Three days later, Akkarulf joined the Wolf on the battlements and looked out on the fearsome sight.
A vast host now camped before the walls of Harrenhal, tents stretching almost all the way to the lake. Even without looking closely it swarmed like an overturned anthill, banners flying, soldiers and servants running to and fro, and in the distance, men dragging baggage from a supply train. The Wolf spoke without looking away from the warcamp.
"Akkarulf."
"Yarrl?"
"Is the Worm among them?"
Akkarulf peered at the camp. Banners flew everywhere, and it was some time before he found the regiments of Unsullied he recognized from the battle of Winterfell.
"The Unsullied are here, so he must- I see him!"
Grey Worm was talking to one of the eunuchs near an enormous tent that had obviously been set up for the commanders. Before going inside, he shot a look of pure loathing at the castle walls.
"Saw him, yarrl, he's in the big tent now."
"Did he look anxious to fight? Or broken and miserable?"
Akkarulf laughed.
"If looks could kill, yarrl, the castle itself would be bleeding."
The Wolf turned towards Akkarulf.
" 'If' ? Remind me to pit you against a medusa. But no matter. He's here."
The Wolf rubbed his armored hands together and chuckled.
"We must welcome our guests appropriately. Find Gorion, tell him to assemble those of his men he deems most willing to prove themselves before the gods, you will do the same with the Free Folk. And... which one was it who took down a stonesnake rider?"
"Teron, yarrl."
"Him as well. Assemble them at the gate."
"Yes, yarrl. The Deathbound?"
"Not today. I have other plans for them."
The Wolf turned and started down the stairs, as did Akkarulf. At the bottom, the giant gave orders to several marauders, who started the long climb up to the walls, bearing drums and long brass horns.
The command tent buzzed with dozens of officers arguing over the finer points of the encirclement strategy, hammering out guard schedules and patrol routes, when a sound pierced the air, a thunderous blast accompanied by screaming voices.
Again and again it sounded, followed by frenzied drumbeats and the echoes of maddened laughter. Parltro barged into the tent, his face apoplectic, his voice loud enough to cover the noise.
"The fiend marches to battle! Are your men ready to stand against him?"
"They're on their way."
The horns of Westeros sounded out in turn to summon the men. Soldiers rushed to tents to collect equipment, knights were armed by squires, and footsoldiers hurried to form lines between the camp and the castle. The lookouts reported on the activity in front of the castle, whose gates had opened to vomit a flow of barbarians.
At last the troops were arrayed for battle. The Unsullied formed their imperturbable phalanxes, the Westeros footmen between them, the archers in long lines behind, Tyrion barely taller than them on horseback. Here and there a flash of bright red betrayed a priest of the Red God, ready to set the weapons of the surrounding warriors ablaze.
On the wings, the armor of the knights of the Houses of Westeros gleamed in the afternoon sun, awaiting their moment to strike, Jon keeping his helmet's visor up until the last moment. The clans of the Mountains of the Moon stood before the infantry, uncomfortably reminding Jon of the way the Wolf's marauders had stood at Winterfell. Two figures stood out among them by their height, the canine helmet of the Hound a sharp contrast to the red hair of Tormund Giantsbane.
Facing them, the Wolf's marauders had grouped themselves into odd formations, the giant nowhere to be seen. Jon had expected the barbarians to simply throw themselves at the enemy in great screaming mobs, but they were arrayed in geometric shapes, a wedge flanked by two wings. Both wings bristled with spears, a forbidding defense against cavalry. The last hope that the Wolf only depended on strength and fear over tactics to win battles dried up.
At the front ranks of each formation were hulking brutes in spiked and serrated armor in the style of the Wolf, obscuring the warriors in the rear by sheer size. Emerging like reeds from a marsh were barbaric totems, banners bearing icons that were either incomprehensible or all too explicit, and more skulls than Jon had seen since the Long Night.
A final blast issued from the castle walls. A cry was taken up by the marauders, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of weapons against shields, and the entire horde lumbered forward. Warhorns blared, drums pounded, and strange ululations emerged from dozens of throats.
As he awaited the charge among the frontliners, the Hound shook his head. The outworlders' warcries seemed curiously understandable, but why would they scream about corn when headed to battle?
