Ko Brilbo, leader of the Deathbound, pushed his horse between a pair of trees, restraining a curse with some difficulty. They'd lost the raven again, although it seemed fairer to say the raven had lost them. Being awoken by its harsh calls in the dead of night and moving through the forest with only torches to guide them had not improved his mood.
They had followed the raven faithfully for weeks, from the outskirts of the place called King's Landing, through the farmland and then forests of the western lands. The bird seemed to take malicious pleasure in taking them through thick underbrush when straight roads were available, or in taking miles-long detours around small villages, although it had once or twice led them to a campsite of unsuspecting bandits which they had slaughtered with near-impunity.
All in all, the Deathbound had avoided detection, at the cost of moving with any speed. His bloodriders were not happy at the lack of action this afforded them, though the idea of upsetting the Wolf's plans by being caught had helped to motivate them. Next to him, Drosso turned his head left and right, torch held high.
"Do you see it, Brilbo? Has it-"
"Shh!"
They heard the cawing again, this time to the left. It sounded remarkably like a man laughing at them. The ground sloped upwards, though the horses were walked so carefully it did not slow them.
"There, the trees are clearing! We must be getting close."
They pushed on, thankful for the trees growing sparser. These woods were nowhere near as cold as the forests of the northern castle where they had fought the dead and contained only wolves and brigands, nothing near as terrifying as the twisting dragon of eternal flame they had fought there. Nevertheless, they longed for grasslands and the open sky again.
At last they crested the last ridge, the breaking dawn allowing them to extinguish the torches now that they could leave the trees. The ground sloped gently away until a plain of water that spread before them, as vast as the Narrow Sea.
"Ko, we've gone too far! We're on the other side of the west lands!"
Brilbo shook his head. He was not far from agreeing with the bloodrider.
"We can't have. This..."
He looked at the waters again. There were waves, but nothing like the crashing surf they had seen when the khaleesi had set sail for Westeros.
"This is a lake, not the sea. It must be."
They heard the mocking call again, to their right. The raven lifted off from its tree, following the shore to the north. It went in a straight line, swift as an arrow.
"You see? The Changer's messenger still guides us. Now ride!"
Brilbo spurred his horse on, who snorted gratefully at the chance to run without twisting a hoof. The skulls taken during the few encounters with the men and beasts of the forest bounced in rhythm. Soon they would reach the Wolf, and under his banner find the power that his gods had promised.
The sun rose over the forested northern shore of the God's Eye. Arya Stark shook her head as she stretched out, using the big rock she'd slept against to push herself up. She'd been having the dreams again. Dreams of running through an endless forest, wolves at her heels, and yet in the dream she was not running in fear.
Arya looked out at the lake, wavelets breaking endlessly over the shore. Odd that there should be so many with so little wind. She kicked her traveling companion awake.
The Hound's hand lashed out, nearly catching her ankle, then he woke up. He too stretched as he got up, adjusting the eyepatch over his empty socket. Sleeping in armor had not made him a graceful waker, and he pulled at a flask before spitting on the ground.
"Anything happen?"
"No."
There was a crashing noise in the underbrush. Their hands went to their blades, Sandor stepping in front of Arya, who ducked behind the big rock. A shaggy figure burst out into the growing light.
"What is it? Bear?"
"Worse."
Sandor sheathed his sword with an expression of disgust. Arya stood up as it came closer.
"Dog!"
Tormund Giantsbane reared up to his full height, the furs he still wore despite coming so far south only accentuating his resemblance to a bear.
"Just like my seer said!"
Sandor rolled his eye. Arya spoke up to prevent him from wasting time with an murderous attempt.
"Your seer?"
"Yes, he told me to come south, as Jon would need me. That the tribes who disappeared would come back in full force."
"You came alone?"
"No, he and the others are waiting for me at the camp. What are we looking for, Dog? He only said I was to find you, and Jon's sister."
Sandor relaxed somewhat.
"You remember the big ginger cunt from Winterfell?"
"Wulfrik the Wanderer? Yes. What happened to him?"
Arya wondered why the Wolf hid his true name to others and yet shared it with the Wildings. Perhaps because they had so much in common?
"He's uniting the missing tribes under him."
"Ah. I thought he was not right in the head."
The Hound pointed at the monstrous shape of Harrenhal in the distance, then the collection of buildings on the lakeshore below it.
