As the sun reached its zenith, Tyrion looked warily out as the convoy approached the middle of the no-man's-land where he and the Wolf had met.
He did not think the Wolf would suddenly attack, but who knew what went on in his mind? There had been no further attacks, or any sign of activity from the castle since the traitor Dothraki raid, save for a single arrow the previous day reading "Midday. Bring guests".
And so it was that he led a delegation of some twenty lesser lords of Westeros, Shagga son of Dolf, Tormund Giantsbane, three bloodriders who had wordlessly joined the group, and enough footmen to occupy a small village. Despite riding between two fur-clad mountains of muscle, Tyrion felt uneasy. The Wolf seemed to like him, and would have probably been great friends with Tormund, but it was all the others who might set the barbarian off.
There was an oblong white shape in the distance which soon became a long tent. As he came closer, he saw that tables had been set under the tent, the air shimmering behind it. Cooking fires, perhaps?
What Tyrion had taken for a small copse of trees near the tent moved, unfolding itself into the Wolf himself, clearly waiting for them.
Tyrion shook his head at the preparations. Was this another drinking contest like the one the Wolf had invited him to, a last feast for warriors to share before their deaths? Would there be battle the next day?
The incongruous but tantalizing smell of grilled meat struck his nose. Two carts filled with huge wooden crates stood nearby, another empty one near the firepit and three bubbling cauldrons.
At last the envoys were in speaking distance of the Wolf, who stepped forward to meet them. He was still in full armor, but perhaps in deference to the fact that this was to be a diplomatic meeting, seemed to have left his belt of swords at the castle.
"Welcome, Shield-slayer, and to your guests. Well met, Giantsbane, Dolfsson."
Tormund grimaced and Shagga looked nonplussed. The animosity the Wolf had displayed towards him in their first meeting seemed to have vanished.
"Come, we shall eat first, and speak later. Better sleepy heads than empty bellies."
Several of the lords looked dubiously at him, hand resting on swords. The Wolf did not look at them, but his voice carried to every man.
"A word, lordlings of Westeros. I have been told breaking guest-right is something of a beloved and time-honored pastime in these lands. I will not claim we hold it as sacred in Norsca either, but as I have been to some trouble to feed you all, the least you could do is partake in it. Fighting is as enjoyable as feasting, but it's hard to do in that order."
Servants, dull-eyed and dressed in grey took the reins of the envoys' horses, although the Dothraki pointedly hitched their horses themselves. They were nowhere near the size of the Wolf's men, and Tyrion wondered if they had been part of Harrenhal's garrison.
The Wolf indicated Tyrion's place at the head table, which stood higher than the others, leaving the rest of the entourage to seat themselves as best they could. Tormund and Shagga wordlessly followed and sat down, Tyrion within arm's reach of Shagga.
From his specially elevated seat, Tyrion could see one or two squabbles break out between minor nobles over the question of precedence. From the Wolf's sardonic chuckle, he saw the same thing.
"You are used to such scenes, Ser Wolf?"
"When negotiating? Oh yes. It happens among the Norsca as well, but such disputes are more swiftly resolved. And it leaves more to go around."
The Wolf clapped his hands together with a ringing sound.
"Come, lordlings of the south, taste the food of the north. I'll wager you rarely had the opportunity to taste it."
Servants brought forth immense platters of steaming and smoking meat, served upon great trenchers of dark bread. Slices of meat thick as a soldier's arm were laid upon them, some grilled, others boiled, still others salted or smoked.
Tyrion did his best to keep up, the Wolf digging into meat like his namesake, Shagga and Tormund nearly matching him. Tormund especially looked surprised on the first bite, but it did not seem to hamper his appetite.
A servant had been assigned to himself and the Wolf especially, a bald and bearded marauder who seemed no less downcast than the scullions. This one cut far smaller portions of each dish, presenting them to Tyrion. As soon as he had finished one or showed he disliked the taste, the trencher was whisked away and replaced by another.
At one point the Wolf frowned and castigated his henchman, who had just refilled his master's trencher with a lump of meat the size of a rabbit.
"Einarr! það er of lítið!"
The marauder winced and brought a platter covered by an enormous hunk of meat still on the bone. The Wolf took it without a word and returned to his food.
As he chewed, slowly Tyrion came to the realization that the entire meal had come from a single type of beast, neither beef nor sheep nor pork, nor any cattle that he could think of. The variety of the dishes came from the way they were prepared, and not what they came from, running counter to the Westeros thinking of impressing guests by the rarity of the ingredients.
