GOT: The Arcanine of the North

[Zetakille]

No one will ever believe her

Click to shrink...

Until a second incident happens....at which point it becomes a local legend.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The morning sun broke through the dense canopy of Gods Eye as I opened my eyes, letting out a low breath that rustled the ferns. The adrenaline from the assault on Harrenhal was completely gone, leaving behind a heavy, aching exhaustion. The graze along my ribs from the scorpion bolt still stung.

It was time to see exactly what Harrenhal's night assault had earned me.

I focused my mind, pulling up the pale blue interface of the System. The notifications cascaded instantly.

[Combat Report: Siege of Harrenhal]

[Targets Eliminated: Ser Amory Lorch (Commander), Kevan Lannister (Lord), 400+ Vanguard Infantry, 6 Siege Engines.]

[Massive XP Awarded.]

[Level Up!]

[Level Up!]

[New Skill Unlocked: Morning Sun]

Description: The user absorbs ambient sunlight to rapidly restore HP and mend physical injury. Effectiveness increases depending on the intensity of the sun.

I blinked at the glowing text. A healing skill. The System was really preparing me for the future.

I pushed myself up into a seated position, wincing slightly as the torn muscle stretched, and looked up at the patches of clear blue sky visible through the leaves. I triggered [Morning Sun].

The effect was deeply soothing. The golden rays of sunlight filtering through the trees seemed to physically bend toward me, pooling onto my coat. A warm, glowing aura enveloped my frame. I felt the jagged, bleeding tear along my ribs stop stinging. The damaged flesh knit itself together, the scab flaking away into ash, leaving behind fresh, unblemished skin that quickly vanished beneath a new layer of fur.

The pain evaporated. My stamina reserves refilled, replacing the heavy exhaustion with fresh energy.

I stood up, shaking out my mane, my heavy claws digging into the soft earth. The Riverlands were behind me. It was time to return to my pack.

By midday, I had left the winding trails of the woods and found Kingsroad.

I decided not to use [Extreme Speed], as a steady, loping run from a beast my size was enough to cover ground at a terrifying pace. The muddy tracks of Robb's two hundred lances and the deep ruts of the Stark wheelhouse were stamped clearly into the dirt, leading straight North.

The road mostly empty, cleared by the rumors of war. But not entirely.

Somewhere near the northern borders of the Riverlands, an exhausted hedge knight was plodding along the road. He looked to be half-asleep in the saddle, his rusted chainmail clinking dully, his tired, swaybacked horse moving at a miserable crawl. The poor man was nodding off, a half-eaten apple loosely held in one hand, completely unaware of the beast rapidly closing the distance behind him.

I shifted slightly to the left to give him room, keeping my pace.

I blew past him as a silent blur.

But the sudden, violent gust of wind ripped the apple from his hand, blew his tattered cloak directly over his face, and sent his horse spinning in a panicked circle.

"Fuck!" the knight shrieked, blindly flailing his arms as he tumbled backward out of the saddle and splashed heavily into a roadside puddle.

By the time he managed to pull his cloak off his face and draw his rusted sword, staring wildly up and down the empty road, I was already a mile away, nothing but a cloud of settling dust on the horizon.

...

The air grew noticeably colder as the sun dipped below the horizon. The landscape shifted, the rolling fields giving way to the gloomy, dense bogs of the Neck.

Ahead, the flickering orange glow of campfires dotted the dark.

Robb's vanguard had set up camp for the night. Men were posted at the perimeter, their spears resting lazily in the cold air, completely unaware of the shadows shifting in the trees just beyond their torchlight.

I stepped onto the damp moss, letting the wind carry the smell of me straight into the camp.

Before the human guards even noticed the change in the wind, the direwolves reacted.

Near the center of the camp, where the royal wheelhouse was parked, Grey Wind stood up. His ears perked sharply forward, his golden eyes locking onto the dark treeline. A second later, Nymeria scrambled to her paws, letting out an excited, high-pitched whine, pulling hard against her tether. Even Lady, usually the quietest of the pack, let out a joyful, yipping bark, her tail wagging furiously.

The sudden, frantic commotion from the massive wolves alerted the camp.

"To arms!" a guard shouted, his voice cracking with tension. "Movement in the trees!"

Steel rasped against leather as a dozen men drew their swords, forming a hasty barricade between the treeline and the wheelhouse.

The flap of the command tent was thrown open. Robb Stark emerged, his face looking tired, his hand resting tightly on the pommel of his sword. Catelyn appeared behind him, clutching a heavy fur cloak around her shoulders, her eyes wide with fear that the Lannisters had somehow caught them.

"What is it?" Robb demanded, stepping past the guards, peering into the pitch-black woods. "Outriders? Bandits?"

Grey Wind the massive direwolf let out a happy huff and strained forward, trying to pull his stake out of the mud to run toward the darkness.

"Hold your fire," Robb ordered, his brow furrowing as he noticed his wolf's behavior.

I stepped out from the shadows of the Neck and into the flickering light of their campfires.

The flames caught the thick, cream-colored fur of my mane, reflecting off my glowing amber eyes. I stood at my full six-foot height looking down at the circle of stunned Northern guards.

Robb's hand slowly slipped off the pommel of his sword. His jaw parted in disbelief. He had left me in Riverrun. He thought his father had kept me to fight the war in the South.

"Red?" Robb breathed.

I let out a low, warm rumble from my chest and walked casually past the frozen men. Grey Wind and Nymeria softly tackled me, burying their snouts into my fur, welcoming the alpha back to the pack.

I looked over the wolves heads, locking eyes with Catelyn and Robb. The surprise in their eyes visible. The War in the South was behind me. Hopefully I am exactly where I am needed.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The Kingsroad eventually gave way to the hard-packed earth and familiar grey walls of Winterfell.

Word of the returning vanguard had reached the castle ahead of our arrival. As the column passed through the winding, muddy streets of the winter town, a massive crowd of smallfolk had gathered to welcome the Young Wolf and the Lady of Winterfell home. But the cheers died in their throats before they even began.

A terrified silence fell over the town.

Robb Stark rode near the front, tall and proud in his armor, but the eyes of the North were not on him. They were fixed entirely on the vanguard. I walked at the very head of the procession, my massive, six-foot frame moving with grace. Every step I took radiated a wave of heat into the freezing Northern air. Women pulled their children behind their skirts as men stepped closer to their family. Their eyes wide with absolute awe and fear, to them, I was a creature pulled straight from stories old.

Inside the wooden wheelhouse rolling behind me, Arya Stark pressed her face against the small, slatted window. She watched the awestruck, terrified faces of the commoners, a fierce, incredibly proud smile spreading across her face.

The heavy iron portcullis of Winterfell's main gate groaned upward, and the drawbridge was lowered.

The courtyard was lined with guardsmen, stablehands, and household staff. As I stepped through the arched gateway, the tension in the yard spiked. Hardened Northern spearmen gripped their weapons tightly, taking involuntary half-steps to give me a wide berth.

Standing near the armory was Theon Greyjoy. The ironborn ward stood with his hands resting on his belt, wearing his usual arrogant smirk, fully intending to greet Robb with some swaggering remark.

I stopped. I turned my heavy head and locked my glowing amber eyes directly onto his.

Theon's smirk vanished instantly. For two agonizing seconds, he tried to hold the gaze, his pride fighting his survival instincts. But he was only a kraken. Theon swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He broke the stare, dropping his gaze entirely to the muddy cobblestones, his hands falling nervously to his sides.

I dismissed him and turned my attention to the center of the courtyard.

Waiting near the steps of the Great Keep was Bran Stark. The boy sat in a specially crafted wooden chair, a thick blanket laid across his useless legs. Standing right beside him was little Rickon, and behind them both stood Maester Luwin, his grey robes sweeping the stones, his chain of many metals clinking softly in the cold wind.

