Two days later, the Wolf looked out over the battlements of Harrenhal, scanning the armed camp that had sprouted up in the distance. Next to him, Gorion awaited the reason for his summons.

"Hrmm. Gorion."

Gorion snapped to attention.

"Jarl?"

The Wolf swept his hand out over the camp.

"How many do you think are out there?"

Gorion looked out, peering at the banners.

"Not that many, jarl. This must only be the vanguard."

"Indeed. Your counsel."

"My... counsel? Er..."

Gorion looked out again. The Wolf asking for his opinion could mean a reward just as it could mean a trap, in the fashion of the Ruinous Powers.

"If we strike now, we can eliminate them with little effort."

The Wolf turned his gaze on Gorion.

"Is that so."

"Well, y-"

"What makes you so sure?"

Gorion nearly shrugged.

"They do not know our strength, while we can see theirs, we can strike from any direction, or even surround them, and they don't have the numbers to resist our strength, not when our warriors are more than a match for any of them."

The Wolf nodded.

"And what would happen if we were to ride out, here and now, you, me, Akkarulf, the Deathbound, the Ironborn, the Free Folk, emptying the castle and sending every able-bodied servant of the true gods against them?"

Gorion blinked, and took some time in answering so obvious a question.

"We would crush them, jarl. It would be a massacre."

"And after that?"

"After...?"

The Wolf nodded.

"As you observed, it would be easy to ride out and crush them within the day. Their generals arrive, only to find their vanguard scattered and mutilated, turned into altars to the masters. What then? Do they stay and avenge their comrades, or do they flee, every man trusting that the further he is from Harrenhal, the safer he is? Even before you were granted that helpful tickler of yours, have you known the Southerners to exhibit unyielding courage when faced with overwhelming odds?"

Gorion snorted.

"Certainly not."

"Indeed. And that will be the difficulty of this war: to let them think they have a chance to win, to keep the flame of hope lit in their souls and prevent them from fleeing, allowing each of our warriors a chance to prove his worth before the eyes of the gods. You were granted their favor, you would not seek to prevent your own men from doing the same?"

"No, jarl. I understand."

"Good! Rest assured, there will be sword-work aplenty for you. Speaking of which, you will spar with the gold-hand today."

"As you command, jarl."

"You have been a skilled and able servant of the Dark Gods, wouldn't you say, Gorion?"

Gorion paused.

"I... I believe so, jarl."

"I certainly do. Which is why you will lead the first battle against them, in a few days once their strength is more respectable."

Gorion could not contain his elation. Recognition of his abilities at last.

"Yes jarl! Thank you!"

"You will have the breastplate formerly owned by Euron Greyjoy, and may it do you more good than it did him. And you will have the sole decision on when to retreat."

"Retreat?"

"Aye. Pull back when you feel you've done enough damage, it would not do to destroy them on the battlefield yet be broken on their camp's defenses, not when we still have much to do."

Gorion hesitated.

"You will not be there?"

"I will not, for two reasons. As I said, to avoid crushing their spirits as I crushed their champions... and because from up here, I will be able to better judge your performance."

Gorion felt a chill fall over him. The Wolf did not always need overt threats to make his intentions clear.

"It will be done."

"I know it will."

Gorion hurried down the stairs to equip himself. The tentacle that had been gifted him by the gods thrashed in anticipation.

The door of Jaime's cell opened. He idly wondered who his next opponent would be. Ever since he had finally bested Kruissla, the Wolf had pitted him against a new foe every few days, only a handful of which of which had presented any difficulty.

A trio of torch-bearing marauders stood outside the door, motioning for him to follow them. He did so without complaint, walking through the darkened corridors with unease. He could never get used to the lack of light, was it so hard to set some torches in the walls?

At last they arrived in the sparring room. His opponent stood before him, an Ironborn this time, with a writhing tentacle sprouting from his shoulder. He held a shortword in his hand and a broad shield. Jaime watched the tentacle with some apprehension.

"You ready?"

"I am."

Both men drew their swords, and Jaime lunged out, cutting a deep gash, in the man's left shoulder. There was a pleasant tingling in his golden hand as the Ironborn cried out.

"Gah!"

The man brought up his shield, approaching carefully.

Jaime feinted a jab at the man's sword-hand, and when he moved to cover himself, released his grip on his sword and snatched it up with the other, his gold hand shifting into a long, probing tentacle that curved around the shield to strike at the Ironborn's shoulder. His foe's own tentacle lashed out, drawing blood from Jaime's cheek.

Suddenly the man swept out with his shield, catching Jaime unaware and pushing him back. But his hand acted faster than thought, wrapping itself around the Ironborn's sword arm. Jaime felt a shudder of pain rippling up his forearm as his momentum was suddenly arrested, but landed on his feet.

The Ironborn dropped his shield and yanked his trapped arm back. Jaime was pulled along, his golden hand untwining itself, but not fast enough to prevent the man's fist from crashing into his head.

Stars exploding before his eyes at the same time as the pain, Jaime did not leap back but pushed forward, his gold hand now bristling with spikes as it smashed down on the Ironborn's shoulder and tentacle, momentum carrying it downwards. The man grunted as the spikes pierced his flesh and tore away, but grabbed Jaime's throat with his free hand and squeezed.

Suddenly he gasped, a sound of pure panic, and released his hold on Jaime's throat, pushing him away. Jaime looked down. His golden hand had become a crablike pincer, still snapping at the Ironborn's groin.

The man's head was fixated on the pincer. Jaime surged forward and repeatedly jabbed his foe's hand in the time it took for him to look up.

"And six!"

