Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

A/N: Man, this one took a long time. I kept going back through it to edit one thing or another, including removing any mention of Asha Greyjoy's preferences, as I'd forgotten that while her TV portrayal (Yara Greyjoy) might be bisexual, word of god (as the big brilliant bearded bastard himself) has it that Asha is not. This is what happens when I mix book and show elements, I suppose.

Also, for any who feel that the Skane arc has dragged on for too long: I'm utilizing it to help introduce the supernatural/LOTR aspects as well as help me shake out any kinks that I have in my writing style, so to speak. So I do hereby pledge to my loyal readers the following: future plot arcs will not take so long, at least not the obvious ones like 'Jon goes to Skane', whereas more subtle ones akin to political machinations and plots amidst the kingdoms will likely go on for a while on the side.

Originally Jon was supposed to go to Skagos and find it divided between the Cannibal (Smaug stand-in) and the Sheepstealer, but then my mind got into overdrive and this was the result. I realized that I didn't want this to be a story where Jon blitzes through everything and goes on to right all of the wrongs in the world. Now, granted, he's had success at building himself a small but impressive army, but that was mainly done by dominating four orcs and staging ambushes and guerilla strikes, with the benefit of the Loyalist Orcs having no expectation of an army of humans (supplied with information from dominated Orcs no less) attacking them. And Jon was also lucky to have high quality troops (Skani rangers who in my mind are akin to the Dunedain, handpicked knights and the cream of the Karstark and Thenn crop, battle hardened Magnar warriors who I view as being Baldric's Housecarls, etc) but guerilla tactics with relatively well trained and equipped forces is different from what I have in mind for the future.

Jon will lose. He will lose battles, friends, loved ones (some who I guarantee will surprise you, but not like how the 'Dumb and Dumber' School of Subversion would try to pull the rug out from under you and then say it forgot you were standing there) and will not have an easy time of it. He will be forced to grow, as will others around him as the true scope of the wars to come is revealed.

So hang onto your Ratbag, drown the Bruz and shoot the Ranger: because we're in the endgame on Skane now.

Xxx

Chapter Twenty: Battle of Morgund'dur, Part One: the Assault

10th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

The North, Deepwood Motte

By her fourth day as a guest of Sybelle Glover, Maraiya's time in Deepwood Motte had become noticeably less stressful. The men assigned to her by the Big Bucket actually included several women, much to her surprise, which led to the revelation that the Mountain Clans and the Mormont of Bear Island had something in common. They had been sociable enough, lacking the same lifetime of being taught to never look those of higher birth in the eye or be anything less than fully accommodating and pleasant for fear of being perceived as inflicting an imagined slight, and had made her feel secure enough to wander.

At one point she'd encountered Asha Greyjoy as the Ironborn was escorted to stand before the King. To see the one who had sought to plunder and conquer their homeland now in chains and helpless had brought no shortage of satisfaction to the Northmen, as well as any Essosi who were familiar enough with piracy to detest it. But beyond a few jeers and thrown snowballs the self proclaimed Queen of the Iron Isles had little to fear and had responded brazenly, even

Stannis had announced before a gathering of Lords and Knights that Greyjoy's uncle, Rodrik 'the Reader' Harlaw, had agreed to an exchange: her for Lady Sybelle's children, who had reportedly been treated well at Ten Towers even before her capture had become known. Some were dissatisfied with this, wishing to see her sacrificed or at least given some punishment for her part in terrorizing the North in previous years, but Alysane Mormont had surprisingly convinced them that this was the better course.

Asha Greyjoy's uncle, who had been proclaimed King of the Iron Islands, had wed her to one Erik Ironmaker, reputed as an obese and ineffective Lord now that his youth was far behind him. She was clearly not eager to consummate this marriage and vowed to fight it, and her uncle was likely to support her against this ruling and against Euron Greyjoy. An Ironborn civil war meant they would have fewer ships and opportunities to raid the North with for the foreseeable future.

Of course the she-bear had not phrased it that elegantly.

"Send her back and let the squid fuckers spend a little time knifing one another for a change while we deal with the Flayers. I'm bored of butchering Ironcunts anyways."

Then she broke the nose of one man who had tried to command her to silence and would have taken the head of another if Stannis had not restored order.

An interesting bunch, those Mormont women.

Besides that, her stay had also been uneventful- not that she considered that a bad thing. After travelling unaccompanied over many leagues without the creature comforts she'd taken for granted, Maraiya was happy to return to a mundane routine. She kept herself busy helping with putting together supplies for the coming battles, from clean bandages to ingredients needed for medicines requested by Maester Colin.

Among those she'd come to associate with were Talia and Ryon Forrester, accompanied by their scarred and blunt sellsword bodyguard Beshka and the youngest she-bear: Lyanna Mormont, who was only ten and yet verbally lashed grown men and physically brutalized recruits.

It was Talia who, as they returned to the keep, drew their attention to the sparring ring. "Maraiya, look!"

Men hurled encouragement and taunts over the ring of clashing steel. Beyond the wooden boundary were four men locked in combat: two using short swords, another a hammer and the fourth a long, slender rapier.

Syronos!

She hadn't been able to speak with him more than in passing, as the First Sword of the Free Blades had been sent out on patrols or assigned to oversee training of levies to the point of being completely unavailable. Now she was treated to the sight of him dancing about the ring, leading his three opponents on a merry chase.

Ryon eagerly raced up to the edge of the ring. "Are they using live steel?"

"But of course, boy." An Essosi chuckled. "The Captain always spars that way."

"What if someone gets hurt?" Maraiya asked, tracking Syronos as he slapped the flat of his blade against the heavily padded torso of one man and then sidestepped a the hammer wielder.

"War is pain, good lady." The sellsword shrugged. "The enemy won't stop because you are injured on the battlefield, so we train to teach that to our recruits."

"Yield!" One of the swordsmen cried after taking a hit to their dominant arm that broke their grip and disarmed them.

"Perhaps the Captain will teach it to some of the King's knights." The sellsword added with a shrug.

Syronos took a glancing hit half a minute later, but in return his attacked was bashed against the top of their helmet and yielded after taking two light hits in quick succession. The last fighter tried to take advantage of this to press Syronos towards a corner of the ring, quickly forcing him back before he could consider strafing to either side.

"He moves so fast." Ryon said in astonishment.

"Braavosi water dancing." Beshka crossed her arms. "Not my style, but you know a master when you see him."

"He's going to be cornered!" Talia cried.

"I pity him." Beshka said dryly.

"You just named him a master, yet you're sure he'll lose?" Maraiya asked.

"Not him that I pity," Beshka chuckled. "I pity the idiot with the hammer. Watch."