"We think he's hiding in the castle. We'll start with the town."
Harrenton had been razed by Tywin Lannister, but ramshackle wooden huts and cabins had mushroomed up in its place. Where there was wood to cut and fish to catch, there would always be men.
One building was bigger than the others, boasting a second floor and stables to the side, though no less ugly than those surrounding it.
"That'll be the tavern."
Arya nodded, Sandor being likely right. It probably served as brothel, trade outpost and inn as well.
An hour later, they were no closer to finding anything about the castle's current occupants, every man and woman they asked falling into stubborn and wide-eyed silence. One screamed his ignorance even after Sandor shook him, but did tell them that Terant Goldtooth, the owner of the tavern, had dealings with them. Now they stood at the tavern's door.
"Right. Follow my lead, you."
Sandor entered the tavern as if he owned it, Tormund following just as noisily. Conversations paused as soon as they entered. Sandor stopped the first servant he ran into by the shoulder. His months of sleep had not weakened him overmuch.
"Bring us three pitchers of your best rotgut, five roast chickens, and the man who runs this place."
Sandor released the man, pulled up a chair and sat at the closest table despite seven people sitting there. One look from him convinced them to find seats elsewhere. Tormund joined him, as Arya slipped in unnoticed, pulling down the hood of her traveling cloak as she took a seat near the wall.
The chickens arrived shortly along with the pitchers. Sandor downed one in a single gulp, cheap wine flowing down his chin, Tormund drinking more slowly and pulling a wry face at the taste.
Sandor ate his chicken in silence, Tormund tearing into his as if the concept of table manners offended him.
"I've seen swine eat cleaner than you, Wildling, you know that?"
The owner arrived shortly after, a weaselly-looking man with shifty eyes. The firelight glinted off of his front teeth.
"You asked for me... good sirs?"
"We got questions that need answers. We sure as fuck didn't come here for the wine."
The Hound hurled the pitcher at the wall, where it shattered. Then he stood up, towering over Goldtooth, and dropping a hand on his shoulder.
"Them up in Harrenhal. I'm told you know them."
The man smacked his lips.
"Yes, of course. If you'll allow me to bring the people who deal with them."
Sandor nodded and released the man, who disappeared into a side room. No sooner had he gone through the door did Sandor follow him, making surprisingly little noise.
There was a mutter or conversation interrupted by a squawking noise and Sandor returned to the table and sat down, holding the man at arm's length.
"I don't know who 'Cutter and his crew' are, but something tells me you know more than they do. In fact, I'm sure you'll be happy to tell us what's happening at the castle."
The man looked nervous as he glanced around, but rallied. Sandor could almost see the thoughts forming in his mind, stalling for time until the men he'd called arrived.
"Yes, I could. In exchange for..."
The man held up his hand and rubbed his thumb on his fingers. Tormund looked at Sandor curiously.
"What does that mean?"
"It means he wants us to break his fingers."
The man barely had time to squeal before his hand was trapped in an iron grip. Arya sighed, but let them get on with it. Four ugly and scarred men entered the room, holding iron-tipped clubs.
"Alright, that's enoufuck me that's the Hound!"
Sandor turned his head towards the leading bouncer, who'd dropped his club.
"Kick these cunts out! Agh!"
The owner screamed as Sandor squeezed tighter. There was a snapping sound from his hand. The bouncers made no move.
"Goldtooth, that's the fucking Hound!"
"And a Wildling!"
"Kick them out or you can find new jobs!"
The bouncers turned about as one.
"We'll go look."
The rest of the room emptied as if by enchantment. Tormund finished gnawing the meat off his chicken and burped. Sandor stood up, grabbed the blanching Goldtooth by the hand and shoulder and sat him in a chair.
"So. What's been happening at the castle?"
"Fuck you! Aaagh!"
Sandor's expression did not change as he squeezed.
"You seemed pretty willing to lie for money. Now you tell the truth for free. See what happens when you get greedy?"
The man paled, but shook his head desperately.
"You don't know what they'll do to me if I talk!"
Sandor nodded.
"No, but I have a pretty good idea. Tell you what: you talk, and everything I do to you, is something they won't have, or won't be able to do to you later. Deal?"