Mead flowed freely into drinking horns, but it was nowhere near as heady as the wines the Wolf had served before leaving for Dragonstone. It seemed the Wolf had been serious about leading the negotiations after all.
At last the meal ended, the groaning of the tables replaced by the groaning of the guests. Shadows lengthened as servants picked up the considerable leftovers while courtiers went off to relieve themselves in whatever trees or bushes they could find. The Wolf himself took a deep breath, as though even his appetite was sated, and belched hugely.
"It seems we've reached the end of the meal, swords yet unsheathed. If there isn't going to be an assassination we might as well move on."
The Wolf turned in his chair to face Tyrion. His elbow fell on the table, shaking it.
"Now then... When we last met, I gave you a message for your kind. Your answer, Shield-slayer."
Tyrion looked the Wolf in the eye. There was expectant silence.
"We refuse."
The Wolf grinned.
"I knew you wouldn't let me down. The siege continues, then, until the last man falls."
Quite a few of the lords within earshot looked less than happy at the pronouncement. Tyrion felt it safest to change the subject.
"Might I ask, Ser Wolf, why you have gone to the trouble of feeding us? I appreciate the gesture, of course, but..."
The barbarian nodded.
"It occurred to me that though your ranks have swelled with the arrival of the gilded skulls, your supplies might not have been sufficient, and that the prospective of famine could lead to desertion in your ranks. For this reason, and because I know all too well that men will fight for glory but cannot eat it, I thought you might like some assistance in that regard."
The Wolf stood up and barked an order, and the two carts near the cooking fires rumbled forward, creaking under the weight of the crates stacked inside. Tyrion stood as well, but on the table.
"As I happen to have more than enough for my needs, and we are called upon to be neighbors for some time, I thought I could free up some space in the larders and keep the camp dogs safe from the spit for another day. Incidentally, did you care for it? Giantsbane I have no doubt knows it well, but I cannot imagine that your refined southern courts often see food fit for real men."
Tyrion stole a glance at Tormund, who looked uneasily at him.
"Mammoth meat."
The message was clear. The Wolf could go and fetch more and supplies anytime he liked. Starving him out would be impossible.
"I see. Thank you for this... generous gift."
He would have to see the Red Priests about making sure none of it had been poisoned. And yet some inner voice kept telling him the Wolf was entirely honest about his motives, that he really did want nothing more than an eternal siege.
Tyrion silenced it. Thinking the Wolf was nothing but a guileless barbarian was what had gotten them into this mess.
"I say gift, but it seems to me more like compensation."
The Wolf looked sharply at Tyrion, who managed to hide his satisfaction.
"There is also the matter of what you have done with the warpstone."
"Oh, that."
Tyion felt a strong urge to strike the Wolf for his flippant manner.
"Yes, that. Are we to expect your magicians to rain fire from the safety of the walls at any moment?"
"Certainly not, Shield-slayer, I wouldn't have gone to all this trouble otherwise. No, I keep my sorcerers on tight leashes."
"And you believe the food makes up for the theft?"
The Wolf seemed to have regained his composure.
"I would hardly call it a theft since you didn't seem to be using it, Shield-slayer, or even all that concerned with guarding it. Anything precious to you would have been better defended, not by a handful of eunuchs more concerned with polishing their spears than watch duty, and kept not in a tent but a proper set of walls. Or what is that little fence in your camp for? Is one of your soldiers so timid as to require a private latrine?"
Tyrion ignored the crass jibe.
"We have one of your men captive."
The Wolf's face was perfectly immobile, then his eyebrows raised.
"You do?"
"He goes by the name of the Warrior."
Again the Wolf's face showed no emotion. Was it a mask, or was he truly ignorant?
"He's always screaming about blood, skulls, and corn for some reason-"
"Oh, him. Caeron, I think his name was, before he was chosen. I have not had many dealings with him, enough to know his faith was sincere and pure."
The Wolf's manner was perfectly frank, but why did he claim ignorance of the man?
"How did you capture him? I shouldn't have thought he was the kind to be taken alive."
"The Hound subdued him, and the Dothraki dragged him back."
"The Hound! Ah, good on him. His brother would likely have tried to beat Caeron's head in, and still be at it today."
"So he truly is invincible?"
The Wolf snorted.
"Hardly. The Blood God would hardly render one of his servants unable to serve him, now would he?"
"The? Blood God?"
"Ask your cinder-priests. Doubtless they will be more than glad to explain what it is you are up against if the price to pay is their little secrets."