Syronos' final enemy, chest heaving from exertion, had him backed into the corner with nowhere to go. Seeing the Bravo robbed of his mobility, he moved in to finish him off only for Syronos to launch himself off of the corner post. The Bravo dropped his rapier, dipped down wrapped his arms around the startled man's thighs as his hammer swing sailed wide. With a grunt of exertion Syronos lifted the fighter up and flung him back down like a sack of flour. Before he could even think of recovering his breath he found Syronos' dagger hovering near his throat.

"Yi-yield." The man coughed. "What was that?"

"It is called a takedown." Syronos sheathed his dagger. "To put it shortly: I cheated."

"How'd you even lift me in all this armour?" The man rapped a hand against the thick chest piece he wore.

"You aren't in full plate armour like a knight. Never try that move against them." Syronos warned, now addressing the other recruits while retrieving his rapier. "A man in full plate armour is a terror on the battlefield, even when unmounted. House Frey has donated hundreds to the Boltons and for all their many failings they will be better trained than most of you by the time you meet them in battle."

"What should we do when that happens?" Another recruit asked.

"Cheat." Syronos answered plainly. "If they ride at you-" he took a longsword from one man and assumed a stance which would point the tip at an imaginary rider while placing the weapon between himself and a downwards blow. "-knock them off, strike high to catch them in the chest or head with the longest weapon you can get your hands on. Don't let them get up, don't even let them have a chance to catch their breath."

He returned the weapon to its owner and snatched a spear next. "Spears work best. Stab them from a safe distance and aim for weak points, anywhere that you can slip it in. You'll have a better chance with the joints or from behind, damn anyone who calls it dishonourable." He tossed it back and motioned dismissively. "You're dismissed. Ser Ormund has graciously volunteered to help anyone who wishes to practice against a real knight. Don't let his age fool you like it did me!"

The men dispersed, and Maraiya was quick to make her way to Syronos as her entourage scattered about the yard to keep watch. "Captain Dirrin, are you wounded?"

While removing his own padded armour Syronos shook his head. "A few bruises. Nothing that will kill me. But your concern is appreciated, Lady Bell."

"So this is the one then?" Beshka asked, giving Maraiya a knowing grin. "Now I see why you spoke so fondly of him."

Beshka. Please stop.

"Oh? Doth my reputation precede me?" Syronos handed off the armour to one of his men.

"I told them of how you and Chief Wull saved me." Maraiya clarified.

"Are you really a water dancer?" Ryon asked, looking at the rapier sheathed at the Dirrin's hip. "I've never seen fighting like that!"

"Aye, that I am, young lord." Syronos nodded, indulging the boy's curiosity with a warm and welcome disposition. "If you've any interest in learning, I could convince one of my officers to appoint you a tutor until the end of this campaign, but it would come at a cost"

"I want to learn!" Ryon nodded. "I'm not…big as my brothers were at my age, I don't see myself getting big and strong like them later…but I'm fast! Gerold Glenmore's been teaching me archery and said I had the right build for a scout."

"I'm inclined to agree with him." Syronos chuckled. "Alright, Young Lord, speak to your Lord-Brother and I'm sure it can be arranged."

"I will! My thanks, Captain!" Ryon raced off while Lyanna Mormont rolled her eyes at his retreating form.

"He'll be up all night about this now." Beshka sighed and followed after the young boy.

"He's scared to spar with me, but he flocks to a foreign man." Lyanna sighed in exasperation. "Boys."

"Everyone's scared to spar with you." Talia teased.

"But only half as scared as the Boltons should be." Syronos added. "I saw your work in the ring, Lady Lyanna. If you are truly the youngest bear in your family then I shudder to imagine how ferocious your sisters must be."

"You might never know. Only Alysane, her children and myself remain." Lyanna answered, her jaw tightening slightly before she continued. "My eldest sister Dacey was butchered by the Freys at the Red Wedding, while Jorelle and Lyra have not been seen since. The same can be said of my mother."

"My condolences." Syronos bowed his head solemnly.

"I don't tell you this for pity, sellsword." Lyanna said sharply. "I tell you so that you understand why I follow a southern King: vengeance for the lost. You and yours have served Stannis loyally, but a sellsword's only true loyalty is to coin, no matter what platitudes they offer. If I find one hint that any company or house seeks to break ranks to join with Roose Bolton I will not hesitate to have every traitor's head put on a pike to line the shores of my home as a reminder that some agreements come at too high a price."

She rested her hand on the hilt of a hatchet hanging from her belt. "Make sure that all of your mercenary friends know that, should they ever come by Bolton gold." She stormed past him, ignoring Maraiya's affronted call.

"Lyanna!"

"Peace, Lady Bell." Syronos raises one hand. "She's lost too much to trust easily ever again, and my men and I as well as the others commissioned by Stannis are, as she stated succinctly: sellswords. She would be foolish to trust us easily."

"But to outright threaten you when you've been nothing but loyal…"

"Every army has its traitors." Syronos shook his head. "Why do you think I've been too busy to share in your company these past three days?"

"We'd…been told you were out on patrol." Talia said, eyes widened with concern.

"It doesn't do well for morale to announce that almost two-score men tried to set fire to the supply stocks and make off with horses in some ill conceived scheme to win the Boltons' favour." Syronos' words were soft, perhaps to keep the clansmen accompanying her from hearing. "But that is mainly for the rank and file's benefit. It's like I said: one would be foolish to trust sellswords so easily."

"Even you?" Maraiya asked, not wanting to think that the man who had saved her from capture, who had been quick to stand up for her against the likes of Ser Clayton Suggs would turn his cloak so easily.

"If I said I was the exception, would you truly believe me?" He asked, letting the question hang in the ensuing silence before his eyes wandered to Maraiya's waist. "Ah, getting used to carrying your family blade around?"

It was a quick change of topic, but a welcome one. Maraiya's hand brushed over Nightfall's crossguard as she remembered the presence of the Valyrian steel blade. "Yes, I…have been advised that leaving it unguarded would be a poor choice."

"Whoever suggested that is wise." Syronos nodded. "Though I confess, I am curious. Some light reading and inquiry has led me to a claim that House Harlaw possesses a Valyrian blade of the same name as this one."

For a sellsword he did an incredible amount of reading. Perhaps he and Rodrik Harlaw had that in common.

"They do." Mariah said. "But that is mere coincidence. My family has held this since before they followed their liegelords to the North, and named it for other family weapons dating back as far as recorded history. The other Nightfall was wielded by Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, a century after Aegon's Conquest when he slew a Corsair who wielded it."

