Early that morning, the war-camp was disturbed by guttral screams and anguished howls. In the tiny stockade that held him prisoner, the Warrior struggled against his bonds, straining like a hound at the leash until it seemed his arms would twist out of their sockets. The ropes tore at his skin but he took no notice.
"Untie me, you curs! Let me fight!"
The man started frothing at the mount, but the restraints held. The messenger dispatched to inform the commanders found them gathered around a message that had just been detached from a javelin-like arrow embedded in the wooden post outside.
"Bring your elephants, your best men and the coward Goro."
It took some time for the Westerosi to muster themselves, but at last they stood in formation, facing the savage hordes. The veterans of Winterfell stood with the musters of the Seven Kingdoms and the Unsullied, the Dothraki on the right wing, the cavalry on the left, and the Golden Company's elephants before them.
Tyrion stood in the rear, looking out at the armies. He had again been given command over the archers, but he wondered whether they would be of any use today. The Wolf's forces seemed somewhat diminished since the last battle, but now there were far more of the armored giants and hideous mutants.
He was distracted by loud snarling. The Bastard's Girls, held on chains by three men wrapped in several layers of leather, barked and strained. If the Wolf's forces should come this far, they should at least provide a credible threat.
Jon Snow, flanked by Gendry Baratheon and Harry Strickland, exchanged a few words with Grey Worm before mounting his horse. As he headed for the left wing, he heard the eunuch's orders.
"Steady in the ranks! Move the elephants up!"
Flags waved, horns blew, and the ground trembled as the Golden Company maneuvered their beasts forward. Five stood in a line at the center of the formation, while a sixth slightly behind them carried on its back not archers but a scorpion salvaged from the siege of King's Landing. Taller even than the elephants, Wun Wun stood to their right, the battering ram brought from King's Landing held like a spear.
The agreed-upon strategy was to let the Wolf charge the lines as he had done the last time, then the cavalry would sweep in from behind. Having the infantry wait in the open was suicide if war machines and archer volleys were involved, but from what they knew of the blood-crazed outlander he would refrain from using them.
Horns, drums and yells sounded from across the battlefield. The gates of Harrenhal opened once again, and from them emerged an abomination.
It was a mammoth, or had been, but like none that lived beyond the Wall. Larger by far, rivaling an ordinary castle wall in height, its fur filthy and matted, spotted with patches of diseased skin where the hair had fallen out. On these runes had been crudely carved, weeping blood and pus. Green crystal formations erupted from its body at odd angles, piercing skin and fur.
The beast's trunk was split at its end into five grasping fingers, each with a long and blackened fingernail the size of a buckler. Seven tusks sprouted at odd angles from its mouth, the two largest ones fitted with serrated blades and swinging chains, the others pierced through with iron nails the length of a man's arm. The head was covered with an armored plate daubed with hideous sigils.
On its back it carried a wooden platform much like those of the Golden Company, though lacking a roof, carrying nearly two dozen outlanders. Perched atop its misshapen head, finally looking small compared to the mountain of flesh he stood upon, was the Wolf.
The mammoth's trunk rose and it trumpeted, a massive blast heard and felt by every soldier, and slowly moved forward. The rest of the marauders followed, the traitor Dothraki fanning out behind.
The archers released volley after volley into the advancing horde, but as Tyrion had feared, there seemed to be little effect.
Atop Black Korros, the largest of the Golden Company's elephants, the scorpion thrummed and sent a dart into the howling mob. Even at this distance there was no chance of missing. The elephant suddenly lurched forward, the scorpion's crew barely hanging on. Stolis the loader barely managed to avoid impaling himself on his own darts.
"Qanag, hold him still!"
"I'm trying! He-"
Then they smelled it. It was faint but unforgettable to any man involved in the rearing of elephants: the stench of a bull elephant in full musth. Qanag looked down from his position behind Korros' head to see the liquid seeping down the sides of his mount's head.
There was shouting from the other mahouts as Korros surged between the other elephants and then past them, breaking into a full gallop, shaking and twisting his head. Ahead of them, the mammoth accelerated as well, and now they heard it trumpeting in challenge.
Grey Worm cursed as the elephant line moved forward without warning. To let them advance unsupported was to allow one of their greatest assets to be swarmed to death.
"Follow them!"
The command was relayed, and the infantry began following after the beasts. On the wings, the cavalry started as well, moving slowly to keep the horses fresh.