As I approached, Rickon let out a frightened squeak and scrambled backward, hiding behind the maester's robes.

Maester Luwin did not run. His hands trembled slightly, but the man of science held his ground. His wide eyes scanned the sheer impossibility of my size. He had heard the rumors from the Citadel and knew that the impossible beast standing before him was Red.

I lowered my massive head, bringing myself down to Bran's eye level. The boy didn't flinch. His eyes were wide with wonder. I closed the distance and gently nudged his shoulder with my nose.

Bran let out a breath he had been holding, a small, tentative smile breaking across his face. He reached out with his hand, sinking his fingers into my mane.

From the crypts and the kennels, two streaks of shadow bolted into the courtyard. Summer and Shaggydog bounded forward. They didn't dare bark or challenge me. They fell into step alongside Grey Wind, Nymeria, and Lady, forming a complete circle of direwolves around Bran's chair and my frame.

I lifted my head and looked directly at Maester Luwin. I let out a low, vibrating rumble that rattled the chain around his neck before I looked back down at Bran for a lingering moment, making sure the boy was okay.

Then, I felt it.

A prickling sensation at the back of my mind. A watcher.

I slowly lifted my head, my ears swiveling toward the high stone towers and the sprawling branches of the Godswood leaning over the inner walls. A murder of black ravens sat unnaturally still along the branches. Their eyes completely black, all of them staring directly at me with a singular, unified intelligence.

I narrowed my glowing amber eyes. I didn't just look back. I reached into the invisible threads of the world, found the tether connecting those birds to their master, and violently yanked it.

Far beyond the Wall, deep beneath the frozen earth in a cave tangled with the weirwood roots, Brynden Rivers gasped.

The Three-Eyed Raven, the greatest greenseer in the world, was ripped from his thousand and one eyes. The darkness of his cave dissolved. He was no longer watching the courtyard of Winterfell. He was pulled into a void of pure, blinding heat, a mental landscape he did not create and could not control.

He found himself standing, not as the withered corpse tangled in tree roots, but as his old self: a pale, one-eyed man with a wine-stain birthmark, wrapped in the black cloak of the Night's Watch.

The air around him was suffocatingly hot. The ground trembled.

Slowly, Bloodraven looked up.

Looming over him in the darkness was a monstrous entity. It was the beast from Winterfell, but here, in the projection of the mind, its true spiritual weight was unchained. Its fur glowed like liquid fire, its mane flared aggressively around its neck, and its massive teeth were bared in a terrifying rumble that shook the very foundation of the vision. Its amber eyes bored into Bloodraven's soul, pinning the seer in place like an insect.

For the first time in a century, the Three-Eyed Raven felt fear.

Bloodraven whispered, his singular red eye wide with absolute disbelief as he stared up at the living sun. "What are you?"

 

[Tsureai]

Take that you voyeuristic tree man! I kind of want to see an interlude of the aftermath of his raid

 

[ATP]

Good.Strong MC changed story - Ned still live,and Kevan died arleady.Now,how made Lords accept wildlings before Others come?

 

[TheLastDreamer]

I did not offer the three eyed raven a single word in return.

Words were the tools of men, used to bargain, lie, and beg. I'm different now. Let us see if the Bloodraven is able to survive my answer.

I opened my jaws, the inferno in my chest blazing as a flaring white-hot glow, and unleashed a deafening roar.

The sound tore through the mental projection with force. The void the Three-Eyed Raven stood in cracked and shattered like thin ice under a heavy boot. The vision violently collapsed into nothingness.

Back in the muddy courtyard of Winterfell, the unnatural silence broke. The murder of black ravens perched along the high towers erupted into panic. They took flight in a chaotic flurry of dark feathers, their unified intelligence broken, cawing in blind terror as they fled into the grey Northern sky.

I blinked, the oppressive cold of the real world settling back over my fur. I lowered my gaze, back at Bran Stark.

The boy was staring up at me, his breath hitching. The sheer proximity to the spiritual shockwave had done something to him. He blinked rapidly, raising a trembling hand to his temple. The heavy, suffocating fog of his fall and the chaotic, confusing dreams that plagued his sleep seemed to recede, leaving behind a clarity in his eyes. He didn't fully understand it yet, but the dormant magic in his blood had finally awakened.

Footsteps splashed through the mud behind me. Catelyn Stark, followed closely by Sansa and Arya, pushed through the ring of stunned spearmen, rushing toward Bran's chair.

The courtyard was quickly filling with the overwhelming noise of human emotion, weeping, shouting, and frantic questions.

I had no interest in the noise. I let out a low huff, turning away from the gathering crowd. The Northern guards parted silently, pressing their backs against the stone walls to let me pass. I walked straight through the fortress, following the scent of the weir wood, until I passed beneath the heavy ironwood gates of the Godswood.

The silence of the forest swallowed the sounds of the castle. I padded over the mossy ground, finding the towering, bone-white trunk of the heart tree. The carved face wept red sap, staring blindly into the hot springs. I circled twice among the dark red leaves scattered over the roots, laid my head on my paws, and closed my eyes.

...

For the next few days, I did not leave the Godswood. I remained entirely unseen by the castle.

But there was a lot to do and little time for rest.

On the morning of the third day, the courtyard was once again filled with the sounds of marching men. Robb Stark sat atop his warhorse, dressed in heavy furs and boiled leather, his longsword strapped to his hip. The two hundred seasoned Northern lances formed up behind him, their breath pluming in the freezing air. They were riding for the Wall.

As Robb raised his hand to give the order to march, I emerged from the shadows of the archway.

A hush fell over the column. I walked at a slow pace, my heavy paws silent against the stone. I passed the nervous warhorses and stopped directly beside Robb. I looked up at the young lord, then turned my head, fixing my eyes squarely on the open gates leading North.

Without waiting for his command, I started walking, taking the lead of the procession.

Once we cleared the winter town and entered the dense wood of the Wolfswood, I left the hard-packed dirt of the Kingsroad entirely. I took the cover of the trees, walking parallel to the marching column through the dark shade.

I was not alone in the bushes. Grey Wind trotted faithfully just a few paces behind me, his golden eyes watching my every movement, content to shadow the true alpha of the pack.

Back on the road, the rhythmic clopping of hooves carried through the cold air.

"I don't understand why you let it roam free," Theon Greyjoy's voice drifted over from the column. He was riding stirrup-to-stirrup with Robb, his face pinched with lingering unease. "It's been missing since we left the castle. Where is that beast of yours, anyway? Probably ran off to..."

Before Theon finished the sentence I stepped out from behind a massive oak directly on his left. I kept out of his sight keeping my steps silent, but the sudden, intense wave of heat radiating from my body washed over him instantly.

Theon gasped, violently flinching to the right. His horse whinnied in sudden panic, dancing sideways on the road and nearly throwing the ironborn from the saddle.

I kept my gaze and pace forwards, brushing past his panicked horse, and seamlessly melted back into the treeline ahead.

Behind me, Robb let out a short, sharp laugh, while Theon cursed under his breath, his face flushing red as he fought to steady his reins.

By nightfall, the Vanguard made camp in a wide clearing bordered by thick, dark timber.

Fires were built, and the smell of roasting salted pork filled the air. I sat on my haunches near the largest fire, right beside the log where Robb was viewing a worn leather map. The heat of the flames was nothing compared to my coat, but the soft light was comfortable.

The camp was quiet, save for the low murmurs of tired men and the crackle of burning wood.

My ears suddenly twitched. They swiveled forward, locking onto the pitch-black void of the northern treeline.

