The King of Stormwind and his son are dragged in to where Garrosh sits on his throne and sent to their knees. Not that Varian Wrynn stays down there for very long. Even bloodied and bruised with a dozen wounds, still he flings himself upright and fights bare-handed against the Orcs that try to restrain him. He is nothing, Garrosh thinks, if not predictable.
Even his relatively tiny son is putting up a fight. Although he bears his own wounds and staggers on an obviously damaged leg, still he pours healing on his father in a glowing stream. And Garrosh recognises that if the King of Stormwind has one weakness even greater than his wounds, it is standing behind him unbalanced but determined, using his Holy power to protect his sire.
He flicks a finger at one of his waiting Kor'kron guards. "Subdue the Priest," he signs, using his own personal signal system. The Kor'kron reaches out with his pike, snares the Prince around the throat and pulls him backwards. The healing abruptly stops when Anduin Wrynn is knocked out with one quick blow; Varian turns, enraged, and Garrosh finally speaks.
"One more move and he dies." The Kor'kron holds the boy with a dagger to his throat, and Varian freezes. "Your choice."
The King stands rigidly still, his eyes fixed on his son as the guards close in on him. Garrosh can appreciate his anguish, if not share it. He values little above his own life. Except the Horde, and power and what it might gain him. He stands and walks slowly forward, stops within striking range of the enraged human, and studies him. He's a big man, as large as a regular Orc though not as heavy. Garrosh walks around him, fascinated despite everything at being this near to his greatest foe, at being able to study him so closely. He is tense, Garrosh can see it in the ripple of muscle, the sheen of sweat on the pale human skin. "This is how it will be," he says softly, watching the dark head turn to observe him. "You will obey any command I give you, you will control your natural desire to strike at me. Nod if you understand."
Varian doesn't move and Garrosh lifts one hand towards where the Prince is held, and Varian's eyes widen. "Don't presume I won't do what I threaten."
"Yes." The word is strangled, ground out and loaded with fury, and the dark eyes that stare at him are equally enraged. He smiles and sees the rage deprive the King of control, as he spits and curses. "Pig!"
Garrosh turns to the watchful Malkorok. "Give me your whip." The big Orc grins and takes the whip from his belt, hands it to his Warchief. "Strip him." He watches as the struggling human is stripped of armour and padding, finally standing naked and sweating in the middle of the room. Garrosh gathers the braided whip strands in his hand, combing them through his fingers. "You will stand there and take punishment. You will not move, and if you curse me again or resist, every missed stroke will be laid on your son's back until its cut to the bone. I would punish any member of the Horde who abused or challenged me, and they would stand and take it for their honour's sake. Let us see if Stormwind's King can do any less."
Garrosh lets the whip lashes drop, flicks his arm back and slashes it up and level and across Varian's back. He doesn't pull the strike and it slices into the pale skin, instantly drawing blood. Varian hisses but holds himself steady as the whip hits him again, the tips curling around on the soft skin beneath his arm. Garrosh sees his hands clench but Varian makes no sound beyond an indrawn breath. He flips the whip back and strikes again, matching the first blow on the other side of the human's body. There is a rhythm to it, to the withdraw, flick and strike, and he lays the patterns across the broad back evenly, until no part of the skin is unflayed. And still the man makes few sounds, though his body vibrates in pain.
He stops at twenty strikes, tosses the bloodied whip back to Malkorok, and steps closer to Varian, runs one finger across the bloodied back. Varian hisses, eyes narrowed and damp, as Garrosh wipes the King of Stormwind's blood across his own cheeks. That actions needs no words and he can already smell that blood, will smell it until it dries and fades. He turns to the Prince who has been watching his father's punishment in anguished silence. "Heal him, but not completely. The cuts are to scar, as a reminder not to disobey me."
It is not the last punishment that Varian will endure over the coming days. The wolf in Varian must be tamed, he must be taught to restrain natural instinct, and Garrosh relishes the battle of wills between them. After that first beating he is taken to the tubs and washed and dressed in leather strapping that covers his genitals and little else. A leather collar is fixed around his neck with a ring for a chain, and he fights this most of all. Garrosh doesn't bother to threaten the Prince again, he has him removed from Varian's sight so that he does not know where his son lies or how he fares. This is a particular kind of anguish, Garrosh thinks, the not knowing. And despite the threat that hangs unspoken, Varian's fighting blood rises against humiliation and attempts at control. It's a natural thing Garrosh can understand, that deprives one of reason, that sees challenge through the reddened eyes of rage.
Varian spends is first night in Orgrimmar chained to a post in the Hold's main chamber, where a pad of furs is provided for him to sleep on. He hands and feet are free to move and any who enter the Hold on Horde business are allowed to approach – but not touch – him. Garrosh watches the interactions; there is hatred, curiosity, interest, even pity from some of the weaker fools, especially the Blood Elves. Varian ignores them for the main part, sitting sprawled on the furs, his back to the post.
Garrosh watches him, he can't help but do so - Varian Wrynn is a fascinating study. Beaten and restrained as he has been, he is composed, though tired, upright and still radiating that human arrogance. It's a feature of these stronger humans, their resilience and stubborn determination. It's what makes them an Orc's favourite prey.
