"They're coming!"
The joyful shout from the camp guard left no ambiguity as to whether he had sighted friend or foe. Idlers and off-duty soldiers gathered around the camp gate, exclamations of surprise turning into loud cheers when they saw the colossal form of Wun Wun striding at the head of the convoy.
Behind the giant came wagons and columns of footsoldiers, the outrider horsemen falling back now that the road was relatively safe. A few looked to Harrenhal and shook their fists, their confidence bolstered.
Sansa alighted from her wagon in front of Jon and hugged him.
"So good to see you again!"
"Indeed, your H-"
Sansa held up a warning finger.
"Don't start calling me Highness unless you want me to call you Hand, Jon."
Jon smiled, lines of worry disappearing from his brow.
The enormous hounds chained to the cart behind her growled, until a soldier threw bloody hunks of meat at them.
"You brought Ramsay's hounds?"
"Might as well make themselves useful, they eat more than Ghost."
Jon's direwolf yelped happily on seeing him, and the conversation was interrupted by much ear-scratching and face-licking.
The dogs were dragged away on chains by three men each, and Jon looked back towards Sansa.
"You made the trip safely?"
"Oh yes. There were a few villages that lay abandoned, and a few bandits who never got close enough to be a threat. Were you expecting worse?"
Jon shrugged.
"With that lunatic, I don't know what to expect."
He looked over at the swarm of men unloading packhorses and wagons.
"Looking for someone?"
"Arya."
Sansa nodded.
"Well, she'll have heard about our arrival. I did wonder how you planned to keep her busy during a siege."
Jon's head whipped around so fast she thought it would come off. His eyes were wide.
"What!?"
Sansa stared at Jon in confusion.
"You- you haven't seen Arya? At all!?"
Sansa shook her head.
"I sent her to Winterfell with an escort to ask you to bring the host down here!"
Her brother's anxiety was catching.
"I never saw her! I mustered the troops as quickly as they could be assembled on getting your message."
Jon stood for a moment, his hands grasping at the air. He shook his head and motioned to a passing soldier. Sansa recognized the sergeant in charge of the messenger squad, who saluted with a hand holding a flagon.
"Yer grace?"
"Your report, Duncan. Come inside."
Jon, Duncan and Sansa entered the command tent.
"Well?"
"Not much to tell, m'lord. We rode for Winterfell, got there with no trouble save for a horse losing a shoe after a ford. But we made up the time, delivered your message, and rode back down with them."
"And the lady Arya left you safely?"
"Aye, sir she did."
Jon nodded, as though it had little importance. He briefly look ed for a way to ask the question without appearing to interrogate the soldier.
"When was this?"
"The day after we'd left camp, your grace."
"Did she exp- tell you why?"
"Only that she had a mission to carry out on your orders, and her accompanying us was a lure to trick them up in the castle. She turned back, and that was the last we saw of her."
Jon struggled to keep his voice level. The last thing he needed was for the soldiery to think there was another hostage, not when Missandei's return had given them such hope.
"Thank you sergeant. Dismissed."
The sergeant ran off, leaving Jon and Sansa in the tent.
"What do you think? Has she been caught?"
Jon shrugged helplessly.
"He probably would have mentioned it by now, by way of insult or as a hostage. Although I'm not sure why he'd keep her, so far the only demands he's made aim to make the siege harder on himself."
He noted that they both clearly believed Arya was in Harrenhal, for there could be no other place her skills of stealth and deceit could be of better use. But what would they serve against the magics of the fiend invading them?
The sound of a scuffle attracted Jon's attention and he stepped outside the tent. Wun Wun was near a pile of supplies the siege engineers had brought from King's Landing. He stared as he recognized what the giant was holding.
High above on the battlements, Akkarulf and the Wolf looked down at the agitation below, the former with trepidation, the latter with open satisfaction.
"Do you know them, Akkarulf?"
"That's Sansa Stark, yarrl. They must be the survivors from Winterfell."
"Ah, so some good fight-"
Suddenly the Wolf jerked up, staring at something in the camp, and slammed his hand on the stone. He laughed, slowly at first, but louder and more heartily. Akkarulf looked out but saw nothing that could have triggered such hilarity.
"What is it, yarrl?"
"Haha... Hoo..."
The Wolf cleared his throat and pointed outwards at the besiegers.
"What do you see there, Akkarulf?"
Akkarulf looked. The only remarkable thing he could see was the presence of Wun Wun.
