Tyrion started as he awoke, confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, wood replacing canvas. Then memory rushed back, though he wished it hadn't. He was still inside Harrenhal, still at the mercy of not just the barbarian but his overlord. And he was trapped inside the cabin until the Wolf's return.
Akkarulf trotted swiftly up the tower stairs, his bodyguards Aron and Hjorgar two steps behind. He caught up to his target as he was about to enter a chamber.
"Sven! The Wolf's calling for you."
The seer turned, looking surprised, then annoyed. In his hand he held his staff, in the other a flat board and a small wooden box.
"What want jarl?"
"He needs you down there, the Mountain's broken loose again."
"Now?"
The seer looked disgruntled, but Akkarulf could not keep the impatience from his voice. For days now his sleep had been interrupted by the damned horns blowing at all hours of the night, bringing with them unpleasant memories, and with no way to hunt down the perpetrators. The Wolf had actually laughed at the Westerosi's ingenuity, and shortened the watches in response.
The pounding in Akkarulf's temples from the Doomdrinking the previous night did little to improve his temper, even though there had been no horns the previous night.
"Yes, now."
From the window near them drifted the sounds of battle, the hoarse shout of the Cleganes, and the bellowing of the Wolf.
"No! Bad Molehill! Bad! Put him down! And you, Dungheap! Take that thing out of your mouth right now!"
Sven snarled as a high-pitched scream rose from the courtyard below.
"I go. Come with."
"What? What do you need me f-"
"Need three for make ritual work. Leave mute for guard geldr."
The sorcerer turned around, but looked back irritation as Akkarulf stayed where he was, Aron looking confusedly from one to the other, evidently unsure who outranked who. Hjorgar tried not to look smug at being chosen by the sorcerer.
"He's not supposed to leave m-"
"Strong Wolf say that?"
"Of course he did, he said I was to-"
"And you always do what Strong Wolf say do. Good little pup. Obedient."
The contempt in Sven's voice was clear. Akkarulf's jaw tightened. He wasn't sure he'd heard Hjorgar snort back laughter, and so decided to show his authority.
"Aron, guard him. I'll be back soon."
Sven tossed the Ironborn a key, which he caught with fumbling hands, and put the board and the box on the ground.
"Here. Play king's game with geldr, pass time."
The three ran down the stairs, leaving Aron to pick up the board and turn the key.
Varys looked up as the door to his chamber opened, letting an Iron Islander inside. This was unusual, but even more extraordinary was the man's conduct. He jumped with surprise on seeing Varys, nearly dropping the board and box he was carrying, then immediately shut the door and locked it, evidently listening for anyone outside. Then the Ironborn turned around to look at him.
"Who are-"
The Ironborn held a finger to his lips. Varys looked confusedly at the Ironborn, but held his tongue. One of Euron Greyjoy's mutes then, deprived of speech due to their captain's cruelty.
The Ironborn placed the game board on the table, then looked at Varys. He mimed writing something, then looked urgently at the door.
Varys blinked, then took a lump of coal from beside the fireplace, something he had successfully gotten Sven to obtain from the Wolf after winning a game.
"You need something to write with?"
The Ironborn nodded curtly, then grabbed a rag from the mattress and walked up to Varys. He took Varys by the arm, and pulled him none too gently towards the far wall of the room. With a last glance at the door, the Ironborn started scrawling on the wall.
Varys' eyes widened.
"What!? You can't be-"
The glare he received in return silenced him. The Ironborn kept writing, regularly wiping the stone clean with the rag while glancing at the door. The occasional scream and roar of rage could be heard from below.
Varys shook his head, in unbelief both at what the Ironborn had written, and of what he was reading now. But it corresponded with what he had been able to coax out of Sven.
Sometimes he wondered if the seer didn't know more than he let on, and was deliberately giving Varys information. But to what end?
The Ironborn stopped and looked expectantly at him. Varys' mind worked faster than ever before.
"Do you have a way of getting back to them?"
The man shook his head, then looked thoughtful. At last he nodded, and started to write again. Varys' hand closed on the Ironborn's wrist.
"No, it's better if I don't know."
Varys too looked at the door. The furious roars from the Cleganes and the Wolf had stopped, but it would take some time for Sven to make the climb. He went to the rough-hewn bench in the corner, turned it over, and carefully extracted the tightly-rolled linen scrap from a gap between the boards.
