The morning sun had risen, though none could see it. The mists covered the lake in a uniform blanket, and only the sound of the strong waves broke the silence. Only a few soldiers were near the shore, some off-duty and trying their luck at fishing, others fetching water.
They barely had time to scream when the raiders of the Iron Fleet shredded the fog, beaching themselves at the same time as the Ironborn jumped into the shallows, swords drawn. Gorion claimed the first kill, his tentacle wrapping around a Crownlands soldier's throat to silence him while sliding his sword into the man's belly.
The few witnesses silenced and their heads taken, the Ironborn returned to the ships, setting down gangplanks into the surf. Horses were coaxed from the bellies of the ships and into the surf, where the raiders mounted up, Deathbound in the lead. The cavalry set off slowly at first, but accelerated into an unstoppable force that crashed into the sleeping warcamp with the power of a tidal wave.
Tyrion awoke, bleary-eyed and with a pounding in his head. He looked hopefully at the barrel near his cot, but it stood empty.
Loud noise filled the air outside, which harmonized with his hangover to deeply disagreeable effect. Tyrion stepped outside of the tent to demand that the disturbance stop.
Screams and whoops filled the air as the horsemen charged and slashed at panicking footsoldiers, appearing and disappearing into the all-encompassing mist. Tyrion was struck with horror for an instant, then quickly looked for a way out. The marauders were everywhere, he would not make it three steps out of his tent before being cut down. His eyes fell on the empty barrel.
In a heartbeat Tyrion had pulled the barrel upright, grabbed the lid, and jumped in, holding the lid as close as he could. The sounds of battle faded, but he heard muffled footsteps and an unknown language. He froze, hearing the clatter of objects being moved about and cheerful voices. They were looting the tent and its wine barrels, and from their tone it was obvious the marauders were overjoyed to find such a hoard. He would have to wait until they had gone, and then-
Suddenly Tyrion felt his barrel being lifted up. A chill ran down his spine as he realized that he could not escape now, lest they fall upon him. Then the motion changed to an oscillation. He was on a horse now, he was sure of it. Not for the first time, Tyrion heartily yet silently cursed the Wolf for bringing ruin to his world and himself in particular.
Gorion grinned savagely as his sword plunged into a soldier's neck. His shoulder tentacle struck at the dead man's face as he fell. Other marauders slashed at tent poles and ropes, then stabbing or throwing torches onto the men trapped underneath. Horsemen charged, cutting down soldiers and servants alike. Others grabbed whatever plunder they could and ran back towards the ships, dropping their burden and running back to seek more.
While most of their victims died swiftly, exceptions were made for any man found holding a horn that might have been used to harass Harrenhal's guards at night, and these were hacked apart, their lips sliced off, their lungs pulled out or left with their guts spilling on the ground.
There was bound to be more resistance soon, but the mist and general chaos were slowing down any efforts to mount a counterattack.
Gorion entered a tent at random, rewarded with terrified shrieking. Two women were inside, clutching at each other, their faces deformed by sheer horror. One of them desperately held up a strangely-shaped metal circle as an Ironborn might hold an idol of the Drowned God during a thunderstorm.
Gorion snorted derisively, just as the medal flashed a blinding white.
"Gah! Bitch!"
"In there! Get the bastards!"
Still blinking, Gorion cursed and pulled back from the tent. The fog was starting to clear, and a line of pikemen was advancing hurriedly between the tents. Gorion thought he heard a horse whinny accompanied by a Dothraki curse. No time left.
Gorion pulled a warhorn to his lips and gave a blast before running back to the ships, unconcerned with whether the Deathbound actually followed. They would either hear it and obey, or hold to their oath and die in service to the Changer.
On the beach, the last of the plunder and warriors were loaded up and the surviving horses brought onboard, just as arrows started finding their way into wood and flesh. Gorion was the last aboard, his last two victims a Stormlander and a Thenn too wounded to get back to the ship in time, putting a dagger in the woman's hand before slitting her throat with his own sword.
The ships scraped away from the beach and disappeared into the mist and waves, leaving behind them a warcamp in utter disarray, bellowed orders answered by roaring flames or the moans of the wounded and dying.
The endless shaking ceased, and finally Tyrion's hiding-place was still. There was a loud scraping sound and a shudder that sorely taxed Tyrion's aching arms, then only the sound of creaking wood and rhythmic splashing. A ship?
Tyrion cautiously emerged from the barrel, his limbs sore.
As he'd guessed, he was aboard a ship, in a hold smaller than the Seafang's. There was no one else about, but he could not remain in the barrel, it was bound to be discovered, and his arms would not be able to hold the lid tight enough to prevent it from being opened.
In what little light came from the open trapdoor he spied a much larger crate, overflowing with what looked like clothing.
Without a moment's hesitation he plunged into the crate, burrowing under the contents, which turned out to be furs of a much more delicate sort than the pelts the Wolf's men and Wildlings wore. Why the brutes needed such fine material was beyond him, but before he could ponder more on the subject, he heard voices approaching. Tyrion heard the barbarians speaking and emitting grunts of effort, along with scraping sounds, but they did not attempt to look into his hiding place. He resigned himself to wait once more.
Gorion leapt down from the prow of the Waveslitter and onto the beach protected by Harrenhal's ramparts, his heart light. The raid had been successful beyond his most optimistic hopes, barely half a dozen Ironborn dead, only a score of northern savages lost and a handful of Deathbound having yet to fulfill their oath. Even though the lake now churned with currents and waves as strong as those around the Iron Islands, the return trip had gone relatively fast.
The Wolf approached, taking in the sight of marauders unloading plunder and horses. He first went to the Deathbound survivors, three of them holding a dozen horses by their bridles.
"Ah, Sigo. Odd to see you here, I thought the point of the raid was to atone for your earlier failures in battle?"