Korros ran full speed into the mammoth, which bellowed in rage. As the beasts slammed shoulder to shoulder, the Wolf leapt from his perch onto the elephant's howdah.
"Time to fight like a man without your machines, Strickl-"
The Wolf paused, gripping a wooden beam as Korros shifted his weight to drive his spike-plated tusks into the mammoth's leg, the structure leaning sideways.
"You. Where's Strickland?"
"Ask him from hell!"
Stolis hurled a javelin at the outlander, but the mammoth slammed into Korros just before he let go, the weapon sailing harmlessly over the side. The Wolf backhanded him off the howdah without a second glance.
The two hosts met, with a wide space surrounding the elephant and the mammoth.
Once more the wild men of the Vale and the North stood at the front to take the brunt of the assault, but this time the Wolf's marauders had more than enough mutants to overpower them. Tentacles, claws and other appendages tore into flesh and dented armor, colossal maces battered shields and skulls, mouths opened to breath fire, spit venom or release torrents of flies, centipedes and other vermin.
Only before the elephants and Wun Wun were they given pause, squashed flat beneath the beasts' feet and tusks or the battering ram the giant wielded as a club.
Worse still, many of the taunts delivered by the monsters were not in the outlanders' tongue but that of Westeros, jeering at their former brothers for their belief in weak and false gods who demanded empty worship and gave nothing in return.
At the center, the Red Priests called once more upon the power bestowed by their god, and the soldiers' blades burst into flame. But this time, a hideous laugh echoed through the air and many of the flames flickered and died. Standing some ways behind the battleline, a line of robed men and mutants moved their burning hands through the air, and fire fought fire, flickering streams of purple striking at red.
On the right wing, a monster made of two giant men melded back-to-back at the waist, stumped forward on its four legs, clad half in crimson armor and half in rusted mail. It waded through the battle, its weapons slicing and smashing through friend and foe alike. Chains were bolted to its armor and weapons that dragged on the ground behind like the tendrils of a jellyfish. It constantly bellowed "BLOOOOOOOODDDD", drowning out the clash of blades and the screams of the dying. Though several Wildlings tried to flank and surround it, the rear half retched and threw up a stream of foul-smelling black bile that dissolved armor and flesh. One or two Wildlings fell before they could even get close, enormous arrows passing halfway through their skulls.
Between the left wing and the elephants, Sandor and Tormund stood at the head of a motley group of Free Folk and spearmen of all banners. Their strength had prevailed against the more deformed monstrosities, while the spears had claimed the lives of many a frenzied marauder.
The outlanders had fallen back as a particularly grotesque warrior now stood before them, wearing bulbous and rusted armor decorated with whorls, split diagonally from waist to opposite shoulder and only held together by iron staples. It bellowed in a strange voice, booming yet childish.
"FRIENDS?"
It was so unexpected that none knew how to answer. Finally Sandor spoke up.
"Not we're fucking no-"
There was a groan of metal and the staples exploded outward, sending blood, gore and maggots flying, the armor splitting to reveal an impossible maw. Monstrous fangs the length of the warrior's forearm lined it, while a tongue like a giant squid's tentacle pushed its way past, thrashing like a dying snake.
The warrior's head lolled to the side as though his neck were broken, but spread his arms wide and stepped forward.
"HUGS"
"Seven preserve us!"
The monster lumbered forward, the tentacle wrapping itself around the closest spearman. The soldier was pulled headfirst into the jaws in a heartbeat.
"Help me, lads! Help meeeee-"
The spearman's voice ended with a wet crunch as the jaws closed shut, the man's legs falling to the ground.
"You fucker!
One of the spearmen jabbed his weapon into the maw's gums. Tormund dropped his weapon and grabbed the teeth.
"Hound! Take the other one!"
Tormund and Sandor wrapped their arms around each half of the gaping jaws and pulled them apart as the soldiers thrust their spears into the monster. The tongue lashed out, reaping a grim toll among the soldiers, but the maw could not close and at last the horrible thing lay still. Tormund spat on the corpse.
"Fucking Thenn."
The marauders who had fallen back instead of interfering with their champion's battle now surged forward again, killing without regard for their own survival.
On the left wing, a man covered in fishscales leapt forward, smashing into an Unsullied line, a crab's claw the size of a dog snapping spears and bodies in half. A boarding axe held in a tentacled hand cleaved through chests and shields. He too dragged chains behind him, attached to his limbs and waist.
"Abomination! Servant of false gods! Return to the depths that spawned you!"
