As the sun rose over the the walls of Harrenhal, Akkarulf suppressed a yawn as the Wolf approached. He had stood watch through the night, waiting for the Wolf to return from one of his many expeditions to gods-knew-where.
"The Dothraki returned yesterday, yarrl."
"Have they? Good, good. Have they put up the sign?"
Akkarulf looked back to the command tent, knowing full well the skull had yet to appear.
"Still nothing, yarrl."
The giant made a curious sound, between an angry snarl and a resigned sigh.
"How long will it take? They have the Shield-slayer's tongue and the ash-worshippers to convince them, they can't all be so craven as to seek immediate surrender!?"
"Maybe they gave the khal your message, and that's slowing them down? Or they think they can starve us out."
The Wolf looked at Akkarulf, and nodded slowly.
"Perhaps."
He looked out at the camp and frowned.
"Odd. You see that tent on the outskirts?"
Akkarulf nodded. According to the men on watch the previous day, the tent had been erected soon after the Dothraki's arrival, pitched outside the eastern edge of the camp. A wooden stockade was erected within the camp, but having only ordinary eyes, they could not say what was kept within.
"I did, yarrl. I don't know what's in there, but the priests' warriors have been guarding it day and night. Same with that little palisade there near the shore."
"Hm."
The Wolf looked out at the tent and the tall fence for some time, then shrugged.
"I'll have Sven see what he can do."
The Wolf turned around and descended to the courtyard.
A messenger ran into the great tent, clutching a scrap of parchment.
"Message from an outrider, my lords! The Golden Company is set to arrive within the week!"
The mood in the commanders' tent lifted considerably. The promise of siege engines, elite warriors, and war elephants would do much to bolster the troops against the Wolf's madmen, and push back the desperate measures that usually ended sieges. One Crownlands knight immediately stated his opinion.
"We should hold position, shore up the defenses and refuse battle until they arrive."
A Dornishman shook his head. His arm was in a sling, broken in the battle against the Wolf's men by an outlander with three eyes and arms the size of legs.
"How long do we have until the bastard attacks again? You think he'll hold off until the Golden Company arrives?"
Tyrion shrugged.
"He didn't give me a deadline, but we can't hold him off forever. He expected us to reject his offer anyway. Who knows, maybe if we tell him we're expecting reinforcements he'll hold off to give himself a better fight."
It was a sobering thought. Another Crownlander spoke.
"Could we use the prisoner to bargain?"
Tyrion shook his head.
"I very much doubt it. But we might be able to get some information from him, at least."
Jon looked doubtful.
"How? Goro's men have tried everything they could think of. He bleeds, but no one's managed to make him beg for mercy."
Tyrion dropped from his stool.
"Then I will try."
"You?"
"The Wolf seems to like me, perhaps his man will feel the same. A barrel of wine or three, and he'll certainly be more amenable, or maybe let slip something important."
It was nearly midday when Sven Swordeater joined Akkarulf on the wall. Behind him, two marauders carried bags of herbs, animal bones, a bronze firepot, and other tools of his trade.
The seer lit the brazier, cast herbs and bones in it, and breathed in the smoke. The marauders held back, their faces awed and worried.
The flames flashed purple and gold as Sven muttered in a strange and guttural tongue, sounding as though two people were speaking from one throat, arms raised over the brazier. Now and then the flames blazed bright crimson, as though the red and purple were fighting for dominance.
At last the flames died down, and Sven looked out over the battlements. There was a hungry look in his eyes.
"So? What're they hiding in there?"
Sven did not answer, only grabbing his staff and running down the battlements at breakneck speed.
Akkaruf looked at the marauders. They shrugged and looked just as confused as he felt.
Tyrion entered the palisade, a small barrel under his arm and two cups in hand. The Warrior stood before a table in the middle of the enclosure. He had been tied by his neck to four poles driven in the ground, his arms shackled behind his back and his legs laced together.
The madman had not been allowed to lie down since his capture, yet still he glared defiance at Tyrion, who stood on the table and filled both cups.
"Good day, er, Warrior. As good as any a time for drinking, no?"
