Varys turned around as the cell door opened. The Wolf entered, followed by his sorcerer.
"Come along, spymaster, I have need of your talents."
"Certainly, my lord Wolf."
The barbarian stopped suddenly, pointing at the wall where Varys had drawn what looked like a lady's fan, several lines of different lengths radiating from a single point with a charcoal.
"Magic, spymaster? You know what I do to mages?"
Varys tried to calm the thundering of his heart.
"Not in the slightest, but I can assure you there is no magic here."
The seer waved his staff over the lines, looking distinctly puzzled. Nothing further happened, and he looked confused as he spoke to the Wolf. The barbarian's voice barely changed.
"Oh I see, you are not a mage but an artist."
From the giant's tone it was clear this was no better in his eyes. Varys was oddly reminded of a horse merchant he had met years earlier whose son and heir had run off to become a poet.
"It is a... calming activity, my lord. Your seer cannot always be here to play games, after all."
The Wolf glared at him, but nodded.
"Hrmf. Let's be off."
The first time Varys would leave his cell since his capture. Was he being moved? Too late now to grab the linen strip that held everything he knew or had guessed about the Wolf.
Varys followed the Wolf from his cell, Sven Swordeater in their wake. As they descended the tower steps, the question seemed to slip past his lips without his noticing.
"You do not find it too hard to keep Harrenhal fueled?"
"We don't nee-"
The Wolf stopped suddenly and turned, his expression furious. Varys started, but realized the Wolf was looking not at him but his sorcerer behind. The seer was pale as a bone and looked more terrified than Varys had ever seen him. He sounded as though he was pleading. Varys thought he knew what subject was being discussed.
"He told me nothing, my lord Wolf. I worked it out for myself."
The Wolf's head lowered, his glare now directed at Varys.
"Did you now? How."
"I saw ravens flying to and from the fortress. I compared the directions of their flights to the other important cities of Westeros, and only Harrenhal fit."
"And scribbled on the walls to do so. Hrrrrrr."
The Wolf did not look happy, and yet the feeling of having punctured his ego was well worth it.
"So you've kept your wits. Good. Now let's be going. A man with the brains to work out where he is can probably work out whether taking the window or the stairs will let him reach the ground faster."
Varys bowed his head and followed. Though he had no hope of escape, he would rather retain the use of his legs.
On the battlements, Varys clutched the stone by instinct. Melted and ruined though the ancient walls were, they still presented a formidable obstacle. He saw the immense army camped below behind a line of trebuchets, and his eyes boggled. Daenerys' army had not been so vast even at Winterfell.
Tents spread out in orderly rows, each with a banner before it proclaiming the House it belonged to. Though too far to make out, the patches of color were still recognizable. On the fringes he saw massive grey shapes, had the Golden Company switched sides?
The red of the Lannister banners was an inconguous sight, especially in such numbers. Had Daenerys truly spared the city then? But where was she? Drogon should be easy to spot, and yet the shadow in the sky was nowhere to be seen. The Wolf's voice cut in on his thoughts.
"Eyes down, spymaster. The Dragonqueen will not be joining us."
Varys shot a glance at the Wolf, but obeyed. Had Daenerys still not returned? Surely she had recovered from the horror of ravaging the city by now. Or had she killed herself, unable to live with her grief and shame?
"Can you make out the banners down there?"
Varys did not even try.
"They are too far away for me, lord Wolf. The red ones must be the Lannisters, but I can see nothing else."
"And sending you for a closer look would be of no benefit to you or me. But would you recognize them if described to you? You know the names and banners of every southerling family that calls itself a house?"
"Certainly."
Varys did his best to look impassive as the Wolf turned and whistled. A hulking marauder with a sculpted helm and a longbow the length of a young tree was standing watch some distance turned his head at the summons and ran up to them.
"Akkarulf will describe the banners, you will state who they are."
"All of them?"
"All of them. Why, do you have anything better to do with your time?"
Vays chose his next words carefully.
"No, lord, but there are so many... I will need something to write with to ensure none are missed."
"Sven."
The Wolf said something to his sorcerer, who stepped forward, looking distinctly reluctant. The Wolf pulled the man's cape off his shoulders and spread it flat on the stone parapet. With the fur-side down, it was possible to write upon it, though Varys did his best not to think of what the garment had been in contact with over the years.
Varys noted that the man seemed much less impressive without his cape billowing around him, clutching his staff for support with sinewy, age-spotted arms. Sven plucked a feather from his crow-topped staff, cutting its point off with a knife, then stabbed his finger with it. Varys held his breath, but the sorcerer gave no sign that this was intended to make him squirm. The seer gave him the blood-filled quill.
"That everything you need?"
"Er... yes, lord Wolf. Though I am more accustomed to ink and vellum."
"We have better uses for cattle-skin in the true North, geldingr. Akkarulf."
