In the great hall of Winterfell, the trial of Jaime Lannister, sole representative of Cersei's promised army, was well underway. Each of the judges had played their role as plaintiff and witness against the Kingslayer, and now his life was in their hands. To his surprise, Brienne of Tarth came to his defense, and her testimony seemed to make Sansa's conviction falter.
Before she could render her judgement aloud, a Dothraki warrior entered the courtroom in a rush. He had scarcely gone to his khaleesi and started whispering in her ear that the door of the courtroom was slammed back with great force. The audience turned to the sound, and pulled back in shock as an enormous man entered the room, straightening up as he passed the door. His blackened plate armor was adorned with spikes and skulls, a cloak of hairy leather reached to his calves, a massive collar of brass wrapped around his neck, and a crown of intertwined thorns surrounded his crest of hair.
Seemingly oblivious to the impression he caused, the giant made his way nonchalantly through the guards, effortlessly shoving aside those who lacked the presence of mind to get out of the way. Once past the guards, his gaze swept the court, resting briefly on Brienne, then lighting up in recognition. Jamie Lannister looked at him with undisguised horror, but the newcomer had eyes only for Sansa, advancing on the table and leaning on it with both hands despite the ominous creak.
"You I remember. Lady Stark of Winterfell. I have come to offer the aid of myself and my warband against the cold dead, on one condition."
Sansa had to crane her neck to look up at him, but her composure never wavered.
"Ser Wolf. I welcome your aid, but what is this condition?"
"That the Night King is mine to kill, his skull mine to claim afterwards."
Muttering filled the room, but the Wolf took no notice. If anything, he seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.
"Kill the Night King? We don't have enough dragonglass to make a sword for one your size."
The Wolf looked at Jon Snow.
"Never heard of dragonglass, but I came prepared."
One of the many swords the Wolf carried about his waist was far larger than the rest, the sheath covered in unpleasant-looking runes that seemed to move the longer one looked at them.
Holding sword and scabbard over his head, the giant slowly started unsheathing the weapon. An unearthly scream filled the courtroom and fire danced along the exposed blade, before he rammed it back inside.
"I won't show you the whole thing, the little bastard inside gets moody if he doesn't get something to bite into."
He slapped the sword as a man would cuff a disobedient child, and a snarl was heard in response.
"But this sword has gone through more than fivescore of the cold dead, and I intend to add another to its tally."
Sansa spoke up again, unaffected by the flashy display.
"And if he kills you, he will raise as one of his. I have no reason to doubt your skill, but do not want them used against us."
The Wolf seemed to find the prospect of defeat very amusing.
"Hah! My body and soul are not his to take, they belong to far more powerful than he. But if it will reassure you..."
The Wolf turned to look at Danaerys' bodyguards, focusing on the one holding Jaime's weapon.
"You, with the sword. Strike me."
Grey Worm started. He looked at his queen, who nodded, and stepped forward, drawing the blade and looking up at the Wolf, whose only unarmored part was his head.
"Right in the face."
The Wolf even turned his head to the side, jaw slack, to all appearances intent on letting the Unsullied strike unhindered. Perhaps to prove his reflexes? Did he intend to catch the sword as it came up?
Grey Worm thrust the sword upwards into the Wolf's cheek. The point penetrated deeply, blood running down the blade, but the Wolf simply turned his head and used a hand to pull the sword away from himself, slicing through his cheek like a shark through water.
There was expectant silence, and the Wolf slowly made a full circle, allowing the onlookers to notice that his flesh was starting to knit itself back together. The crown of thorns around his head seemed to contract. Soon there was not even a scar to be seen.
The Wolf chewed exaggeratedly a few times as if to verify that his mouth was back to normal, his jaw making a cringe-inducing popping sound, then looked back to Grey Worm, nodding in approval.
"Good strength in those arms. Good speed. But that's the last blood I intend to let you draw without retaliation."
Turning back to Sansa, he went on.
"This will not be the first time a moving-dead king falls to my blade, though this climate is far removed from the burning deserts of Khemri. It'll be a sad day when a corpse-emperor can defy the will of the Gods!"
"I will not be defeated by the Night King, no matter his skill or his magics. I have taken steps- expensive steps, they amounted to nearly three seasons' worth of plunder- to ensure that this will be so. My warriors will do battle with the hordes of the dead, I will kill their desiccated leader and take his head. Do you accept my terms?"
Sansa shared a glance with Danaerys and her half-brother. Danaerys spoke first.
"You ask for very little for such a task. No payment for you-"
Sansa, who remembered what Arya had told her of the Wolf's reaction to being thought a sellsword, tensed up.
"-or your men?"
The Wolf seemed considerably less angry at the question than Sansa feared.
"My men and I fight for glory in the name of the Gods. As for payment, what we kill we plunder and split up. I have already told them that I forfeit my two shares of whatever gold, weapons and trinkets the dead might carry."
