Evening fell on the warcamp, a dozen soldiers of R'hllor maintaining their vigil over the tent holding the tainted stones. They had been set some distance away from the rest of the tents, ensuring that any thief would need to cross open terrain to get to his prize.

Veserro, in charge of the watch that night, changed his grip on his spear, content that another day had gone by without needing to use it. Thus far they had only needed to look menacingly to scare off intruders and would-be thieves, the Red Priests' warnings and the memory of the mutated warriors having discouraged most men from taking the stones for themselves. Then he looked sharply up.

Several mounted Dothraki were approaching from the camp in the falling dusk. Their weapons were sheathed, each wearing a leather cuirass that covered their upper arms. Their leader spurred his horse up to Veserro and spoke in halting Valyrian, though still more harmonious than the barbaric tongue of Westeros.

"Khal Goro thinks, the intruders. May, strike tonight he. Sends us, to reinforce."

Veserro nodded.

"Your help is welcome."

The Dothraki took positions around the tent containing the tainted stones, half staying on their horses, the others dismounting and standing next to the soldiers.

Soon night fell, and the only light came from torches and campfires. An hour passed, and a faint glow appeared from the eastern side of the camp, soon followed by the clamor of battle.

The Dothraki pointed and exclaimed in their language, one turning to Vesserro.

"The camp, under attack!"

"No! Stand your ground! It must be a distr-"

Veserro gasped as a sudden pain flashed between his shoulderblades. All around the tent the Dothraki turned on the Flame Guard without warning, slitting throats and smashing arahks on heads.

Veserro collapsed, still holding his spear, unable even to speak as the traitors hurried into the tent and emerged carrying the chests of tainted stone.

One of the Dothraki mounted his horse next to Veserro, obviously thinking him dead. The sight of the last chest being loaded onto a horse spurred new strength into him. Veserro forced himself to stand, paying no heed to the pain in his back and legs, and thrust his spear up and into the rider's armpit.

The Dothraki howled in pain before coughing blood as the blade passed through his throat. Veserro threw himself sideways, levering the man off his horse, both landing in a heap. The spear fell from his nerveless fingers.

Veserro could not move at all, but grinned savagely as the leader of the Dothraki spat on him. Then a heavy blade struck his neck, and the light enveloped him.

The gates of Harrenhall creaked open, and marauders and Ironborn alike cheered at the Deathbound's triumphant return. Akkarulf stood next to Brilbo as he dismounted.

"So?"

"Killed guards, no one left to tell."

Several marauders began unloading the chests of warpstone. Akkarulf looked at the horses and frowned.

"Aren't you missing someone?"

"Yes. Drosso killed by last guard. But took his head."

The Dothraki pointed to the Essosi head dangling from his saddle.

"You didn't take his body? They'll know who it was!"

"No. Them not."

Akkarulf turned as Sven seemed to appear from nowhere. The sorcerer spoke without taking his eyes off the chests.

"Southerners, dislike Dothraki. Find dead Dothraki, missing loot, think traitors among them."

"But... even if that happens, won't that make them fight each other and not us? The Wolf isn't going to like that."

Sven's gaze turned from the chests at last to give Akkarulf one of the most pitying looks he had ever received. Akkarulf averted his eyes, doing his best to ignore the snickering behind him, and pulled a chest from a horse. Though he could stop any challenge to his authority as the Wolf's lieutenant with a glare, the sorcerer was another matter entirely.

Despite the Wolf's frequent threats of torture, death and mutilation, Sven was necessary to the victory of the Ruinous Powers, and any who harmed him and threatened the gods' plans would be punished accordingly.

"My lord!"

"zwha?"

Tyrion blinked as the soldier shouted again. There was quite a lot of shouting going on outside.

"Lord Snow calls for you!"

Tyrion dressed hurriedly and followed the soldier eastwards. As he did, he saw others running towards the western end with buckets of water.

He found Jon, Aldma and several officers near the tent guarding the warpstone, or rather where it had stood. The chests were all gone, the tent collapsed and surrounded by the corpses of the Red Priests' bodyguards, some missing their heads. There was another corpse, a Dothraki with a spear struck through his chest and out his throat.