The man trembled, but clearly his fear of the castle's new inhabitants was greater than the people in front of him. Sandor shrugged.
"Hope you're still hungry, Giantsbane, because you're going to eat him. Piece by piece, starting from the bottom."
Tormund looked from the Hound to his victim with a blank look.
"Eat him?"
"Yes, eat him."
The Hound looked back to Goldtooth, who looked ready to vomit. He jerked his head in Tormund's direction.
"He's from one of the savage tribes. They eat their meat raw, I hope you're not afraid of a little pain."
The owner looked at the ravaged remains of Tormund's chicken and whimpered.
"That is not true, Dog!"
Sandor's one eye rolled and his teeth showed. Just what he needed, for the idiot to chime in uneeded.
"We eat them cooked, we are not barbarians like the Thenn."
Arya managed to stifle her giggle as Tormund went on.
"I will roast him one leg at a time on that fire, and then I will eat him. Meat tastes better cooked, and it gets rid of the worms."
The Wildling immediately went to the fireplace and added a few logs, pulling the nasty-looking spit out and looking at it critically. Then he pulled down a bushel of garlic.
"I will put holes in his leg first, to slide in herbs, then burn the hairs off. The big woman likes men who can cook, you think?"
"Seven above, I'll talk! I'll talk!"
The man stared with horror at Tormund, who was still holding the spit meaningfully.
"Yes, but you don't need both legs to talk, do you?"
Goldtooth whimpered. Tears dropped from his eyes. Sandor jerked his head at Tormund, who lowered the spit.
"Start talking."
Goldtooth drew a shuddering breath.
"They- They've been here for months now. Wildlings mostly, but there's some who look different. I sell them firewood, and fish, and whores, they pay in jewelry and furs."
"Furs?"
"Like nothing I've ever seen, all colors too. Blue and pink and red."
"Who's their leader?"
"I don't know, he never said his name. They just show up, tell us what they need and we give it to them."
"The Wolf never told you his name? You expect me to believe that?"
Tormund helpfully picked up the roasting spit. Goldtooth's eyes bulged.
"W-w-w-what wolf? He wears a helmet, looks like a bear, but not a wolf! Never seen wolves with him!"
The man looked desperate enough to be honest. That and the rank smell from his trousers was enough to convince Arya. Sandor thought of an easier way to check.
"How big is he?"
"About- about your size?"
Sandor nodded.
"Not him then. When are you supposed to see them next?"
"They never tell me, they just come!"
Sandor's expression was enough to convince the man this was not helpful. His eyes seemed to light up in recollection.
"I- I overheard the big one, the last time he came, he mentioned something called- deathbound!"
Ringing silence fell, broken only by Goldtooth's shallow breaths. Finally Sandor spoke.
" 'Deathbound' ? Bit vague. Bit too vague, even. That mean anything to you, Wildling?"
"It does not."
Sandor turned to Goldtooth again.
"It doesn't mean anything to him either."
"I don't know anything else! I swear!"
Sandor looked the man in the eye for longer than was necessary or reassuring.
"That I can believe."
Goldtooth cringed, and without another word Sandor left the tavern, followed by Tormund and Arya.
"Now what, Dog?"
"Call me Dog again and I'll feed your fingers to one. We wait for them, see what they're up to, and kill them if we can."
Tormund nodded.
"Then we will return to my camp, and have more eyes to see them coming."
Sandor's head snapped towards Tormund, whose face was free of any intent to insult. As if the Wolf wasn't enough.
"He's right, you know. And if they aren't too many, we can try to interrogate them."
Sandor making a wry face. On the one hand, the Wilding was right, and more swords were a good idea. On the other hand, it meant more Wildlings to deal with.
They had hardly left Harrenton when Tormund pointed southeast, along the lake's shore.
"Look, over there!"
In the distance, a cloud of dust floated up along the lake's shore.
"Do we keep moving, or wait for them?"
"How many can they be to kick up all that dust? We'll keep going and hide in the trees before they get too close."
They had been walking for some time, not yet reaching their campsite, when the cloud became a group of horsemen. They were still too far to make out each one or count them, but it was clear they were not wearing armor.
A raven flew above them and gave such a loud cry that Sandor turned around to look at it. Then he turned his gaze downwards, ignoring the raven turning sharply about.
"We're being followed."