I stopped breathing for a fraction of a second, letting my senses expand. Deep in the darkness, beyond the reach of the torchlight, eyes were reflecting the faint glow of the camp. Ten. Twenty. An entire pack of massive, wild timber wolves had gathered in the brush. They were drawn by the smell of the horses, the meat, and perhaps the scent of Grey Wind. They were watching, waiting to see if the two-legged creatures were weak.

I pushed myself up from the moss.

Robb looked up from his map, noticing the sudden shift in my posture. "Red?"

I ignored him. I stepped away from the fire, walking to the very edge of the light. I planted my heavy paws into the frozen earth, my chest expanding as I drew in a massive breath of freezing air.

I let out a deafening, ferocious roar.

The sound ripped through the quiet night, vibrating through the ground and rattling the snow straight off the branches of the pines. It was an assertion of dominance, a warning that an apex predator had already claimed this territory.

In the woods, the glowing eyes vanished instantly. The wild pack scattered in absolute terror, their panicked yelps fading quickly into the deep forest.

Behind me, the camp erupted into chaos.

"Wolves!" a captain shouted. Men scrambled over logs, kicking over their bowls of stew as they drew their swords in a blind panic, frantically searching the darkness for an ambush. Robb was on his feet in a second, his sword in hand, his eyes wide.

I let out a soft snort, a wisp of smoke curling from my nostrils.

With the threat thoroughly chased away, I turned around, completely ignoring the two hundred cautious men standing with their weapons drawn. I walked back to my spot near the fire, circled twice to mat down the grass, and lazily laid my head on my paws to go to sleep.

 

[MorbiIIionaire]

Great story so far! Cant wait for more!

 

[deadreeper]

Good.Strong MC changed story - Ned still live,and Kevan died arleady.Now,how made Lords accept wildlings before Others come?

Click to shrink...

When did he stop being a normal dog that looks like a pokmon as like others say he feels super weak up to Ch 24?

 

[Tsureai]

I like the idea if red and the direwolves sitting around someone's castle pissing on their gates and howling like urban coyotes at 3am

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The freezing wind howled across the barren plains as the ugly, sharp silhouette of the Dreadfort clawed its way over the horizon. I dug my claws into the frozen mud and stopped, letting out a low, slow breath that instantly turned to a thick cloud of steam.

Behind me, the rhythmic thud of the two hundred warhorses slowed.

"Steady! Steady, you beasts!" a voice roared over the wind.

A dozen riders flying the pink banners of House Bolton had galloped out to meet us, but they were no longer advancing. Their warhorses were rearing wildly, kicking at the air and fighting their bit. The men cursed, wrestling with the reins, but the animals refused to take a single step closer to the towering, heat-radiating beast standing in the middle of the road.

The lead rider wrestled his horse under control, its forelegs pawing wildly at the air.

"My lord!" he shouted. "Can you call your beast aside? The horses dare not come any closer."

Robb spurred his horse forward a few paces.

"Red."

I dipped my head, letting out a short huff that ruffled the frost on the ground, and bounded off the main road.

I pushed through the sparse, dead pines to the left, taking a seat on my haunches in the shadows. Grey Wind let out a sharp bark and immediately broke his trot, abandoning the road to sit faithfully by my side.

The horses finally calmed noticing my absence , and the riders escorted the Young Wolf into the stone walls of the Dreadfort.

…

The Great Hall was drafty and dark, lit by sputtering torches that cast long shadows.

"My lord father regrets he could not greet you himself," Ramsay Snow said as he filled Robb's cup. "The Kingsroad keeps him from home more often than he'd like. Until he returns, the Dreadfort is yours."

"You have my thanks," Robb replied. "The men will be glad for warm food and a roof."

Ramsay smiled, his eyes drifted past Robb and settled on me.

"So this is the beast." His smile widened a fraction. "I've heard tales though seeing it in person."

"He has a name," Robb interrupted. "Red."

"Aye?" Ramsay's pale eyes lingered on me. "A pity. Beasts are simpler without names."

"He is no beast"

Ramsay turned his gaze from me and continued.

"And here's young Greyjoy." He regarded Theon with mild amusement. "Does the North suit you? I'd have thought a kraken would miss the sea."

Theon snorted. "I've seen enough salt for one lifetime."

"Have you?" Ramsay asked pleasantly. "Some men never escape where they were born."

Theon's hand settled on his dagger and remarked "You've got a loose tongue for a bastard."

Robb took hold of Theon's wrist and spoke "Enough."

Ramsay nodded his head and replied "As you say, my lord."

But before he turned away, his eyes wondered onto me again.

...

That night, the vanguard camped in the outer courtyard. The halls of the keep offered no comfort, the men preferred the freezing air to the watchful eyes of the Boltons.

I lay near the main gates while Grey Wind was curled tightly against my side, fast asleep. The camp was dead quiet, the fires burned down to glowing embers.

Crunch. Crunch.

I cracked one amber eye open.

Ramsay Snow walked across the frosted cobblestones alone. He held a heavy, iron cleaver loosely in his right hand, twirling it idly by the handle.

He stopped five paces away, his pale eyes wandered slowly over my scars.

"So."

A thin smile touched his lips."You're the beast."

His head tilted slightly."They've been telling strange tales."

He weighed the cleaver in his hand."I've never cared much for tales."

He lifted the blade."Let's see."

Ramsay drew his arm back to throw the heavy blade.

He took me for a hound in his pen well he thought wrong. I unchained my presence and slammed [Empathic Link] directly into his mind.

I projected the raw, crushing scale of my existence straight into his consciousness. I showed him the blinding, white-hot sun that had melted Kevan Lannister's armor, made him feel the terror without getting a smoke.

The temperature in the courtyard plummeted as the air itself seemed to freeze. A deafening silence crashed down on the yard.

Ramsay's manic smile was wiped away. His pale eyes bulged, rolling back slightly in his skull. His face was drained of all color.

He saw his own absolute insignificance in this hound he had looked down on. He saw a power so immense that all his torture, all his flaying knives, and all his cruel games were nothing but the buzzing of a fly before fire.

Clang.

The meat cleaver slipped from his trembling, lifeless fingers and hit the cobblestone.

Ramsay staggered backward, his boots slipping on the frost. He gasped violently for air, his hands flying to his throat as if he were drowning in the crushing pressure of the silence. His legs gave out.

He collapsed to his knees. His shoulders hunched forward, his whole body shaking with violent, uncontrollable tremors. He stared at me, his mouth open to scream, yet unable to.

I held the pressure for one more agonizing second to ensure the lesson was burned permanently into his mind.

Then, I severed the link.

The wind returned, howling through the courtyard. Ramsay remained on his knees, weeping silently into the frozen mud, too terrified to even crawl away.

I let out a soft huff, sending a wisp of smoke into the cold air. I laid my head back down beside Grey Wind and closed my eyes. This particular variable was erased, and Ramsay Snow would never dare look my way again.

 

[ATP]

Yup.You do not needed him.Nobody need him except GRRM,and even he still killed him in the end.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The heavy iron gates of the Dreadfort closed behind us with a loud, echoing thud.

Theon Greyjoy adjusted his fur-lined cloak, his face twisted in a bitter scowl as he guided his horse down the frost-covered road. "The Bastard sends his maester in his place?" he snorted. "A gracious host."

I was walking parallel to the vanguard, my paws silent on the frozen earth. Hearing the ironborn's complaints, I deliberately altered my path. I stepped out from the treeline, shifting effortlessly into his horse's left blindspot.

The intense, ambient wave of my heat washed over him before he even registered my presence. Theon gasped, violently jerking his reins as his horse whinnied and danced sideways, nearly tossing him straight into a snowdrift.

I walked past his panicked mount to take the lead.

