Tyrion looked out over the waters of the lake, nursing a cup of wine. They were choppier today than the past week, despite the still air and clear weather.

He heard someone walk up behind him and cough discreetly.

"Your reverence?"

Aldma stepped up to face Tyrion.

"I have spoken with my fellows. We believe he will not attack at this point, and if he does indeed come alone, that you may go without fear."

Tyrion nodded.

"Somehow this fails to reassure me as much as it should."

The priest nodded.

"Then your mind has not softened. The Flame Guard will accompany you from the camp, but will stay some distance away once he is sighted. They will have bows and horses, and at the slightest hint of betrayal will rush to your aid, giving their lives for yours."

Tyrion smiled grimly.

"Well, I suppose I've gone into more dangerous situations with less help."

A thought occurred to him.

"Will Parltro be leading them?"

Aldma looked distinctly guilty.

"He has... not been informed of this. We felt his presence might be detrimental to your safe return."

Tyrion looked the Red Priest up and down. Lies, deceit, conspiracies... now he felt on more familiar ground. Aldma clearly misjudged his intent.

"I assure you the Flame Guard are as formidable as your Westeros fighting men, if not more so."

"Oh, I don't doubt their prowess, your reverence. I only hope they won't get baited into fighting him."

Tyrion finished his wine.

"Back to business then."

Nymeria's pack rushed in through the gaps in the fence, leaping over the downed combatants and tearing into the cultists. The tide of battle shifted once more, although the Warrior did not seem aware of it.

"The Bloodwolf favors us anew! More skulls! MOOORE DEATH! MOOOORE GLOOOORIOUS CARNAGE! "

The wolves were not a match for the more deformed cultists, and even the weaker ones could keep them at bay with long-handled tools, but their arrival gave the hard-pressed Dothraki room to recover. Those still mounted charged into the villagers distracted by wolves or unleashed volleys of arrows into the larger cultists.

Something struck Sandor's helm from his blind side as he thrust his sword into a axewoman's neck. He turned to see a dog-masked man strike again with its mutilated forearms, this time braining Sandor's horse. The beast collapsed, Sandor dropping his sword as he struggled to remove his foot from the stirrups.

"KILLLLLLLL!"

The cultist struck again with both weapons. Sandor blinked. Time seemed to slow as he looked directly in the masked monster's eyes, a flash of red around them.

The first axeblade punched through Sandor's breastplate, the second was moving towards his face.

He felt a sudden surge of fury and grabbed the limb in both hands, twisting with all his might. The skeletal forearm snapped like a twig.

The monster bellowed, more in rage than pain, and ripped its trapped weapon free. Sandor shook himself out from under his mount and grabbed his sword just as the monster smashed its remaining arm down, beating the dead horse to a pulp.

A direwolf ran by Sandor, clamping its jaws around the monster's shoulder. It screamed and tried to strike at the beast, but Sandor had stood up and grabbed the monster's arm, his sword held high. It gurgled through its slipping mask.

"Hrgllll blood frth bludgd!"

"Yeah? Give him yours!"

The sword plunged into and through the monster's chest. The direwolf released it and charged into a group of half-naked men thrashing about themselves with whips.

Sandor removed the corpse of the dog-masked fighter from his blade as a cultist fruitlessly tried to impale him and was taken down by a Dothraki arrow. The madman appeared in his field of sight, decapitating an onrushing wolf. He and the Warrior were the only steel-armored men in the battle, and now they closed on each other.

"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

"SHUT UP!"

The Warrior's axe fell on Sandor's shoulder, denting the pauldron. Sandor grunted and pushed forward, grabbing his sword halfway down the blade and thrusting between the helmet and breastplate.

The Warrior laughed as the sword nicked his flesh, where Sandor's blade met unexpected resistance. It was as though the man's skin hid a second suit of armor.

"Fool! I AM INVINCIBLE!"

The Warrior's axe fell heavily on Sandor's hand, who dropped his sword as though paralyzed.

"Gah!"

The Warrior lifted his axe again. Sandor could not reach his sword in time, and instead grabbed the man's helmet by the horns and pulled as hard as he could. The horns snapped off with a sound like a thunderclap, but to his horror, he realized they had never been part of the helmet. The base of the horns grew straight from the man's skull and now bled profusely.

The Warrior bellowed, released one hand from his battleaxe and thrust a finger into the eyehole of Sandor's helm.