They turned to look. There was indeed movement from the forest's edge, a number of figures emerging from the forest some distance away.
"In the trees!"
They ran to the forest's edge. Arya scrambled up into a tree, while Sandor and Tormund lay down into the underbrush. They commanded a good view of the shore, enough to see the horsemen slow down, the leader looking in the air, and then come to a stop.
Now that they were closer, Arya could tell there were not as many as she had thought. Dothraki by the deep bronze of their skin, all of them, each rider had a pair of horses tethered behind his own. Even so, there were at least threescore of them.
The Dothraki took advantage of the halt to change mounts. They wore leather jerkins against the cold, stained and travel-worn, but still looked capable of fighting. They did not draw their arakhs, but waited for the other group to arrive.
There was nothing to do now but wait.
Brilbo waited without moving, his heels ready to dig into his horse's sides at the slightest provocation, the bloodriders doing the same. The raven hovered high overhead.
The twenty-odd men and women approaching looked like the Wolf's, if smaller, and carried bronze axes along with steel swords. Perhaps they were among those loyal to the khaleesi's consort at the battle against the dead. The shaved and scarred savages stopped as well, without a further word.
Brilbo spoke first, with what little he knew of the westerners' tongue.
"You. Wolf send?"
The lead savage, who had even more scars, the freshest of which was an eight-pointed star on his forehead, nodded.
"You are the wyrmslayers?"
Brilbo turned and pulled down his jerkin so his shoulder tattoo was plainly visible. The Flame of Mutation, the Wolf had called it, and had made them understand that the ordeal they had faced in the northern forests had been a blessing from the Changer, allowing them to prove their worth and restore the honor they had lost by fleeing from the dead. The savage nodded.
"Blessed are we by Tchar. I am Thrravr, Magnar of the true Thenn."
"I, Brilbo, son of Kossaro, ko of..."
He gestured behind him, frowning as he tried to remember the word the Wolf had used.
"We, Deathbound."
The Thenn's leader looked into the forest.
"You did not see others like us?"
Brilbo shook his head.
"No matter. Follow us, we'll bring you to Strong Wolf."
The raven cawed again, and landed on the neck of Brilbo's horse. The Thenn waved at it.
"Ah, Rasmarr."
The savage spoke in his own language to the bird, which flew off again into the forest. The Thenn set out and the bloodriders followed.
From their hiding place, Tormund and Sandor watched the Dothraki and Wildlings go. Even separate from each other, there were far too many for them to take on. Once they were far gone, Sandor and Tormund stood up, Arya staying on a low branch.
"Recognize any of them?"
"Thenn."
There was a world of contempt in Tormund's voice.
"What's that mean?"
"Man-eaters. They were among those who disappeared after the Long Night."
Arya nodded. Jon's fears were confirmed, the Wolf had indeed abducted or recruited the worst of the Wildlings to serve him.
"So we-"
Arya started as a raven burst out of a nearby tree with a harsh croak. Her eyes were drawn irresistibly to it, and to the three Wildlings approaching, wearing the same furs and tattoos as the Thenn. One walked with a limp, and one carrying a large sack over his shoulder had a bleeding scar on his cheek. She hissed out a warning.
"There's more of them!"
Sandor and Tormund ducked back down, Tormund crouching on one knee and drawing his axe. The Thenn pointed at the bird and walked faster, talking among themselves. They passed the tree and bush, obviously unsuspecting.
"THENN!"
Arya started as Tormund burst from his hiding place, rushing towards the Thenn. The first, a woman with tiny bones pushed through her nose and ears, barely had time to draw her axe and block a skull-crushing blow from Tormund, the impact driving her back several steps and into a tree.
The other two drew their own weapons, the one on Tormund's left drawing a long axe and the other a dagger. But before they could turn on the chieftain, Sandor was on them, a head taller than either, his sword already drawn. With his free hand he lowered his helm's visor. The Thenn spat strange, high-pitched warcries.
"For the Dark Gooooods!"
"We are Chaos, Chaos is strong!"
The two Thenn threw themselves at Sandor, who went for the axeman. The other Thenn's dagger bounced off his armor, but the savage leaped on Sandor's back, trying to stab him through his visor. Sandor snarled as the blade thrust into his eyepatch and empty eyesocket and spun around, missing the axeman but sending the parasite flying.