Parltro raised up his staff, fire glowing at its end.
The fish-thing turned, its gaze focusing on the Red Priest. Its mouth twisted upwards.
"You speak of false gods to me, priest? I, who have spoken with half a dozen, and killed so many more of their slaves?"
The fanatic was in no way discouraged.
"I know you by the stench of arrogance that surrounds you, as that of piss does a cesspit, Euron Greyjoy! The servants of R'hllor you murdered will be avenged!"
The priest stepped forward, ignoring the shocked looks of the Westerosi hearing the name of Euron being spoken.
"Witness the power of the one true go-grrrk!"
Euron's claw closed around the priest's neck.
"I cut the tongues off my own crew just to get some quiet, but you deserve something special."
"grrrkklllrrrr!"
Euron smirked, tightening his grip.
"You'll have to speak aaaarrrggggg!"
Parltro had jabbed his burning staff into Euron's face. The scales charred and blackened, and the claw loosened around the priest's neck. Parltro slipped back, one hand clutching at his throat, the other thrusting his staff forward again. Euron backed away, frantically brushing at the embers on his face.
"Urine! The horses!"
Euron turned, now looking at the Westeros cavalry charging from the flank. Snarling, he took a swipe at the onrushing horsemen, rewarded with a whinny of fear as the mount's head was crushed by the blow, creashing into its neighbor and unhorsing the rider. Chaos reigned as the horsemen tried to pull away from the monster in their midst while still cutting down the outlanders.
The Dothraki of either side had deployed along the right flank and charged into each other with a will, arakhs biting deep into flesh and bone. Goro and Brillbo were at the center of the melee, the former's strength of little use against the other's speed, as though forewarned of where the khal would next attack or feint.
Goro spat as he saw the tattoo on his foe's shoulder.
"Traitor."
"Weakling! I serve gods that reward me far more than the queen ever could!"
"They will not help you now!"
Brilbo grinned ferally. The Changer had guided him well, and now he had the chance to prove his worth not just to the Wolf but the Gods. The Flame of Mutation on his shoulder glowed as his arakh thrust out, striking the khal's blade with such force as to wrench it from his hand.
Brillbo raised his arakh above his head...
… and screamed as something hard and cold slid into his back, under the ribcage and out. Then a second one.
Gasping and choking, he turned to see his own bloodriders, Shierak and Awazat, removing their blades from his body. They pulled back, and Brillbo felt a heavy hand close on his shoulder and the back of his head. Even as Goro twisted his head further, even as he felt his neck snap, even as the darkness clouded his eyes, he felt nothing but the incomprehension of the betrayer betrayed.
Goro took Brillbo's arakh from his hand before the corpse had even fallen out of the saddle, but the traitors had pulled back, galloping back to the sorcerers and positioning themselves to screen them from attack.
The khal's fist clenched. He did not know why the traitors fought each other so, but his riders would be more useful to the battle to attacking the infantry. He gave the order, and the Dothraki charged into the melee.
Wun Wun's weapon lashed out, cutting through the enemy ranks as through water, when it stopped with a jerk that caused him to grunt in surprise. It had caught on one of the monsters, a four-legged thing that came up to his knee made of two men, one in red and the other in green. It snarled and bellowed, turning so the green head took the blows, and slashing the air as it tried to close on its foe.
Wun Wun's weapon rose and fell, but though the monster could not move at any great speed, it was in no way slowed.
Korros screamed as the mammoth's trunk closed like a fist around his eye and wrenched away. The elephant's skull cracked open , exposing his brain.
The Wolf hurled the last crewman off the howdah, drew his sword and rammed it into the exposed brain.
With a final agonized bellow, Korros toppled to the ground, crushing besiegers and defenders alike. The mammoth's trunk whisked out, snatching the Wolf out of the air to pull him back on its head. It drew back on its hind legs, screaming with an almost-human voice, and dropped back down, the tremor felt as far as the war-camp, pulping a score of fighters underneath.
With Korros' fall, visible from anywhere on the battlefield, the will of the Westeros men faltered. In ones and twos, then dozens, then scores, they fell back. The mahouts, seeing their own side pull back like a falling tide, pushed and beat their mounts until they too retreated, leaving the butchered carcass of Black Korros behind.
Only the Unsullied stood their ground despite their losses, Grey Worm among them. Strickland ran up to him, his horse devoured, his armor dented and covered in unpleasant smears, and his helmet half shorn off.