"BLIND WEAKLING, WHO CANNOT WITNESS CORN'S GLORY!"

Now Sandor screamed, stars flashing in his vision as the Warrior's finger punched into his eye. He crouched and pushed against the madman as hard as he could with his free hand, but heard the Warrior's axe clink against his armor. There was a sharp tug behind his knee and he felt himself keel over.

"MAIM! KILL! BURN! MAIM! KILL! BURN!"

A Dothraki screamed somewhere close by, the warcry ending in the thud of metal cleaving flesh. Slowly Sandor's vision returned, and he scrambled up.

The Warrior was standing over the twitching corpse of a bloodrider, pulling the axe out of the horse's side, the man cut so deeply and savagely his spine was exposed. He turned to face Sandor, who saw the Warrior's helm had been badly damaged by the Dothraki's arakh, enough to reveal clammy skin, a scarred mouth, long-gone nose and bloodshot eye.

"BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOOOOOOOO-"

The Warrior's words were lost as Sandor's armored fist smashed into his face, briefly lifting him into the air. No sooner had he landed, dropping his battleaxe, that Sandor had crouched down with one knee on the madman's chest, and furiously pounded on his exposed face.

"SHUT-"

"YOUR-"

"FUCKING-"

"CUNT-"

" FACE "

The Warrior's face was a mass of blood and pulped tissue by the time Sandor finally felt fatigue slow him down. Still the cultist continued to spit blood and defiance through mangled lips and what teeth were left to him.

Sandor suddenly felt his arms restricted. Twisting his head, he saw Goro and three other Dothraki pinning his arms, straining with the effort.

"Get OFF!"

But even he could not throw off four men twisting his arms. He still struggled, but it struck him that the din of battle had quieted down.

The fighting had ended, wolves tearing into the bodies of the fallen. The surviving Dothraki were keeping them away from their comrades' corpses or their horses under control, though clearly hesitant to turn against such unexpected allies. The direwolf sat on its haunches, head turning from side to side.

In the distance he saw Arya come through a gap in the palisade and run straight for the direwolf, throwing her arms around it.

He realized Beric was speaking to him, looking tense, his sword still drawn and flaming.

"What?"

"What do you feel like doing?"

Sandor blinked.

"Right now? Drinking and sleeping for a week."

Beric visibly relaxed.

"Good. Good. Don't kill the bastard, we need him alive for questioning."

He nodded at the Dothraki, who released Sandor.

"Coward! The Blood God's fury is grkrkl!"

Sandor grabbed the broken horn at his feet by the point and jammed it into the Warrior's mouth, muffling him.

"I told you to shut up."

The Warrior's expression was more eloquent than any of his Dothraki started binding the Warrior with ropes despite his continued struggling.

Beric sheathed his extinguished sword as Sandor got up.

"Now there's work to be done. We need-"

The direwolf howled. The wolves immediately ran to its side, and followed it out of the village. Sandor saw Arya watch the wolves go with an expression of great sadness.

"The bodies must be burned, as must this entire village. But before that..."

Beric looked at Khal Goro.

"Khal, tell your men that we must gather up all the green stones. They must not keep them or touch them with bare hands. That's what transformed these madmen."

Goro nodded and yelled at the Dothraki. Some dropped what they were holding with every sign of revulsion, others looked resentful but complied.

Goro picked up a carpenter's hammer, the previous owner's brains splattered on its head.

"Then we will destroy them, crush them into powder until nothing remains."

Beric shook his head.

"No, that'd be even worse. It'd be in the wind, to be blown who knows where. We'll look for chests in the village to lock them up."

Beric looked around. An inquisitive raven had perched on a mutant cultist's corpse, pecking at the green pendant.

"That bird! Kill it before it tak-"

Goro threw the hammer overarm before Beric could finish. The bird exploded in a cloud of feathers, the green stone dropping to the corpse's chest.

Sandor wrapped his gauntleted fist around the Warrior's pendant and pulled, snapping the string with little effort. The Warrior strained but was unable to break out of his bindings.

"What do we do with the things, then?"

"Take them to the Red Priests, they'll know what to do."

Goro gave the order to his men. As the houses were looted of containers and anything valuable, Arya approached Beric, having dried her eyes.

"Why did they keep yelling about corn? I remember the one at Winterfell did it too."

Sandor nodded.

"So did the cunts at Harrenhal."

Beric shook his head.

"It is the name of one of their vile gods, who revels in senseless violence and slaughter. It just happens to sound like corn in our tongue."