Syronos was not the only one who liked to read in their spare time, and Archmaester Mancaster's work was preferable to anything written by Grandmaester Malleon. Then again, literally anything was preferable to that.

"Ah, there's a title I remember hearing." Syronos nodded. "So, this blade is at least a thousand years old and as good as the day it was forged…yet you are not proficient with it, correct?"

Maraiya's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "No, no I'm not." She muttered bitterly. "My father wanted me to learn, but…"

"Your mother put an end to such notions." He guessed. "Tell me, Lady Bell: had you the chance, would you seek to undo her decision, now that you are free of her and she is declared a traitor to the realm?"

She hadn't paid any thought to that before. The brief struggle she'd put up against the Skinner's men had been a reminder that in all of her nine and twenty years she had not led a physically active lifestyle beyond riding, swimming and more adventurous countryside strolls in her youth.

But…who was there to tell her that she couldn't learn? The sellswords wouldn't care, the Mormonts and Clansmen would be indifferent or supportive and the other Northerners and Southrons had no real say in what she did with her own time. She was a ward of the King, who showed little interest in what she did as long as it was within Deepwood Motte.

"I…think that I would." She admitted, gazing down at the sheathed blade.

"Then we'd best get started."

"What?" Maraiya looked up in surprise as Syronos climbed back into the ring. "Right now?"

"You're serious?" Talia asked in disbelief.

"Why not?" He held out an arm. "Anything better to do? Your attire isn't inappropriate for it."

Maraiya glanced down at her riding boots, trousers, tunic and long coat. "I…suppose that it wouldn't hurt."

Looking towards her escort for any sign of them taking exception to this, she found them waiting expectantly.

With no objections to be found, she climbed up onto the fence and almost stumbled before Syronos caught and steadied her, then helped her down onto her feet.

"A few basics won't take up much time." He stepped away and drew his rapier. "First, let's see you draw your sword."

Maraiya grasped Nightfall with one hand and the scabbard with the other, tugging them both in opposite directions to free the former more easily. It was something she'd seen done throughout the Baratheon encampment, from the training field outside the castle walls to men taking their blades out to clean or sharpen. It still wasn't as elegant or effortless as Syronos, but she got it out without any trouble.

Nightfall sang as it slid free, making a sound akin to the chime of a bell from the stygian alloy- though it lasted only briefly.

"Practice unsheathing it in your spare time." Syronos suggested. "The faster that you can do it while keeping it under control, the easier it will be to call upon when taken by surprise."

He held his sword up in a salute and then flicked it downwards in a salute. "Now then, a bastard sword like that is better handled with both hands when unaccompanied by a shield." He motioned towards the hilt where Maraiya added her second hand. "Since it is made of Valyrian steel, it is much lighter than your average weapon. Find yourself one of regular steel or iron to practice with as well, so that you are not limited to the least common type of weapon in the world. For now…sword up."

For almost an hour after that Syronos took her through some basic lessons: most common among them was keeping her weapon up and between her and her enemy at all times. It was nowhere close to a true lesson, but more of an assessment of her physical limits to help him understand where to begin. He had her take several swings at him and pointed out when she overreached or put too much force into the swing, taking her off balance and leaving her vulnerable to retaliation. Most of the session consisted of her being corrected on how to hold her weapon and position her body and limbs. Talia remained by the edge of the ring, enraptured while several others gathered around to watch, some expressing distaste and others interest.

Several minutes into letting her take experimental swings at his defence, Syronos said. "Break."

Breathing heavily, Maraiya backed off and offered silent thanks to the gods. "How am I?"

A pained expression crossed his face as he guided her over to the edge of the ring. "Well…there's potential, more than I'd find in most Westerosi women who have never lifted a sword. But one key part of this will be repetition. You need to strengthen your grip, learn to pace yourself and find out for yourself when and how to strike or defend. That won't come with a few quick lessons.."

Maraiya shakily set Nightfall back in its scabbard and accepted a water-skin offered by Talia. "I always knew swordplay couldn't be learnt overnight." She took a swig. "Why did you offer to help me, though? I don't wish to sound thankless, but you seem to have been…predisposed towards coming to my aid even after you brought me here."

"Do you believe that I am concealing motives most…sinister?" He asked with one brow raised.

"No! No, I…Chief Wull said that you almost immediately decided to seek me out after discovering news of my flight." Maraiya explained. "I just want to know why."

Syronos sighed and rubbed his chin. "Well, besides being fascinated by the tale he sang of your father's exploits, I still had to carry out the King's orders and a runaway heiress who the Boltons were most intent on catching seemed like a sound source of information." He leaned against the fence and crossed his arms over his chest. "As it turned out: I was correct."

Maraiya felt a little let down, but chastised herself for thinking his reasons hadn't been for practical consideration. "I see."

Perhaps it had been childish to hope, but from Maraiya's perspective her worth had always been weighed her station or looks and the appeal found in both, by what others stood to gain in benefit from her. Her mother had wanted a daughter to marry off, be it to a wealthy noble from the south or another branch of House Bell as part of her political ploys. Men had wanted her for her looks, her wealth or Nightfall.

At least Stannis Baratheon and Syronos Dirrin's interests in her were not hidden behind honeyed words. They were honest about their intentions and had not tried to manipulate her as her mother had throughout her entire life.

"Make no mistake though: I'm most glad to have met you." Syronos added. "In any case, I do and still otherwise would have considered it a detour most worthwhile."

He climbed out of the ring and offered her a hand again. "Well, unless it had turned out to be trap."

"You suspected as much?"

"My mentor's first lesson: trust no one and nothing. And he made sure I remembered it." Syronos habitually rubbed the side of his right knee. "In his own words: when the gods shat out a second man, his first thought was to conspire to kill the first man and steal his wife." (1)

Maraiya couldn't fight down a light bout of laughter as she accepted his aid in getting back out of the ring. "That's just horrible!" She giggled.

"What if the gods made a second woman for him?" Talia asked.

"I asked the same thing once." Syronos raised his right leg off the ground slightly but quickly put it back down, then reiterated. "Once. As for why I've been so generous with small favours…during your first audience with the King it may have looked like a circle of noble born men, but I saw a pack of hyenas slowly closing around you. I imagine several of the King's men have requested your hand in marriage, some may have even asked you instead of going to the King."

There had been an offer in writing…or two…or ten.

"I saw those hyenas ready to strike. I've seen it before, from the Shadowlands to Braavos. They want you for your wealth, for your lands…and for your family blade." Syronos frowned. "I am many things…but never would I leave you to their mercy. If I did, my mentor would have been better served leaving me to be castrated and sacrificed."