Tormund continued his charge, grabbing the Thenn woman's neck and delivering a ferocious headbutt. His axe plunged into the stunned Thenn's guts, then smashed into her kneecap. The savage collapsed, Tormund kicking her back to a tree.
Sandor bulled into his remaining foe, the bronze axehead bending against his armor, jamming his sword up through the savage's ribcage. The savage uttered a last gurgle that Sandor did not hear, already turning to face the last Thenn.
"tchrrzzzz..."
Sandor glared at the remaining Thenn.
"Well come on you little shit, I don't have all d-"
Before he or the savage could react, Arya had jumped on the Thenn's back, her dagger slicing through his throat. He collapsed, Arya wiping the blood off without a second glance.
Tormund thrust his axe into the Thenn woman's remaining knee.
"Talk, and I kill you fast, Thenn scum!"
The savage's eyes went from Tormund to Sandor. She stuck her tongue out and suddenly bit down, spitting her severed tongue at them.
"Oh fuck!"
The Thenn laughed despite the blood flowing from her mouth. She babbled something, which might have been a boast or curse, before Tormund's weapon silenced her. He spat on the mangled corpse.
"Fucking hate Thenns. Even crazier than usual now."
"We need to send word back to Jon. Goldtooth's bound to have horses."
"No need, Svrag brought ravens. I'll take you to them."
Sandor picked up the sack carried by the dead Wildling and looked inside. A cawing came from within.
"The fuck?"
Sandor reached in the sack and pulled out a wicker cage containing a pair of ravens. He put it on the ground, and felt inside before emptying the sack on the ground.
Half a dozen freshly-severed heads rolled out, men and women both, their hair the dull red that was only found north of the Wall.
Arya turned to look.
"Tormund!"
Tormund, already halfway through the bushes, ran back at the alarm in Arya's voice. He only had to look at the heads to understand what happened.
They found the bodies tied to trees in the clearing where the Free Folk had set up camp. The decapitated corpses had been mauled and mutilated, what little intact skin covered with strange runes, chunks of flesh missing and visibly torn out with teeth. The seer's body was nearly unrecognizable as human, so broken were its bones.
The only consolation was that they had cost their attackers dearly. Nine other corpses were strewn around the clearing, all Thenn.
They spent some time dragging the bodies together into a pyre, Tormund returning each head to its body.
As they watched the bodies burn, Sandor looking away, Arya took a scrap of parchment and started writing. Then she tied it to one raven's leg and watched it fly off.
Brilbo did not bother to hide his astonishment as he crossed the gates of Harrenhal. These walls dwarfed any of the cities of Essos, and even in their dilapidated state, they seemed unbreachable.
As they passed the inner gate, he saw three men: a giant looking at him, flanked by a man sitting cross-legged on a reed mat and a hulking marauder with a bear-shaped helmet. The crow swooped through the gate and landed on the sitting man's head, who remained immobile. Brilbo brought his horse before the Wolf and dismounted, striking his chest.
"Respect, Khal!"
"And to you, ko."
As usual, the Wolf spoke Dothraki as though he'd been born one.
"You had a pleasant trip?"
Brilbo smirked and swept a hand along his horse, showing the half-dozen skulls that adorned its saddle.
"Good, good. But now, I can promise you far better than mere woodcutters, masterless men and vagabonds. The eye of the gods opens soon."
Brilbo shot a glance at the man, who was now moving slowly, blinking slowly as though emerging from deep sleep, the bird perched on his head. His eyes were filmed over.
"No, not him. This is Rasmarr Raven-Feeder, from the northern parts of these lands, who has also been rewarded by Tchar. He guided you here, but the ceremony will be performed by another."
The Wolf's voice rose as he addressed the Dothraki.
"Now come, Deathbound! There'll be plenty of fighting soon, for now it's wine and women to celebrate your coming. The Krasterdætur, and perhaps even the whore-queen, will be looking for some variety after all the fair skin they've been rubbing with."
The Wolf's hand landed heavily on Brilbo's shoulder, and he gratefully followed the sound of drinking and feasting.
Akkarulf remained silent during the exchange, though he had understood none of it. Then came the Wildling who the Wolf had sent to greet the Dothraki.
"Any problems, Thrravr?"
The Thenn looked behind him.