Danaerys nodded.
"Your condition is that the Night King be left to you. I-"
She shot a glance at Sansa and Jon. She was their queen, but this was a decision for which she wanted their consent and approval.
"We, too, have a condition."
"And what would that be?"
"You would place yourself under the command of the lady of Winterfell?"
The Wolf gave a little shrug.
"Until I get what I came for. Then I will leave."
"And will you place yourself under the command of her queen?"
The giant looked puzzled.
"Who?"
Danaerys gave her handmaiden a nod. Missandei stood up and took a step forward.
"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!"
The Wolf seemed to digest the information, looking the Dragonqueen up and down. Then he inhaled deeply as he drew himself up to his full height, and roared out his own list of achievements with equal gusto, adding sweeping gestures, chest-thumpings and pumping clenched fists such that an actor would have wept to behold.
"And I am Wulfrik the World-Walker, the Wanderer, the High Executioner of Chaos, the Inescapable, the Eternal Challenger, the Strong Wolf, champion of the Sarl and bane of champions, slayer of giants, dragons, beastmen, lamassu, yhetees and trolls, master and captain of the Seafang, killer of Torgald king of the Aeslings, bringer of true death to the Tomb-Lord Khareops, boiler of the witch Baba Yar, breaker of the revenant jarl Unfir, burner of the Hashut-worshiper Khorakk, impaler of the Forsaken wretch Fraener, butcher of the traitor Zarnath, murderer of the weakling backstabber Sveinbjorn of the Aeslings, ruin-bringer to Vinglundr of the Sarl, ravager of Dronangkul, of Wisborg, of Ormskaro, and a thousand other cities besides!"
From his tone it was clear each of these was a great accomplishment, a heroic feat that would ring throughout the ages and spoken of with admiration and awe, inciting dreams of martial glory and fame in listeners of all ages and conditions. It was a shame no one had ever heard of them.
Even Jon, who had lived among the Free Folk long enough to be considered one by friend and foe alike, looked completely baffled at the enumeration of the people and places the Wolf claimed to have killed or looted.
The Wolf's tirade had not yet finished echoing around the chamber when Sansa noticed Danaerys seemed to be preparing a comeback. The tension called for diplomacy. She spoke up to avoid a clash of egos.
"We will need every warm body we can find. How many men do you bring?"
"Two score. Seven of them Crow Brothers."
The name evidently carried some weight in his view, but they too were completely unknown, since only the Night's Watch were ever called by such a term, and not by their friends.
"And a little surprise for the cold dead."
"And what would this surprise be?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? Especially if one of you dies early and rats it out to his new master."
Sansa decided not to argue the point.
"Very well. Our food stores should be able to feed you for tonight."
"No need, we have two mammoth legs. Brought one for baggage and the battle, but it didn't make it through the Warp in one piece. Had to drag the damn things and the rest through three miles of snow."
Sansa looked at the others.
"… Then I have no objection."
Still no rejection from the other two, who seemed more preoccupied with getting the Wolf out of the way.
"Then it is agreed."
"Ser Wolf! Will your men obey the directions of our commanders?"
"Doubt it. They don't speak your tongue anyway, but they know well enough what they need to kill and what they need to let live."
Turning on his heel, the giant headed for the door without waiting for dismissal, boding ill for any theoretical obedience on his part. The Wolf had scarcely left the hall when Jaime rushed to the table. Tyrion flinched as Grey Worm had the sword at the back of Jaime's neck in an instant, but the Kingslayer didn't seem to notice.
"Your Grace, you cannot trust this man, he's-"
Danaerys, already displeased at her authority being openly flouted by the Wolf, interrupted immediately.
"You are still on trial, Lannister. You will speak when spoken to."
"The hell with the trial! That monster butchered the Mountain, toyed with him like a cat with a mouse. We have no hope of killing him if he's inside with us, keep the bastard outside the walls!"
At a sign from their queen, the Unsullied guards dragged Jaime back from the table. Sansa cast a glance at Tyrion, who was looking with concern at his brother. Catching Sansa's eye, he nodded vigorously to confirm Jaime's worries.
"Him we can deal with later. What we will do with you has yet to be determined."
Danaerys looked at Sansa, who looked at Brienne. Sansa sighed, and looked down. She would not order the Kingslayer's death. Danaerys looked at Jon. His own father had been killed thanks to the Kingslayer's efforts, surely he wanted revenge more than his half-sister?
"What does the Warden of the North say?"
Jon shrugged noncommittally, looking more tired than ever, though clearly he was less than pleased to see Jaime walk away without retribution for his crimes against the Starks.
"We'll need every man we can get."
So it was settled. The Kingslayer, her father's murderer, would go free, at least for the night. Danaerys briefly entertained the idea of assigning Grey Worm as Jaime's bodyguard, instructing the Unsullied to backstab the Lannister when he least expected it. Her heart fought her mind, and lost.