There was none of the flowery words that Maraiya would have expected if he had been trying to Charm his way into her favour. Something as simple as doing upon others as he would wish for them to do unto him was not a widespread value among those who held power…but most who held power were born into it. Perhaps a man who would have otherwise amounted to nothing if not for the generosity of another could remember and appreciate such wisdom.

"Syronos, I…" Hurried steps crunches through the snow towards them.

"Captain!" Larence Snow, red faced from exertion, held up a roll of bound parchment to him. "Orders from his Grace."

"Easy, lad, breathe." Syronos took the scroll, unbound it and read its contents, his expression unreadable. "…Lady Bell, it seems you will need to consult the Mormonts or Clansmen for a tutor. I won't be able to revisit today's lesson anytime soon."

"You're leaving?" Maraiya asked, feeling a weight settle in her chest. "For another…patrol?"

"No, I'm afraid not." He shook his head. "His Grace has commanded my entire company to break camp. We march south at once and bring battle to the Flayers."

Xxx

12th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Skane, Morgund'dur

The sun brought with it a red sky over Skane. Creeping up over the horizon, its light slowly spread over Morgund'dur, irritating the sentries on duty. Several retreated into the gatehouse or nearby towers to continue their watch from there while the rest endured, angling their eyes away from the glare or raising a hand to shield their eyes.

One of them was roughly spun around and felt their throat open, spilling blood down their front. Yellow eyes bulged as the sentry clutched at his throat, collapsing to his knees. Around him he witnessed several more figures dispatch the sentries close by, most of them unaware of the danger until they were already bleeding out.

Why? The sentry wanted to ask.

The Watchers had been unique in the sense that they had been given exemption from the infighting of the other factions. Anything that threatened to compromise the fortress' security could not be allowed, so assignment here had been viewed as leisurely. They had the protection of the Lord of Skane himself!

Then why…why…

The sentry gave one final gurgle and worried no more.

"Ohohoh…good work, my dears." The sentry's body was nudged to one side so that an orc whose build could be considered scrawny could step past, a slave brand clearly emblazoned upon his brow. "My beloved master will be most pleased with our work, he will." He noticed one body twitching and the lecherous smile on his face was replaced with a feral snarl as he leapt upon it and drove two curved daggers into the neck and torso, spraying black orcish blood across his pale flesh.

Rising once he was satisfied, Dûsh the Obsessed, Captain of the Carrion Blades, wagged a finger at his men. "Always be sure, dearies." He licked some of the blood off his upper lip. "Always…"

Lazily gesturing with one hand, he signalled his archers who loosed a single, scattered volley towards the treeline nearest the gate.

A lone figure emerged from the brush, stopping a hundred yards from the gate. Behind him came two others: one a short, wiry orc with burnt flesh and hands missing three fingers each, the other an older and rounder fighter strapped securely to a cazarin saddle.

More emerged. Dozens, then hundreds. Orcs bearing Jon's mark or loyal to their Captains gathered before the gates of Morgund'dur, almost a thousand strong.

"Just as you'd planned, m'lord." Grublik Four-Fingers said, pointed with his spear. "Wide Open and ready for the taking."

The mounted Captain, Takra Limp-Leg, snorted. "Still plenty of knife-work that needs doing." He looked down to Jon. "We stand ready, Barhdgul."

Jon looked to the sky where an eagle passed overhead before turning sharply for the waters to the fortress' east. "So do the rest." He drew his borrowed blade, missing the familiar grip and weight of Longclaw even if it rested in his belt.

Raising the weapon high, Jon shouted at the top of his lungs. "Today is the end of Tar'Medine! Today we shall cast the false Lord of Skane into the sea and claim this land for ourselves! Today is the last day that any Orc shall be enslaved to his whims! Come with me and take this fort! Come with me and take your freedom!" The Orcs roared and the thunderous clash of metal against metal filled the air, driving their blood thirst higher.

Jon privately murmured to the Stranger. "Thanks."

"You've your army, Jon Snow." He replied, arms crossed and glaring at the wall of Morgund'dur. "Let us see how well you put it to use."

Feeling the Stranger adding his voice, Jon levelled his weapon towards the gates and bellowed. "CHARGE!"

A tide of flesh and metal surged past him on both sides, gnashing jaws and stamping feet. Some figures appeared within the open gate, strays investigating the disturbance, and were swept away quickly by Takra's cazarin in the first charge. Alarm bells were rung as the rebel Orcs swarmed into the Outer Bailey, cutting down unprepared defenders closest to the gate. Jon entered with the second wave of infantry, passing safely through the open gates and portcullis and under murder holes that would have poured hot oil, rocks and arrows upon the attackers if not for Dûsh, who cackled from atop a roof top where he and his men were hard at work keeping them clear of enemy archers.

The plaza was the site of a blood bath. Nearby structures expelled smoke as Grublik directed his men to flush out any occupants with torches. "Leave no stone unturned!" The scrawny Captain commanded, tugging his spear out of a downed orc's sternum. "Every one you don't kill now is another we have to clean up later!"

He saw Jon approach and bowed his head. "M'lord! First plaza secured. Takra is pushing towards the second plaza by the bridge."

"Then get the infantry after him before he gets surrounded and cut to pieces." Jon ordered before hearing something land behind him.

It turned out to be Dûsh, who didn't seem to mind having a blade pressed to his throat. "Ooh, such reflexes, m'lord." He crooned.

Once more lamenting his choice in recruitment, Jon lowered his arm. "Dûsh, take your men along the roof tops, escort the infantry to the bridge and keep the enemy archers off of their flanks. They're already organizing to repel us by now and we can't afford to be penned in."

"As my lord commands." Dûsh gave and exaggerated bow and clambered back up above street level. "Come along, men! Plenty more fun to be had towards the bridge!"

Grublik sneered after them. "Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll be so busy fantasizing that he falls off the bridge." He suggested, and rallied his men to press onward.

Jon went with them, intent on leading from the front.

Xxx

Despite lacking a navy, Morgund'dur did maintain some dockyards with fishing vessels to help supply the garrison. Two Captains shared jurisdiction of this area, fighting one another under the great fort's shadow more than they fought actual invaders. That changed when two ships appeared from along the coast and rained weirwood arrows tipped by burning cloth. The range of the Skani Rangers and their Weirwood longbows was far above what the defenders could reach, save by using a pair of scorpions fixed in places of elevation that dominated the small bay.

Quick to man and load these siege weapons, the Orcs fired several successful volleys which landed close to their targets, even managing to tear off one of the spars on the Sea Dragon's mainmast. The Skani turned their attention to the twin towers and soon the defenders had to balance fighting fires and operating the weapons.

"Longboats away!" Baldric Magnar shouted, already set to disembark for shore. "Astrid! You've the command out here!"

