One carried a whip with several tongues. The Wolf pulled Jaime away and through another dark corridor.
"What- what are they doing?"
"Ensuring your sister looks as good as she did when she had the resources of seven kingdoms to do so. To judge by how long you stayed in there, they're doing a very good job."
"Why the whip?"
"So she can express any displeasure she feels with them... or if she's bored."
"And the men?"
"Well she is popularly known as the whore-queen, we can't have her lose the title, can we?"
The Wolf gave Jaime a jocular shove.
"But don't worry, she makes a point of telling me how disappointing they are. You're the first I've seen come out of her cell without having his manhood insulted."
"But... but they... they don't..."
Jaime tried and failed to put his question into words. The giant's look of amusement could bring only humiliation.
"I'm not much of a poet, gold-hand. They take care not to ram their throbbing cocks into her well-traveled cunt? Is that the delicate image you're trying to get across?"
The Wolf laughed. Just hearing it made Jaime's gold hand twist into a serrated edge.
"That way is reserved for her husband, little lion. Or at least the father of her child, wouldn't want the whelp to come out with eyes in different colors."
The barbarian smirked.
"I remember that happening in a tribe of the northern Wu, three warriors each claiming to have gotten the chieftain's daughter pregnant and demanding her as their bride. You can imagine their faces when the child was born, with hair all at once red as a Norscan's, black as a Hung's and brown as a Kurgan's. Yongvar Three-Fathers, his name is. Very touchy about the subject. Collects the lips of those who would mock him for it."
"And what do you plan to do with our child?"
"Leave you to raise him, of course. Do I look like a wet nurse or the kind to rear children?"
There was a curious tone in the Wolf's voice, something like regret.
"You just work on being a better fighter, and learn to work with your hand. Xerhexes would have made it breath fire as well, but that would have taken far too long. Still, something to look forward to. Remember to keep it well-fed."
"Fed? Fed with what?"
"Anything, really. Pleasure and pain mostly. And pain will soon become second nature to you, I assure you. I'll send one of my men to help you with that while Kruissla recovers."
"For how long!?"
The Wolf turned and shrugged.
"However long it takes for the gods to grow bored of you."
They had arrived at Jaime's cell.
"In you go, Lannister. I'll wager you need rest after such vigorous exercise."
The Wolf shoved Jaime inside and closed the door. He went to the bed and collapsed, his golden hand throbbing.