"This is everything I've managed to learn about them, how they function, and who hates who. Get it to the Red Priests, I know they're here."
The Ironborn nodded, took the linen and stowed it in his pocket.
Varys took the board and set up the pieces haphazardly, then motioned to the Ironborn.
"Sit, Sven usually comes to play."
The man sat, but looked confusedly at the board, picking up one of the pieces and shifting it two tiles over. Varys did the same, even as there was a pounding at the door. The Ironborn stood, took out the key, and opened.
Sven pushed past without a word, waving the guard away. The Ironborn hurried outside.
The seer looked down at the board and its nonsensical arrangement of pieces.
"What this?"
Varys tried to smile and hide the thundering of his heart as the door closed.
"Well, I remembered what you said about these men who tend to throw the board than admit defeat. I thought it best to stall rather than win."
"You play long game, yes."
Varys put the pieces back into position for a new game.
"Always have."
The Cleganes had been chained up and driven back into their pen, though there was no getting them to let go of the half-eaten Thenn now disappearing down their gullets. Akkarulf had gathered the marauders chosen by the Wolf and the surviving Deathbound and was waiting for the Wolf's order. He stood on the deck of the Silence after his inspection and looked down.
"Akkarulf! Load them up."
"Yes yarrl!"
It took some time to get the horses aboard, followed by the men and the supplies, and so it was midday by the time the rowers were at their benches and the warriors standing ready, Akkarulf standing before the mast with his two guards beside him. The Wolf left the cabin to stand at the prow. He barked in the divine tongue and the Silence lifted smoothly from its cradle. Another wound between worlds opened before the ship and swallowed it whole.
Tyrion lay crouched on the bed. The Wolf had briefly given the signal and entered, but only to tell him to remain in the cabin until his return. What had followed was a disturbing sensation of nausea followed by the muffled sounds of battle and screaming, along with other noises he preferred not to dwell on.
At last the door opened again and the Wolf entered, bleeding from the forehead.
"All good, Shield-slayer. Put the helmet on and I'll get you as close as I can."
Tyrion hurriedly did as the Wolf asked and finally stepped out of the cabin.
Although his stomach told him it was early in the afternoon, it was night already, a full moon making torches unnecessary. The deck was littered with the aftermath of battle, fresh bloodstains on the wood, wounded crewmen moaning, and several weapons stuck in the railings.
Many of the Wolf's men looked curiously at Tyrion, but none dared ask their captain about it. At the prow, the Wolf grabbed a rope in one hand, Tyrion in the other, and leapt off the side without hesitation, Tyrion unable to stifle a squawk of surprise.
No one noticed a figure drop from the stern of the ship and to the ground below.
The Wolf landed on his feet with slightly less noise than an armory in an earthquake, putting Tyrion down. Still dazed, Tyrion stood up, removing the helmet that restricted his breathing.
Seeing lights in the distance and a vast mass blocking the stars, and hearing the sound of breaking waves, he realized he was on the shores of the lake. The distance they had covered in half a day would have taken a few hours on foot at best.
"Did it really take that long to come here?"
The Wolf shrugged.
"Time moves differently in the daemon sea. I once left for a week and came back six months later, and once for a month only to return a day after I'd left. I've yet to return before I set out, now that would be something."
Tyrion fell silent. There seemed nothing left to say, he could not honestly thank the Wolf after learning of everything he had been complicit to. The Wolf seemed to think the same, for he started hauling himself up the rope, but then dropped back down.
"One last thing, Shield-slayer."
Tyrion turned towards the Wolf. The giant stood in the shadow of the ship, his face completely hidden.
"It is not treachery for me to tell you that your idea with the mirrors will be highly appreciated by the Geld-Prince, even on the field of battle. It would be treachery for me to say why."
Before Tyrion could say a word, the Wolf was already climbing up the rope. Soon after he disappeared from sight, a glowing hole appeared before the Silence's prow, the ship sailing smoothly into it. Now there was nothing but the moon and stars above, and he was free and unharmed, in the armor of a sorcerer he'd killed, with hinted instructions on how to be rid of a monster worse than any nursery ogre, all in less than two days.
