A key clicked in the lock, and the door opened. Varys turned around in his chair, and did not hide his surprise at seeing the Wolf rather than his sorcerer.
"Ser Wolf?"
The Wolf did not answer but stood looking at Varys.
"You are doing well, spymaster?"
Varys shrugged, taken aback. At least he had not been caught writing.
"Well enough, my lord. I occupy myself as best I can."
"Oh? Thinking of ways to escape?"
Varys forced a smile on his lips.
"Oh no, lord. I like to think myself a realist. Instead I ponder on things I had little time to reflect on during my... life."
"Such as?"
"The meaning of power, among other things. Had I parchment and quill I could put them in writing for the benefit of future generations."
The Wolf pointed a finger at Varys.
"You've been talking to Sven too much. I must remember to send you different players for the king's game, it can't be good for your mind to always see that wrinkled face leering at you."
Varys thought the Wolf in an amenable mood. Perhaps he could take advantage of it.
"He is... interesting to talk to, in any case. Fond of riddles."
"Oh? Like what?"
Varys smacked his lips.
"A king, a priest, and a merchant-"
"Walk into a tavern?"
"… each command a mercenary to kill the other two. Who wins?"
"The mercenary."
Varys managed to resist the urge to sigh wearily. Being as unsubtle and crassly blunt as humanly possible seemed to come as easily as breathing to the barbarian.
"Well, yes, but whose command would he obey?"
The Wolf snorted.
"Why would he? The king may command armies, but he does not have them with him. The merchant cannot offer more than he has, and to kill him costs the mercenary nothing. The priest may speak for his gods, but I presume this is one of your weakling gods who do not lift a finger to aid their faithful, and so death comes to him as easily as the other two."
Varys started to argue, but there was something that intrigued him.
"Your gods... intervene directly in the affairs of their believers?"
"That they do. It's why we fight: that their gaze might fall on us, and give us the reward we deserve in their eyes. Compare it with the fate of the rustborn."
"The rustb- Euron? What has happened to him?"
"I killed him."
The barbarian's might as well have spoken of killing a fly for all the indifference in his voice.
"Slowly, at the Iron Islands, challenging his god to manifest himself to save him, he who was surely its most ardent follower, or at least responsible for sending it the most souls. And do you know what happened?"
"… Nothing?"
"Exactly. No freak wave, no roll of thunder, no blast of wind that would have given me reason to spare him. It was as disappointing as the last time I'd challenged a god to single combat and he turned out to be an illusion."
The Wolf shook his head.
"But we're getting distracted. Your mercenary, then, could walk out with the king's crown, the merchant's purse, and the priest's hat should he so choose, all for the price of a thrice-bloodied sword."
The barbarian shrugged.
"It all depends on the man holding the sword."
"Ah. Lord Tyrion thought so as well."
"Did he now?"
Varys was astonished to see the Wolf looked quite pleased.
"What a mind he has. A shame his body was not made to match. What deeds he could have done..."
The giant looked lost in thought.
"But were you in that position, what would you do?"
The Wolf shrugged again.
"It would depend on how they asked, what they offered, and whether the gods demanded their heads. I no longer serve any king, I could clear out the merchant's coffers by threatening him, and the true gods have no priests, only champions such as myself. But I certainly see that it would cause such dilemmas for you Southerners."
"Yes, I admit that you rather contradict my point."
The Wolf cocked his head to one side.
"Your point? And what point is that?"
"That power is not what a man holds, but what others think he holds."
The Wolf stayed silent for a moment. Something that could have been respect passed over his face, then he nodded.
"There is truth in both. Many a braggart has met his end when his words exceeded his valor, just as many a chieftain's power extended far beyond where his sword-arm could reach."
Vary recognized an opportunity when he saw one. Why the barbarian saw fit to admire Tyrion was a question for another time, but for now it seemed a good way into the Wolf's good graces.
