Tyrion looked out as the towers of Harrenhal loomed in the distance. The war camp was not fully laid down, and there was already considerable confusion as levies and men-at-arms argued over prerogatives and competed for the best ground on which to pitch their tents. He shook his head as he entered the great tent that stood out above the others.

Jon was already inside, poring over a map of Harrenhal, looking at villages and outposts. Khal Goro, leader of the Dothraki by right of strength, stood by him. He was a man slightly below average height, but nearly as broad as two men, whose braided hair reached past his shoulders.

"I dislike this place. A war of walls is no place for horsemen."

A page entered and went to Tyrion, whispering urgently in his ear. Tyrion sighed and followed the man out. Jon nodded.

"I know. We're counting on it."

The khal turned.

"How so?"

"You've seen the Wolf's men fight at Winterfell?"

"I have."

"There's no reason to think they'll act any different. We're counting on them leaving the castle, try to kill as many of us as they can, and fall back once we flee. He's made enough reference to Southerners being cowards. The horses come in when they're in the melee."

Goro nodded.

"I see."

Jon pointed to an area on the map currently devoid of markers.

"Once the siege engines are set up, we'll hit the walls in case they have archers and gates to get in. The Golden Company's elephants should help."

"They will, I have fought them before."

Jon considered asking if there would be any animosity between them. The Dothraki had made no opposition to remain in order to avenge their khaleesi and punish the traitors, but there might be other reasons for friction among the Essosi. There were certainly more than enough among the forces of Westeros.

"They haven't attacked yet, they must be trying to be certain of our numbers. Or maybe they like stacking the odds against themselves."

The khal made a grunt of approval.

"There is another task for your men, until the engines are built."

"What is it?"

"We know the Wolf has been getting supplied from Harrenton. It won't happen again, but there may be other villages where his agents may be hiding."

Jon pointed around the map.

"We need to ensure that he won't be getting supplies or information from there."

The khal remained silent for a moment.

"And how do you propose to do this?"

"I'm sending men to investigate. Your men are there in case any of his warriors are hiding in the villages. Capture some alive if you can, but don't count on it. One bit through her tongue rather than say anything."

Goro rubbed his bearded chin, then nodded.

"A good plan. When are you sending this expedition?"

"After midday."

"Then we will make ready."

The khal left the tent as Tyrion returned, going straight to a barrel of wine and filling a cup.

"Well?"

"The hill-tribes again."

Tyrion took a draught.

"I don't know how they've managed to survive this long. I thought I was used to it after the last time I used them, but we're over two dozen dead since they left the mountains of the Moon, over such worthy causes as a half-cooked chicken, a bronze knife that turned out to belong to a third wildling, and just now, an argument over whose grandfather had stolen half a goat owed to another greybeard as a bride-price, or possibly a live goat intended as a bride."

Jon nodded, looking weary.

"How did you convince them to fight? There's no love lost between them and the lords of the Vale."

Tyrion finished his wine.

"You remember that you killed one of the Wolf's men in single combat, and he gave you the man's axe and armor?"

Jon's face grew sour. He still remembered the lunatic's facial expression, frozen in death as it was in life, and the Wolf's heavy-handed approval.

"All too well. And?"

"I took them with me, told Shagga and other chieftains that if they joined us, they would fight men with weapons of such quality, and that every weapon they could take from the Wolf's men would be theirs."

Jon said nothing, but gave Tyrion a look. Tyrion sighed.

"I know, I know, it'll make life more difficult for the Vale if the hill tribes have decent weapons. But that's a problem we won't have to face if we don't deal with the Wolf now."

"But aren't we making them weapons now?"

Tyrion sighed.

"I rather unwisely mentioned it as a possibility and Gendry jumped on the suggestion."

"So Gendry is..."

"Happiest I've ever seen him, now that he has an excuse to drop the king business and return to the forge. I had to remind him he has to attend strategy meetings in armor and not a smith's apron."

Jon chuckled.

"We'll have to make sure he doesn't abdicate behind our backs."

An idea occurred to Jon.

"What if the Wolf had cursed them like that sword he had at Winterfell? You had the Red Priests examine them first?"

Tyrion nodded.

"Oh yes. They did everything short of melting the things down to ensure that we weren't going to lose men to the Wolf without even fighting him. The hill-folk agreed to submit their plunder to the priests first."

Tyrion looked around.

"Wasn't Goro here?"

"I told him of the plan to look into the villages. He agreed and he's gone to saddle up."

Tyrion nodded.

"Who are you sending?"

"Arya and Beric."

Tyrion said nothing. It could not have been easy for Jon to find an assignment that would keep her from the frontline, nor to convince her of its importance.

The Wolf's gaze went from Jaime to the three corpses, and he drew his sword without a word.

"I- I meant-"

"I know what you meant, gold-hand. And you are perfectly right. I have been remiss in my duties as your host, to offer you such paltry foes."

Jaime nearly choked on indignation.

"Host!? You hold me hostage for months, make me fight that freak, and-"

"And do not provide you with a challenge equal to your skills, that is true. Your sister is perfectly capable of handling three men at a time, and yet it did not occur to me that you could do the same. Must run in the family, perhaps your mother was of similarly fiery disposition?"

Jaime made a choking sound, speechless at the crudeness of the insult.

"Consider this my apology."