"Very well."
Grey Worm returned the Kingslayer's sword to its owner, glaring all the while. Jaime bowed.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
As the court adjourned and the audience returned to its duties, Danaerys left the courtroom in high bad temper. Her chance at revenge was gone for entirely sensible reasons, the indisputable logic of which only angered her further, the allies she thought would support her decision without question had let her down, and of course there was the humiliation inflicted by the Wolf.
She cast an eye over the main gate, where similarly-dressed but slightly smaller men were dragging in an enormous metal crate on wooden runners, two hairy mammoth legs lashed to the top. One of the marauders hacked off a chunk of frozen muscle and slid it through a hatch in the crate.
With increased displeasure she saw the Free Folk and even some Dothraki bloodriders did not share her distaste for the Wolf's underlings, the womenfolk of the North especially casting admiring looks on the muscular crewmen.
Behind them, beyond the gate stood half a dozen men in tattered furs, not as tall as the others but immensely fat and diseased-looking, their pale and greenish skin protruding in hanging flabs from their tattered clothing, but they did not seem to mind the cold. One carried a rusty scythe like a banner while the others carried their polearms with no less gravitas. Was this the help brought by the Wolf?
"Khaleesi!"
Danaerys' head snapped around. One of her Dothraki was running to her.
"Khaleesi, the barbarian. He... He... your dragons, they..."
The messenger did not even finish his sentence before Danaerys was running towards the pen where her children were kept.
There was no need to ask if the Wolf had passed by, the stunned guards were only just picking themselves off the ground. The Dragonqueen rushed past them, her heart hammering. There was the unmistakable bulk of the oversized oaf, looking up at the dragons, who were... sitting up and looking at him?
Danaerys stared in shock. Drogon made a series of chirps and growls followed by a hoarse grunt, the meaning of which she did not understand but recognized as sounds he and his brothers made to communicate with each other. A similar noise bounced around the castle walls, but she refused to believe her ears. No human throat could produce such sounds, and yet the outlander was making them as easily as if he were speaking.
"What are you doing to my children!?"
She stormed up to the Wolf. Behind him, the dragons stood up. She was pleased to see they were looking at her and not him, whatever spell he had cast over them had not shaken the bonds between Targaryen and dragon. But his reply stopped her cold.
"Why're you starving them?"
"What?!"
"Why're you starving them? The big one says he only ate man-flesh once, and you thrashed him for it."
"You... I..."
His face showed no contempt, no sarcasm. To all appearances he was both genuinely concerned with the dragons' well-being and deemed humans to be acceptable foodstuff for them. Aware that she was losing a battle, Danaerys opted for the ice-queen treatment, reforming her expression into an austere expression of cold majesty.
"We agreed to your help for the battle, not in how to care for my children. Leave. Now."
The Wolf looked at her, then behind him. The dragons were looking at their mother, Drogon seeming to pick up on the hostility, for he opened his maw wide. Turning his head back, the Wolf smirked.
"I can see why the gods took an interest in you, Dragonqueen-stormchild-fireproof-whatever the rest was. I look forward to seeing what you'll do with these two."
The Wolf left with a final growl-chirp directed at the dragons. Danaerys watched him go before embracing her scaled children, hugging their heads tightly as if to counteract whatever charm the Wolf had cast upon them.
The Lannister brothers sat on a bench, celebrating their reunion and the happy outcome of the trial when the Wolf walked past. He looked absentmindedly at the pair, frowning as he paused and then ambled over to them, his face thoughtful. Jaime's hand was halfway to his sword when the giant spoke, pointing a sausage-sized finger at the Imp.
"I know you from somewhere?"
Tyrion hesitated for only a second, though his throat was dry.
"You once defended me in a trial by combat."
"Trial by... Oh yes, that one."
There was an awkward silence, broken by the Wolf.
"You're welcome."
This was more than Tyrion could bear with any semblance of calm.
" 'Welcome' ?!"
"You're alive, aren't you?"
"No thanks to your antics! Do you know the living hell my life has been since your interference?!"
The Wolf's expression of complete indifference to Tyrion's tribulations only pushed him further.
"My sister tried to have me killed in my cell, I killed my own father, I was trapped in a box for weeks, imprisoned, nearly killed a hundred times over! If Martell had fought the Mountain I'd be in a very different and far more restful position right now."
The giant looked at him with something approaching respect on his face. Clearly only one thing Tyrion had said had registered with him.
"Did you now? What with? Poison or with hired swords?"
"... With a crossbow. While he was shitting."
"HAH! I like you, halfling!"
The Wolf's arm rose and crashed down on Tyrion's shoulder, though it seemed the brute had the presence of mind to check the blow to avoid killing or breaking bones. While Tyrion tried to get the air back in his lungs, the giant turned to Jaime.