Tyrion fell to his hands and knees and threw up as he had rarely done, save after his most outrageous binges. At last when there was nothing left to vomit, he sat down and hugged his knees, closing his eyes and breathing deeply until the shaking stopped.
Then someone grabbed his shoulder.
In the moonlight and from the smell, Tyrion could make out that his attacker was clad in the furs and armor of the Iron Islanders who served the Wolf. Too weakened to put up any real resistance, he nevertheless tried to roll away. To his surprise, the man let go and moved no further.
Tyrion stood up, looking at the Ironborn. The man was putting a finger to his lips, then pointing somewhere along the lake shore. The lights of the war-camp were visible in the distance.
"Who are you?"
The Ironborn mimed a cutting motion in front of his mouth.
"You're one of Euron's men? But wh-"
Now the Ironborn looked exasperated. He went up to Tyrion, who winced, but the man only turned him towards the war-camp, and started walking towards it. After a few steps he looked back and made "get going" motions to Tyrion, who trotted after his strange companion. It would be the cruelest of ironies to get out of the Wolf's fortress alive and well only to fall prey to a scavenging pack of hounds within sight of the camp.
After a long walk that left Tyrion desperate for a drink or a bed, he was close enough to see the warcamp's sentries. He made no attempt to hide, but approached slowly, the helmet in both hands. The mute Ironborn, however, disappeared behind a bush. By now Tyrion was too tired to care.
"Halt! D-d-d-don't move! DON'T MOVE!"
The sentry's voice nearly broke like a youth's from fear and panic. Tyrion stopped moving, waiting for the spearman to approach.
"It is I, Tyrion Lannister. Warn Lord Snow and the Red Priests that I have much to tell them."
The sentry did not run to give the message but called to a fellow soldier. Soon Tyrion was brought into the camp, where the commanders had been wakened and convened. There was still a smell of smoke in the air, and he could see entire rows of tents that had been put to the torch.
There was a noise outside the command tent as Tyrion was about to start his tale. To everyone's surprise, not least Jon's, Arya Stark entered the tent with the speed and intent of a shark lunging into a school of fish. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that her clothes were too big for her, and evidently formerly owned by an Iron Islander. Tyrion blinked a few times as he recognized the furs and armor.
"Arya!?"
She held up a hand irritably.
"Yes, yes, we'll do that later."
She drew a tiny roll of linen from a pocket and unrolled it.
"Varys is alive and held prisoner inside. This is everything he managed to find out about the Wolf."
Jon took the long strip while Tyrion wolfed down the food and wine he had been brought. A Red Priest read alongside him, occasionally nodding in response to Varys' bloody words on the factionalism in the invaders' ranks or their occasional death from infighting, but looked increasingly disturbed as the spymaster spoke of rituals, mutations and the sheer number of monsters the Wolf could field.
Then Tyrion spoke, relating everything that had happened to him since the previous morning. Once he was done, the mood was uncertain. That the Wolf was hampered by an idiot above him was a good sign, and Varys had thought the same, but according to the priests he might well be soon be accompanied by other champions of greater skill and strength. Even the Wolf's promise that there would be no pitched battles rang hollow if raids could deal so much damage.
Only once the meeting had dispersed and Tyrion carried off to a bed were Jon and Arya alone. Jon shook his head.
"How did you do it?"
"Waited for them to go outside the castle and took the place of one of his men, went back in with them."
"And they never talked to you?"
Arya shrugged.
"I made sure to take a tongueless one, I managed. The bastard had his suspicions, said he could smell me, but he always thought I'd been with a girl and didn't look further. Never could get close enough to kill him though."
Jon wanted to object that she could have been killed or worse a thousand times over, but knew there was little point. It had worked, after all, and gotten them priceless information on their enemy.
"Should I tell Sansa or..."
"She's still here? No, I'll do it myself."
Arya failed to stifle a yawn.
"In the morning though."
Jon nodded, and sent a soldier to accompany her to Sansa's tent, where Arya collapsed on the first empty bed. For the first time in weeks, she no longer needed to wait to be relieved of duty by a marauder smelling of sweat, blood and worse, or sleep in a stuffy hall with similarly foul-smelling murderers and their unwashed bedsheets, and she intended to make the most of it.