"Indeed. As I told lord Tyrion, a small man can cast quite a large shadow."
"That he can. But there is a point where the shadow is not enough, and must be backed by deeds."
The Wolf went on.
"There was a king, once, whose alliances spread the length and breadth of Norsca, who had riches enough to make a dragon jealous, whose coffers vomited tribute every year. And do you know how he died?"
"You killed him?"
The Wolf smirked.
"Not even."
"Then..."
"It was a slow process, but it was his own machinations that turned against him. With a little... push from me. He was besieged by his creditors, his allies, even his own thanes and huscarls."
The Wolf smiled self-indulgently.
"A sad and laughable death, for a king who'd gotten his throne after nine murders. You must have decided the fates of kings and countries, spymaster, but have you ever killed a man in cold blood?"
Varys smirked.
"I may not be a warrior, nor able to sire children or grow a beard, my lord Wolf, but I am no stranger to... acting directly to further my plans."
The Wolf grinned.
"Ahh, good. And when things do not go your way?"
Varys looked smug.
"Oh, things have a habit of working out for themselves even when I am not around to supervise them. There was one man I would have had to kill, and I was busy elsewhere when it would have been most convenient for me, but he ended up dead anyway."
"Indeed? How so?"
"Thanks to my successor as Master of Whisperers."
The Wolf's brows furrowed.
"Your success- the fleshcrafter? Quisling or Quabble or something?"
Varys looked surprised.
"You know him?"
"I do, though not for his talent in spycraft. I take it that he wasn't any good at it?"
Varys laughed.
"He was a good Hand of the Queen, in that he did whatever the Queen told him to do."
"And that is not your opinion of how a Hand should act."
"Naturally. The Hand should act as the ruler should, and not as they demand. Qyburn and Cersei were a perfect fit for each other, really."
The Wolf nodded.
"And yet your own service to the Dragonqueen ended no less miserably."
Varys started and stood up. The Wolf was looking straight at him, clearly this was the important part of their meeting.
"My lord?"
"Why did you do it, spymaster? You knew your fate was sealed, or so Sven tells me, for you showed no surprise at being sent for by the Worm, and you knew perfectly well your life was to end in fire and pain. What is it that makes a man with no balls shows more courage than many a warrior with a beard two feet long and fifteen bastards to his name?"
"Conviction, my lord Wolf."
Varys sat back down.
"I gambled, I lost, and all that was left to do was to die with what dignity I had left."
The Wolf nodded.
"I understand most of your machinations involved keeping the Dragonqueen alive, to remove the inconsiderate bumps before her on the road to the throne, and yet you tried to murder her as she was marching to a certain victory. Why the change of heart?"
"Because... because I thought she was taking the wrong path. A path that would lead to death and destruction far worse than what I had worked to prevent."
"Oh?"
The Wolf's voice was a strange mixture of curiosity and snide confidence.
"It seems to me that with the Dragonqueen dead, the horselovers and Unstifled would have little reason to carry on, leaving the whore-queen on her throne."
"Perhaps. But Cersei, for all that she deserves to die, does not have the means to destroy an entire city if it rebels. Well... not anymore."
The Wolf snorted.
"And you think that leaving her on the throne is a better option? You would make a poor surgeon, spymaster, to leave a man his gangrenous hand rather than cut it off and burn the stump."
Varys was taken aback, but rallied.
"To use the same metaphor, my lord Wolf, it is a worse surgeon who uses fire when the gangrene may be excised, the wound cleaned and the limb saved. With Daenerys gone, the throne would have fallen to Aegon Targaryen, who has repeatedly proven his worthiness to rule."
The Wolf looked utterly bemused by the name.
"Who?"
"He maintains that he prefers the name Jon Snow, but-"
"Snow! But why would he-"
The Wolf looked puzzled, then shook his head.
"He doesn't have the will for it, spymaster. He's a good fighter, I grant you, to have slain Gunnar Ragnarsson in single combat. But he doesn't have the stomach to rule as the Dragonqueen could."