The hall alone took the better part of the day to clear out, the stench of accumulated blood causing even the hardened Dothraki to blanch. Beric was the last to leave the hall after setting fire to the sacrilegious altar with his sword.

The sun had started to set before the last of the cultist's corpses were thrown into the burning hall, the green stones they carried pulled off or hacked out and placed in heavy iron chests taken from the village storehouses. The Dothraki dead were burned in a great pyre, Sandor, Beric and Sansa standing to one side as Khal Goro led the funeral rites. The Warrior's armor had been removed with hammer and chisel, revealing unpleasant tattoos and a fang-lined mouth between his third and fourth ribs. The surviving Dothraki had done their best to beat him into submission, but to no avail. He remained as insolent in defeat as he had been in battle.

In the morning they set out, the Warrior entirely naked and his hands bound by a long halter to the Khal's saddle. Three bloodriders behind had looped thin nooses around the madman's neck. The horn had been removed from his gullet and replaced by a strap of leather. Still his spirit seemed utterly unbroken, glaring hatred and defiance despite the torment he had endured.

Three days later, Tyrion set out, surrounded by the brightly-clothed Flame Guard. At the entrance of the camp Shagga sat on his horse, spurring it to ride alongside Tyrion's.

"Yes?"

"You go to speak with the war-leader of the outlanders?"

Tyrion wondered how he'd learned about it, the clans being conspicuously absent from most strategic meetings.

"I do."

"Shagga, son of Dolf will go with you."

Tyrion's eyes boggled.

"Er. Why?"

"If he kills you, the clans will have no metal weapons. I will make sure this does not happen."

Tyrion's mind raced, but he had to admit he would feel safer with one barbarian protecting him from the other.

"Very well. Thank you. But don't speak to him, he picks fights easily."

Shagga shrugged and turned to leave with the bodyguard.

"Lord Tyrion."

The Flame Guard pointed ahead.

The Wolf had been true to his word and stood alone on the battlefield, next to an unusually large horse. The reins were tied to the hilt of one of his swords which he had planted in the ground.

Tyrion took a deep breath. The Flame Guard stopped their horses as Tyrion approached the Wolf, Shagga shadowing him. Soon they were only a few yards apart. Tyrion turned to Shagga, who suddenly didn't look quite so large or intimidating.

"Wait here."

Now alone, Tyrion moved to the Wolf. Even on horseback Tyrion did not reach the giant's chest, but at least no longer had to strain his neck to speak to him.

The Wolf made no greeting but began to speak, then suddenly closed his mouth and looked pointedly behind Tyrion. With a sinking feeling, Tyrion looked around. Shagga had dismounted and was moving purposefully towards them.

"Damn it, I told him not to-"

Shagga interrupted, speaking to the Wolf.

"You have a fine manhood."

The Wolf's eyebrows raised.

"I like to think I do, yes."

"Shagga, son of Dolf, will cut it off and feed it to a goat!"

Tyrion winced on seeing a slow grin spread across the Wolf's face.

"Will you now. I'll wager you have a great deal of experience feeding manhoods to goats, Sheep-shagger, son of Dolt! Yours in particular must be soft and smooth as a newborn's from being grazed so often!"

Tyrion felt despair threaten to overcome him. Shagga drew two of his axes without a word, evidently unimpressed by the Wolf's size. The Wolf spread his hands wide, crouching slightly.

"Shagga! Go back to the others before-"

"No use in speaking to him, Shield-slayer. Can't expect a Black-Ears to act intelligently."

The clan's name was spoken with unusual contempt. It certainly had an effect on Shagga, who looked as though the Wolf had accused him of raping his mother's corpse.

"You dare call Shagga son of Dolf, chieftain of the Stone Crows, one of the Black Ears!?"

"He's certainly acting like one! Only thing you have in common with a Stone Crow is being too heavy to fly and only useful in battle by being dropped from a castle wall!"

Tyrion spurred his horse between both of them.

"Enough! Shagga, stand down or the clans will have no weapons, me living or no."

"But he-"

"You attack him, he kills me, and can claim it was done in treachery. Understand?"

Tyrion did not even look behind him for fear of seeing the Wolf's smug expression. He did not give the barbarian a chance to gloat.

"Ser Wolf, you had a proposal?"

Now Tyrion turned back, and was pleased to see the Wolf looking surprised.

"Yes, I do."