"And you? Your sister try to kill you too? Strange, pretty boy like you ought to be dead of an angry husband or a jilted lover!"
Jaime Lannister forced a rictus on his face. The Mountain's slayer seemed in a chatty rather than murderous mood, though during his duel with Clegane he had been quite adept at doing both at the same time. It was a strange effect, where even his jovial tone slowly incited the listener to slap him in the face.
"Not... quite. I called her bluff."
"Har! Quite a family you've got there! And she just let you go, dropping the matter out of the goodness of her heart?"
Jaime shook his head. Another awkward silence filled the air, but if the Wolf noticed or even cared he certainly did not show it, as if moving to another subject once the previous one had lost all interest. He seemed to search his memory for a time.
"Why were you on trial again? I remember the would-be challenger telling me about it, something about a murder. Though if you killed your own father on the shitter afterwards, I don't see that there was any need to prove your guilt."
Tyrion stared hard at the Wolf, his hands trembling slightly. He spoke once he'd mastered himself.
"It was for the murder of my nephew, which I had nothing to do with, though I would have gladly served the poison myself."
"Oh yes, that was it. I take it that's why your sister wanted you dead. Not the type to hop back in bed and churn out another nephew, is she?"
It was amazing how every word to come pouring out of the Wolf's mouth seemed calculated to inflame tempers without any obvious effort or pretense of subtlety. The man could have started a fight just by bidding greetings, and indeed, perhaps that was his aim whenever he spoke to someone. Thankfully, Jaime intervened in time.
"No. Because she couldn't find the murderer, she took out her grief on Martell. Started a war with Dorne by poisoning him, and in retaliation, his wife murdered my d- my niece."
The giant's attention was focused solely on Jaime, but did not seem to have noticed the slip. Tyrion slid to the side to avoid being hit by a swinging skull on a chain, its jaw filled with entirely too many teeth to be fully human.
"Cersei had her murdered. Starved to death while forced to stare at her last daughter's rotting corpse. And then there was the High Sparrow, and the Tyrells, and almost all her enemies, in a single blow..."
The Wolf looked back and forth at either brother. Finally he spoke.
"Your sister is a very interesting woman and I hope to meet her someday. But if you didn't murder her son, who did?"
This at least was more amenable conversation to Tyrion.
"I've since learned that bastard Littlefinger was behind it, but I don't know what became of him."
Jaime stole a glance at Tyrion. His brother had not yet been told of Olenna Tyrell's gloating confession, and he was unsure of how to tell him. He was spared by the Wolf speaking again.
"Littlefinger, Littlefinger... Skinny, weaselly little bastard? Switches to the strongest side in a heartbeat? Beard a goat would be ashamed to wear?"
The Lannisters stared.
"You know him?"
"I killed him. He was third of the five I am to sacrifice in this world."
Tyrion and Jaime stared at each other. Jaime, remembering the gory details of the Mountain's execution at too well, spoke first.
"You killed him... like you killed the Mountain?"
"Him? If only."
The Wolf shook his head, but his tone was of disappointment rather than anger.
"If that man ever held a sword and fought someone with it, I'm a goblin. No, I tied him to a tree and threw swords at him before I finished him off."
"And how did you finish him off?"
"Stabbed him in the back, then slit his throat. I almost considered letting that Song girl do it, but I am the High Executioner. The will of the Gods is to be obeyed, in all circumstances."
Another silence, broken by the far-off sound of voices raised in anger. Tyrion raised another question.
"And why did you kill him? Given your talent for disemboweling them, I would have thought you would go for other great knights."
The Wolf sighed.
"If only that were the case with each of my hunts. No, two out of three I took no pride or joy in killing, for they took no effort, and had the Gods not demanded their lives I would have gladly left such rabble to my men, or the beasts of the wild, or even their enemies of this world. The Night King should prove the worthiest."
Again an awkward silence reigned. Religious madmen and fanatics the Lannister brothers had dealt with on their own, but this one was in another class entirely.
"And what will you do after you kill these five people?"
"I will return, to conquer this world... although from what I have seen of it, there is little promise of conquest or battle to be had. The best hope was those three dragons, and now you're one short."
The Wolf sighed, as would a man whose plans are thrown awry by the incompetence of his allies and the unreliability of his underlings. The Lannisters knew that expression all too well, they had often seen it on their father's face.
"Perhaps I will wait longer to launch the invasion, what glory would there be in conquering a world not ready to battle? Would you believe that Baelish whoreson would have made it even easier, by exchanging the secrets and weakpoints of this world in exchange for his life and the Sansa girl?"
Jaime and Tyrion shared a look. Tyrion spoke first.
"He really would have burned the world just to rule the ashes."
Jaime nodded. He would have like to kill Baelish himself- hardly anyone who'd met Baelish could deny feeling the same urge, but it sounded as though he'd met an appropriately ignoble end at the barbarian's hands.