Tyrion fought hard to keep the treasonous thoughts set off by the Wolf's snide voice at bay. The priests had rarely outright given them knowledge of the enemy, but most likely to keep them from falling prey to their temptations as the Wildlings and Ironborn had.
The Wolf shrugged his shoulders, skulls clicking together.
"Shame. I had hoped he'd have made more of an impact. It would have been better for all involved."
Tyrion's eyebrows raised.
"May I ask how?"
"I'd thought he could train the locals into something resembling a fighting force, that my own men might have had something to fight against after our victory here, or that by giving your own forces something to train against, improve the quality of the battles here. One-sided slaughters are all well and good, but they're hardly the sort of thing to attract the favor of the gods."
The barbarian shrugged again.
"But now you tell me he and the warriors he'd trained lost to a band of horsemen so cowardly they have yet to face me in battle."
The Wolf sighed.
"Ah well, it was the raw material that was at fault in the first place. The best smith in the world won't produce a sword from clay."
"Then it is of no use negotiating his release."
The giant shook his head.
"Indeed not. If anything, he'd curse you for a weakling and a coward if you tried. Use him for sparring practice if you...
Tyrion grimaced and turned around as the Wolf's voice trailed off. The robe of a Red Priest was closing in on them.
Parltro advanced on the tent, his staff gripped in one hand, his face menacing as a thundercloud. His first words were for Tyrion, glaring hatred at the Wolf all the while.
"You negotiate with this abomination!? Have you lost what sense was given to you at birth?!"
The Wolf was silent, staring at the priest. Then he slowly let out a sigh of satisfaction.
"Oh, I like him."
The barbarian looked at Tyrion.
"Really, Shield-slayer, you spoil me. First the hairy savage and now this."
The Wolf smiled at Parltro.
"I bid you welcome, priest of ember and ashes. Come to claim a tithe for your poorbox?"
"Scum! My faith is a shield proof against your blandishments!"
The barbarian's grin widened. The three Dothraki drew closer, while Shagga and Tormund stood next to Tyrion.
"With a skull that thick, who needs faith? The Molehill would have had difficulty cracking it open!"
"Aberration! I will still the flow of excrement from your impure mouth!"
"You'd know plenty about impure mouths, especially about making them impure! How many altar boys and grieving widows have received your staff of office up one end then the other?"
"I will not hear this blasphemy! Your words are as poison, to be drawn from a wound and purified by fire!"
The priest's staff burst into flames. The Wolf shot it a glance.
"Must be useful for reading licentious texts by night, that. Does it come in different colors?"
"I will send you back to the pit of filth and corruption you should never have left!"
" 'Pit of filth and corruption'? It's true that I was there all through last night, but is that any way for a priest to speak of his mother's cunt?"
Parltro would undoubtedly have thrust his flaming staff into the Wolf's face, but two of the Dothraki bloodriders had grabbed him by the elbows, while the third walked up to the Wolf, seemingly unafraid.
"We bring a message from khal Goro."
Tyrion's head snapped to the Dothraki. He had not been told of this of this, what was Goro playing at?
"Do you? About time. What message is that?"
"He will not fight you, for you are unclean and defile all you touch. Send out the traitor Brillbo, who we know to be among your forces, the khal will deal with him personally."
The Wolf looked long and hard at the Dothraki, then chuckled. It was somehow more disturbing than any of his usual threats. Even Parltro seemed to be listening as he struggled.
"You may reassure your cowardly chieftain, horse-fondler, when I next give battle Brillbo will be tasked to ride for the khal... if he deigns to appear on the field this time."
The Wolf looked at Parltro as though just noticing him.
"Release the priest, horse-lovers! Perhaps he will give us a demonstration of what bright lights can do against the will of Kharnath!"
The Dothraki tightened their grip and dragged the furious priest away.
The Wolf looked up at the sun and made an impatient noise. Turning around as though near fourscore hostile men no longer existed, the Wolf walked off, bellowing orders to the servants.
Tormund looked at Tyrion.
"What do you think?"
Tyrion shook his head.
"He showed no fear of being killed, even invited us to. I think he has something planed even if he dies, just as if he's killed by magic."
"Do we keep what he gave us?"
Tyrion hesitated. The Wolf's words were unfortunately true, the arrival of the Golden Company had suddenly depleted the warcamp's stocks, especially with the Reach unwilling to send supplies.
"We'll get the priests to look it over."
The delegation left two carts of meat richer, but their minds clouded with doubt. The Wolf's cruelty was well-known by now but his behavior was unlike any known madman of Westeros.
What could his plan be?