Despite himself, Varys was intrigued. What could the giant consider to be good qualities in a ruler?
"You think so?"
"I know so. The Worm, maybe, but he too shows too much restraint."
"Restraint?"
The Wolf nodded.
"After the city fell, they disagreed on the fate of the Lannister prisoners. Snow wanted them to serve the Dragonqueen, Worm wanted them dead, but he would have simply slit their throats and be done with it. Such mundane slaughter happens every day, hardly fitting of being included in her legend."
The Wolf shook his head.
"But to set men ablaze by the dozen, or have them fight each other to the death with an arm lopped off, or smash their bones one by one over a year, that is the kind of fate reserved for enemies that earns fear and obedience from one's underlings."
Varys said nothing, utterly horrified at the Wolf's bald-faced listing of atrocities, as if they held no more interest than the spirits available at a tavern. Hearing such insanity from the Mad King had been bad enough, but now here was a man who would actively encourage it.
There was a knock at the door. The Wolf frowned and turned to open it. Varys saw the furs and staff of the Wolf's seer.
They exchanged a few words in their language, then the sorcerer stepped out of the way to let his master through. Once the Wolf's heavy footfalls had died away in the stairwell, Sven entered the chamber.
"What want Jarl Strong Wolf?"
Varys shook his head as if to clear it. It seemed to him there was an urgent note in the seer's voice.
"To give me very little hope for the future of the world, it would appear."
"Why?"
"Why? Why!? Did you not hear him? He would have kings who rule solely through depravity and cruelty!"
The sorcerer cocked his head.
"Kings do what want when want, not worry of anyone tell them what do. Is always like that, no?"
"Of course not! With Daenerys, there was at least hope for change. But Aeg- Jon could have done it. The man was raised by Eddard Stark, was the son of his sister, he couldn't have become the sort of tyrant your master so admires."
Sven Swordeater scratched his beard.
"You want change world?"
Varys bit back the first angry response that came to him. This was not the Wolf, pushing an opponent into ridicule through verbal aggravation, but the only intelligent man in all these barbarians.
"I would like to think I did so for the better, yes."
"No. You want change world? Not just replace one king with other?"
Varys looked up. The seer was giving him a calculating look.
"What do you mean?"
"You try replace dragon-queen with wolf-prince when dragon not do what you want. Fail, get caught, die.'
Varys frowned at the gross oversimplification of his life's work.
"You want keep try, put new king on throne every time first one disappoint? Always build house on sand, always surprised when house fall over?"
Varys did not answer immediately. Dimly he felt the situation slipping from him.
"I suppose you would do better at it?"
The Swordeater grinned.
"You only having one plan, that why fail. And when fail, die. No."
The seer tapped the side of his head.
"Need more plan, need think more."
"And I suppose you are proposing to help me with-"
A thought suddenly struck Varys.
"Is the Wolf putting you up to this?"
The seer shrugged.
"Jarl Strong Wolf great warrior. Leads men to battle, brings most back, harvest many skull, much glory, favored by gods. But warrior needs pointing at right direction for win wars."
Varys nodded slowly. He was starting to understand.
"You use him, and go behind his back to do so. And betray him if things don't go your way."
The seer grinned.
"Me? Noooooo. Not betray. But... choose for him, when him make choice bad for him later."
The sorcerer leaned on his staff before turning around. As he opened the door and made to leave, he turned his head back.
"Remember, geldr, not enough want change. Need act for world change. Need power."
The door closed and the lock clicked into place, leaving Varys alone with his thoughts.
What was the seer's goal? Was he attempting to draw Varys into a trap by pretending to ally with him against the Wolf, with the barbarian's blessing? Was he hoping to dethrone the Wolf somehow? But then why involve Varys? Or did he want to make Varys his catspaw in some as-yet unknown conspiracy?
Or was that what he wanted Varys to think?