"And who are the other two of the five, Ser W-"
"Jarl!"
One of the Wolf's men ran up to them, rapidly speaking something to his chieftain. Without a word of goodbye, the giant turned and followed his henchman. To turn one's back so suddenly was a grave insult among the highborn of the Seven Kingdoms, and Tyrion had to wrap both arms around his brother's to stop him drawing his blade and running after the brute.
The Wolf's men were gathered around the crate they had dragged through the snow, defending it from an immense humanoid more than twice the size of an ordinary man, who made swipes at the mammoth legs on the crate while behind him a crowd of newly-arrived Free Folk watched anxiously.
The Wolf immediately went up to the giant, who had succeeded in grabbing one massive leg, and merely turned its shaggy head towards him.
"Lokh kif rukh?"
It had scarcely turned back when the Wolf answered, in far more syllables and a commanding tone, pointing at the crate and then at the marauders behind him. The surprised giant grumbled something again, as did the Wolf. Though none of the Free Folk present spoke the Old Tongue fluently, it seemed evident from the pair's increasingly loud voices that negotiations were starting to break down, although the Wolf's sardonic grin did not indicate that this was a bad thing in his view.
At that moment, the Wildlings' leader emerged from an outhouse, wiping his hands on his furs, and quickly closed on the incident.
"The hell you doing, big man? You know what Wun Wun does to people who piss him off?"
The Wolf turned his head towards the newcomer.
"Your friend here wants to take our provisions. I am telling him exactly which of his orifices that leg will be going into, sideways, if he doesn't put it back right now. That is what I'm doing."
Tormund Giantsbane started.
"What? Why the hell would he want that, he doesn't eat meat!"
The Wolf started and choked just as he launched into another diatribe, turning in complete disbelief to his counterpart.
"He what ?!"
"He doesn't eat meat. Never has, that I know of."
The Wolf looked up again and made a new demand, Wun Wun responding by pointing at the mammoth's leg, and then at the Free Folk huddling behind him. His face grew sour.
One of the Free Folk looked at his chieftain.
'What'd he say?"
The Wolf answered before Tormund could.
" 'For them, because I don't eat meat'. A plant-eating giant. Certainly explains why he's so damn small."
Tormund looked at the Wolf, whose head barely rose above Wun Wun's waist.
"Small? You get bigger giants where you're from, stranger?"
Instead of answering, the Wolf turned around. His heavy leather cloak swirled about him.
"See this cloak?"
"Yes?"
"Made from a real giant's scalp. Midget like that one, I could just about make myself gloves, leggings and a hat. Can he fight at least?"
"Better than any of the others. He broke the gates of the Dreadfort by himself, and if that coward Bolton had been there instead of running away Wun Wun would've have torn him apart."
At this the Wolf seemed to be thinking of something.
"Bolton... That would have been a pitched battle on a hill?"
"Aye, Battle of the Bastards, they called it. Not much of a battle, really, especially after Bolton ran for it."
The Wolf snorted with laughter, but Tormund seemed to take it as an agreement.
"Jarl!"
"What now!?"
The Wolf's crewman pointed to the beginnings of a two-man brawl surrounded by an encouraging crowd. One of the marauders was pitted against one of the Free Folk, the former trying to choke the latter, but distracted by the flurry of punches the other rained on his head and shoulders, his stranglehold failing as his opponent caught him a blow square in the eye. A fur-clad woman watched on, her hands to her face.
The Wolf and Tormund immediately ran towards them, the Wolf outpacing the chieftain and plowing through the crowd, grabbing both fighters by their necks and smacking their heads together, leaving both dazed on the ground.
Every onlooker immediately tried to give their version of what had happened even as Tormund arrived. He spoke first, pointing to the woman.
"Ygern here says your man started it. She doesn't know what he said, but his intentions were clear. Her husband told him to piss off, your man didn't like that."
"Did he now."
The Wolf grabbed his subordinate by his braided hair and lifted him clear off the ground, holding him against the wall with one arm. As he berated the man in their own language, he balled his free hand into a fist, punching the marauder in the gut four times before looking at the offended couple.
"That's him punished according to our laws. Anything to add?"
Coughing up blood, the marauder turned a dazed eye on the husband, who approached and punched him in the jaw. As the unconscious man dropped to the ground and the wildling rubbed his knuckles, the Wolf turned to the crowd.
"Erik Bloodspear here has received punishment in accordance to our laws and yours! The matter is closed."
General feeling among the crowd was that it was still open for discussion, but the look on the Wolf's face dissuaded them. As he turned and headed back for the main gate, leaving his man face-down in the snow, Tormund followed him and spoke up.
"Your men try to force themselves on women, you punch them four times?"
"No, just once. That was one for every offense."
"What were those?"
The Wolf halted, counting off on his fingers.