"Some of the warriors have yet to return, magnar. I sent them ahead in case the horse-riders came by the forest and not the lake, but they should have been back by now."
The Wolf scratched his chin and frowned.
"Hrmm. You see them, Rasmarr?"
Akkarulf saw the Wildling look aside before answering. Sven Swordeater was leaning on his staff some distance away and looking at them.
"I did not, magnar. They may have lost themselves in the forest. Shall I search again?"
"No, we'll give them until nightfall. Go and aid Sven with scrying, I want to know when the armies of the kingdoms will arrive."
The seer stood up, the raven on his head croaking at the disturbance, and joined Sven.
The cloud of dust raised by Bran's host was visible for miles around. As night fell over the hastily-established camp, Tyrion looked at the letter for the third time that day and sighed. No matter how he worded it, it sounded like the ravings of a madman.
Certainly there had been many witnesses to the Wolf's otherworldly powers, and the Red Priests would add weight to his argument, but he simply could not see every lordling and knight muster to take Harrenhal as the Wolf had demanded, not when the war against the Night King and Daenerys had drained much of their resources, men and willingness to fight.
Dorne at least would follow, they had sworn fealty to Daenerys and would avenge her murder. The fact that Oberyn Martell might still be alive had the Wolf not intervened in Gregor's death, leading to his poisoning by a vengeful Cersei, had played some part in motivating them.
The North had needed no encouragement despite their newly-won independence. As far as they were concerned a Stark calling to battle was reason enough, be they king or queen.
The Iron Islands were eager to exterminate what was left of Euron's followers, and so had joined willingly, sending most of their fleet south so as to sail upriver to the Gods' Eye. They would certainly need every sailor they could get, with Davos still in King's Landing to rebuild the Royal Fleet.
The Vale had answered Bran's summons willingly enough, the hill-clans alongside them following some diplomacy and lucrative promises on Tyrion's part.
Gendry had jumped at the chance to flee the throne of the Stormlands to join the expedition. Tyrion's spies reported his small council was nearly as relieved to have him out of the way as he was to let them handle the running of his kingdom.
The Lannister soldiery now marched alongside the host, following Bran's confirmation of Daenerys' conditional pardon. Many had been willing to fight, though Tyrion knew it was less the prospect of avenging Cersei and more the firsthand knowledge of the Wolf's atrocities that motivated them.
The Reach was the only realm to send the bare minimum of soldiers and supplies, arguing that they needed the men for the harvest. Tyrion knew there was a grain of truth to this, but the fact was that many lesser houses were readying for war in the absence of a clear heir to Highgarden. The Wolf's actions would be dismissed just as the tales of the Night King had been.
Jon entered the tent, his face grim, followed by Aldma and Grey Worm.
"Any news?"
Tyrion sighed.
"None on my end. The Reach might well decide to sit this one out, and we can hardly start a war to force them to send men to the one we're already fighting."
"They will not obey their king?"
Tyrioon shook his head at Grey Worm.
"They'll send men and supplies, but nothing near what we'd need for a siege, fulfilling the barest obligation they can without it being outright treachery. The only realms we can count on sending everything they've got are the North and the Iron Islands."
He sighed again.
"You've got even less joyful news, I imagine."
Jon held up a tiny roll of parchment.
"Arya's at Harrenhal. She found the missing Dothraki... and the missing Wildlings. Both working for the Wolf."
Tyrion nodded, surprised at his own lack of reaction. The blow was not nearly as bad as he had feared, it only confirmed their suspicions rather than giving the Wolf another batch of hardened soldiers.
"Those Dothraki, Wildlings, Euron's fleet... If he recruits every murderer, thief and rapist on Westeros he'll have half the continent under his banner."
"Take heart, Tyrion Lannister. We will do what we can with what we have, and trust in R'hllor to keep us from destruction at the hands of the Abomination."
Tyrion looked at the Red Priest.
"It's all we have... How long until we reach Harrenhal?"
Jon and Grey Worm looked at each other.
"No more than three days. The last of the baggage train will be there in the week."
"I have sent outriders ahead to start staking out the camp, they should be there tomorrow. They have orders to retreat if the Wolf's forces appear, no matter the difference in numbers."
Aldma nodded.
"A wise course. Who knows how many among his followers have fallen for the promises of his foul gods."
Tyrion shuddered at the thought.