"Do something about those towers while you're off gallivanting!" The Warg shouted before a flaming bolt struck the Trident, exploding and sending men scrambling over the sides while others tried to contain the embers that spread across the deck.

"Aw fuck me!" Baldric groaned, watching his newest ship slowly go up in flames.

"Your wife still won't consider this a good excuse." Astrid shoved him towards the nearest longboat. "Get to shore! You're crowding my deck, m'lord."

The longboats were rowed in at best speed, ploughing into the shallows where some Orcs waded out to keep them from establishing a foothold. Baldric took off the head of one just as they're grabbed hold of his longboat's prow and pulled himself over the edge. Some were struck by arrows and slumped down into their boat or tumbled over and sank into the water to either side, staining the shallows red. But the majority of the landing force was able to fight their way up onto dry land.

Knights from the southern kingdoms in steel, Skagosi Berserkers swinging axes with bloody glee, Karstark men-at-arms calling out 'Karhold', Thenn raiders bellowing in the old tongue and Branded incapable of feeling terror crashed into Orcs who reciprocated with equal fervour.

"Fight past them! For King Stannis!" Ser Narbert Grandison howled, slamming his shield into a javelin thrower and bringing the brim down on their skull. "OURS IS THE FURY!"

Baldric hooked his axe around a spear and pulled its owner in to slam his helmed head into their face, then impaled them on their own weapon. "Pick it up! We'll let no andals kill more than us!" He pulled his round shield off of his back and raised it high to fend off a volley. "Press forward! Let these freaks see the sons of Father Skagos! Let them wail in despair, for we have come to avenge the Feast of Skane!"

Over a hundred fighters pressed on into the dockyards, setting fires which sent up smoke, blocking the scorpion operators from targeting the Trident and Sea Dragon. The Orcs assigned there were forced back by the relentless charge, losing many to being trampled as they raced to shore up by the base of the towers.

Baldric realized from a quick count of their numbers that Snow's plan had worked. The sudden loss of the gate had prompted those usually kept in reserve to race to reinforce the defence above. Less than half remained here, and even while retaining a slight edge in numbers they were disorganized and whittled down to seven or eight score.

Baldric rallies his men and had them form a solid shield wall. "Cut them down!" He led them in a charge that cut through the centre.

We're keeping our end, Snow. Baldric cleaved a head down the middle. Keep up yours, or this is for nothing.

Xxx

By the time they reached the bridge linking the two Baileys the rebel Orcs encountered more organized resistance. Jon cut down the last of another group to try and waylay them by striking from side passages and beheld a wall of long pikes and tall shields three Orcs thick barring the way to the square where the bridge was linked. The bodies of several cazarin riders and their mounts from the van lay in bloody piles before this entrenched company.

His first thought was to strike at them himself, but he had taken a few blows on his way to the front and was not willing to risk being dispatched when he'd invested everything in this assault. Next he pondered having Dûsh attack from above or outflank them, but saw him dancing with glee as his daggers flashed through many an Orc who had climbed up to meet him and his Carrion Blades on equal footing. Tarak's cavalry would be cut to pieces and the interlocked tower shields would minimize the effect of arrows or javelin.

"Hold!" Jon held his sword high. "Form up! Form ranks! Pikes to the front! Pikes up front!"

To his surprise, Grublik Four-Fingers held up a hand. "Please, m'lord." He looked over his shoulder and motioned with his head to someone unseen. "Let my sappers take care of it."

As the rebels finished forming ranks, three smaller Orcs slipped through and raced up the street, wearing not but loin cloths and barrels lashes to their upper bodies with copious amounts of rope. The trio laughed merrily as they raced into the wall of pikes, stopping only when they stood impaled on many blades.

What the hells was that meant to accomplish?!

"Wait for it." Grublik said, as if reading his thoughts, and many of his bowmen lit their arrow heads before firing them in a single volley.

As the arrows sailed through the air, Jon saw panic among the entrenched defenders who began to break ranks and move back from the slain sappers. Before they got too far one arrow struck a sapper's barrel-

What happened next could only be described as a blinding flash accompanied by a crack of thunder, a wave of heat and a showering of rock and dust. One moment the three sappers and over a hundred other pikemen had been there and the next…the street was shattered, bearing a hole where it had been occupied and the pike wall was no more. Orcs groaning and shrieking in pain, bodies scorched black, discarded limbs and entrails and other signs of the defending Orcs were scattered across the now open path. Some few had been fortunate to be far enough that they were more or less unharmed, but three for every five pikemen had been killed or injured beyond the point of posing any threat.

"What the fuck?" Jon whispered.

"Fire powder." The Stranger said. "I'd heard legends of it, but never thought…"

"MOVE UP!" Takra barked, advancing with his riders. "Before they close it again!"

The rebels streamed forward and into the square. Jon joined them in clearing out any remaining resistance, claiming the second foothold.

"Such a show!" Dûsh clapped after climbing down to join them. "Truly a master of your art, dear Grublik."

"If you'd stopped playing with your food I wouldn't have needed to waste good sappers." Grublik scowled. "And don't call me 'dear'."

"It was well executed, Grublik." Jon said. "Remind me to talk with you about it later. Rally your men and prepare for the next push."

"Barhdgul!" Tarak pointed his spear to the bridge. "Incoming! Olog'hai!"

Olog-What?

He heard what he'd gotten used to in the presence of giants while travelling with Mance Rayder. Foot steps made by things too large and heavy to be human, stomping across the bridge at a running pace towards them. When he looked to the source he saw a wave of figures taller and wider than any man but still shorter than the likes of Wun-Wun and his kin charging towards the rebel army.

And emblazoned upon their cuirasses was the crest of Hurok's Berserkers.

"Troll folk!" Grublik screeched. "They'll sweep us away like dust! We need to pull- guck!"

"Now you listen here, coward!" Dûsh hissed, holding the smaller captain up by the throat. "My Master is counting on us to see him to victory, and you won't get in the way of that! Stand and fight, or die!" He shoved Grublik away and charged towards the front lines where the massive warriors slammed hammers and maces down, sending clusters of rebel Orcs flying overhead and ignoring any attempts at using spears or arrows to force them back.

Jon forced his way towards the front and flung the Fist through the air, arching it over the Olog'hai. He closed his fist and found himself landing behind the line of armoured giants that slowly pushed his forces back. Taking hold of the hammer in both hands, Jon drove it into the back of one Olog's knee and heard something shatter under. The Olog howled and fell to one knee, dropping close enough for several Orcs to leap upon it and begin stabbing through any gap in its armour to be found. It still struggled and managed to fling a few off before Jon struck it in the centre of its back, internally bisecting it and killing it instantly.