Of all the reactions the barbarian could have had, Tyrion did not expect what came next. The Warrior's voice erupted like a thunderclap from a clear sky.
"GET AWAY FROM ME, VILE DEGENERATE! DESPICABLE LITTLE SHIT! YOU WILL NOT CORRUPT ME, SOFT-LIVING WRETCH!"
Tyrion fell off the table from sheer shock, the cups tumbling to the ground. The Warrior thrashed like a man possessed, the poles restraining him trembling. His face bore an expression of hatred Tyrion had rarely seen on anyone apart from Cersei. Tyrion scrambled outside, the madman's imprecations following him.
"HATEFUL RUNT! DEPRAVED ABORTION SPAWNED OF A WHORE AND A DONKEY!"
The guards stared at him, the Warrior's screams barely muffled by the wooden walls.
"What the hell did you do?"
"SCUM-SUCKING BOOTLICK!"
One of the guards ran into the palisade. The sound of wood hitting flesh only temporarily silenced the Warrior's profanities. It was a while before Tyrion could breathe again.
"I... I offered him a drink."
Still feeling nervous, Tyrion wandered away from the palisade. Neither the Wolf nor any of his men had shown any aversion to drinking, why would this one feel so different? And why such hatred directed at him specifically?
Qyburn stood next to the headless corpse of the Mountain, held up by wooden trestles. He dabbed a foul-smelling fluid from a small bottle onto the corpse's flank, watching the results closely. So absorbed in his study was he that only when the Wolf's hand fell heavily on his shoulder that he noticed the barbarian's presence.
"Fleshcrafter! Give me good news."
"Certainly, my lord. If you will please stand back."
Qyburn put on thick gloves and grabbed a long rod of copper, touching it to a sliver of gold that had been jabbed into the ragged stump of the corpse's neck. Then he backed away, making an authoritative gesture to a diminutive rat-man straining under the weight of a green glass bottle glowing from within.
The creature pressed the bottle's copper tip to the rod. Immediately there was a spark, and the corpse shuddered, its legs moving in rhythm. The wooden scaffolding holding it up fell away, and the corpse took a lumbering step forward, Qyburn keeping it connected to the jar through the rod.
Only when Qyburn lifted the rod did the corpse collapse to the ground, fluids spurting from every wound and orifice. The Wolf's face did not move.
"… And?"
"Well, my lord, this will allow the corpse to remain animated even if it should lose its head, which was the principal obstacle in the reanimation of Ser Gregor the first time. If you would look there.'
Qyburn and the rat went to another corpse held up by scaffolding. It was a man's torso, a shortsword lashed to its left hand, the legs reduced to stumps and the skull partially removed, several gold needles jabbed into the brain.
The maester once again touched the rod to the bottle then to one of the needles. The corpse jerked and swung its arm forward, the sword slicing through the air.
"You see? By applying this bottled lightning in infinitesimal amounts to the appropriate depth, the corpses can still swing their weapons. It is still crude, naturally, but the weapons cut flesh nonetheless."
One of the rats held up a severed arm in front of the corpse at a signal from the Maester. Qyburn touched the rod to the needles again, and the sword cleaved through air, flesh, bone, and the rat's paw. It squealed and scurried towards a shadowy corner of the vast cellar.
The giant nodded curtly but said nothing. Qyburn went on.
"I have good hopes that I will be able to perfect and simplify the apparatus, by shortening the rod and using smaller bottles to-"
The Wolf held up his hand.
"Yes, yes, very good. And you can scale it up afterwards?"
Qyburn nodded, the Wolf touching on a subject which had occupied his thoughts for some time.
"I believe so. The principle is sound, as you have seen, but the process must be refined. Currently the corpses tear themselves apart if used for too long, possibly due to an excess of vital flui-"
The Wolf interrupted, rolling his eyes.
"Then continue your work. Gods willing, you will soon have more corpses to play with."
As Qyburn pulled his gloves off, he noticed one of the rat-men running up to the Wolf and squeaking excitedly. Whatever it said, it left the Wolf looking pensive. Qyburn returned to his studies, wondering what the rats could want with the barbarian.