The marauder cleared his throat and spoke in flawless Westerosi, although curiously low. He pointed at the leftmost edge of the camp.
"Black crow on green."
"That's... House Morrigen. Under the Baratheons."
The Wolf nodded curtly as Varys wrote down the name.
"Blue rooster on yellow."
"House Swyft, under the Lannisters."
"Skull with a crown."
"Manwoody, under the Mart-"
Varys' voice ended in an ungainly squawk as the Wolf hauled him up by the neck and held him up at arm's length, pivoting to hold him over empty air.
"Do you really think the time is right for jokes, geldingr?"
Varys struggled in vain, his feet dangling over the precipice when the marauder spoke up.
"He's not lying, yarrl. That really is their name."
The Wolf put Varys back down, who tried to regain his breath. Even as he did, his mind raced. How did a mere Wildling know a House from so far to the south? The name was a perennial source of bawdy amusement to squires and heralds-in-training, but the savages could hardly be expected to mingle with Dornishmen. The marauder resumed as though nothing had happened. What manner of magic did he use to see such detail at such distances?
"Black pebbles on bronze."
"R- Royce, under House Arryn."
The list went on, Varys scribbling the names of the houses as the marauder described their sigils. Finally he fell silent. Varys' hand ached, both from the cold and the effort.
"None left, Akkarulf?"
"Only the Dothraki, Unsullied, and Golden Company, yarrl."
The Wolf looked out at the camp. Varys' mind was still on the mystery he had uncovered. Was this marauder a native of the southern lands, willingly working with the invaders? Or perhaps from the Iron Islands?
"And the Ironborn?"
"There's a single Goodbrother banner, but what good can they be this far inland? It'll take time to bring ships in by the rivers, yarrl."
The Wolf gave a grunt of acknowledgement and turned to Varys.
"Anyone missing, spymaster?"
Varys blinked. The wolfskin was now a catalog of just about every House with a title in the Seven Kingdoms, with one noticeable exception.
"There're none from the Reach, my lord Wolf."
The Wolf exhaled slowly through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing. His fists closed, but then opened again, and he seemed composed as he spoke to Varys.
"Well then, spymaster. All but one of the kingdoms are trying to batter down these gates. Eight out of nine despite the name, as I recently learned. How do I get the last one?"
"You... you want them here? But why?"
"Your predecessor offered to hand me the world on a platter, by indicating which lordlings to kill, which strongholds to strike. He was already marked for death at my hands, though I would gladly have killed him for making such an offer. "
Varys did not understand this preamble.
"Five skulls I have taken from the champions of this world, not one of which put up a fight worthy of a skavenslave, and now, when I had hoped to find some resistance, I find that they did not even muster their full strength despite my warnings."
"Tell me how I can get this Reach to fight me, spymaster. It is not treachery to do so, for if these eight-ninths fail here, united, what hope do the deserters have once alone and isolated? A lesson I believe the slut-queen never learned. That is why you are here. Your best chance at being rescued."
"The... If..."
Varys struggled to find the words, his mind working furiously as he contemplated the possibilities.
"If the Lannisters are under the Dragonqueen's banner they certainly have good cause for not wanting to serve alongside them. Cersei destroyed House Tyrell."
The Wolf's fist clenched again.
"Did she now. Did it involve poison, perchance?"
Varys wondered, not for the first time, at how the Wolf could be so knowledgeable and yet so ignorant.
"Why, yes."
"Can't that woman do anything right?"
The barbarian sighed.
"Very well. What do these Reachmen hold dear enough that they will put aside their- entirely understandable- hatred of the slut-queen and obey her brother's command to join the fray? I refer to the Shield-slayer and not the father of her children."
"I cannot say, Ser Wolf. You must remember that I have had no new information since my... "death". I don't even know who rules over them now."
The Wolf looked stonily at Varys, but nodded.
"A fair point."
The giant seemed to ponder his next words. At last he spoke.
"And if you knew, would this help you?"
"Well... it would certainly help eliminate some possibilities. If it's a hated foe, they certainly won't lift a finger. House Tarly turned against Tyrell to join the Lannisters, but they were grievously defeated by Daenerys."
The barbarian grunted.
"But if it's someone they wanted?"
Varys caught his breath. Surely the Wolf did not mean him?
"Er. There might be some hostage of high rank they might be willing to make concessions for, or fight to retrieve."
"A hostage."
The Wolf dragged a hand along his beard several times, looking into the distance.
"Not a bad idea, spymaster, I shall look into it. Anything else?"
"Well..."
Varys tried to put himself in the position of a man knowing nothing of the Seven Kingdoms, not even their history or number.
"The Reach is the breadbasket of all Westeros. If they are not coming, it must be because they need men for the harvests."
The Wolf looked at him. Strangely, he seemed quite appreciative.
"Indeed? You have my thanks, spymaster, for this I can put to good use. The cabbage and the stick, so to speak."