Theon fought to steady his horse, his face flushing crimson with embarrassment and frustration. "I hate this beast," he spat under his breath, drawing a brief, tired smirk from Robb.

Days turned into weeks as the Kingsroad pushed us ever northward.

Then, the horizon changed into a solid, impossible line of white.

I came to a dead halt. The Wall. Seven hundred feet of solid, ancient ice stretching from the eastern sea to the western mountains. It blotted out the sky, a monolith of frozen magic that made the air itself taste brittle and sharp. For a creature composed of fire and heat, it was an offense to nature.

I stood perfectly still, my glowing amber eyes locked onto the colossal structure, feeling the sheer weight of the magic buried within the ice.

Behind me, the crunching of boots and hooves announced the arrival of the column. A grizzled Northern spearman pulled his horse to a stop beside me, his breath pluming in the freezing air as he stared up at the ice.

"Never gets smaller," the old spearman muttered.

"Not even after twenty years."

High atop the wooden walkways of Castle Black, the biting wind tore at the heavy black cloaks of the Night's Watch men.

"Riders!" the watcher called.

"South road!"

Another brother leaned over the wall.

"Stark banners!"

Jon Snow hurried up the wooden steps, his hands gripping the freezing timber of the railing. He squinted into the glaring white distance, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had feared wildlings, or worse, mutineers. But as the column drew closer, the wind caught the banners, unfurling the grey direwolf of House Stark.

Jon's breath hitched. "Robb?" he muttered.

He almost laughed.

"Gods..."

The southern gates of Castle Black swung open.

The courtyard, usually filled with the dreary drills of sullen recruits, came to a complete standstill. Two hundred hardened Northern men rode into the yard, their armor clinking in the frigid air. Robb Stark dismounted, his boots hitting the slushy ground.

Jon was already running across the yard. The two brothers collided in a fierce, desperate embrace, clapping each other on the back, their heavy furs doing nothing to muffle their joyous laughter.

Standing a few paces away, Ser Alliser Thorne watched the display. His mouth twisted into a bitter, resentful scoff. He despised the bastard Snow, but Thorne was a pragmatist. He kept his sharp tongue behind his teeth, carefully masking his disdain as his dark eyes tallied the two hundred armed men backing the young Lord of Winterfell.

At the base of the Lord Commander's tower, Jeor Mormont stood with his hands resting on his sword belt, his thick white beard blowing in the wind. He watched the Stark boys reunite with a solemn, weary relief, grateful for the sudden influx of Northern steel.

Robb pulled back from Jon, scanning the crowded courtyard, his brow furrowing.

Robb's smile faded.

"Where is he?"

Grey Wind lifted his head.

Robb turned toward the gate.

"Leave it open."

The black brothers paused, leaning against the heavy timber, exchanging confused glances.

A grey blur trotted through the entrance. Grey Wind stepped into the courtyard, shaking the snow from his coat and taking a seat near Robb.

"You brought Grey Wind."

Jon smiled.

"And Lady..."

The words died in Jon's throat.

From the snowy road outside, I swaggered into Castle Black, my six-foot frame towering over the guardsmen. My thick cream fur radiated a wave of intense, suffocating heat that instantly began melting the frost off the nearby weapon racks, turning the slush beneath my paws to water.

The men of the Night's Watch froze, their eyes wide with absolute, paralyzing dread. They stumbled backward, holding their breath to give me a wide berth.

I ignored them. I walked slowly across the courtyard, my heavy claws clicking deliberately against the wet stone, making a straight line for Robb and Jon.

Ser Alliser Thorne happened to be standing directly in my path.

The bitter Master at Arms stiffened, his hand instinctively dropping to his sword hilt. He lifted his chin, trying to hold his ground out of sheer, stubborn pride. But as I closed the distance, my glowing amber eyes locked onto his. The wave of heat hit him in the chest.

"Seven bloody hells..."

Thorne's arrogant sneer vanished. His face drained of all color, his survival overrode his pride. With his hand on his sword, and he took a quick, unsteady step aside, pressing himself back to let me pass.

Near the stairs, Lord Commander Mormont's eyes widened to the size of saucers, his jaw dropping slightly into his beard. Even his raven, perched on the balcony above, let out a startled squawk and flapped its wings wildly.

"...By all the gods."

The entire fortress was dead silent as I stopped directly in front of Jon Snow.

Jon stared.

"...Red?"

The name came out little more than a whisper.

He remembered a shaggy hound sleeping beneath Lord Eddard's table.

This...

This could not be that same beast.

Yet the amber eyes were unchanged.

When the great head settled gently against his chest, Jon let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"You've grown," he said softly.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The arrival of the two hundred Northern lances upended the bleak routine of Castle Black. By midday, the courtyard was a crowded, tense mixture of hardened Stark men and sullen, black-clad recruits.

I rested near the armory, my sheer size and radiating heat kept a wide, empty circle of melting slush around me. Ghost, the silent albino, sat perfectly still at my side, his red eyes watching the yard. Like his brothers he did not pick a fight with me.

The tension in the yard finally snapped when Ser Alliser Thorne stalked out of the armory.

Thorne had his pride humiliated at the gate, his broken pride demanded retribution. He didn't have the guts to attack me, and he couldn't move against Robb, who was currently an acting lord. So, his retribution was targeted at the one person he could, Jon Snow.

Jon was speaking quietly with a few of his fellow recruits when Thorne's biting voice cut through the noise.

"Look at them," Thorne sneered, pacing in front of the recruits, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Lord Snow and his Northern mutts. You think because your trueborn brother rode up here with an escort, it changes what you are? You're still a bastard playing at being a ranger. And now you've brought a traveling circus with you."

Jon stiffened, his hand dropping to the hilt of his training sword. Several Stark guardsmen nearby turned, their faces darkening as they reached for their steel. The entire courtyard went completely still.

Thorne smirked, reveling in the sudden edge. "What? Does the bastard want to try his toy against a real knight?"

I opened my eyes.

I rose slowly, that drew every eye in the yard. The low, rumbling growl that started in my chest vibrated through the wet cobblestones before anyone even heard it.

I walked straight toward Ser Alliser.

Thorne's smirk vanished. The color drained from his face as the crushing wave of my heat washed over him. He drew his castle-forged longsword in a panic, holding it out with trembling hands. "Keep back! Call off this beast!"

I didn't stop. I closed the distance until the tip of his shaking sword was mere inches from my nose. Then, I unhinged my jaws and unleashed a roar so deafening, that it felt like the sky itself was tearing open. The sheer force of the sound wave hit Thorne like a battering ram. The Master at Arms was blown off his feet, tumbling backward into the frozen mud. His sword clattered uselessly across the yard.

All around the courtyard, seasoned men and green recruits alike dropped their weapons, slapping their hands over their ears in absolute agony. Horses whinnied in terror. The sound echoed off the seven-hundred-foot monolith of the Wall, shaking the loose ice from the battlements.

I snapped my jaws shut, the silence that followed ringing heavier than the roar.

I stepped over Thorne's discarded sword, looking down at the Master at Arms. He was trembling violently in the mud, his eyes wide with terror, completely stripped of his arrogant cruelty. I gave him a single, dismissive snort of hot smoke and turned my back, walking over to sit firmly beside the covering Jon.

The memory of Thorne's humiliation was short-lived. An hour later, the horn atop the Wall blew a single, long blast. Rangers returning.

The heavy tunnel gates opened, and a scouting party dragged two sledges into the courtyard. The mood in the castle shifted instantly from tense to sorry. Lying on the sledges were the pale, frozen corpses of Othor and Jafer Flowers, two rangers who had gone ranging with Benjen Stark.

Lord Commander Mormont, Robb, and Jon gathered around the bodies.