From his horse, Tyrion saw the horde approach and judged the range.
"Archers! Nock!"
Bowmen fitted arrows to strings.
"Draw!"
Wood creaked as the bowmen lifted their weapons up as one.
"Loose!"
The buzzing of a thousand wasps filled the air as the arrows lifted skywards. Sandor heard a guttural cry and saw shields sprout up like mushrooms amid the advancing horde, and many arrows struck wood or metal. But many others found their mark, and marauders fell screaming. Some were undeniably screaming with pleasure.
Still they advanced, and as the horde drew closer, arrows sailed upwards from within. The Wolf's forces were not entirely without projectiles, and though shorter-ranged than the longbows of Westeros, were now close enough to strike the front lines.
Now the marauders' warhorns sounded as one, a horrid, high pitched shriek, and their formations surged forward. Once again, many of them were shouting about corn as they closed.
"IN R'HLLOR'S NAME!"
Parltro and the other Red Priests spoke the sacred words of their god, and blades burst into flames along the entirety of the line, just as battle was joined.
The very points of the wedges of the Wolf's men punctured the Westerosi line at first, the steel-clad giants at the front easily plowing though the footmen, Ironborn and Wildings behind them surging through the gaps created and attacking with abandon. The armored warriors in the front possessed inhuman strength and horrific mutations, sending men flying with every blow or overpowering them with third arms, misplaced mouths, or the limbs of beasts. One of them, through smaller, was no less deadly, a tentacle sprouting from his shoulder wrapping necks and sword-arms, his cuirass seemingly impervious even to the spikes of warhammers and axpikes. Another marauder swept an immense halberd left and right, cleaving through spears and necks with equal ease.
Where the hill-clans and Unsullied stood was a different matter; the southern wildlings smashing their burning axes and clubs with a zeal equal to the marauders, while the Essosi stood unflinching, the front ranks keeping the warriors at bay, the back ranks jabbing pikes into their targets with the indifference of a butcher cutting a carcass. Grey Worm shouted encouragement to his fellows, his blade plunging into an onrushing marauder's neck. He took care to strike at those who looked to have conserved some measure of reason, the frenzied ones being easy prey for the impassive Unsullied.
Sandor snarled as he struck down a marauder almost as large as himself, planting his sword into and through the man's spine. The barbarians who wore no armor save furs and hides were easier to kill, but far more numerous. An Ironborn ran towards him and received an armored gauntlet to the jaw for his pains, before the Hound's sword sliced through his throat. Covering Sandor's blind side, Tormund bellowed insults, threats and obscenities to his foes, his axe cleaving through limbs and bodies, occasionally throwing one back into the fray to be trampled by its own comrades.
The line held firm, but as more of the Wolf's forces joined the fray it became obvious that their bloodlust went far beyond the pale of sanity. Shrieking madmen, some fighting entirely naked, deliberately impaled themselves on two or three spears at a time, even pulling themselves down the spear before dying. As the pikemen fought to pull their weapons free, the marauders shoved past their dead comrades' bodies to strike them with near-impunity. Slowly but surely, the line began to falter as the footmen fell back or died where they stood.
"STAND YOUR GROUND, defenders of Westeros! The Lord of Light is with us, we CANNOT fail!"
Parltro advanced unafraid into the melee, his voice rising above the din of battle, his sword blazing like a funeral pyre. An enormous warrior enclosed in steel spikes pointed its sword at the priest and bellowed, lumbering towards him. The Red Priest stood firm, gripping his sword in both hands.
"Silence, abomination! You are shadow, I am the flame that burns away your false life! The Light of R'hllor consumes you, accursed wretch!"
The marauder charged, but as he approached the priest's sword burned brighter still until all the onlookers screwed up their eyes in pain, no more able to look upon the sword than the midday sun.
"BURN, HERETIC!"
Parltro's flaming sword fell on his foe's helmet, melting steel and charring flesh. The marauder collapsed in an instant, and for the first time, the outworlders behind him paused. A ragged cheer rose from the Westerosi forces who saw the monster fall, soon covered by the Red Priest's exhortations.
"Witness the might of R'hllor! Behold as the wicked are burned to cinder, unable to stand His invincible presence! ONWARDS!"