The bloodrider shrugged, no remorse showing in his voice or attitude.
"A man's life is useful to the gods. But horses are useful to men. Since their riders died, and the horses owe nothing to the Changer..."
"Ha!"
The Wolf clapped the bloodrider on the shoulder, nearly felling him.
"Feed them, rub them down, and have Akkarulf look them over, he needs them- and you- by evening."
"It will be done, khal."
Then the Wolf turned to Gorion, who had understood little of the Dothraki's language but could see his captain was satisfied.
"Now you, Gorion. Anything to report?"
"Went in smooth and quick as into a toothless whore's mouth, jarl. We must've killed a dozen before they even sounded an alarm. But we won't be able to do it again, the waves have gotten too strong since the other day."
The Wolf nodded, then looked appreciatively as the barrels, crates and loose valuables being carried off. Already two men were arguing over who had brought back a gold drinking cup, though blades had yet to be drawn. The Wolf ambled over unhurriedly, while Sven Swordeater emerged from the castle, his raven-topped staff fluttering in the wind. He looked dispassionately at the ships, then started as he saw Gorion. He rushed over and pointed his staff at Gorion.
"What do-"
The seer held up a hand, the staff level with Gorion's eyes. He saw the dead bird's beak open far wider than it could have done in life, and a pinpoint of light inside. Sven danced around Gorion, muttering to himself, but answering none of his questions.
At last he seemed satisfied, and ran over to the Wolf, who had settled the dispute by proposing to split the cup in half, and giving half a cup to half a man each. For some time the seer spoke excitedly to the giant, repeatedly point at Gorion. Gorion stood still, not knowing what to make of the agitation.
At last the Wolf turned and motioned Gorion over.
"Sven tells me they used sorcery on you?"
Gorion nodded.
"That they did. I signalled the retreat then, the attack was faltering anyway."
"What happened exactly?"
"They had a metal circle with two lines coming out of it, held it up and it flashed in my eyes."
Now the Wolf looked as excited as Sven.
"Straight lines? Or curved?"
"Curved, like a swimming snake."
The Wolf's next question took Gorion by surprise.
"The whole thing looked like a comet with two tails?"
"Er..."
Gorion tried to recall the object.
"Yes, I suppose it could have."
"Can you draw it?"
Gorion traced the symbol as best as he could remember it on the sand. The Wolf sighed with satisfaction, but then frowned.
"And who wielded it? A bald man, armored, holding a hammer burning with light?"
"No, I didn't see any of the Red-"
"Not them. "
The Wolf shook his head.
"What you describe is the symbol of a craven and weakling god of the southerners. But why would he or his catamites be here? What did these sorcerers look like?"
"A pair of witches, young too. They were terrified when I came in their tent, held up the thing, and that's when they blinded me."
Evidently this answer was not satisfying to either outlander, for they looked at each other and conversed for some time. Finally Sven left in a hurry, the Wolf watching him go.
Then he turned to Gorion.
"Sven will see if the masters can give him guidance. In the meantime-"
Gorion turned to see why the Wolf had stopped talking. Bjarnhilda emerged from the castle walls, walking provocatively towards the Wolf and giving Gorion an appraising look. The Wolf did not look happy to see hir, while Gorion unconsciously stood straighter and flexed his muscles.
The two continued speaking for some time, the Wolf's expression growing ever more murderous with every repeated mention of Sigvald. Finally the androgyne left, the Wolf's face staying locked in a scowl. At last he spoke.
"Get the plunder inside. It seems the geld-prince has another demand I must deal with."
"Yes, jarl."
Gorion had just started to move when the Wolf spoke again.
"Oh, and Gorion?"
Gorion turned.
"Yes, jarl?"
The Wolf rested a hand on Gorion's unblessed shoulder, and without even pushing down Gorion suddenly had to struggle to stand straight. The Wolf spoke without looking or even turning his head towards the Ironborn.
"The next time two southerling maidens manage to send you fleeing, don't trouble yourself to return to me. A life of raiding and pillaging in the service of the Ruinous Powers is not for everyone, perhaps you can take up dressmaking or singing in taverns or some other career that is more suited to the strength and courage you displayed today."
The giant's tone was level, but there was every indication that he did not speak in jest. Gorion swallowed.
"Yes jarl!"
The Wolf lifted his hand. Gorion ran to the ships, his heart racing. The Wolf sighed, then turned to head inside Harrenhal.
What felt like hours later, Tyrion felt the crate slide as the ship stopped.
The hold filled with the sounds of movement once again and Tyrion's crate was lifted up and hauled away. The marauders climbed stairs and occasionally bumped his transport against walls, but through it all Tyrion stayed silent, both hands clamped over his mouth and nose to prevent the slightest sigh from escaping.
At last the crate stopped moving, scraping against stone. Tyrion waited until the men's footsteps faded away before cautiously lifting his head.
He was in a cellar with a single door, light coming from a narrow opening in the wall high above. Ears strained to hear anyone coming, he cautiously clambered down from the crate.
The cellar might have been used to keep prisoners before it held the Wolf's takings, as there were chains bolted to the wall and a hole in the floor, which he put to its intended use. Relieved in more ways than one, he heard footsteps approaching and ducked behind a crate. Once the steps went past the door, he stood up again.
Among the plunder hauled into the room he spied a few haunches of smoked meat and a flask of rotgut. He ate and drank his fill before returning to his burrow in the crate of furs. It was certainly past midday by now, but he resolved to stay hidden until night had fallen, when hopefully there would be fewer guards.
Harrenhal was famously hard to enter, but certainly it couldn't be that hard to leave if nobody was looking for him. Perhaps Jon or Grey Worm would think of him and order the Wildlings to continue their nightly harassment of the wall guards.