I stayed back, but my System flared instantly. The interface shifted from its usual warm gold to a chilling, jagged blue.

[Alert: Undead Energy Detected.]

[Target Status: Dormant. Hostile.]

As a transmigrator, I knew exactly what these bodies were. They were Trojan horses. I pushed my way through the ring of men, ignoring their startled shouts, and loomed over the corpse of Othor.

"Easy, Red," Robb warned, reaching out.

I ignored him. I opened my jaws and let a tiny, controlled spark of [Ember] drop onto Othor's frozen tunic.

The fabric didn't catch fire normally. It sizzled loudly, smelling intensely of old rot and unnatural magic. The flesh beneath didn't bleed; it blackened like frozen meat thrown onto a hot skillet.

"Gods! Get the beast back!" Mormont shouted, swatting at the smoke. "They are brothers of the Watch! They deserve a proper burning, but Maester Aemon must examine them first. Lock them in the storeroom!"

I let out a frustrated huff but stepped back. I couldn't speak, and human stubbornness could not be cured in an afternoon. But I knew the plot. I didn't need to argue with the Lord Commander; I just needed to wait for the sun to go down.

Midnight descended on Castle Black. The temperature plummeted to extremes, but inside Jon's sparse quarters, the air was as warm as a summer hearth. Ghost was curled on the floor, while I rested near the heavy oak door.

At the exact stroke of the witching hour, the System flashed violently in my peripheral vision.

[Event Triggered: Reanimation.]

I was already awake. I stood up, nudging Jon forcefully with my snout. Jon groaned, blinking sleepily in the dark.

I didn't wait for him to fully wake. I forced [Empathic Link] into his mind, projecting an urgent sensation of extreme danger, directing it straight up toward the Lord Commander's tower.

Jon gasped, wide awake. He grabbed his sword from the foot of his bed, throwing his cloak over his shoulders. "Ghost, to me. Red, lead!"

We sprinted through the freezing courtyard. The castle was dead quiet, save for the howling wind. But as we reached the stairs of Mormont's tower, we found a Night's Watch guard lying on the stone, his throat torn out.

Jon's eyes went wide. The real war was here.

We burst through the heavy wooden door of the Lord Commander's solar.

In the dim moonlight, Othor stood over Mormont's bed. His skin was pale blue, and his eyes burned with an unnatural, terrifying sapphire light. He held a rusted dagger, preparing to plunge it into the sleeping old bear.

"Hey!" Jon shouted, charging forward.

Othor spun with horrifying speed. Jon swung his castle-forged steel, burying the blade deep into Othor's shoulder. Just as I knew it would, the sword lodged tight in the dead, frozen muscle. Othor didn't even flinch. The wight backhanded Jon with inhuman strength, sending the young ranger crashing into the wooden desk.

Othor lunged for Jon's throat.

He never made it.

I launched myself across the room. My jaw unhinged, my throat glowing blindingly white. I clamped my jaws directly onto Othor's outstretched arm, triggering [Fire Fang].

The heat transferred directly into the wight's frozen magic. Othor let out a terrifying, unnatural screech as the magical frost binding his dead flesh ignited.

I ripped my head back, tearing the burning arm completely off his body, and instantly followed up with a pinpoint burst of [Flamethrower] straight into the wight's chest.

The fire clung aggressively to the undead energy. Othor thrashed wildly, crashing into the stone walls as the flames rapidly consumed him, reducing to a pile of smoldering, foul-smelling ash in less than ten seconds.

Jeor Mormont scrambled out of his bed, holding a lantern up with trembling hands. He stared at the shattered desk, at Jon picking himself off the floor, and finally at the massive pile of ash smoking at my paws.

[Target Eliminated: Wight.]

[Massive XP Awarded. Level Up!]

The Old Bear slowly lowered his lantern, his chest heaving as he looked directly into my glowing amber eyes. The denial was completely gone from the Lord Commander's face. The true enemy had finally crossed the Wall, and beast was the only reason he was still breathing.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The pile of ashes at my paws were still smoldering when the silence of the Lord Commander's solar was shattered.

From the courtyard below, frantic, panicked shouts of men pierced the night air. A moment later, a sharp, chaotic blare cut the night.

Jon Snow pulled himself off the floor, his breath hitching as he stared at the shattered door. "There were two bodies."

Ghost let out a low growl, his hackles raised as he stared out into the dark hallway. The scent of rot was no longer confined to the solar. It was drifting throughout the castle.

There was no time to wait for Mormont to issue orders. I bounded out of the solar and hit the wooden stairs, taking them three at a time. The stench of the undead was a beacon in the dark leading me to Jafer Flowers.

I burst into the lower courtyard with Jon and Ghost right on my heels.

Near the armory, a dozen black brothers had formed a desperate, terrified circle. In the center, Jafer Flowers was tearing through them. The wight's skin was milk-pale, its eyes burning with a terrible, sapphire light. A seasoned ranger drove a spear squarely through the dead man's chest. Jafer did not bat an eye. He grabbed the wooden shaft, snapped it like a twig and backhanded the ranger so hard the man's jaw shattered with a sound crack.

Another brother swung a broadsword, burying it deep into Jafer's neck. There was no blood. No pain. The wight simply pulled the blade free and lunged.

The men were getting disheartened. The men of the Night's Watch had realized that their sword, their training, and their courage meant absolutely nothing in front of this fiend.

I stepped into the light of their dropped torches.

I opened my jaws and unleashed a concentrated stream of [Flamethrower].

The white-hot fire washed over Jafer Flowers. The unnatural cold binding the corpse violently combusted, turning the wight into a screaming pillar of fire. The dead man thrashed against the frozen mud for a few agonizing seconds before collapsing into a heap of charred bone and ash.

The courtyard fell dead quiet, save for the crackle of the dying flames. Dozens of black brothers, including a wide-eyed Ser Alliser Thorne, stared at the ashes.

They had all seen it. Swords failed them. Pain failed them. Only the beast's fire was the answer.

...

Morning broke over the Wall, but the emotions inside the Great Hall was unrecognizable. There was no boasting, no bickering between highborn knights and baseborn recruits.

Lord Commander Mormont sat at the head of the heavy wooden table. Robb Stark, Jon, and his senior men flanked him. I lay near the hearth, the heat of the fire feeling dim compared to my own coat, while Ghost sat silently beside Jon's chair.

No one argued. Even Alliser Thorne stood quietly in the corner, staring at the floor, his usual venom thoroughly drained by the terror of the night before.

Maester Aemon sat near Mormont, his blind, milky eyes staring straight ahead. His old trembling hands rested on his chain.

"The tales were true," the old maester whispered, his voice carrying clearly through the silent hall. "The Long Night... the dead that ride on the winds of winter. We thought them legends to frighten children."

"We have spent eight thousand years manning this Wall," Mormont said heavily, rubbing his scarred face. "We built our entire order to watch the woods... and we have been preparing for the wrong enemy."

Mormont looked toward Robb Stark. The Young Wolf sat tall, his face grim. He had seen the ashes. He knew what was coming.

"My Lord Commander," Robb said, his voice steady. "My place is in the North. Winterfell is my home, and I must hold it for my father." Robb paused, looking around the room at the shaken faces of the black brothers. "But the Watch will not stand alone. I cannot leave you my entire vanguard, but fifty of my best mounted men will remain here. I leave you builders, surplus steel, and twenty draft horses."

Mormont bowed his head deeply. "The Watch accepts this gift with the utmost gratitude, Lord Stark. Your blood runs true."

"What is our next move, Commander?" a ranger asked from the back. "Do we seal the gates?"