Willingly the men of Westeros followed the Red Priest's order, and the line of battle slowly ground back towards Harrenhal, until at last the outworlders' insane courage seemed to fail. Another horn sounded, three rising blasts and a single drumbeat, and many of the Wolf's forces fell back for the castle, most of the armored warriors among them.
Not all of them, however.
More than a third of the barbarians remained despite now being outnumbered and surrounded, lost in their frenzy. Those who fell back did so at a measured pace, gripping spears and taking care to hoist their shields above their heads to protect against the intermittent arrow volleys. Among the last to reach the gates were a pair of Ironborn, one with a tentacle sprouting from his shoulder, and the other carrying an enormous polearm.
Jon lowered his visor at last. A knight of the Vale looked to him.
"The runners?"
Jon shook his head.
"The ones still fighting. Charge!"
A rumbling in the distance announced that the cavalry of Westeros had surged forward, lances lowered at they plowed into the disorganized mass of the Wolf's men. Unable or perhaps unwilling to reform into a spear line or shieldwall, not one of them sought to lay down his arms or surrender, but fought with ever greater ferocity.
At last the final armored warrior fell, the broken corpses of five men-at-arms and a Red Priest beneath him, the axe of Tormund Giantsbane in his belly and the sword of Sandor Clegane in his skull. The fang-filled maw that ran along his exposed arm still opened and shut convulsively.
Cheers of victory filled the air as the hill-clans fell to their end of the deal, stripping the dead of their metal weapons and armor. Fights broke out as squires tried to protect their lords' spoils from the attention of the looters. Smoke rose as the Red Priests set to incinerating the remains of the Wolf's forces.
High on the battlements, the Wolf watched the scene dispassionately in the setting sun, Akkarulf at his side.
"So, Akkarulf, what do you think?"
Akkarulf meditated his answer for some time.
"We might have won, yarrl, but their numbers were greater."
The Wolf sighed.
"Thank you for the brilliant insight. Anything else?"
Akkarulf looked out again.
"They... sent their cavalry when we had no spearmen left? They had Red Priests to bolster their courage? I saw Stregn Heartrender fall to one."
The Wolf remained silent.
"I don't know what I'm meant to see, yarrl. The men we sent inflicted grievous losses, but those who didn't fall back when Gorion sounded the retreat are all dead."
"And?"
Before Akkarulf could speak, the Wolf went on.
"Does this make me an incompetent commander, fit only to direct waves of expendable sword-fodder into fortifications, the protector and provider to carrion crows rather than men?"
Akkarulf visibly hesitated, unwilling to risk his life by agreeing with the Wolf's assessment. The giant sighed.
"The warriors I sent are dead, that is true. But how did they die? They died in glory, they died heroes' deaths, under the gaze of the masters. Their souls are even now entering the halls of their ancestors, or the realms of the gods for the more fortunate, bringing with them their victims to serve in the hereafter."
The Wolf's hand swept out over the camp in the distance.
"And just as importantly, if not more so, the defenders of Westeros believe they have a chance, and now will stay and fight. Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment, as the Swordeater is known to say."
"... If you say so, yarrl."
"You still do not understand."
"Well... no, yarrl. We sent men to battle and many of them died instead of pushing for the camp."
Akkarulf looked down into the courtyard, where vast throngs of warriors recruited by the Wolf during his convalescence milled about in the torchlight.
"Even with the Wildlings and Ironborn on our side, we can't keep that up forever."
"Nor do we need to, Sven assures me the time fast approaches for his final ritual. But tell me: How do sieges usually end?"
Akkarulf was taken aback. The Wolf had turned his head and looked entirely serious.
"Well, one side runs out of food, or is wracked by disease, or is rescued by another army, or by diplomacy."
"Indeed. Are we likely to run out of food? Do servants of the Plaguefather fear disease? Shall another army come to our aid? Can they hope to bribe away the High Executioner of Chaos?"
Akkarulf looked down. Marauders were still emptying the Silence of livestock and crates of vegetables, looted the previous day from a merchantman sailing from Yi Ti.
"No, yarrl."
"Indeed not. They can only achieve victory by carrying the walls and bringing down the gates. Among southerlings it is an act of desperation when the aforementioned means have failed, which they will know to be the case before long."
The Wolf smirked.
"Soon we will not even need to meet them in battle, they will come to us."
