The Red Priest was sent for as soon as they returned to the camp. Tyrion did not wait for the man to fully enter the tent.
"Your reverence, he said the war will not end until all the kingdoms of Westeros stand against him."
Aldma looked nonplussed.
"He did? Strange. But then lies come as easily as breath to his kind."
Tyrion shook his head.
"I think he means it. I daresay he's more used to being the besieger."
"But he also said that he will send a plague that will force the Reach to abandon their infighting or starve."
Aldma's face became grave.
"That is within the power of his gods."
Silence fell on the tent. At last Tyrion spoke.
"Then we have no choice but to force some House of the Reach to join. He said even one will do."
"But we do have one."
Heads turned to Jon.
"We do?"
He nodded.
"But we'll need to act fast if we're to be ready for tomorrow. Round up all the squires you can, there's lots of sewing to do."
The rain fell in gray sheets on the warcamp the next morning. Tyrion poked his head out of the door and shook his head.
"Not letting up anytime soon."
A nervous-looking lordling from the Stormlands faced him.
"You think he'll hold it against us?"
Tyrion was about to make a bitingly ironic answer, but thought better of it. No use in getting allies riled up against each other.
And it wasn't as though he hadn't asked himself the same question.
"Who knows."
Another lord from the Riverlands snorted impatiently.
"Are we at his beck and call? This is no weather to fight in, even he is not so mad as to ignore that!"
A drenched sentry entered, separating a scrap of parchment from a sodden arrow.
"This just landed on the Morrigens' tent, my lords!"
Tyrion took the message and read it.
"There's enough of it where the ink hasn't run. It says tomorrow."
The door creaked open in the darkness. Missandei shivered as an unseen form grabbed her arm and dragged her from the tiny wooden cell. She had not washed in nearly two days, given only water and nearly-stale bread to eat, and her handmaidens only allowed in to exchange her clothes for a ragged sackcloth and smear ash in her hair.
Suddenly she yelled as her captor grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled, tears welling in her eyes. She stiffened on recognizing her tormentor's voice.
"Enough of that, save your voice for later."
The Wolf pulled her through the dark space until they emerged into sunlight. She hardly had time to work out where she was when she suddenly felt herself flying through the air, caught by enormous arms. The Wolf had thrown her from the deck of a huge ship incongruously resting in a wooden cradle to a marauder below, and behind it an immensely tall castle wall.
The Wolf jumped from the deck to the muddy ground below. Another barbarian stepped before her, holding strips of leather. Her limbs were bound, hand to shoulder and foot to hip, the marauder holding her rubbing obscenely against her body as he held her up.
The Wolf looked critically at her, then spoke a few words to one of his henchmen, a bald and bearded man with a resigned expression.
Once the other barbarian was done, a leather collar was fastened around her neck. The henchman returned, holding a long chain. The Wolf grabbed the chain, held it up to the collar, and sighed in exasperation.
"Einarr! það er of lítið!"
The marauder ran off and returned with a length of chain that could have held a bull. The Wolf fastened it to the collar, and nodded.
"Right. If that doesn't do it he's a monk and not a man."
Missandei was half-carried, half-dragged to a large cart bearing an ornate wooden throne. Two enormous cream-colored horses, not yet harnessed, stood before it. The marauder forced her down on hands and knees next to the throne, then jumped off. The Wolf pushed her down.
"Keep your head down until I tell you otherwise. Wouldn't want to ruin your makeup."
Misandei obeyed, but by twisting her head she could just see the wall and the Wolf looking impatient. She heard jingling as the horses were harnessed to the cart then a clinking as the other end of the chain was picked up.
"Sit down and grab that, you."
The Wolf yelled at someone she could not see, and she heard the sound of several people climbing into the cart. The Wolf bellowed an order, shooting a glance back at the castle, and the cart slowly lurched forward.
Tyrion peered anxiously out towards Harrenhal, standing on a barrel to be at shoulder-height with his neighbors. The Wolf's approaching outline was recognizable at this distance, but it was harder to see what the cart next to him was carrying. He looked to the side.
The Dothraki had placed themselves in two wings on either side of the delegation, ready to charge at the first sign of treachery. Tyrion, Grey Worm, Jon and other nobles stood in the center on a mat thrown over the muddy ground. Behind them were placed the banners of their Houses. Aldma stood some distance away, his staff in both hands.
"What in the fuck?"
Tyrion could not fault whoever said that, as the cart came closer and its occupants came into view.
On the cart drawn by two enormous stallions was placed a carved wooden throne. On the throne sat Cersei, flanked by a pair of the Wolf's henchmen, and behind them two women with hair so fair as to be almost white.