"No," Mormont answered, his voice finding its iron once more. "We do not cower while the dead amass. But we do not march blindly, either. We prepare. Send ravens to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower. Gather every ounce of salted meat, grain, and oil we have. Empty the armories. See if the maester's records hold anything on undead. When we are ready, we will launch a Great Ranging. We will find Benjen Stark, and we will find the source of this rot."

...

As the council dispersed to begin their frantic preparations, Mormont called Jon Snow to remain behind.

The Lord Commander walked over to a heavy wooden chest near his desk. He opened it and pulled out a bastard sword. The scabbard was fine leather, but it was the pommel that caught the eye, a piece of pale stone carved into the likeness of a direwolf, with chips of garnet for eyes.

Mormont held the blade out. Valyrian steel rippled darkly along the metal.

"Longclaw," Mormont said softly. "It has been the ancestral blade of House Mormont for five centuries. My son brought dishonor upon it, and it has sat in the dark ever since."

Jon stared at the sword, his eyes wide. "My Lord... I am not a Mormont. I cannot…"

"The reason we argue now is cause you charged in while I lay in my bed. You charged a monster in the dark," Mormont interrupted, his voice firm. "When grown men fled, when steel failed, your courage did not. You saved an old man's life, Snow. Take it. It is meant for a wolf now."

Jon slowly reached out, his gloved hands gripping the heavy hilt. He drew the blade an inch, the dark, magical steel singing softly in the quiet room.

Mormont nodded, satisfied. Then, the Old Bear turned his gaze down to me.

He didn't offer me a vow, and he didn't name me a brother of the Watch. I was not a man, and Jeor Mormont respected the traditions too much to cheapen them. But he understood power, and he understood debt.

"And you," Mormont said, his voice dropping to a tone of respect. "The Watch owes you a debt no man can repay."

The Old Bear placed a hand over his heart. "So long as I command here, no man of the Watch will raise steel against you. And Castle Black will always have meat enough for you."

As the words left his mouth, a subtle, cold chime rang in my mind. The System interface flickered, shifting from its warning blue back to a victorious gold.

[Sub-Quest Completed: The Dead in the Dark]

[Reward Issued.] [New Passive Unlocked: Scourge of the Dead]

Description: The user's elemental fire attacks deal massively increased damage against undead entities. The Night King's magic cowers before the Sun.

I let out a soft, warm huff, resting my chin on my paws. Ghost stepped forward, bumping his white snout gently against my shoulder before taking a seat perfectly in line with Jon. I shifted slightly, taking my place on the albino's right side.

Mormont watched the three of us, the bastard with the Valyrian steel, one of the last direwolves and the strange beast of fire.

A faint, tired smile touched the Lord Commander's lips.

"Seems the wolves have chosen their leader," Mormont murmured.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The morning after the immediate threat of the wights had gone, I had the time to truly feel my environment. I walked away from the crowded armory and stood alone at the base of the Wall. I didn't feel the biting wind or the freezing snow. But I felt the magic, and its pressure on me.

It felt suffocating as time passed. The ancient, runic ice towering seven hundred feet above me was actively pressing down on my existence. My internal heat, usually calm, now grew restless.

I sat back on my haunches and triggered [Morning Sun].

Normally, the skill pulled the soft light into my coat, filling me with a rushing vitality. Now, the pale sunlight filtering through the grey clouds felt diluted, almost hollow. My thick fur, which usually carried a vibrant, glowing luster of cream and orange, looked distinctly muted in the shadows of the wall. The light steam that normally rolled off was now thin and quickly devoured by the chilling cold.

I unhinged my jaws, testing the limits of my core. I called upon a burst of [Flamethrower].

The white-hot fire ignited in the back of my throat, but pushing it out into the air felt like trying to push a heavy boulder up a steep hill. The flames were sluggish, fighting the cold and magic in the air to exist.

The pale blue interface of the System flickered into my vision, confirming exactly what my instincts were telling me.

[Warning: Environmental Hazard Detected.]

[The Wall's magic is actively suppressing Fire-type energy.]

[Current Combat Efficiency: 81%]

[Estimated Survival Probability Beyond the Wall: LOW.]

[Recommended Level: 40]

I let out a slow, tired breath. The truth was undeniable. It was elementary type counter. I countered the dead, but if I marched North into the true winter today, I would fail, or worse die. The Wall wasn't my enemy in a sense it was an ally, but at present it was against me.

I am not prepared for the coming expedition.

A sudden commotion near the Lord Commander's tower pulled my attention away from the ice. A raven had arrived from Winterfell.

I padded back into the courtyard just as Robb Stark broke the wax seal on a small, tightly wound parchment. Mormont and Jon stood beside him.

Robb read in silence. The color drained from his face.

"What is it?" Mormont asked.

Robb looked up. His jaw tightened.

He handed the parchment to the Lord Commander.

Longships sighted off the Stony Shore. Several fishing villages put to the torch. Survivors speak of ironmen landing in force. Ser Rodrik rides west. More sails reported. Return with all haste.

Silence settled over the yard.

"Balon Greyjoy chose his hour well," Mormont observed heavily. "The North has no army left."

Theon Greyjoy had gone pale. He stared at the dirt, his fists clenching. "Father," he muttered.

Robb folded the parchment. "I ride within the hour."

Mormont nodded once. "The North."

"Aye." Robb gave his assent.

"The Watch will not forget the men you've left us."

"They're where they're needed."

"And so will you."

Robb gave a curt nod.

I remained laying near the armory, processing the words. Villages burning. Raiders attacking. Enemies.

The System chimed quietly in the periphery of my vision.

[Emergency Event Detected: Northern Settlements Under Attack.]

[Target: Ironborn Reavers.]

[Potential Experience: HIGH.]

The path forward clicked into perfect clarity.

The dead were not marching today; Mormont had said the Great Ranging would take weeks to supply and organize.

The Wall was actively suppressing my strength, and I was just shy of the level required to survive the deep North.

The South still had enemies. Enemies meant combat, and combat meant experience, experience I desperately needed. I needed to become stronger before I set foot beyond the Wall to face the Night King.

....

Within the hour, the courtyard was full of activity. Robb's remaining vanguard saddled their horses, packing their gear for the long ride west.

Jon Snow walked Robb to his warhorse. The two brothers stopped, looking at each other in the freezing slush. This was the end of the road they had traveled together.

Jon clasped Robb's arm. "Give Bran my love."

"I will."

"And Rickon."

"I will."

....

For a heartbeat, they stood in silence. Then Robb embraced him.

"When this is done..." Robb started.

Jon smiled. "...We'll meet again."

"If the gods are good."

Near their boots, Grey Wind and Ghost circled each other, sniffing quietly. Grey Wind let out a soft huff and gave the silent albino a playful nip on the shoulder.

Robb scratched Grey Wind behind the ear. "Take care of Ghost."

Robb mounted his horse. He pulled his reins, turning toward the southern gates. He expected me to take the front of his vanguard, just as I had done all the way from the Riverlands.

I didn't move. I stayed seated firmly beside Jon Snow.

Grey Wind brushed past me, falling in beside the column. The horses of the Northern cavalry began to move. Still, I did not follow.

Robb reined up. "Red."

I remained where I sat. I met his gaze, but gave no response.

For a long moment, Robb watched me. He didn't look angry or betrayed. He had watched the direwolves grow; he understood animals better than most nobles, and over the last few months, he had learned to understand me. He saw the choice I was making, and he recognized that it wasn't abandonment. It was purpose.

Then he gave the faintest nod.

"Go on, then."

He turned his horse south.

I slowly turned my head, looking back up at the towering, seven-hundred-foot wall of ice. Then, I turned my head and looked straight down the Kingsroad.