The Wolf shot a glance at the castle and muttered, almost to himself.
"And if it can allow me to keep her out of his clutches..."
The barbarian whistled. The marauder turned to him, while Sven picked up his cloak with an air of distaste before motioning Varys off the battlements. As they went down the stairs, Varys saw the Wolf in animated conversation with the erudite marauder.
Most of the commanders and off-duty soldiers had assembled behind the trebuchets for the first stone to be launched. The senior craftsman gave the signal, and the teams went to work with the air of a religious ceremony.
The counterweight hurtled downwards in a symphony of creaks, ropes screaming as they sped through metal loops. The loaded sling went upwards in a graceful arc, the stone continuing on the same trajectory as it loosed. All eyes were upon it, losing it against the grey of the walls, when suddenly it burst into flame, a skywards meteor, courtesy of the Red Priests' blessings.
The burning stone continued its ascension, slowing noticeably as it approached the tops of Harrenhal's battlements. Not a man breathed out until it crested the wall and dropped out of sight, at which point they burst into loud cheers. The Wolf could not be starved, he could not be made to flee, but at least he was no longer safe behind his stolen walls.
"Now, take your bow, and-"
The Wolf stopped talking, turning his head to look down at the trebuchets. Akkarulf did the same, his eyes seeing the launch as clearly as though he were amongst the crew. He saw the machine shift, the stone launch upwards and burst into flame, and pass barely a foot over the battlements, a few dozen feet from them. It continued on its trajectory, striking a wall and bouncing off to smash into the courtyard far below, destroying a stack of wood near the mammoth pen.
Akkarulf said nothing, fearing that any comment would lead to his being hurled off the wall after the stone. At last the Wolf drew in a deep breath, but exhaled in distinct satisfaction.
"Well it's about damn time. Come along, Akkarulf, there is work to be done."
Akkarulf followed the giant, utterly unsure as to what he had in mind.
"You aren't sending them an arrow-message, yarrl?"
The Wolf snickered.
"Oh, I have something far more subtle in mind."
Qyburn scratched absentmindedly at the rash on his neck, motioning the rat-man forward. It had been itching again, but he would treat it later.
The rodent obediently stepped forward, touching the tip of its lightning staff to the dead body. The decapitated corpse shuddered and walked forward, swinging the wooden clubs nailed to both its hands. The rat twitched the staff and the corpse stopped moving, though it continued swinging, pummeling a gagged and shirtless man tied to a trestle. At another sign from Qyburn, the rat-man untouched the staff from the copper plates in the corpse's neck, and it collapsed in a heap.
The man's muffled cries and fearful eyes did not deter Qyburn from swiftly examining him, sighing in frustration.
"You are content-satisfied, man-thing?"
"Not quite, Skritchit. Look at these bruises."
The rat peered at the man's chest, twisting a disc of green stone attached around its head so they rested in front of its eyes.
"Yes-yes?"
"They are just that- bruises. No penetration, no broken bones, no blood even. There must be a way to increase the power behind the blows."
The rat-man looked puzzled, swinging the green stone disc back. They had disturbingly human expressions despite their long muzzles and mangy fur.
"You take bigger-larger body, yes-yes? Then hit harder-better, stronger-faster."
"That will only-"
Qyburn stopped and turned at the sound of the doors creaking open. The Wolf entered and went straight toward him with his usual lack of regard for politeness or permission.
"All goes well, corpsemonger?"
"Ah, so to speak, my lord. I believe that movement is well-mastered, but it is the force behind the-"
The Wolf looked pityingly at him and spoke in a weary, condescending voice. Qyburn's fists itched as badly as the rash.
"Fleshcrafter, I have no doubt that on this world there is someone who not only cares but wants to hear what you have to say. Until we find this woman's beard of a disciple, just do as I tell you. Now: How many scorpions do we have?"
Qyburn was thrown for a moment.
"Ah-er, fou- no, another is in the forge. Five by tonight, lord."
"Ready to use?"
"Well they are disassembled at the moment, but-"
The Wolf grinned.
"What do you know, you can think ahead. I half-expected you to finish building them in the cellar and work out how to get them outside later."
He nodded. Qyburn did not think it necessary to tell him that the rat-men had started doing exactly that until he had gotten them to stop by liberal application of the lightning staff.
"Have them moved up to the walls, I want them ready to launch by tonight."
"Yes lord."
The Wolf turned on his heel and left. His henchman remained, while Skritchit held up the staff.
"We continue-resume the experiment, man-thing?"
"No, put everything away for now. We need to move those scorpions up."
A dozen more marauders entered the cellar and began the arduous task of moving the scorpion parts out of the cellar and up the stairs. The rat-men pushed the prisoner and the corpses against the wall to leave more room, while Qyburn prepared a fresh poultice and spread it on the rash. The itching faded somewhat.
Perhaps he would add more of the powdered green stone to it next time, it seemed to help.