"Pull back to the palisades, they're going to surround us!"
Grey Worm glared hatred at the Wolf's beast, but nodded curtly. Horns sounded, and the forces of Westeros all fell back, only the Unsullied making any effort at an ordered retreat instead of a rout.
Wun Wun and the fused monster were still exchanging ineffectual blows, one falling short, the other having no effect, when without warning a sheet of flame, shimmering purple, blue and gold, descended between the fighters. The giant started and stumbled back, while the creature howled in impotent fury. From behind the wall a bolt of witchfire flew out, striking the giant in the head. Wun Wun's eyes widened, and he turned about, running as far from the wall of fire as he could, crushing a few soldiers unfortunate enough to be in his way.
The four-legged monster burst through the wall of fire with an agonized screech and stumped forward, all four eyes glowing. The Wolf's mammoth trumpeted, but the creature went on.
Euron crouched and sprang back up, rewarded with a scream of pain as the knight behind him was impaled on the urchin-like spines that served as his hair. He could not see the priest, but finding him was only a matter of time.
Even as he looked for the red robe, a glimmering wall of multicolored fire appeared before him. Euron snarled and moved aside, but the fire moved with him, blocking his path. He shot a murderous glare at the sorcerers behind, several of which were gesturing in his direction, obviously casting the spell to stop him moving forward. Doubtless the Littlefinger shit wanted to prevent him from reaping his share of glory. Then he heard the trumpeting of the Wolf's mammoth, and the voice of Gorion.
"Fall back, Urine! You heard me!"
The enemies of Chaos were either lying dead or fleeing, and now he saw a flicker of red as the priest was dragged off the battlefield by two soldiers. Euron bared his shark's teeth at Gorion, but obediently turned away from the battle and towards the castle. He could wait, and Euron could pass the time by imagining what he would inflict on Gorion for his insolence.
The outlander hordes cheered and blew their own horns, many running after the fleeing soldiers. Another blast from the mammoth's trunk stopped most of them in their tracks, another stopped the rest, and then only the four-legged monstrosity was still inexorably advancing towards the war-camp.
The Wolf's mammoth was seen to move forward, soon catching up to the monster. The marauders on the beast's back descended on ropes, then grabbed the chains the fused creature dragged behind it. Soon they had checked its progress, and it turned on them. The marauders hurriedly linked the chains to the mammoth, which turned ponderously to head back to the castle. The gates closed on them like a boom of thunder.
Inside the castle, the mood was celebratory. Men boasted of their accomplishments, of the number of foes they had slaughtered or broken, counting the heads and limbs they had taken in grisly contests. The Thenn had dragged several bodies back to the castle and set about roasting them on a great bonfire.
The Wolf ensured the mammoth and the Gregors had been secured, then turned about.
Euron Greyjoy walked past, the side of his face still scorched from the Red Priest's attack. The Wolf sniffed.
"Hm. Think I'll have grilled fish tonight."
The Deathbound Dothraki were dismounted and lined up before him, Brilbo's lieutenants before them. Ramsay Bolton and Petyr Baelish stood off to the side.
The Wolf stood impassively, gazing at each of the surviving horsemen in turn until they looked away. At last he spoke in their tongue.
"Scream, come here."
The giant drew his sword. The Dothraki did not hide his fear, but stepped forward.
Gripping the man by the neck and forcing him into a bow, the Wolf swung his sword not an inch from his victim's back, bringing the blade to the vertical with a flick of the wrist, sweeping through the Dothraki's hair as smoothly as through water, the releasing him. The Dothraki stood blinking until the Wolf held the severed braid before his face, the bells woven inside tinkling.
"You failed to kill the khal, and worse, survived to tell about it. Deathbound I named you, and such you will remain. You will ride into the thick of the fray, there to kill and die trying, until there are none left to kill... on either side."
Awazat took the trophy and stood silently, making no protest.
"Now the rest."
The Dothraki looked up, confused.
"Khal?"
The Wolf sheathed his sword.
"I have better things to do than play the barber for dead men. Cut your braids off- all of you- and then bring them to me. Start with Star over there."
The Wolf turned his back on the Dothraki, who drew their arakhs and started cutting their braids. Shierak performed the act on himself rather than let anyone else, his face flushed with humiliation.
Littlefinger and Ramsay approached the Wolf, the latter wiping his mouth. Baelish was not without trepidation, as the Wolf had said nothing of the Dothraki's betrayal of their leader. Perhaps the barbarian had not even noticed Brillbo's death, but he certainly could not have traced the one who had pushed the Deathbound into treason, ensuring only one man held the highest favor of Tzeentch in the castle.