But not Cersei as he remembered her, gaunt and her mouth lined with worry, her eyes shadowed from drink, her hair cropped short, her belly swollen with her and Jaime's child. She looked as she had in the prime of her youth, her hair flowing down to her waist, clad in an shimmering garment that revealed more than it hid. Her breasts were bare, each held up by the men behind her.
Her smirk of self-satisfaction had not changed either. Tyrion heard shocked mutterings and bawdy comments in the assembly.
It took Tyrion some time to notice Grey Worm was not looking at Cersei. He looked again. Cersei held a chain in her hand, and cringing by the throne on all fours was Missandei, the chain ending in a collar around her neck. For a brief, horrified instant he though her limbs had been amputated at the joint, but as he looked closer he saw her hands and feet had only been bound to her shoulders and hips. The effect was no less unnerving.
Her hair was wild and streaked with gray, the ragged sackcloth she wore showed more bare skin than even Cersei, and she had obviously been crying. Without even thinking Tyrion's hand closed over Grey Worm's, who had half drawn his sword.
"Don't. It's what he wants you to do."
Grey Worm glared down at him, but pushed his sword back in its sheath.
At last the Wolf was within speaking distance. He spread his arms to the sides, an appeasing gesture from one they knew was anything but.
"Noble lords of Westeros, I come to you with an offer. I have two women here, who you would no doubt prefer to know in your company than mine, though I suspect for wildly different reasons. One a mistreated slave awaiting her gallant rescuer..."
The Wolf looked straight at Grey Worm and smirked before continuing.
"… the other the whore-queen who has done more to plunge your realms into disorder in a single lifetime, than any of her predecessors could in centuries. One to save, and one to punish."
"One of them, then, will return with you, and the oth-"
A voice rang out, audible to all and coming from behind the cart.
"Wuuulllllfffyyyyyy, I'm bored."
They all turned towards the sound of the voice, Tyrion noting the expression of utter hatred followed by furious resignation that passed over the Wolf's face. Then he could not think.
Standing before them was a young man of radiant beauty, his golden hair shining like a second sun, his arms and thighs exposed through cuts in his masterfully-crafted and jewel-encrusted armor, his delicate feet not touching the mud but floating just above it.
But it was not the perfection of his body that made them stare. Tyrion stared at a face that he had thought to be forever rid of. It was a cruel, haughty, sneering face, one that demanded and expected obedience to its every capricious whim.
It was-
"Joffrey?"
Cersei had dropped the chain and jumped off the cart, walking forward as if in a dream, heedless of the mud and cold, bringing her hand up to the youth's face.
"Joffrey, it is you, you've come back to m-"
"Ugh!"
The sound of the slap rang out across the clearing. Cersei fell as though poleaxed. The young man with Joffrey's face now glared at Cersei with an expression of absolute disgust.
"Wulfy, who is this old hag who dares to touch me?"
Tyrion looked back at the Wolf, who looked from the newcomer to Cersei and back repeatedly. Then understanding seemed to dawn on him, and he broke into hysterical laughter. Finally the storm of hilarity passed.
"Hee hee... Hoo... Brhm. Yes."
The Wolf stood up straight, wiping a hand across his eyes. He cleared his throat and swept out a hand to designate the newcomer. His voice was full of false cheer.
"Nobles of Westeros, I present to you prince Sigvald the Magnificent, the Geld-Prince, the Champion of Slaanesh, the Lord of the Decadent Host."
The Wolf had his back turned to the prince to face his audience. Tyrion was certain the giant muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "what's left of it".
"He leads our little expedition, by the will of the gods."
The golden youth preened like a cat, his gaze falling over every man at the assembly with an air of contempt. If it was not Joffrey who stood before them, it might as well be.
"What is this rabble, Wulfy? More of the denizens of this world, come to admire me?"
"Indeed, geld-prince, but your presence makes them insignificant as stars before the sun. I am appalled that you troubled yourself to find me. Why did you seek me out, when surely a messenger would have sufficed?"
"I'm bored, Wulfy. There're no more maidens to defile, and now they won't scream anymore, they don't even have the strength to whimper."
"Do they, bright lord? And I specifically told the man responsible to take special care not to disappoint you. He has failed me, but far worse, he has failed you. I shall have him punished, in a manner appropriate to the inconvenience he has caused you."
"No, I want to do it!"
The youth pouted, sounding for all the world as Joffrey did when he was denied a sweet from the kitchens when he was not yet ten.
"Of course, exemplar among paragons. Kruissla will know where he is. I shall take you to him if-"
"Ugh! No, I'll go myself! You're as worthless as this crone!"
The youth turned and left, his cloak billowing behind him as he floated back towards the castle.
The Wolf closed his eyes and drew in a deep, slow breath. One of his hands shook convulsively until he balled it into a fist and clenched it in the other. There was an audible squealing of metal.