"That's the giant from beyond the Wall, yarrl. I know he was at Winterfell, but-"
"Wait for him to turn around."
Akkarulf obeyed. The giant seemed to be carrying a wooden object as long as he was tall across his back, but only after Wun Wun had turned could he make out what it was.
"It's a... battering ram? But it's so big!"
The Wolf snickered.
"The first time that's ever been said of Sveinbjorn, I'll wager. Even in death he still serves against me."
The Wolf still looked quite pleased.
"Good! Not just a war of hurled stones then. With any luck they'll try to go for the gate first."
The Wolf turned and started down the stairs.
"Come. Anything new?"
Akkarulf looked down as he followed the Wolf. The dais on which the Iron Throne rested and the portal into the daemon realm above it was surrounded by furs, cots and other sleeping arrangements, on which those unchanged by the gods slept nightly, fervently praying that they too would be blessed.
On occasion this devotion would be rewarded after a sleepless night of pain, and another warrior would take the chosen's place. Competition for a place was fierce, a state of affairs Akkarulf suspected the Wolf encouraged.
"Only one last night, yarrl. One of Kraster's daughters has a mouth in her hand, whose spit melts stone."
"Hm."
They made the rest of the descent in silence, the Wolf heading towards the feathered man and the six-armed creature near the foot of the stairs.
"Feathers, Snotling. Attend."
Both transformed men looked at each other, not certain why the Wolf had sent for them.
"I intend to give battle in the week. One of you will join the field."
It was Baelish who asked first.
"What will become of the other, my lord?"
The Wolf's voice was heavily sarcastic as he answered.
"The geld-Prince will not be joining us, and so the other will report to him and cater to his needs, which are many and varied."
The two monsters looked at each other. Their time spent in the realms of their respective masters had taught them that victory over a champion of a rival power was worth a great deal, even when not through feat of arms.
"I volunteer, lord."
"Him? A backstabbing weakling? Let me command!"
The Wolf shook his head.
"I can't say I recall you being much better, Snotling. Given your brilliant performance, I wonder if should I let you on the field at all. You have more skill with a bow than a blade, and how do you plan to use one with those fingers of yours?"
The Wolf looked pointedly at the long razors that had replaced Ramsay's fingernails. Without a word, Ramsay brought one hand around the other's fingers, closed it, and wrenched the blades away, gasping ecstatically as the fingernails broke and shattered in his flesh.
The Wolf's gaze went from the bleeding fingers, which could certainly now hold a bow, and to Littlefinger.
"And you?"
Baelish looked at Ramsay and shrugged, the daggers floating above his shoulders rippling in response.
"What is archery compared to sorcery, lord? The Red Priests will be hard pressed to snuff out the Flame of-"
"Yes, yes, if all else fails you can talk them to death. Now then, I believe in rewarding good service and along with punishing the bad."
"Remind me, Feathers: who was it your heart and cock yearned for? I have some memory you offered me this world on a platter in exchange for her."
"Sansa... she's here!?"
"Sansa, yes, that was the name."
"Give her to me, and I will serve the-"
Ramsay interjected. Akkarulf's clenched fists went unnoticed.
"No! Sansa was mine first! I will bring her to unknown heights of pleasure and pain!"
"She never loved you, you illegimate shit!"
"Oh, and you think she'll love you? You'd have fucked Catelyn's waterlogged corpse if you could have found it in time!"
Both monsters had turned on each other when there was a sound like distant thunder. Then the Wolf finished clearing his throat.
"Ah, love. Truly there is no higher or exalted sentiment a man can feel. You'd have made fine troubadours, the pair of you."
The contempt in the Wolf's voice was such was they turned on him, their quarrel momentarily forgotten.
"If she does indeed inspire such passion in you, I believe I can arrange a consolation prize. The winner will take to the battlefield, the loser will spend a night with Sansa. Is this agreeable to you both?"
Ramsay looked confused.
"But- she isn't-"
"In the castle at the moment? Good, Snotling, you're smarter than you look. Admittedly not much of a feat."
Baelish snickered, but the Wolf went on.
"No she is not, and so I will have Bjarnhilda find a suitable replacement."
"Now then. Feathers, Sven has need of you in his lair. Snotling, the geld-Prince is in the stables, probably getting his holes stretched. I assume you can help him in this endeavor."