I stood up. I didn't fall into step beside Robb's horse. I stalked past the column entirely, moving toward the open gates on my own terms, forging my own path to the war in the west.

Jon Snow stood in the snow, watching my cream-colored frame pass through the dark tunnel of Castle Black. Ghost sat perfectly still beside him, watching me go.

Mormont watched the great beast pass beneath the gate.

"A pity," the Old Bear sighed. He continued "A beast goes where it pleases."

Jon shook his head."Not this one."

The Old Bear raised an eyebrow.

Jon stared out the empty gate. "He's hunting."

Long after the vanguard had disappeared down the Kingsroad, Jon walked the icy upper galleries of the castle. In a quiet, wind-sheltered corner near the rookery, Maester Aemon stood alone. His old, trembling hands rested on his chain, his blind, milky eyes staring out into the freezing sky.

Jon stopped beside the old man.

"Has he gone?" Aemon asked, his voice barely louder than the wind.

"Aye," Jon replied softly.

Aemon smiled. "Fire," the old maester whispered, "has ever been restless."

 

[TheLastDreamer]

I had left Castle Black on my own terms, putting leagues between myself and the vanguard before they even cleared the mountain passes.

Robb's cavalry was still days behind, bogged down by freezing mud, exhausted mounts, and the needs of a moving armed force. I however was bound to nothing.

For three days, I tore through the woods alone. Whenever my stamina dipped, I took a break, let the sunlight hit my fur, and triggered [Morning Sun]. The restorative magic washed away the fatigue, allowing me to push my physical limits far beyond what I was capable of a moment ago.

With every mile I put between myself and the Wall, the unnatural pressure faded. The sluggishness in my chest evaporated. My internal fire grew stronger, and my fur regained its brilliant, golden luster.

The pale blue interface flickered, shifting back to a vibrant gold.

[Combat Efficiency: 100%]

At dawn on the fourth day, the dense pines finally gave way to jagged coastal cliffs and the smell of salt. I had reached Stony Shore.

I slowed my pace, creeping silently over a rocky ridge. Below, sitting in a small, sheltered cove, was a fishing village, or what was left of it. I was not quick enough. The ironborn had already come and gone. The wooden homes were smoldering husks, and the bodies of fishermen lay scattered across the freezing gravel.

I padded quietly down the ridge and into the ruins. The silence was heavy, broken only by the crackle of dying embers.

As I walked past a collapsed roof, I heard a ragged, uneven gasp.

I turned my head. Backed against a stone wall was a teenage boy, barely thirteen. He was bleeding heavily from a slash across his thigh, his trembling hands gripping a splintered whaling spear. He was standing protectively over the bodies of an older man and a woman.

His knees gave out. He collapsed into the dirt, the spear dipping as he looked up at me with wide, terrified eyes.

"Gods..." his voice cracked, barely a whisper. "Stay back..."

I didn't step forward. I stopped exactly where I was, leaving a wide stretch between us. I lowered my massive frame to sit. As I moved, I deliberately shifted my weight, carefully avoiding the outstretched hand of the fallen fisherman, and lowered my enormous head.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for an attack that never came. Instead, the freezing coastal wind suddenly lost its presence. I didn't actively try to comfort him; my mere existence in the enclosed space shifted the atmosphere. The warmth radiating from my core washed over the ruins, staving off his shock and the winter chill.

Slowly, the boy opened his eyes.

I wasn't looking at him. I had my head turned slightly, my ears swiveling, my nose testing the air. I was searching.

His white-knuckled grip on the splintered wood began to loosen. The spear tip dipped until it rested in the dirt. His ragged breaths slowed, breaking into a sudden, heavy sob. The events that transpired had been too much for the boy. With the comfort of heat and the impending death had finally broken. He understood I wasn't there to finish the ironmen's work.

He swallowed hard, tears cutting tracks through the soot on his face.

"They took her," he choked out, staring out at the sea. "My sister."

I turned my head back to him. I didn't approach or nudge him. I simply met his terrified eyes and gave a single, slow blink.

Then, I turned my gaze out toward the sea. I lifted my snout into the coastal wind, drawing the air deep into my lungs.

I smelled seawater. Blood. Fresh smoke. Children.

I dug my claws into the gravel and exploded into motion.

I ran south along the cliff tops, following the scent of panicked sweat and blood. I passed abandoned fishing nets, slaughtered livestock, and silent, empty shores.

A few miles down the coast, I found them.

Down on the pebbled beach, thirty ironmen were shoving a sleek, wooden longship off the gravel. The fierce offshore wind was already biting through the sea spray, violently snapping the heavy, unspooled fabric of a kraken-painted sail.

They were ruthlessly efficient, but entirely at ease. A veteran reaver sat on a water barrel, loudly counting stolen copper stars, while another roughly shoved a weeping, bound woman over the gunwales, tossing her into the belly of the ship alongside half a dozen other captives.

"Heave, you mutts!" the ironborn captain bellowed, wading waist-deep into the freezing surf and hauling himself up the side. "Let the wolves choke on the piss! We'll be counting this stars in Pyke before they even saddle their damn horses!"

The reavers laughed, the hull scraping loudly against the stones before catching the tide.

In the center of the ship, the captives huddled together against the freezing spray. A mother covered her child's face. An old fisherman bowed his head, whispering, "Don't look," while a younger man beside him quietly tested the strength of the ropes binding him.

The ship cleared the breakers, instantly pitching and rolling on the morning swells. The oars dropped into the water in perfect unison, pulling the longship toward the open expanse of the Sunset Sea.

I burst from the treeline at the top of the coastal cliff.

A flock of gulls scattered from the rocks, screeching wildly into the wind. Down on the ship, a reaver at the oars paused, hearing the sharp, violent crack of shattering stone. He turned his head toward the cliffs, his brow furrowing. "Look at the ridge!"

I hit the beach at a dead sprint. A jagged, black sea-stack jutted out from the shoreline, pointing out toward the ocean.

I didn't hesitate. I triggered [Extreme Speed].

The world around me blurred. I hit the sea-stack with earth-shattering force. The kinetic energy launched my thousand-pound frame directly into the sky.

I soared over the crashing surf, perfectly eclipsing the rising morning sun.

"Turn her! Hard to starboard!" the captain roared, his arrogance instantly shattering as he grabbed an axe. "Where are the spears? Throw, damn you!"

The crew erupted into panicked chaos. Four men threw their entire weight onto the starboard oars, desperately trying to swing the bow. A veteran hoisted a throwing spear, his hands shaking too badly to aim. A young reaver simply dropped his oar, falling to his knees on the pitching wooden deck. "Drowned God..."

Below them, the mother pulled her daughter tightly against her chest. "Close your eyes," she sobbed. "Don't look."

But the little girl ignored her. She stared straight up at the blinding silhouette of fire descending from the light.

"Mother," she whispered, her tiny voice carrying over the crashing waves. "It's the sun."

Beside them, the bound man who had been testing his ropes let out a bitter, manic laugh, perfectly happy to die if it meant the ironmen burned with him.

Suddenly, the violent offshore wind that had been snapping the sail slammed into me mid-air, threatening to push my trajectory directly over the huddled villagers. I contorted my spine, forcing a heavy shift in my weight to fight the gale, correcting my path to pass the main hull.

I aimed straight for the stern, the captain, the steering oar, and the massive mast.

I unhinged my jaws.

The back of my throat flared blindingly white, and I unleashed the fire.

The highly pressurized torrent of [Flamethrower] hit the stern like a meteor. The heavy kraken sail instantly vaporized into a cloud of glowing ash. The wooden steering oar combusted on impact, and the massive mainmast let out a deafening, catastrophic crack, snapping cleanly in half as the crippled ship spun violently sideways into the boiling sea.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The deck vanished beneath their feet leaving them no time to brace.