Varys shook his head. So dry a debate was for another time. Suddenly he realized he had not asked of either man what had become of Daenerys or who ruled the city now, despite it being months since he had heard of either. For all he knew, both Daenerys and Cersei were still missing and the city still under martial law. He wondered how Tyrion was doing.
He went to the bed and pulled out a scrap of linen. No feathers had fallen from the raven staff today, but he still had a few left over.
He went to the window and looked down. Three ravens were lifting off, headed in different directions, which he marked on the linen with his blood.
Finding out where he was held was of little use without anyone outside this prison to know or care, but that was no reason to give in to despair. Keeping his mind occupied had to be his first priority.
Akkarulf was making his way down from a tower when he met the Wolf.
"Ah, Akkarulf, just the man I needed."
"Yes, yarrl?"
"The fleet has returned, the Seafang will rise from its ashes once more. And starting today, you will spar with the gold-hand, until Kruissla's injuries have healed enough to resume his sport."
"He defeated Kruissla?"
Akkarulf was shocked. He had not known any of the marauders to come close to laying the Slaaneshi low. And now Jaime had not only defeated him but inflicted wounds severe enough to prevent him from fighting?
"Indeed he did, in no small part thanks to certain improvements made to his hand."
The Wolf snickered.
"His sister quite enjoyed them as well, if I'm any judge. Remember not to kill him, but remember also that a blade must be beaten to keep sharp."
As they set off across the courtyard, the Wolf paused.
"Let's see what progress our fleshcrafter has made first. The fleet will keep."
Akkarulf had to admit he was curious as to what the Maester was up to. He'd failed to reanimate the corpses the Wolf had brought back with considerable effort, but instead of being furious, the Wolf had simply promised him aid and delivered the passengers of the elf-ship to the cellars.
Now they passed through the doors of the largest cellar, kept cold by the great blocks of ice brought back from the northern lakes. Qyburn was working on the corpse, assisted by a hunched man in a cowled robe. Other such assistants were working on mysterious vats and cauldrons or banging bits of metal together, the Wolf's marauders giving them a wide berth. There was a hideous smell in the air.
As they entered, the Wolf snorted.
"Ugh, it reeks in here."
Akkarulf's head turned sharply towards the Wolf, but the giant was looking at Qyburn.
"Well, fleshcrafter?"
Qyburn ran over, his usually dour face a mask of joy.
"Amazing, lord Wolf! The possibilities are endless! Now that the preservative fluid can be made to flow through the veins rather than injected through the skin, the desiccating properties are no longer attenuated, and by means of their bottled lightning, I can-"
The Wolf interrupted Qyburn's chatter.
"You see, Akkarulf? A happy slave is a productive slave."
There was a pause.
"It follows, then, that an unproductive slave will soon be very unhappy indeed."
Qyburn's grin took on a manic turn. Akkarulf saw the man's eyes bulge with fear.
"Er- Yes, lord! With their help, I will have it up and running without a shadow of doubt!"
"Then I will intrude on your time no longer."
Recognizing the dismissal, Qyburn ran back to his work. Apparently satisfied, the giant turned on his heel and left the cellar, leaving Akkarulf and Qyburn's assistant behind.
"You really think you can make it move again?"
The assistant turned to face Akkarulf, looking up from under its cowl. He recoiled in horror.
"Yes-yes, will be ready-prepared, man-thing! No corpse-cadaver can resist-prevent animation performed by Clan Skryre!"
The creature was unambiguously a giant rat almost the size of a man, its fur mangy and matted, speaking in an excited chattering. A greenish glow pulsed from a plate of glass on the side of its head. It jerked a claw at Qyburn.
"Man-thing Qyburn, clever-smart for man-thing. Good at keeping dead-things not-rot. Easy for animate, even one old-aged like this!"
Akkarulf backed away slowly. So these were the underground creatures the Wolf had recruited. He certainly understood now why he had needed a second ship to carry them to the castle, the odor they spread was almost palpable, a combination of sweat and filth and decay.