"Ah, Feathers, Snotling. Good work today from the both of you, if lacking in valor. Follow me. Bjarnhilda!"
The androgyne approached, looking bored as always, and followed the three into the building and a room heavily scented with musk and other, stronger smells. Baelish recognized it as a guardroom, though all the martial equipment had been removed and replaced with whips and torture racks.
"The Geld-prince likes to use this room to take his mind off his... heavy responsibilities. I'm sure you'll find some way to entertain yourselves with it."
The Wolf then spoke to Bjarnhilda in an unknown tongue, and s/he turned hir gaze to both champions. Putting a hand on each one's head, s/he closed hir eyes, hips moving from side to side. Ramsay spoke up, evidently untrusting.
"What's going on?"
"S/he needs a good idea of what your damsel looks like. Let it not be said I rewarded you with a bad imitation of your true love."
"Now imagine her as hard as you can, can't be too different from what you do alone at night."
Baelish felt incredible warmth flow from Bjarnhilda's hand that had nothing to do with his cheeks flushing from the Wolf's insults. The heat spread to his body until he felt as though his groin and chest were melting into bliss. Even the eyes granted to him by the Changer closed in ecstasy. At last Bjarnhilda removed hir hands and looked smugly at him.
Baelish frowned. S/he looked a bit taller now, then he looked over at Ramsay, who was staring in undisguised lust. Horror and understanding dawned on Baelish who brought his hands up to his face. His smooth, beardless face, his long hair, his heavy chest. He gasped, and recognized Sansa's voice coming from his mouth.
"Ah, touching yourself already! I'll leave you lovebirds alone, Snotling, but remember the spell ends at midnight, make sure you've removed everything you want to keep attached to your body!"
Ramsay lunged onto Baelish as the Wolf and Bjarnhilda left the room and shut the door. The last thing Baelish heard before Ramsay's talons tore at his skin was the Wolf bellow for Akkarulf.
Once again the mood was somber in the war-camp, with the elation following the arrival of the Winterfell troops gone. The surviving elephants had been brought back to their enclosure, two of them limping badly, another suffering from a broken tusk. Wun Wun had been found near the lake shore, and thanks to Tormund, had spoken of the magic that had taken him and forced him to flee. Parltro had been taken to the Red Priests' tent, where two guards had been posted to prevent him from returning to the battlefield.
Once again the Wolf had demonstrated that he could devastate the forces of Westeros at any time, and that it was only by his will that they still lived. Even the magics his sorcerers wielded were obviously restrained, used to counter those of the Red Priests and corral in his own troops rather than wreak devastation on the battlefield. Parltro had not sufficiently recovered to express himself on the matter, but Aldma had reluctantly stated that the powers that backed the Wolf could indeed empower their devotees in such a way if they pleased.
The Wolf had lost a number of troops, to be sure, but the losses he inflicted on the Westerosi were worse by far.
Worse, enough soldiers had survived to be able to piece together the identities of some of the monsters the Wolf fielded. Euron Greyjoy had indeed gone over to the Wolf's side, and it was likely Gregor Clegane had once again been returned to the living, which posed the question of whether Cersei and Qyburn were also alive and in his employ.
The only relief came from the khal, who reported that the leader of the Dothraki traitors had been backstabbed by his own men and left to die. Aldma expressed great interest in this, making Goro tell the tale twice and extracting as many minute details from the khal as he could remember. If the Wolf had traitors in his midst, then there was some hope that they would strike at the least opportune moment for him, which they could then exploit.
It was at that moment that another arrow struck the pole outside, despite the deepening dusk. The message read only "Tomorrow".
Tyrion left the command tent with a headache and a dry throat. As he turned towards his tent near the lake shore, he saw the Vale Wildlings returning from the battlefield. Despite the losses they had taken, they still considered all metal plunder from the outlanders to be theirs, and had gone out to claim it.
Shagga, son of Dolf carried a ludicrously ornamented warhorn, carved in the shape of a horse's head, if horses had fangs and horns.
"What's that you have there?"
"A horn from the enemy."
Tyrion looked at the barbaric instrument. He had heard their plaintive, brash, or gut-shaking sounds, but never seen one up close. Suddenly he had an idea.
"Tomorrow evening, round up all those horns and as many men to use them. I may have a plan."