My thousand-pound frame crashed into the center of the longship, instantly buckling the heavy wooden planks. Oars snapped violently out of the rowers' hands, whipping through the air. Men lost their balance, thrown heavily against the gunwales or sent tumbling over the side into the freezing waters.

The shallow-draft vessel listed violently to starboard, shipping a massive wave of seawater over the edge. In the center of the chaos, two reavers had been crushed beneath my paws, their chests caving in with a crunch.

"Hold!" the captain roared, pulling himself up by the steering oar. "Kill the beast!"

"What is dead may never die!" a fanatic roared back in answer, charging blindly through the smoke with a bearded axe raised high.

The fight was an absolute mess. The longship pitched wildly on the morning swells. As another reaver lunged to spear my flank, the wet deck tilted sharply. He lost his footing, slipping on a slick puddle of seawater and blood, his iron spearhead plunging deeply into the fanatics thigh.

I stepped inside the wounded fanatic's broken guard and swiped my massive paw. The sheer force shattered his wooden shield, snapping the arm behind it like a dry twig and sending the man crashing back into the rowers' benches.

"Drive the spears!" the captain bellowed over the roar of the fire spreading from the ruined sail. "Take its eyes!"

But the calm was already unraveling. The ruined kraken sail collapsed downward, raining burning canvas over the deck.

"Captain..." a young reaver stammered, dropping his axe and backing away in sheer terror.

"Stand!" the captain roared.

An older veteran shoved the boy aside, gripping a heavy bearded axe with both hands. He watched my claws tear through the wooden deck. "It bleeds," he grunted.

"Not enough," the boy whispered.

The veteran stepped over the burning canvas. He knew he was looking at his own death, but he was ironborn. "Come on then!" he roared, charging me head-on.

I took the blow. The axe dug into my dense shoulder muscle. I pivoted, clamping my heavy jaws over the veteran's leather-clad torso. My teeth sheared through the boiled leather and ribs with raw, physical supremacy, and with a violent jerk of my neck, I tossed him with the axe over the gunwales.

I triggered [Morning Sun] healing myself.

Seeing their best fighter swatted away like an insect and the beast recovering from all their efforts shattered whatever nerve the crew had left. Command completely broke down.

Men abandoned their oars. One terrified raider, his salt-cloak catching fire, scrambled frantically toward the port side to throw himself into the water. The bound captives were directly in his path.

"Move!" he screamed, wild with fear. He swung his short sword blindly to clear the human obstacles from his escape route, his blade slashing mere inches from the huddled mother.

He never completed the swing. I surged entirely over the rowing benches, bypassing the remaining crew, and slammed my entire weight into him. He was thrown hard against the gunwale, his spine snapping on the heavy wood before he flipped lifelessly into the sea.

The captain looked at his decimated crew, the burning mast, and the blood soaking his boots.They couldn't kill it.

"Into the sea!" the captain screamed to the survivors, unable to bear the massacre happening to his men. "Jump!"

Half obeyed, throwing themselves over the wooden gunwales into the freezing waves. But the captain didn't jump. He spat a wad of blood onto the wooden planks, gripped his battleaxe with both hands, and stared at me.

"You fucking beast," he said quietly, swinging the heavy iron in a two-handed arc aimed directly at my neck.

I ducked underneath the swinging blade, lunged forward, and clamped my jaws directly onto his head. I bit down with a thousand pounds of force. The captain's defiant stand ended in a wet, choked gurgle. I ripped my head back, discarding the broken man onto the bloody planks.

Silence fell over the ship, save for the crackling of the fire and the heavy sloshing of seawater.

I turned my massive head toward the captives.

A woman screamed, burying her face into her knees. An old fisherman squeezed his eyes shut, weeping openly as he began to frantically mutter broken prayers to the Old Gods. They weren't looking at a savior; they were looking at a mythical predator that had just torn men apart like paper. They were certain it was their turn to die.

I padded slowly toward the center of the deck. The captives shrank back, pressing themselves against each other.

I stopped in front of the bound man. He was as pale as a ghost. As I lowered my massive, bloodstained snout, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head, flinching hard as he braced for my jaws to rip his throat out.

I extended a single, razor-sharp claw, hooked it under the thick hemp rope binding his wrists, and gave a precise flick.

The rope snapped.

The man gasped. He fell forward, catching himself on his raw, chafed hands. He stared at his freed wrists, his entire body shaking violently. He looked at the severed rope, then at the dead captain, and finally up at my glowing amber eyes, utterly paralyzed by shock.

"Gods..." he whispered. "It's letting us live."

I stepped back. The immediate threat had fled, but the ship was sinking. The fire at the stern was spreading to the floorboards, and the violent offshore wind was pushing the heavy vessel sideways, threatening to capsize it in the deep swells.

I looked at the heavy, braided mooring line coiled near the bow. Then, stared out at the shoreline.

I clamped my jaws firmly onto the thick rope, climbed onto the splintered gunwale, and leapt.

I hit the water.

The reaction was instantaneous and agonizing. The freezing, salty ocean swallowed me up to my chest. The water violently hissed and boiled against my extreme internal body heat, creating a thick, blinding cloud of steam.

I didn't try to swim. I dug my back paws into the submerged, rocky seabed and pulled.

The longship groaned, resisting with the sheer, dead weight of its wooden hull. A heavy wave crashed against the ship's broadside, violently jerking the rope in my jaws and nearly pulling my head under the freezing surf. Above me, the burning mainmast finally gave way, crashing down onto the empty deck and sending up a shower of sparks, missing the huddled captives by mere feet.

My muscles burned, fighting the drag of the ocean. I lunged forward, wave by wave.

Finally, my heavy paws hit the wet gravel. I dug my claws into the stones and hauled it in. The wooden hull scraped violently against the rocks, sliding up onto the dry shore, completely grounded and safe from the tide.

I dropped the heavy rope from my bleeding gums, shaking the freezing seawater from my coat as a massive cloud of steam rolled off my body.

On the ship, the freed man finally snapped out of his paralysis. His hands trembling, he grabbed a discarded ironborn dagger and frantically sawed the other captives loose. They scrambled over the gunwales, dropping onto the freezing Northern gravel.

The mother collapsed to her knees on the stones. She pulled her little girl fiercely behind her, trying to shield her with her own body, even as I stepped away.

"Thank you..." she whispered into the freezing wind. Then she immediately clamped a hand over her own mouth, terrified of drawing my attention.

The older fisherman slumped against the wet gravel, trembling. "Old Gods keep us," he muttered blindly. "The gods walk."

They watched in silence as the great beast of fire simply turned away.

As I put distance between myself and the survivors, a familiar, icy chime rang in my mind. The System interface materialized in the periphery of my vision, flashing with a brilliant, victorious gold.

[Massive Experience Gained.]

[Level Up!]

[Current Level: 40]

[Threshold Reached. Deep North Survival Probability: MEDIUM]

I let out a low, rumbling exhale, the steam from my breath mixing with the cold morning air. I looked North, toward the sheer, unimaginably distant monolith of the Wall.

Soon.

I turned my back to the sea. As I began to walk away, the little girl peeked out from behind her mother's cloak.

"Mama..." she whispered.

"Don't call after it," the mother hissed instantly, pulling her back.

My ears twitched. The wind was still blowing south, carrying the scent of two more raiding parties further down the coast. I lowered my head, dug my claws into the stones, and sprinted down the shoreline to finish the hunt.

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[carteroid3]

Alas, poor Micah. I knew him well.

 

[ATP]

Good plan.He is too weak to fight Others, ironborn are invading - so his only option is kill tons of ironborn as quickly as possible to get strong enough to face Others.
Two birds with one stone.