The Wolf surged forward, sword swinging overhead. Jaime leaped aside, the blade whistling near his shoulder. His senses seemed sharper than ever, feeling the mud of the courtyard churning under his boots, the slightest currents of air on his face. The Wolf moved again, but to Jaime the passage of time felt slower, as though both were fighting in deep water.

The giant's sword thrust upwards, and the slightest movement in his eyes was as good as a warning to Jaime. He shifted his grip on the sword as the Wolf's blade came closer, and suddenly forced it sideways, just as the giant's arm moved so the attack came not from below but the left. Jaime's sword slid off the Wolf's as he stepped into the giant's reach, under his arm and behind him, whirling to face his foe.

The look of surprise in the Wolf's eyes was worth a dozens nights with Cersei, Jaime's gold hand buzzing in agreement. The Wolf turned around ponderously as the crowd cheered and hollered.

"Well done, gold-hand! I see the time you spent being penetrated by Kruissla was not in vain!"

A surge of anger flashed through Jaime at the reminder of his many defeats. He crouched slightly as the Wolf approached again, sword held low. As the giant came close, Jaime lunged, his hand extending to stab at the Wolf's head.

The barbarian's hand snapped out, gripping Jaime's prosthetic and jerked it to the side. Unable to retract it in time, Jaime was lifted off his feet and slammed into the wall.

"Uhf!"

He had not drawn a breath when he felt himself flying again, the Wolf's hand gripping the prosthetic in an overhead arc. He felt himself twist in midair, this time landing belly-first. His breath left his lungs, the moment of clairvoyance passed.

The Wolf's boot descended on Jaime's head, driving it into the muddy cobblestones. He could hear the onlookers laugh and jeer at him, and his fruitless struggling only made his cheeks burn brighter. His gold hand seared hot as a furnace, and he squirmed and flailed to no avail.

Then he felt something even worse: an abominable pain in his forearm as the Wolf pulled slowly on his golden hand, as though the prosthetic had been rooted there and was now being torn out. Desperately his hand shifted into a long tentacle, but the Wolf simply pulled harder, a spike of sheer agony lancing through his arm.

"NO! NO!"

Jaime stopped struggling, unable to keep the fear from his voice. The Wolf stopped pulling and dropped Jaime's hand. He could feel it shrinking back into its usual shape.

"I am accustomed to fighting men, gold-hand, not tantrum-throwing children. If you're ready to act your age, we can continue."

The pressure on Jaime's head lifted and the Wolf stepped back.

Jaime stood up, cheeks still burning with shame and humiliation, mud dripping from his hair. He faced the Wolf, breathing shallowly, and sheathed his sword. His hand returned to its usual dimensions, showing no signs of harm.

"No."

"No?"

"No more. I cannot defeat you, that is obvious."

The Wolf sheathed his own blade.

"You are less obstinate in defeat than your sister, little lion. But is it fear or wisdom that gives you such insight?"

The Wolf barked something to the watching marauders. One of them scooped his hand along the ground, gathering a ball of mud and refuse, then hurled it at Jaime. The missile burst on his shoulder, splattering his face.

"Gah!"

"We of Norsca respect moral fortitude as we abhor cowardice, gold-hand. Prove to me that it is the one and not the other that stops your blade."

A half-rotted chicken struck Jaime full in the face, and the jeering started again. Jaime gripped his sword with his real hand until the knuckles whitened, while his gold hand pulsed. Mud and trash rained upon him, but he bore it, his hatred for the Wolf tempered by the smarting and all too vivid knowledge that he could not defeat the barbarian and that to fight back would only invite further humiliation.

His gold hand vibrated at the thought.

At last the Wolf called out, and slowly the crowd ceased their pelting, breaking up into small groups and wandering off.

"Impressive, gold-hand. The whore-queen would have been trying to scratch my eyes out by now, even if she had three men filling her."

The Wolf took a step forward, motioning to one of his men and speaking to him, pointing to Jaime.

"Einarr!"

The marauder drew a knife and grabbed the dead Dothraki's shirt. He hacked off a piece of cloth the size of a sheet of vellum, presenting it to Jaime. The Wolf sighed.

"það er of lítið!"

The bald marauder looked hesitant for a moment. He wore a bear's pelt as a cape, which he removed and handed to Jaime.

"Wipe yourself off, gold-hand. Make yourself presentable."

Jaime took the cape and cleaned himself as best he could, handing the cape back to the marauder. The man looked at the irretrievably soiled garment with visible disgust.

"Now come along."

Jaime followed the Wolf docilely enough, but noticed they were headed back the way he had come.

"This isn't the way to Cersei's chambers!"

"Indeed not."

There was no further comment as they went further into the unlit corridors of Harrenhal. Finally the Wolf stopped before the door guarded by a pair of marauders, though how he knew where to go was still a mystery to Jaime.

"Nothing kills love faster than routine, gold-hand. Were I to let you fuck your sister daily you would soon tire of her, just as you have tired of the clumsy oafs I sent to spar with you, and request more exotic fare in which to drain your swollen and overflowing balls. Other women, little girls, little boys, livestock..."

Jaime felt a fresh surge of hatred for the Wolf.

"I should no longer be known as the purveyor of skulls and souls to the gods but as a scourer of fleshpots, digging ever deeper into depravity to satisfy your ravenous, and frankly tasteless, appetites."

The door opened, and Jaime was pushed back into his cell.

"Keep your sword polished for next time, that'll keep you busy."

With his usual mocking laughter the door shut and the Wolf was gone.