The khal arrived at the same time, smelling of smoke and followed by two bloodriders. His eyes took in the scene before settling on the dead horseman.

Tyrion looked at Jon.

"What happened?"

Jon looked westward, where the glow of the fire was still visible.

"They set fire to the other end of the camp. Ran up on horseback, threw torches at anything that burned, and then pulled back. With everyone looking west, it would've been easy to bring men to the tent."

One of the Stormlander officers looked pointedly at the dead Dothraki and the hoofprints covering the ground.

"Men on horses, to carry away the loot."

"The tracks lead further west. They might not be headed for the castle immediately."

"If they're going to the castle at all."

The accusation could not have been more obvious. The khal looked coldly at the man.

"You believe I ordered this."

This was plainly the case from the faces on several of the officers.

"Dead Dothraki here, plenty of loot gone..."

Fortunately the Red Priest spoke up, striking the ground with his staff.

"Cease this foolishness at once! This is evidently a plot by our foe to spread discord among us in addition to the theft. Do not let it succeed."

Jon nodded.

"We know his Deathbound joined up with him, along with at least one tribe of northmen. If he wanted to make it look like we've got traitors it's a good way to do it."

Tyrion remembered something. He took the knife out of the dead man's belt and started cutting at the leather sleeve.

On the corpse's shoulder was a strange flame-like tattoo. It seemed to move in the torchlight.

"Your reverence?"

Aldma looked down at the symbol tattooed on the corpse's shoulder. His face was a mask of revulsion as he pointed at it with his staff.

"As you see. This entire scheme bears the mark of their foul gods, literally so."

Jon looked curiously at it.

"What is that?"

"The symbol of treachery. It means this wretch was a devotee of a god who rewards traitors and falsehood. Who better than to send on such a cowardly mission?"

"The Wolf called it the Flame of Mutation."

Aldma smiled coldly.

"The fool forgets himself and reveals more than he should. He believes he can still act in secret."

Jon made a doubtful face.

"Or maybe he did know, and is trying to intimidate us."

Tyrion considered the idea of the Wolf making subtle threats and rejected it. Although he had shown base cunning on other occasions.

"Or so he wants us to think."

Aldma looked impatient.

"So dry a debate will keep for another time."

Aldma turned to Goro.

"Are the traitors well-known to your men?"

The khal looked impassively down at the corpse.

"I remember he was among the cowards condemned by the khaleesi. But they were kept apart from the others."

Aldma nodded.

"Then your men must now keep their shoulders bared at all times, there may be other attempts at trickery."

"And the stones? What do we do now that they're gone?"

Aldma held up his staff before turning towards the camp.

"We will reinforce the wards and rituals we are already cast to protect the camp. His magics will falter before the might of R'hllor, as a man to whom strong drink has granted strength and fury falters before a cool-headed defense."

Tyrion nodded, but felt little comfort. The Wolf's magic had struck Daenerys from a much shorter distance than that which separated the camp from Harrenhal, true, but if this stone amplified the powers of sorcerers and turned men into monsters, what else could it do?

"I think... I think it's time we negotiate with him again."

The Red Priest whipped around.

"Negotiate?! What can you hope to gain from it?"

"That he not obliterate us through magic. You heard of what he did to Daenerys because she wouldn't go through with attacking the city. All this time he's demanded we fight him, and now he has the means to make sure of it. What can we do but do as he asks?"

"He has lied before, what is his word worth to us?"

"I'd rather do that than wait for the sky to rain fire on us."

Aldma made no answer.

By daybreak the mutated ram's skull had been nailed to a pole and erected near the command tent. Shortly after, an arrow struck the pole at head height, bearing a message.

Tyrion unrolled the message and read it to the assembled commanders.

"In seven days."

Jon snorted.

"Now he wants us to wait?"

Harry Strickland looked thoughtful.

"We can use the delay, I've put the siege engines under double guard and it's slowing their construction. In a week we should have at least two trebuchets ready."

Jon sighed.

"Then so be it. We wait."