The Ironborn's hands balled into fists, but he made no answer but to pick up his shield. His shoulder tentacle lashed about, even striking its owner in the ear.

"Just a moment."

Jaime grabbed the corner of the Ironborn's cloak and wiped his sword on it, smirking at the man's impotent rage.

The guards moved around Jaime, who sheathed his sword. He felt unusually ecstatic, this fight had been slightly more challenging than the previous ones, but still he had come out on top. Was this the best the Wolf had to offer?

As the guards surrounded Jaime to escort him out the door, an unusual rebellious urge rose up in him. He had both hands and a decent blade, why should he submit to the oafs around him?

Even as he thought it, his golden hand shifted into a broad, flat blade. They were in the corridor now, with the only light coming from the guards' torches, and it only took a moment for him to lift his hand and cleave through the neck of the guard before him, using the momentum to spin around and do the same to the second guard. The third only had time to drop his torch and lower his spear when Jaime grabbed the shaft with his flesh hand, his gold hand extending into a rope that wrapped itself around the marauder's thick neck.

Jaime could feel the man's pulse accelerating, as he desperately struggled to free himself, but he could no more break the golden rope's hold than if he had been shackled with iron. Jaime felt the man's last breath leave more than he heard it, a shudder that flooded his hand and himself with pleasure.

The torch went out. In complete obscurity, Jaime cautiously stepped forward, bewildered at the frenzy that had overtaken him. His gold hand, still a living rope, stretched itself further until it reached the opposite wall.

Now able to walk straight without hitting anything thanks to the constant contact with the wall, he went through corridor after corridor, his gold hand extended as fine as a whip before him. The rough scraping of stone suddenly gave way to wood, and he felt around until he felt the door's handle. He pulled, but the door refused to budge.

Feeding his prosthetic into the keyhole, he squirmed and thrusted until the latch gave way. He could hear footsteps approaching in the dark and hurriedly entered, closing the door behind him.

The room he was in held crates and lumber stacked against the walls. But more importantly, light came through dayholes pierced near the ceiling. There was another door in the far wall, which turned out to be unlocked.

Jaime opened the door and stepped out. Recognition struck as though the Wolf had punched him and he fell against the doorjamb, despite the marauders and warriors milling about in the courtyard.

There was only one castle in Westeros where the walls were so oversized, and he had already seen them from the inside. Jaime's gold hand emitted a searing spike of pain at the wrist in traumatic memory.

The Wolf had been holding him prisoner in Harrenhal this entire time.

There was a shout. Several marauders had noticed him and were approaching, weapons drawn. Jaime snarled and drew his sword.

"Well come on, you savages! Let's see if any of you can prove worth my while!"

He charged the closest man, a Dothraki by the color of his skin, holding a long spear. His gold hand flowed like water, extending his sword's reach by a forearm's length, easily curving around the spear's tip to strike the man's throat.

The Essosi fell with a gurgle, but two others ran up, one with a sheathed sword and the other an axe, maneuvering to take Jaime in a pincer. Another ran away, while others shouted and cheered, forming a semicircle around the fighters, trapping them against the wall.

The man with the axe had a massive pair of bull's horns sprouting from his skull, while the other was grossly obese and wearing only a loincloth, sporting tattoos of clustered circles on his maggot-pale flesh.

The swordsman took a lumbering step towards Jaime, while the other gave a guttural yell and charged, horns lowered. Jaime twisted to the side and struck the man on the back, but his foe's momentum carried both of them to the ground.

Jaime scrambled up to strike the horned man while he was down, but heard a throaty chuckle near his ear and felt cold, clammy flesh close on his wrists, pulling them behind his back. The man's stench was unbearable, and Jaime nearly gagged.

"Get OFF!"

Jaime struggled, but the fat man's grip was unbreakable. His gold hand became a ball of spikes, thrusting into the folds of flesh and spinning, but the only effect was to make the man laugh as though tickled, an oddly childish sound. Jaime felt something slippery fall against the back of his shirt and soak through.

The horned man had gotten up, blood flowing freely from his back. He laughed brutishly, before lowering his head and charging again, his axe lying forgotten on the ground. This time Jaime could not avoid them, gasping as the horns struck against his ribs, pushing him deeper into the fat man's embrace.

The idea of dying to so repulsive a foe triggered a wave of disgust in Jaime. As the horned man drew back for another run, Jaime's gold hand collapsed on itself, flowing through the fat man's fingers and reforming out of his grip.

With one arm free, Jaime twisted to the side just before the horned man's charge, the horns striking the fat man's belly and embedding themselves within. The fat man coughed and sputtered before vomiting on the back of his comrade, releasing Jaime's other hand.

To Jaime's horror, what came out of the fat man's mouth was a stream of worms, wriggling and writhing, and where they fell on the horned man they dissolved skin and muscle.

Picking up the fallen Dothraki's spear, Jaime plunged it between the horned man's exposed ribs, pushing until the tip was going through the fat man's body. The horned man screamed in agony, which sent a wave of pleasure from Jaime's prosthetic. He twisted the haft, wanting both of them to suffer for what they had dared to do to him. His gold hand buzzed and vibrated with every thrust.

From the corner of his eye he saw movement in the crowd, but was too intent on making his foes scream to care. He heard them cheer as though from far away, but they suddenly faded into silence. With a final cough, the fat man collapsed, falling forward onto the mutant, smothering his cries.

Jaime raised his gold hand above his head clenched in triumph, breathing hard. In his elation he could not restrain the contempt from his voice, raising his head to yell at the sky and the wall high above.

"Can no one, offer me, a challenge?!"

Jaime turned around to see the Wolf standing silently before him.