"Picking a fight among allies, picking a fight among allies on the eve of a battle, picking a fight among allies on the eve of a battle over a woman, picking a fight on the eve of a battle over a woman and losing."
Tormund nodded.
"Been here long, stranger?"
"Just got here, volunteered my men to fight the dead."
"What tribe're you from?"
"The Sarl. Or I was, now I go where the Gods will me to go."
"Never heard of 'em."
"I'd be surprised, and concerned, if you had heard of them."
There was silence, then the two men extended their hands to each other.
"Wulfrik the Wanderer."
"Tormund Giantsbane."
They clasped forearms, then the Wolf looked his new acquaintance up and down.
"Killed a few, have you?"
"You know, that's a funny story-"
Tormund stopped talking, for at that moment Jon had come out of the keep, scratching his direwolf behind the ears. With a roar of delight the chieftain bulled forward and grabbed the Warden in an inescapable hug.
The Warden's direwolf followed, but stopped on seeing the outlander. Its back arched, fur standing on end, and it growled.
The Wolf turned and grinned, showing teeth as sharp as his namesake's, and responded in kind. Ghost crouched, ready to attack, the Wolf spreading both his arms, not breaking eye contact and making the same growls. Then he looked surprised, and looked at Jon then back to Ghost. After a few more lupine growls and yelps, he fell silent.
As the Wolf and Ghost stared at each other, a heavy crunching sound repeated itself behind him, then a harsh voice rang out.
"You the one who thinks he killed the Mountain?"
The Wolf looked the newcomer up and down. More than a head taller than most men, the right side of his head was a hideous mass of scar tissue, and there was no fear in his gaze, only impatience.
"And you are?"
"Sandor Clegane. You the one who says he killed the cunt?"
"No, I'm the one who did kill him."
The Wolf rummaged around his extensive collection of skulls, some only vaguely human, one with a pair of ram's horns growing out of its eyesockets, before pulling out an enormous specimen with a cord running through its pierced temples.
"Or is he running around without a skull these days?"
Sandor's silence spoke volumes. The Wolf look genuinely surprised.
"He is? Powerful necromancers you have in the South."
"The queen's pet maester Qyburn did it. Don't ask me how."
Sandor look at the grisly relic for some time. Finally he looked up.
"So. You killed the fucker."
"I did."
"How long did it take for him to die?"
Now the Wolf looked Sandor over, as if unable to fathom the reasons for so morbid a fascination.
"Why? He mean something to you?"
"He was- he's my brother. And however slow you killed him, it wasn't long enough."
The Wolf looked entirely unsurprised, even understanding. Evidently such fratricidal hatreds were common enough in his homeland, wherever that was.
"Tripped him, punched his teeth out, and drove my thumbs through his eyes from behind. Slow enough for you?"
"It's a start."
Sandor turned away and headed for the armory. The Wolf watched him go before shrugging.
Tormund's reunion with Jon had ended, and he meandered back to his new friend. The Wolf jutted his jaw at Ghost, who was following his master to the stables.
"You got a wolf-tamer?"
"Ah, no, that's Jon's wolf, reared it from a pup. He's a warg, lets us know where enemies are without them knowing it by going in and out of it when he likes."
"Going in and out of his wolf?"
"That's right."
The Wolf nodded, his eyebrows arched and his voice shaking as he attempted to keep a straight face.
"Very different customs you have in these parts. Personally, I'd rather spend the day going in and out of a woman or four, but to each his own ways, I suppose."
Across the courtyard, Jon started and looked back. He had heard the the Wolf's words as if facing him despite the distance between them. But now was not the time to respond to barbaric innuendos. Clenching his fists, he walked away to oversee the castle's supplies.
A tall woman in plate armor left the keep and headed for the main gate. Tormund's slack-jawed gaze followed her, the Wolf quickly noticing the object of his attention.
"Your woman?"
Tormund sighed heavily.
"I wish."
Both men watched Brienne of Tarth go, both with hunger in their eyes, but each for a very different reason. The Wolf noted the ease with which she carried her armor and the alertness with which she picked up his and Tormund's stares. Rolling her eyes at having gathered yet another unwanted admirer, she quickened the pace, to Tormund's undisguised delight.
"What a woman, eh?"
"Can't fault your taste."
"Why? She look like yours?"
"Reminds of one I saw once... Once."
"Oh?"
The Wolf's face took on a dreamy expression disconcerting to see on so violent a man.
"The battle against the Skraelings, the year of the Purple Rot. We'd been fighting since noon, I had killed eight men already, and the blood and guts ran so freely the ground was a marsh. Then I saw her."
"Amid the screams of the dying and the clash of our weapons, she appeared, the setting sun at her back, a shower of gore pattering on her wings. She was unassailable, her armor was without scratch or blemish, and where she struck, men fell without fail."
"She was... magnificent."
The Wolf fell silent, staring hard at something in the distance only he could see, some image of rapturous beauty that had enthralled him so many years ago. Finally he shook his head as if awakening from a dream.