One down, almost thirty to go. Jon's troops spilled through the gap, crawling over the slain Olog'hai to encircle the rest. Even then the battle was not in their favour, with maybe a third of the giants being felled in return for killing ten times as many.

"Bring them down!" Tarak Limp-Leg stabbed into one Olog's knee from behind. "Bring them down! Bring them down!"

Dûsh the Obsessed clung to the back of another Olog, reputedly driving his daggers into thick flesh until a hand enclosed around one of his forearms and ripped him off, holding him up for the Olog to glower at. Before it could bludgeon him with its mace Dûsh threw his second dagger and sank it right into his captor's eye. It roared and flung him away, clutching at the dagger only to accidentally push it in deeper.

Grublik Four-Fingers stayed back with a group of other ranged fighters, using their enemies' greater height to shoot clear over the rebels. They only served to distract or irritate the Olog'hai, but the Four-Fingers was still at least attempting to contribute.

But from side streets and back towards the gate came reinforcements who struck from the flanks. Jon's worst fear was beginning to come true: they were being penned in. Their best hope was to fight through the Olog'hai and move to the third stage of the assault.

Jon raised the Fist of the First Men towards the sky and began to call upon its elemental magic when a thick hand closed around his forearm and ripped him off of his feet. The one eyed Olog, still with Dûsh's dagger in its eye, snarled and flung Jon through the air. He slammed into a stone wall and his vision turned red as pain erupted from his skull-

Xxx

Two wolves wrestled in the depths of a forest. A boy snarled and lashed out with a spear. Hunters came and the wolves scattered into the darkness.

"The plan goes well, I take it?"

Jon opened his eyes and beheld the Wraith World, this time with a single landmark to serve as an anchor for him: the Ashcrown Heartree, an emerald tower piercing through the spectral mire. At its base sat a boy with Daemon's staff clutched in his arms.

"You are not struck down." The boy assured him before being replaced by Daemon as Jon knew him. "Not yet. Think of this as the equivalent of falling unconscious."

"Why would you be here if that is the case?" Jon asked, finding that his head pulse with agony when he tried to rise.

"You are connected to the Weirwood Web, the same as I." Daemon reminded him. "And I happened to be watching your progress. You're doing better than I thought, but it seems that you've run into- shit." His eyes widened. "Look out."

Xxx

Jon was hauled up by a crushing grip around his neck. The one eyed Olog slammed him into the same wall as before and raised its mace to deliver a final blow.

"Oi, yah ugly shit!"

The Olog yelped and dropped Jon, Baldric Magnar's axe buried deep into its thigh. It sent one arm backhanded, narrowly missing the Skagosi who tugged his weapon free and chopped down on the instep of the same leg. It howled and tried to wrench itself away, but only succeeded in dragging the axe deeper through its foot until Baldric tugged it Free, allowing the one eyed Olog's own struggles to send it down onto its back. It pulled itself away as fast as it could, crawling and then limping off as Baldric helped Jon to his feet.

"That's one you owe me for, Snow!" Baldric told him.

"After it took you this long to get up here?" Jon asked, seeing the combined host of Westerosi joining the battle, emerging from a stairway located just off to the side of the bridge which wound down to the docks below. "We were ready to leave you behind."

"Someone didn't properly scout out the docks, so we had to deal with a few scorpions we didn't know about before." Baldric retorted. "Now would be a really good time to call in help."

Shit, how'd I miss that? Jon cringed at his mistake, but brushed it to the back of his mind. Each mistake is a lesson, Snow. Start learning.

"Agreed." Jon held the Fist up once again, this time protected from any interruptions.

Channeling the magic within the hammer, Jon pulled the nearby clouds in to create a churning cauldron of vapour which slowly darkened and then flashed with lightning. Manipulating it like he would churn water, Jon made an opening within the freshly made nimbus and waited anxiously.

He didn't wait long. Far above Morgund'dur, the great winged shape of the Sheepstealer dropped through the safe corridor in the fledgling storm. Stretching its wings out to their full width, Sheep let loose a roar which caused the fighters to look up at the shadow that fell over them.

Levelling out of a steep dive, the Sheepstealer let loose a great stream of fire. The first cluster of Orcs to be hit were incinerated before they could scream, those near enough to be set alight wailed and writhed as they tried to put themselves out. This carried on for several hundred feet, immolating the path back to the gate and setting fire to structures to both sides. Sheep pulled up and came around for a second pass, obliterating any spot occupied by orc archers.

Atop the winged personification of fire and destruction, Rhae was every bit the appearance of the Valyrian dragonlords of yore. Face masked, Dark Sister in hand and illuminated in the glare of the inferno she had unleashed upon Morgund'dur, she seemed like Viserys Targaryen reborn in Jon's eyes. Pointing the ancestral Targaryen weapon, she guided the Sheepstealer down to target another column of loyalist Orcs, always striking far enough from where both sides were interlocked that none of Jon's troops were caught even at the edge of the desolation, leaving those too close to safely target to be trapped between a wall of blades and another of fire.

It was a scene taken from the pages of history, yet not even the inhuman nature of the dragon's victims could make it any less horrific. The odour of charred flesh and bone grew heavy as pillars of smoke rose to enshroud Morgund'dur's Outer Bailey, the howls of the dying formed a cacophony that Jon would carry with him.

He faulted Rhae and Sheep not, aware of the necessity of victory at any cost this day, but this served to remind him of the destructive potential of even one aging dragon. If

"Cross the bridge!" Jon shouted as rain began to pelt down on the square. "Leave the rest to the dragon! Cross the bridge!"

Tarak Limp-Leg organized his remaining riders and led the charge across. The loyalist Orcs manning the battlements brought their siege weapons to bare on the dragon as it came around for another strafing run. Many bolts were loosed, but Sheep dipped down under the volley and passed under the bridge, which still bore signs of the damage that Jon had done to it days ago. Before the Orcs upon the ramparts could reload and reorient to track their target they were engulfed in a second wave of fire as Sheep burnt the siege weapons and their crews away in a single pass.

Jon reached the gate house and quickly ascended to find its garrison abandoning their posts. Perfectly happy to let them flee, he single handedly began to raise the portcullis, allowing Tarak safe entry to the Inner Bailey, followed soon by the rest of the attacking army.

Once they were through he let the portcullis fall, cutting off the loyalist Orcs still in the Outer Bailey. Jon looked gazed down at the survivors and cursed as he saw just how effective the Olog'hai and accompanying flanking attacks had been, cutting down his Orcs by almost a third of their original strength before Sheepstealer had been called in.