Another cowled creature turned its head and ran on all fours to Akkarulf as he was about to leave.
"Man-thing! Do not listen-hear Skecheek, he is idiot-fool! Will be Clan Moulder make dead-thing move, you see!"
Akkarulf shuddered and left the cellars.
He ran to catch up with the Wolf, just as he was about to leave the castle, with Sven joining them. The Iron Fleet waited at anchor, the felled trees floating behind, the crew of the Silence having left their ship to help. Gorion had already started ordering the trees out of the water when the Wolf arrived.
"Good hunting, Ironborn?"
Gorion turned as the Wolf approached, followed by Akkarulf and Sven Swordeater.
"All here, jarl. Sixty-eight trees, all ship-shape, and more skulls than we know what to do with."
The Wolf nodded approvingly.
"Well done, Gorion. Losses?"
"Half a dozen, jarl. Three of them we think were lost in the forest, one in the mists, and the other two to the fires."
"Good. Now gather the crews, I have an announcement."
"At once, jarl!"
Gorion rushed off to obey. He could guess what the announcement was about, and had no intention of postponing his moment of glory.
The ship's crews were assembled to hear the words of their leader, and their link to the will of the Ruinous Powers.
"Ironborn! You have served the true gods well, and they smile upon us. While you were cutting down the priests of the weak and indolent gods of this land, your brothers on the Silence proved themselves equal to the Druchii and the Nehekharans, before whom Southerlings tremble and flee!"
The crew of the Silence looked smug, several carrying the bones and plunder of the walking dead on their person. Teron still carried the halberd taken from the serpent-rider and wore his brother's skull affixed to his breastplate.
"But now, with the enchanted lumber you have brought back, the Seafang will be rebuilt, and I will no longer need the Silence."
The Wolf's hand landed heavily on Akkarulf's shoulder.
"I have therefore decided that Akkarulf here will helm it and lead the Iron Fleet, having proven his worth at sea and on land, in battle and in sailcraft. If any would oppose him, speak now!"
"I oppose him!"
Heads turned to Gorion, whose voice was thick with barely-suppressed rage. His tentacle whipped through the air, as if venting its master's inner fury or encouraging it.
"I have sailed under Euron Greyjoy since before this whelp was old enough to grasp a rope without chewing on it. Three of the Dragonqueen's ships were sunk by me. I led the expedition to the Isle of Gods, and no less than five of them fell by my hand. What has he done, but lead the Ironborn to failure and defeat by himself, or tag along with real warriors to do the fighting for him? A coward and a cur, that's all he is. I claim the Silence, and leadership of the Fleet, with the Ruinous Powers as witness!"
Mutters and whispers surged in the crowd, some in approval and others in shock. The Wolf blinked, then nodded.
"I see."
The giant released Akkarulf.
"Very well. Untie two of the trunks, bring forth planks and a chain! Akkarulf and Gorion will do battle to-"
"I yield."
"What!?"
"What!?"
Gorion and the Wolf's heads snapped to Akkarulf so fast they might have twisted off.
"He's right, yarrl."
Akkarulf looked Gorion straight in the eye.
"It is true that he's sailed longer than I, and that he has yet to see me perform any feat truly worthy of commanding such a ship and such men. I therefore yield command of the Silence and the Iron Fleet to him, and may he find the glory he deserves."
It was hard to say which of the Wolf or Gorion looked more shocked. Sven Swordeater snickered audibly.
"I yield command of the Iron Fleet to you, Gorion. Do you accept it?"
"I- but I... yes, I do!"
"Yarrl?"
The Wolf's face was utterly closed, but he nodded. His voice was cold and contemptuous.
"So be it."
There were no cheers among the Ironborn, but hostile mutters. Gorion looked elated, until Akkarulf spoke again.
"Gorion."
"What now?"