"But such creatures are not for the likes of mortal men, or even me. She returned to her realm with the falling night, and I have treasured that memory since."
His introspective mood faded, the Wolf pointed at the younger Free Folk.
"So where are you keeping your kin? Or are they fighting too?"
"No, they're going to keep them in the crypts. Safest place in the castle, they say."
"The? Crypts?"
Looking deeply troubled, the Wolf left Tormund where he stood. Walking swiftly to the main gate, Tormund saw him talk to one of the obese warriors, pointing at the keep.
The commanders had assembled to determine their strategy. To everyone's surprise, Bran said he would serve as bait for the Night King, waiting for him in the godswood. Theon Greyjoy then volunteered himself and his Ironborn volunteers to act as his bodyguard in atonement for his past actions. Silence greeted this statement, then Tormund spoke up.
"We're all going to die."
"But at least-"
The door slammed open. The assembled looked up, some in shock, others in irritation. If the Wolf even noticed his intrusion was unwanted he certainly did not care.
"My men are all in place, Stark! Only thing left to do is wait for the Night King."
Danaerys spoke first, eager to restore her authority which was undermined with such careless ease by the barbarian.
"We know where he'll be."
"Oh? More of that slipping in and out of animals business?"
Jon squeezed the table hard but was able to control himself. If this man excited such murderous intent in his erstwhile allies, he could hopefully be counted on to be worse to his enemies.
"The Three-Eyed Raven is his true target. While we battle the dead, Theon Greyjoy and his Ironborn will guard him."
"Any of them good with a bow?"
Again he managed to destabilize her with a completely unexpected question.
"What?"
"Any of them good with a bow? I have need of a good archer on the frontline, one not of my crew. In return, I'll take his place guarding your flightless bird once the time comes, if he's the Night King's reason to be here."
Stares turned to the Wolf, who seemed oblivious as ever to the hostility he was generating and then to Theon.
"Me."
The Wolf looked Theon up and down, who mustered all his willpower to avoid flinching.
"Good! Got a job for you, boy."
The Wolf grabbed at Theon to gauge the strength and pull of his shoulders when Arya interjected, as much to save Theon as to put to rest to a question that had been niggling at her.
"Ser Wolf."
"What?"
"What of that flying ship of yours, will you not use it? Can't we simply put Bran onboard and lead the Night King away from his army, to somewhere you can duel him to your heart's content?"
The defenders took on a puzzled expression, wondering what this flying ship was and how Arya was so familiar with it. The Wolf shook his head, as if having already considered the idea.
"I cannot risk it. The Seafang has no peer among longships, but even she won't stand up to a dragon if it lacks the protections of a sorcerer coven aboard. I lose it, I am condemned to rot away in this backwater of a world with no way back."
Sansa mentally compared the advantages of a flying ship to having to deal with the Wolf on a daily basis, and quickly agreed. She nodded.
"Very well. However, your flaming sword may not be enough. We do not even know that dragonfire will kill the Night King."
"Hah! Dragonfire. Good one."
The Wolf grabbed his sword. A low growl bounced around the room.
"This is warpfire, girl, it'll melt stone as easily as pissing on snow."
Apparently satisfied with his assessment of Theon, the Wolf left the meeting as abruptly as he had entered, the Ironborn in tow.
The departure left a stunned silence. Jon stood up to dispel the impression the outlander had left on them.
"We should get some rest."
The meeting broke up, everyone preoccupied with their own thoughts as to the coming night.
As the Wolf hauled Theon to the courtyard, he headed straight for the crate, which had been moved outside the walls near the corner tower, on the far side of the trench. An aged man carrying a staff bearing a dead raven was sitting atop the crate, occasionally dropping small chunks of meat into a hatch.
"Sven!"
As the man stood up from the crate and stepped forward, the Wolf nudged Theon.
"You. See this man? His name is Sven Swordeater. Stay behind him."
"He looks like he's trying to run away, kill him. He looks like he's trying to talk to the dead, kill him. He looks like he's going to turn on you, shoot him in the throat. Then kill him, and cut off his tongue, hands and feet."
"Just in case."
Theon started, looking from the Wolf to the sorcerer, who either had not understood or cared about the Wolf's insulting lack of faith in his loyalty.
"You don't trust him?"
"He's a sorcerer, he'll betray me eventually... but at least I'll have deserved it. Few things worse than being betrayed for no reason but some damn fool's nearsighted ambition."
Theon's cheeks flushed as he remembered other betrayals that had been just as badly motivated.
"But I don't-"
"You don't what? He has a stick, you have a bow, stay out of reach of the stick. Grow a pair, will you?"
Without waiting for a response as was clearly his custom, the Wolf asked his seer a question in their own language. Theon felt nauseous as the old sorcerer grinned and his cheek scars wrinkled and shifted, bringing both hands to his chest and making a groping motion before pointing at the keep. The Wolf barked out in laughter before turning back, Theon looking awkwardly at his charge.