Jumping down into the fray, Jon helped to clear the square while Sheepstealer made several more passes, setting fire to entire buildings and streets, creating road blocks by demolishing some structures with a swing of its tail. This was not a senseless rampage, but carefully planned moves which left the attacking army penned in, only this time under favourable circumstance. The bridge and gate guarded their backs, stretches of burning and demolished wreckage covering their flanks and only two parallel streets for the enemy to attack from, effectively funnelling them into a bottleneck that nullified any numerical advantage.

"We hold here!" Jon shouted. "Work on blocking the side roads! Let them come to us from the front! Watch for anywhere that the fire begins to die!"

With their position secured for the moment, Jon returned to the square where Baldric and Ser Narbert were setting the Skani Rangers atop the rampart to act as rear guard, focusing on the gate house where the Sheepstealer's flames had not reached when clearing the siege weapons. Any companies stranded in the Outer Bailey were left to face a gauntlet of Weirwood arrows capable of punching through armour even when fired from one end of the bridge to the next, keeping them from even establishing a foothold where Jon's army had been trapped minutes ago.

"The plan is working, Lord Snow!" Ser Narbert, his sword dripping with orc blood, actually looked pleased to see him for once. "The Berserkers were out in force to hold this wall." He delivered a kick to one body bearing Hurok's crest. "And were entirely unprepared for your dragon."

"Then Lobra's men must have struck by now." Jon didn't bother to correct the knight. "I need to find him."

"He'll probably be with that source you blathered on about." Baldric sat down and planted the head of his axe between his feet, leaning on it. "Where's that again?"

"The Pit." Tarak Limp-Leg informed him, being helped out of the saddle of his injured mount. "That is where Hurok maintains his vigil."

"And the Pit is…where?" Baldric motioned expectantly.

"Below." Jon tapped his sword to the ground twice. "Now we've come to the hard part: I need to find the nearest tunnel entrance."

Standing with his spear as a walking stick to support his lame leg, Tarak looked towards the sealed gate. "Overlooking the sea, opposite shore from the dockyards. There's a spot for keep watch to the western waters, set high in the cliff face. Can't reach it by ground, only through the catacombs."

Rhae brought the Sheepstealer down into the middle of the square, demolishing a statue of Tar-Medina under the dragon's bulk.

"At least," Tarak amended, "that's how it usually is."

This made for a perfect point of entry. Why place too many guards at a door that nobody can possibly reach? Even with Sheep's arrival they might not consider it worth putting too many fighters near.

"That's my way in then." Jon decided. "Baldric, Ser Narbert, can you hold the line here for a while longer?"

"With a dragon settin' half the fortress on fire, Orcs to every side and outnumberin' us so bad it isn't funny?" Baldric climbed to his feet and hefted his axe to lean on his shoulder. "Eh, beats goin' back to killin' wildlings. 'Least these Orcs are a challenge."

"We shall hold." Ser Narbert vowed.

Jon met Rhae halfway. "I need you to fly me somewhere."

"First I cook you dinner, now it's a ride you want." Rhae sighed. "Alright, come along. But after this you put a good word in for me with that Magnar fellow. I've seen him swing an axe, and I can't think of a better way to celebrate victory than some 'good will' with our old neighbours."

"I'm afraid he's married." Jon informed her while hurrying over to Sheep.

She turned and followed him with a puzzled expression. "So?"

Xxx

The vantage point was where Tarak had described. Far above a rocky shore too rough for anyone to hope to safely reach by water, yet below the ledge of the island occupied by the Inner Bailey, was a crevice not unlike the maw of some great beast leading right into the area below the fortress.

The Sheepstealer's size made flying too close to be dangerous, forcing Jon to make his own way. After falling short while leaping from the dragon's back he made up for the distance by lobbing the Fist into the opening. When he warped to it the hammer's momentum carried him face first through a rock spire jutting out of the floor.

The first thing to go through his mind was a blinding explosion of pain.

The second, after he'd finished clutching his face and cursing, was whether the rock he had just turned to dust with one swing of his arm had been a stalagmite or stalactite.

"Are you quite done?" The Stranger, appearing less than impressed by Jon's outburst, stood at the mouth of a tunnel leading deeper in. "Come. These tunnels wreak of death, so tread softly."

"This entire island wreaks of death." Jon whispered, debating between his sword or hammer when he remembered a third option: Longclaw, or what remained of it, was about the right size for a dagger and would be easier to use in the closed confines of the tunnels.

He crept into the passages to find the bodies of Berserkers and Black Riders alike scattered through the adjacent chambers. When the time had come the Black Riders had been quick to target Olog'hai and heavy infantry, filling them with pikes and driving daggers into their joints and throats. But the element of surprise hadn't stopped the Berserkers from reaping a toll on their former allies, demonstrating the skill needed to serve under a War Chief by bleeding the Riders just as heavily in the ensuing bloodbath.

Jon recited under his breath what Lobra had told him the night before the assault: the Pit lay directly beneath the keep itself, which was to the north-east of where he'd landed. There was no way to determine north from south where he stood, but the catacombs under the Inner Bailey had been originally built outward from the Pit. Thus, Jon knew he was getting close when the loosely shaped tunnels and wooden support beams and buttresses were replaced by sturdier carved stone.

No more than several minutes must have passed, but the foreboding silence and excess of bodies choking the passages made it feel like he'd spent hours combing the tunnels. At several points he encountered signs of the dead having been feasted upon, but not by any cazarin who would devour a kill whole. These bodies had been dragged away and partly eaten in a corner or side passage, then left to rot.

The air around him was musty and laced with smoke from where some of the fallen had been set alight, some of them before they'd died as evidenced by the twisted, agonized positions of their blackened remains. Jon fought hard against the instinct to breathe in the presence of so much death and decay, pushing deeper into the depths until he came upon a chamber which could not be mistaken for any other.

The Pit had been aptly named, for it was a great shaft which stretched upwards towards what must have been the interior of the great keep. A stairway carved into the walls spiralled down to what was only the highest of several landings, the lowest of which lay at the very heart of the floor. The same signs of battle that Jon had waded through to get here were strewn about, with most of the fallen baring the Black Riders' sigil.

Beneath the blood and grime, symbols carved into the stone floor emitted a golden glow which illuminated better than any number of torches could, forming many lines which stretched out from the epicentre towards a circle of similar text bund within two thick lines which almost touched the walls. At equal points along the circumference of this array were seven circles through which the light was fed.

As he descended, Jon saw this pattern repeat upon each landing: one ring after another. The second level was marked with five circles to join the complex weave of glyphs together, then the third by three. And finally, as he came to the lowest point in all of Morgund'dur Jon beheld the greatest treasure of Tar-Medine where it lay upon an altar carved of black stone to better resemble a clawed hand grasping upwards, holding the prize in its palm.