Paying no more attention to Baelish or Ramsay, the Wolf turned around and headed for the other resurrected champions, one of them chained to the ground, the other watched by halberd-wielding Ironborn. Akkarulf trotted after him.
"Urine, Molehill, Dungheap, pay attention."
Euron glared at the Wolf; the Gregors bellowed but could not escape the enormous chains binding their every limb.
"We will give battle in few days. Urine, you will be at the frontline of the west wing; Molehill and Dungheap on the east. You will fight until I give the signal to retreat."
The red-armored Gregor opened his mouth wide.
"BLOOOOOOODDDD!"
"Yes, Molehill, very good."
The Wolf turned to the Ironborn's leader.
"Gorion, you will command the west wing, Akkarulf, the east."
Euron's voice rose from the barnacle-ringed orifice that served as his mouth.
"They command!? I have been blessed far more than both of them combined!"
The Wolf looked at Euron with contempt.
"The strong command, Urine. I will let you lead men once you have proven yourself capable of fighting. As I recall, the last time you had the chance to prove your worth ended in you disappointing me and pissing yourself. Which I assume is what happened any time you sought to bed a wench, child or goat."
Euron surged forward, but the Wolf's fist struck out first. There was an audible crack and a pale white fluid leaked out from the mottled carapace.
"Temper, Urine. If this is meant to impress me with your obedience it's not working."
The Wolf pushed Euron back, and carried on unperturbed, his head turned towards Gorion.
"Order as you will, but remember that we are not to overrun their encampment. When you hear the signal to retreat, you will fall back or I will cut you down myself."
Gorion looked significantly at Euron, his hand resting on the head of his axe.
"And if he doesn't feel like falling back?"
"A good point. You will take your best harpooners and keep them with you in the fray. If he doesn't come willingly, drag him back. Akkarulf, you will do the same with Molehill, keep a man on every chain at all times."
Euron glared hatefully at his former subordinate, his crab's claw clacking furiously. Gorion smirked, enjoying his revenge to the fullest. Euron turned to the Wolf, breathing heavily.
"And if I do as you say?"
"Why then, perhaps I will give you a chance to show your worth. The gods saw fit to return you for some reason, perhaps this is why... or because they consider your failures so entertaining as to merit resurrection. Or were you hoping for another reward?"
There was barely any hesitation on Euron's part.
"Give me Cersei."
The Wolf's mocking expression did not change.
"She's not mine to give. Being a far better servant of the gods than you; if anything, you will have to ask it of her... and I doubt she'll find that tentacle of yours appealing, she prefers her brother."
Gorion muttered something under his breath. The Wolf's head snapped towards him.
"Say what?"
Gorion hesitated, but felt angering the Wolf was worse than revealing Euron's rumored proclivities.
"I said 'so does he'."
The Wolf looked blank for a moment, while the Ironborn guards laughed mockingly.
"You mean Urine prefers the gold-hand, or his own br-"
The Wolf fell silent, his face growing dark.
"Of course he would, it seems the law of this world. Get out of my sight, Urine. Gorion, get me Brilbo."
As Gorion ran towards the stables and Euron back to the damp cellar that the Wolf had given him as quarters, followed by most of the guards, the Wolf stood as if in thought, then suddenly spoke up.
"Akkarulf!"
"Yarrl?"
"Did you ever have a sister?"
Akkarulf started. Had the Wolf learned of his former life?
"I- I did."
"And did you ever sleep with her?"
"No! No, I didn't."
The Wolf looked at him with an unfriendly expression.
"I didn't- I didn't know she was my sister then, so I spoke to her as I would have to any comely young woman. That's all."
The Wolf held his gaze for a few moments longer, then sighed wearily, walking towards the approaching Dothraki and leaving Akkarulf confused and apprehensive. Aron detached himself from the remaining Ironborn and stood at Akkarulf's shoulder, looking bored.
The Dothraki looked alert as the Wolf approached them.
"Brilbo."
"Kh- Yarrl?"
"Your brother horsemen have requested your presence specifically. I have no intention of disappointing them, do you?"
"No, yarrl. I will take the head of Goro myself!"
"Glad to hear it. We will give battle in a few days, have your men ready. You had a plan, you said?"
"Yes. We ride at the enemy in a wedge as usual, but Shiezak sweeps to the left, Azamat to the right, a triple pincer. Goro will be dead before he knows it."
The Wolf nodded, then looked up at the sky.
"Take care it is your blade that finishes him."