Garrosh selects some leftover food and puts it on his plate, and holds it out. "Eat."
Varian looks at the plate, and turns away.
"I gave you an order. Have you changed your mind already?"
Varian shrugs. "I do not believe I can…eat. I will probably vomit."
"If you do, you'll clean it up. Eat. You'll need it."
Varian hesitates, then accepts the plate with a human's natural physical grace. It contains some bread and a half-eaten chicken along with a small apple, and he puts it between his legs on the floor and picks at the food half-heartedly. He appears to decide the bread is safest, and breaks off a chunk, chewing on it with unfocused calm. Garrosh calls his personal servant over and gives him certain orders, then sits back to finish his beer.
Once he begins eating, his appetite seems to return and Varian finishes most of the food on the plate. By the time he has eaten his fill the room has emptied, except for two Kor'kron guards standing by the door. They are Garrosh's personal guard and will stay there until relieved the following morning.
Garrosh leans back in the chair, a mug of beer in his hand, and contemplates his prize. He appears quite docile at that moment, but Garrosh knows it is superficial. Varian is tired, worn by the pain of his whipping, worried about his son, a lot of other things Garrosh doesn't know and doesn't care about. He decides to poke him and see how deep this serenity lies.
"Tomorrow we go to finish the destruction of Stormwind. You will join me and watch the end of it." He swallows another mouthful of beer and wipes a hand across his mouth. "There is no one left there to bury your dead, so I'll make a pyre of your city so that everything may burn together. That's more honour than the worms deserve, but I'm feeling generous."
He is wiping his mouth on his arm as Garrosh speaks and he sees the dark eyes narrow, the nostrils flare. "Why do you do that?" Varian asks finally, voice shaking with barely repressed emotion.
"Do what?"
"Goad me. To save my son you say I must obey you, not fight you, yet you push at me to lose control." Varian slides as far away as the chain will allow, as if to put distance between himself and his anger. "It's not as if you need an excuse to kill Anduin, you could do it whenever you please."
"That is true, I can. There might be a certain satisfaction if you were the cause of it. Another scar to add to the ones I've given you." He hooks one hand around the chain and drags Varian back towards him. "And as well, I will break your spirit in time. I want an obedient slave with no fire left in his belly and when the day comes that you abase yourself to me willingly, with all honour dead, desiring nothing but to please me, then I'll have won." Garrosh places a hand under Varian's chin, forcing his head up. "When I 'goad' you and see nothing but fear and despair in your eyes, I will have truly won."
"Before that day comes, I'll be dead," Varian sneers, grabbing the chain and yanking it out of the Warchief's hand, and Garrosh only smiles.
"Perhaps."
The following day Garrosh and his Kor'kron guards, with Varian, travel to Stormwind by mage portal. Garrosh directs the final destruction from on board his ship, the "Flame Wolf" from where it hovers above the smoking city. In between issuing orders and receiving reports, he observes Varian where he stands at the gunship's rails, looking down at his city. His hands clench and unclench on the railing but otherwise he barely moves, except his eyes. Garrosh thinks he is taking it in, seeing it more or less whole for the last time.
Flames have already started burning their way through sections of the city; the sappers have laid charges and barrels of oil, and more oil has been sprayed from above by flyers. One after another the buildings catch alight, red and black stinking flame gradually moving through the streets from building to building. Two other gunships hover above the Palace dropping charges down onto the walkways and towers. He sees Varian lean forward, his attention suddenly caught, and Garrosh moves across to see what has caught his eye.
They have moved lower, across Old Town and are near the stables. A number of Orcs are leading horses out from the stables, and near the fence butchers are at work. Garrosh sees one particular horse, a large white beast, fighting the Orcs who are attempting to lead it. He hears a word choked off.
"Champion…."
Varian turns away and puts his back to the railing, stares down at the deck, his features tight. Garrosh reaches out and slides fingers under the collar, tilting his head up, and he catches sight of anguish, quickly hidden. "Your horse?" he asks and after a moment Varian nods.
"He means something to you, I think."
"I…raised him. From a foal. He is a fine mount, a loyal friend." Garrosh watches and sees the unvoiced request.
"Why should I let it live? Give me a reason."
Varian straightens, his voice cold and calm. "So I can give you a further way to lodge your claws in me? I think not. But for him I will say, he is a brave companion, a fearless warmount. He deserves better than to be butchered like a hog."
Garrosh thinks on it and nods, satisfied to appear unpredictable. "Honesty should be rewarded." He leans over the railing, puts fingers to his mouth and makes a loud whistled signal. The workers below look up and he points to the horse, makes the arm signal for take-and-free, and they thump their chests in understanding. "They'll take him outside the city and release him. Who knows, perhaps he'll mate and make more of his kind." He settles his arms across his chest, watching the dark eyes watching him. "You may now say 'thank you Warchief'."
He sees the little battle in Varian's eyes, and finally he nods briefly. "Thank you…on Champion's behalf…Warchief."
And the saving of a horse seems to give him comfort, so that he is able to watch the annihilation of Stormwind with something like grace.