"A ring." Jon breathed.

It was a loop of pale Weirwood stained red within the recesses of shapes carved into the exterior surface, not unlike what Jon had tread over moments before. Despite how thin and fragile it appeared to him, Jon was not able to convince himself of this when beholding the power that radiated from it like great waves of pressure that pushed against him the closer he drew to it. Jon could hear something, distant whispers only just within his perception that came from the ring itself, calling to him…

"The Weaver did not jest." The Stranger appeared across from Jon. "This is no mere trinket, nor even a fledgling blood mage's concoction. I had thought that Tar-Medina had crafted it as a conduit for drawing power from the world itself, but this…what you feel now is entirely its own power. All of this light comes from the ring, drawn into the fortress and to Tar-Medine."

"How can something so small grant such strength?" Jon reached out towards it, unable to look away.

"It matters not. We can determine its origin after its master is disposed of." The Stranger declared. "Take hold of it and we will see to him."

Yes…take up the enemy's own weapon against him. Let him quiver in terror as his power was sapped away along with his most precious of-

Something struck Jon from the side. It did not wound or even cause much pain, but it staggered him and tore his attention away to the upper level of the chamber. A form too large to be that of any man stood there, burnished in black armour from head to toe and carrying in one hand a warhammer that would have made Robert Baratheon envious. Jon could see nought beyond the visor of their helmet, save for two piercing orbs of red that bored into him.

"Not once has any come so far." Their voice possessed the same rough texture that Jon had come to attribute to the speech patterns of Orcs, only this one spoke with such a measured and controlled tone, lacking the usual underlying animalistic growl that Orcs deliberately added to almost everything they said. "Yet the Lord of Skane did warn that you were no ordinary man."

Each step the Olog (for that was all Jon could imagine being under the thick armour) took was like a hammer strike. "But your journey has come to an end, Gravewalker." It shifted the warhammer to wield it with both hands, as easily as Jon might a sword. "As has that of your spy."

At Jon's feet lay the head of Lobra the Wolf, misshapen in a twisted expression of agony with a length of spinal cord still attached.

"The ring!" The Stranger shouted. "Grab it!"

Jon lunged towards the altar but was struck again, this time in the chest and with such force that he was flung to the upper tier of the room, crashing against solid stone which fractured beneath him. Paralyzed by agony, it took all of his strength to turn over onto his front and push himself up. His arms trembled with effort, finding the challenge of lifting himself off of the floor to be of greater strain than he could ever remember.

"Weak and undisciplined." The armoured Olog now stood by the altar, wreathed in tendrils of smoke that coiled like serpents around its form. "Your power is not but an aberration, a fluke, a mistake. Mine on the other hand has purpose, focus and the experience of a thousand years."

Jon managed to climb back to his feet, slowly feeling strength trickle into his limbs again as the Olog ascended the stairs towards him. "Now you meet your end by the hands of Hurok the Undying."

"He toys with us." The Stranger said, appearing by Jon's side. "Whatever powers his master may have granted to him or trained him in, he too is strengthened by the ring. Take it and he will be nothing!"

"Easier…" Jon gasped, drawing his sword. "Said…than done."

"We shall we." Hurok replied dryly, and cleared the last several steps in a leap before bringing his hammer down with inhuman might.

Xxx

(1) If it wasn't obvious, this is a spoof of a lesson by Colonel Hunter Gathers from the Venture Brothers: "Lesson One: Trust no one! The minute that God crapped out the third caveman a conspiracy was hatched against one of them!"

Captain Profiles

Name and Title: Dûsh the Obsessed

Tribe: Dark, a tribe which specializes in ambushes and deception.

Class: Savage, wields two swords and can launch a whirlwind attack to break an enemy's defence.

Advanced Class: Assassin (Stealth enemy that prefers to take enemies out quick. Often douses weapon with poison)

Agile: Will dodge attacks by rolling or vaulting over opponents.

No Chance: Enemies will not have any chance to defend themselves from a final blow.

Throwing Knives: Dûsh will throw knives

Strengths:

Gang of Warriors (Always accompanied by a group of warriors)

Dark Weaponry (Can equip and dual wield curved daggers)

Enraged by cowards (Will grow enraged if he witnesses another Captain become dazed or flee)

Enraged by fire (Will grow enraged if burnt by fire)

Weaknesses:

Dazed by headshots

Dazed by ?

Made by: ManwithaPlan113

Name: Grublik Four-Fingers

Tribe: Machine, an industrious tribe where every Orc sees themselves as a single cog in a greater machine.

Class: Hunter, wields spears and javelins which they can throw to devastating effect at a cost of higher durability in melee combat.

Advanced Class: Destroyer (An expert in explosive tactics and weaponry. The Destroyer is always equipped with bombs and mines.)

Final Blast (upon his death, triggers an explosion that stuns nearby enemies)

Sappers (Can summon a pack of Sappers, Orcs who have been treated with drugs that have rotted their minds and removed any sense of self preservation. They carry satchels of explosive powder and a torch which they use to turn themselves into living bombs, destroying enemy fortifications if they can get close enough.)

Strengths:

Fire-Proof (Will not take damage from being burnt)

Weaknesses:

Clumsy (Can be grabbed or mounted without being weakened first)

Lack of Dexterity (Has lost three fingers on each hand, hence his title)

Not a frontline fighter

Name and Title: Takra Limp-Leg

Tribe: Marauder, a tribe which sees battle as merely a prelude to their true specialty: sacking and plundering.

Class: Defender, wields a spear and shield which grant him heightened defence and allow him to unleash a charge attack which can only be dodged.

Advanced Class: Beastmaster (As one with the creatures of the wilds. Beasts will not attack him.)

Bestial Roar (Utters a beastly roar that calls Cazarin into battle, heals allied beasts and compels them to attack his target.)

Cazarin Tamer (Can easily time wild or hostile Cazarin)

Strengths:

Cazarin Rider (Is able to mount Cazarin and usually rides one into battle)

Vigilant against Stealth (Cannot be hit by a stealth melee attack)

Blood Brother (Loyal Blood Brother to ?)

Enraged by Cowards (Enraged when witnessing higher ranked Orcs become dazed or flee)

Weaknesses:

Injury (One of his legs were badly twisted many years ago, leaving him with a permanent limp and making him much weaker when fighting on foot, nullifying his Vigilant against Stealth perk)

Vulnerable to Ranged (Takes increased damage from ranged attacks)

Fear of Poison (Becomes dazed when poisoned)