Akkarulf drew his sword and idly started turning it in his hand, testing its edge with his thumb.
"There is the matter of you calling me a coward and a cur. Coming from a real warrior, I would feel insulted, but from one who believes starting a fire and slaughtering unarmed priests is a mighty deed destined to bring favor from the gods, I think it to be utter slander. Do you still stand by your words?"
"Stand by them? You think to scare me with-"
Akkarulf turned towards the Wolf as though Gorion was not there.
"I think we will need those trunks after all, yarrl. I request holmgang."
Gorion stood agape. He stole a glance at the Wolf, but the giant's slow grin told him everything he needed to know.
He had not expected this. The man he had known was a cringing wretch before being blessed by the gods, who should have folded at the first word of challenge, instead of yielding command yet demanding justice for the insult.
Akkarulf was bigger than him, blessed with strength enough to wield a greatbow two men could not bend. Gorion's tentacle could entangle a sword-arm at close quarters, but could be lopped off with a single sweep of Akkarulf's blade. There was only one way out.
"I... apologize, and take back my words."
The Wolf made a choking sound. Akkarulf stared at Gorion in silence for some time before speaking.
"I accept. Yarrl?"
The Wolf looked furiously from one to the other, but eventually his face settled down. His voice was once again cold and cutting.
"It would certainly be ungrateful of him to insult a man who ever so graciously concedes command of so many ships and men."
The giant spat on the ground.
"The matter is closed. Shake on it, and let it be forgotten."
Gorion and Akkarulf clasped forearms and immediately let go as if the other had been a venomous snake.
"All right, entertainment's over. Back to work, you lot! We've got a ship to build here!"
The Ironborn started hauling the trunks out of the water and to an improvised sawworks at the water's edge, Gorion among them. The Wolf stayed where he was.
"Something you'd like to say, Akkarulf?"
Akkarulf suddenly felt he was on thin ice. Suddenly his quick thinking to save the lives of both men didn't seem quite as impressive as when he'd come up with it.
"I- I thought this would be for the best, yarrl. Better that Gorion command the fleet and I take over once he gets himself killed than to keep him biting at my heels all the time. And it avoids the crew of the Waveblade having to find another captain because I killed theirs."
Contrary to what he had hoped, the Wolf did not seem swayed in any way by this reasoning.
"Hmph. Challenges that don't end in death are not the way of the Norsca. You both still have a ways to go."
Without another word, the Wolf went off to aid the Ironborn. Akkarulf's old doubts surfaced again, and he too grabbed a rope and pulled a tree from the water, as much to help build the ship as for the distraction from the unwelcome thoughts. He could feel the seer's stare on his back all the while.
Jon Snow entered the council chamber, holding a parchment in his hand. Tyrion was already there, pouring himself a cup of wine.
"Help yourself. I have bad news and don't intend to face them sober."
"You too?"
Tyrion downed his wine in one gulp while Jon waited.
"From Khal Goro. He tells me that a number of his men have deserted in the night to who knows where."
"What? Why?"
"Not why but who. Just the ones the Wolf had used to row us to King's Landing the first time."
Jon frowned.
"The ones with the flame tattoo?"
"Precisely. They won't be hard to track, they don't speak the language, but they can still do a lot of damage before we hunt them down."
Tyrion poured himself another cup.
"Well, that's mine out of the way. Let's have yours."
Jon held up his parchment.
"I've had a message from Tormund."
"He was the loud Wildling, yes?"
Jon nodded.
"And what does he have to say?"
"It seems that several tribes of the Free Folk have disappeared."
Tyrion waited.
"… And?"
"Tribes which were among the most violent, sadistic, and murderous north of the Wall."
"And you think they've gone to join the Wolf."
"You see another explanation?"
"But how could they escape notice? Even with the Wall torn down, they'd have been seen before they'd gone far south."
"Maybe he-"
A page entered the chamber.
"My lords! The Hound has awoken!"