The giant sighed with satisfaction, then turned to face Akkarulf.
"But I take it you speak from experience? Been in a siege before? On the inside, mind."
"I have, yarrl."
"And how did it end?"
Akkarulf looked away.
"… Badly."
"Why is that?"
"For a lot of reasons, but mostly because we were led by..."
Akkarulf's hands balled into fists at the memory.
"By an arrogant little fuckwit. He captured Winterfell by treachery, thought he could hold it for as long as he needed with Ironborn, and killed hostages that could only ensure that those who might have allied with him, or at least stayed out of the fight, instead united against him."
"You sure you're not talking about the whore-queen?"
Akkarulf did not even hear the Wolf's comment.
"Then after- he'd managed to get himself surrounded, with no allies coming, while he was wasting time with a grand speech about dying gloriously, his men knocked him out and sold him out to the besiegers to save their skins."
The Wolf grunted.
"Known far too many like that myself. And what happened to this halfwit, better at speaking of glory than finding it?"
"He's dead."
Akkarulf intended the reply to close the conversation as efficiently as a prison door. But the Wolf either had no appreciation for such subtleties or deliberately ignored them.
"Unfortunate. I daresay he could have been a most useful adviser."
"What!?"
"Listening to what he had to say, and then doing the opposite, would probably have granted his men victory. What'd he die of?"
"I don't know, yarrl."
Perhaps the Wolf did understand the subject was an uncomfortable one for Akkarulf, for he grunted.
"Hrm. So, as a veteran of at least one siege, how would you do it?"
"Yarrl?"
"Let us imagine that I leave you in charge, should the masters require the head and heart of some braggart or beast at the arse-end of the world. What do you do? Hunker down behind the gates, identify the commanders opposite and put an arrow through their heads from the safety of the walls?"
Akkarulf averted his gaze. The Wolf's tone was ironic enough, but the fact that he had seen true made it worse.
"How you would do it, yes. But how would you have me do it?"
Akkarulf looked confused.
"You, yarrl?"
The Wolf went on.
"Imagine if I were to challenge each of their leaders and champions to a duel in turn, the gifts of the gods making them as powerless to resist the invitation as a drunkard to resist a flagon of rotgut. I then break their bodies in full view of their forces, perhaps handing the corpses to the fleshcrafter to work on over the following weeks. What becomes of the army's spirit then?"
Akkarulf thought it over. Try as he could to imagine otherwise, the Wolf's triumph was in no doubt.
"They flee or surrender."
"Exactly. What manner of conquest is that?"
The Wolf shook his head.
"I might as well send a ratkin in the night to kill them in their sleep and be done with it. But by waging war in this way, by giving every man a chance to find glory in death or success, word of our deeds will be renowned throughout the memory of men and of gods."
The Wolf swept his hand out over the battlefield.
"I tell you this time and time again to make you understand, Akkarulf. Victory or defeat have no meaning to the masters, not as we understand them. Our deaths or the enemy's are equally pleasing to them. Do you understand?"
Akkarulf took some time to answer. The gods had indeed blessed him when he had little hope of surviving the battle, and thus far his attempts to resolve conflicts without bloodshed had not met with the Wolf's approval.
"I... I think I do, yarrl."
"Good man. Now, we will have much to do over the next few weeks. Did you see the horse-lovers during the battle?"
Akkarulf frowned and looked out again.
"I... I don't remember seeing any, yarrl. Only the knights of the Houses."
The Wolf made an irritated noise.
"Send me Brilbo, will you?"
Akkarulf turned and ran down the wallstairs.
There was a joyous atmosphere in the war camp that night. The first battle was an undeniable victory, despite the crushing losses the Wolf's forces had inflicted on the forces of Westeros, and now it seemed they only needed to wait for the outlanders to starve. The Wolf had not been seen during the battle, and it was hoped he would continue to remain hidden.
Only the Red Priests and those of the commanders who had seen the Wolf in action, fully aware that the barbarian was capable of far worse, looked grim.
Why would he put forth such an easily-defeated force? Why had he not used the great and terrible magics the priests of R'hllor warned against? Why had he not appeared, to challenge Grey Worm or the other commanders to single combat?
Unable to find answers to these questions, sleep eluded them long past midnight.