"You want know how got scars?"
Theon started. Had the seer read his mind? No, it was obvious any man would ask about it.
"Want know how got name Swordeater?"
"Um. Yes?"
"Was in battle with Aesling fighter, long ago. Was less than your age, just warrior, not long after manhood. Aesling tripped me, I fell on ground. Aesling kneeled, held head down and stabbed sword through both cheeks."
Theon winced, but Sven paid it no mind.
"Then Aesling laughed, leaned down to laugh in my face. That when Changer called me."
A small smile played around the seer's ruined mouth as he recalled the happy memory.
"Put hand in Aesling's mouth as laughed... and burned head from inside. Was given to tribe shaman after that. But always kept piece of skull that survived fire with me."
Sven pointed to a curved piece of bone hanging among the trinkets of his staff.
"When killed shaman to take place, used same trick. Changer blessed me, many time I thank him."
Theon was beginning to understand why the Wolf had tasked him with killing his sorcerer.
As Jon and Arya left the meeting, they headed down the corridor, but found the intersection was blocked by several people looking at an unusual sight.
Melisandre the Red was striding down the corridor, looking back to shoot a contemptuous glance at one of the Wolf's barbarians following her, holding out a small purse. The bald marauder spoke a few words in his own tongue, but the tone seemed more placating than aggressive.
But as she turned her head back to the front, Melisandre's haughty expression became a mask of horror. She backed up against the wall, pointing a trembling hand at the Wolf, who was approaching from another corridor.
"No! Get him away! GET HIM AWAY!"
The Wolf blinked in surprise.
"He is wrong! WRONG! He should not be here!"
The crowd looked at each other, then at the Wolf. He did not seem overly concerned, although he was looking at the priestess with some insistence. Finally he spoke a few words to his henchman, who responded in kind, with some pointing at Melisandre and agitating of the purse, which tinkled with the sound of coin.
As the barbarian continued speaking, the Wolf's expression went from irritation to concern to outright disturbed. He looked back and forth from his henchman to the priestess several times, mouth trembling, until finally he could contain himself no longer and burst out laughing, holding himself against the wall to stop from falling over.
Once the storm of hilarity passed, he wiped the tears from his eyes and addressed his audience, fits of laughter still interrupting him.
"He- he thinks she's a whore, and is offering her gold- actual gold, in exchange for bedding her!"
Some uneasy laughter rippled, but none of the onlookers seemed to find the misunderstanding as funny as the Wolf did. As he looked from one face to another, he too slowly grew grave. After further exchange with his henchman, he looked more thoughtfully at Melisandre, who cringed.
Raising both hands to his throat, the Wolf pulled slowly on both ends of the massive studded torc of dully-shining brass surrounding his neck. As soon as it stopped touching his skin, his expression changed to shock, and he nodded before twisting the collar back in place.
"Ahhhhh. That would explain a lot."
Pointing at his underling's purse, he said something in their guttural language.
"Einarr! það er of lítið!"
No one else understood, and even the marauder didn't seem to get the joke. Slapping him jovially on the shoulder, the Wolf left the way he came, flashing the Red Woman a grin.
With the onlookers looking puzzled, Melisandre darted to Jon, grabbing him by the collar, her eyes wide.
"That... thing is WRONG! It does not belong here! Kill him! Now!"
"We can't."
Jon's voice spoke volumes on how deeply he agreed with her.
"He's here to help against the Walkers. We need his men and him this night."
The Wolf gone, the defenders headed to their posts, leaving Melisandre to stalk off without a glance at the enamored barbarian, leaving him looking dejected before he returned to the courtyard. Arya gave him a look as she went to look for Gendry. With a start, she recognized him as the rower she'd threatened to kill on the Seafang, so many months ago. Working for the Wolf seemed to be as great an ordeal as working with him.
A few hours later, as night fell and all preparations been made as well as they could, the defenders found themselves doing their best to enjoy what time had been left to them. Several of the commanders had retreated to the keep, where to everyone's unspoken relief, the Wolf had thankfully not opted to join them. With jokes and singing, the atmosphere was soon lightened, and the discussion turned to knighting, a term for which Tormund had a highly personal definition. On the eve of the greatest battle of her life, Brienne was made a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
Arya walked out of the smithy where Gendry was still recovering from his amorous exertions. That had certainly been a novel experience. Two of the Wolf's men were in the courtyard, headed towards the main gate. One nudged his companion to point at her. They laughed and made obscene gestures, stopping only when they saw her pull out a dragonglass arrowhead and heft it experimentally. She watched them go, reflecting that men were clearly the same no matter which world they came from.
As she watched the walls, a horn sounded. The dead had arrived.
The battle for the fate of not just Westeros but all mankind had begun.