The Wolf shook his head a few times, as though to chase away the thoughts of murder that probably filled the barbarian's head night and day.

Tyrion took the opportunity to whisper to Shagga.

"Shagga. Attack only if he looks about to strike, but stay silent, got it?"

Shagga looked murderous, but nodded. Tyrion turned back to the Wolf, who now looked fully composed.

"I have been ordered to propose an... alternate outcome for this war. It makes me no happier to relay it than you to hear it."

There was no hint of sarcasm or irony in the Wolf's words, he seemed angry just to be there.

Tyrion spoke next, his heart racing at thought of the king's ransoms the Wolf would demand after insisting all of Westeros fight him. The gold mines of the Lannister lands were all but dried up, and the Iron Bank would certainly never consent to helping after Baelish's manipulations.

"And your proposal is...?"

The Wolf continued in the same angry but controlled voice.

"I can take this world through force of arms and deeds of valor, as planned... or you can surrender it, by giving to me the undesirables of your society. Scour the prisons and infirmaries for the worst of the worst, and send them here. The murderers, the rapists, the traitors, and the diseased. All of them, regardless of the severity of their crime, their claims of innocence, or their chances of survival."

Tyrion took some time to answer.

"And what will you do with them?"

The Wolf shook his head.

"That is my concern. But once this is done, with nothing left for me to do here, I will leave, with all my men, and all those under my banner."

A heavy silence fell, but the Wolf was not finished.

"Rest assured that if you accept, if you willingly follow the path of craven submission, I will remember this moment of abject cowardice, and your names will forever be besmirched, and join those of Dletch Ogrefeeder or Sveinbjorn Snakebelly in eternal infamy."

The Wolf pointed a finger at Tyrion.

"Do not disappoint me, Tyrion Lannister, Shield-slayer and unchainer of dragons."

Tyrion remained silent for some time. Finally he spoke, trying to inflect his voice with as little impertinence as he could.

"So either we fight you, or we let you reinforce yourself on your word that you'll leave afterwards."

The Wolf did not answer immediately, but eventually nodded.

"That's not the way I would have put it, but yes."

Tyrion looked the Wolf in the eye.

"And then you will return at some unspecified date, to hit us even harder."

The Wolf snorted.

"Certainly not. If this world holds anything of interest to me it certainly isn't its fighters. Every time I ask about one it turns out he's already dead."

The Wolf shook his head irritably.

"No, with the true gods' victory being assured already, I would much rather you chose battle and at least made a fight of it. I have had my fill of the weaklings who call themselves warriors here."

"Then I will..."

A thought occurred to Tyrion.

"Ser Wolf, a request."

The Wolf looked askance at him.

"Yes?"

"If I had... taken you up on your offer, and agreed to join you. Would all of this have happened?"

The Wolf stayed silent for some time, then sighed.

"I do not think so, no. Had the Dragonqueen been in more reasonable mood, perhaps, and if you had been there to convince her... But what's done is done."

The barbarian sighed again.

"Now look at us, reduced to making deals and negotiations like courtiers planning a palace revolution. Take this offer to your people, but remind them what it means to accept."

Tyrion hesitated. He was no stranger to the negotiations the Wolf so despised, but this was the first time he'd seen a threat of violence accompanying an offer of surrender and not the other way around. The Wolf interrupted his thoughts.

"I in turn have a request for you. Whoever leads the horse-lovers has yet to show himself."

The Wolf took a small bag from his horse's saddle and gave it to Tyrion. It was oddly heavy, and he thought he heard a sloshing liquid inside.

"See that he gets this, when he returns."

The barbarian started to turn around.

"Ser Wolf, how will we warn you that we have come to a decision?"

The Wolf looked surprised, then pensive.

"A fair point."

He unhooked a particularly deformed skull from a hook at his thigh. It looked like a ram's, if ram horns curved around to grow through the eyesockets.

"Hang this up near the command tent. When I see it, I will let you know when I will come to negotiate."

The Wolf placed the hideous trophy on the pommel of Tyrion's saddle and turned about. He retrieved his sword, untied the reins, and headed back for the castle without a backwards glance.

Tyrion watched him go, unsure of what to think, then returned to the Flame Guard, followed by Shagga. The Red Priests at least would be easy to talk out of sending hundreds of men to the Wolf, even if they were all murderers or sick, but asking the Westeros lords to commit to a long war when the Reach was already sitting out would be another challenge altogether.