Then he breathed out equally loudly and opened his eyes, his gaze passing slowly over every man there. It was clear that the humiliation the golden youth had inflicted on him would be taken out on any who dared pass comment. There would be no discussing of what had just happened.
"As I was saying."
His voice was thick, as though still possessed by a strong urge to kill something.
"You will take one of them back, if you want the other you will fight for her. And by this time tomorrow the Reach will suffer plague and woe, grain will rot and liquefy on the stalk, grapes will sour on the vine, herds will take sick and die in days, and womenfolk will give birth to monsters."
Suddenly he turned to face Aldma.
"Tell the truth for once in your life, ember-priest! Tell them whether or not I am stating a fact, or if my words are as hollow and empty as your god."
Tyrion shot a glance at the Red Priest. His face was pure hatred, but catching Tyrion's look, nodded silently.
"That won't be needed, the Reachmen are here already."
The Wolf stared at Jon. He was evidently taken completely unawares.
"They? What?"
"House Tarly has sent men to aid us. You wouldn't have seen them, they only arrived yesterday."
Jon pointed to the side, where Samwell Tarly stood, clearly uncomfortable in his newly-stitched tabard bearing the red archer and green field of his House. He'd stayed up late to help Jon in making it look weather-beaten as though he had just ridden from the Reach and not been living in the warcamp since the beginning of the siege.
The Wolf did not look at him, but turned his head.
"Akkarulf!"
One of the marauders behind the throne leaped off the cart and trotted up to the Wolf. He was not as enormous as the barbarian, but was considerably taller and broader than any man of Westeros present. A helm shaped like a snarling bear hid his features.
"Is House Tarly among those of the Reach?"
The marauder nodded.
"And able to put up a fight?"
Jon frowned. There was something strangely familiar about the henchman's posture, not quite cringing, but definitely lacking in confidence, quite at odds with his massive frame. He was sure he'd seen it somewhere. The marauder nodded again, but with less assurance.
Apparently satisfied with his subordinate's report, the Wolf turned his gaze on Samwell.
Samwell suddenly felt himself go hot, and not due to the itchy tabard. Despite the difference in height, size and hairiness, there was that familiar expression of disappointment and contempt. He had the distinct impression of facing his father again.
The Wolf waved a hand in Samwell's direction.
"And are the men he brings all as fat and soft as he? I've seen smaller tits on an ogress."
Samwell stood up as though stung.
"I killed a White Walker!"
His voice was much shriller than he would have liked. The Wolf's expression did not change.
"By sitting on it, or swallowing it whole?"
"I stabbed it, if you must know."
Still the Wolf's face did not move, until eventually he sighed.
"I have seen men rewarded by the gods for lesser feats, that depended more on chance than skill. Very well."
"I cannot claim that I am entirely satisfied, but then these conditions are not made by me. The Seven Kingdoms- all nine of them- are aligned against the Ruinous Powers. The war will end."
"And, disappointingly though you did it, you carried out your end of the bargain, and so shall I. The Reach will be spared the plague. Now, which-"
"Missandei."
Grey Worm had opened his mouth for the first time since the meeting had begun. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword convulsively. The Wolf looked at him, then the rest of the assembly.
"Any others?"
Tyrion felt glances all over him. He shook his head, then looked at Cersei. His sister had still not risen from the mud, looking back at the direction the golden youth had gone.
"So be it."
The Wolf looked behind him, whistled sharply, and made a jerking motion with his head before turning to walk towards the cart. The marauder standing next to the throne took out a knife and slit the bonds around Missandei's limbs. The two women immediately stepped forward to support her, helping her off the cart and keeping her up, one holding the chain, the other her shoulders.
Missandei took a few steps forward, slowly at first then faster as the blood returned to her limbs. She saw none of the other onlookers, only Grey Worm's face was visible. Even the Wolf's massive form approaching them did not exist.
Grey Worm watched her approach, his throat dry, when suddenly the Wolf stretched out a hand and caught her mid-run as he passed the three women. Grey Worm's heart nearly burst, but the barbarian slid a finger under her collar and snapped it as he would a twig before continuing on his way.
The chain had not fallen to the ground that Missandei was already running straight into Grey Worm's arms, tears flowing freely down her face. He threw his arms around her as though he would never let go again. Neither paid any attention to the cheers around them, or the handmaidens crying for joy.
The perfection of the moment was marred by the intrusion of the Wolf's mocking voice.
"Worm! That's three women for you to empty yourself in, I expect you to perform as well on the battlefield as you do in bed! Girls, if he hasn't killed a dozen men that day, keep your legs shut! If his spear isn't wet with blood, make sure his sword stays dry!"
The Wolf snatched Cersei from the ground and flung her into the cart, followed by his henchman. Then they were off to the castle without a backwards glance.