GOT: The Arcanine of the North

[WonderingWriter]

The Riverlands mud clung to my paws as I stood on a high ridge, watching the Northern host march through the valley below. I tracked the long columns of infantry and the glint of Robb's cavalry pushing through the dense morning fog. Once I mapped their pace and direction, I turned away from the ridge and moved ahead into the deep brush, clearing the path before they ever reached it.

Nymeria glided over the damp earth to my right, moving in silence to keep pace. .

My [Detection] pulsed, picking up three heartbeats ahead, Lannister outriders. They were resting their horses near a shallow creek, acting as eyes for the siege camps at Riverrun.

I looked at Nymeria. She lowered her belly to the ground, creeping forward, circling around the soldiers through the ferns. I stayed put, letting my internal heat flare just enough to carry my scent on the wind.

The Lannister horses smelled it first. They whinnied, stamping their hooves in panic. The riders drew their swords, searching the bushes for the source.

Nymeria launched from the shadows at the first rider, her jaws locking onto his shoulder and dragging him straight into the mud. The second rider tried to spur his panicked horse away. I closed the distance with a short burst of [Agility], knocking the horse off balance with a heavy shoulder check. The man hit the dirt hard, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp wheeze. The third rider dropped his sword and scrambled away into the bushes in terror.

We left them alive, stripped of their mounts. They would run back to their camps with stories of a giant wolf.

By nightfall, we reached the ridge overlooking Riverrun. The Tully castle sat at the confluence of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, surrounded by massive Lannister siege camps. With Jaime Lannister in a wooden cage miles behind us, these camps were isolated pockets of confused men waiting for orders that would never come.

I left Nymeria on the ridge and slipped down toward the largest Lannister camp. Rows of trebuchets and siege towers sat near the tree line.

I pushed my internal temperature to the limit. My fur began to glow with a blinding orange light. Steam poured off my body in thick waves. A guard spotted me and screamed.

I activated [Extreme Speed].

I hit the first trebuchet like a falling boulder. The heavy oak beams splintered under my weight. I tore through the siege line, snapping support struts and tearing through thick canvas tents. The dry wood of the siege towers caught fire from the sheer ambient heat radiating off my coat. The camp erupted into absolute chaos. Men scrambled out of their tents, blinded by the sudden inferno, shouts of a dragon had descended on them spreading around.

Then, the Northern horns blew from the dark woods.

Ned's cavalry poured out of the tree line, crashing into the disorganized, panicked Lannister ranks. The slaughter was fast. Without their Kingslayer to lead them, the Lannister men broke and ran for the river.

Morning brought the smell of blood and smoke.

I watched from the edge of the tree line as Ned stood near the center of the ruined camp, surrounded by his lords. His armor was spattered with mud. His mind was still plagued by the vivid, terrifying dream he had experienced in his tent. The vision of the exact future he would have earned if he had stayed the honorable fool in King's Landing.

That vision had strengthened his resolve and hardened his heart.

Two Umber guards dragged a Lannister captain forward. The man's armor was dented, but he held his chin high, expecting the Lord of Winterfell to treat him according to the rules of war.

"My Lord Stark," the captain said, spitting blood into the mud. "I demand the honors of a highborn captive. My family will pay a ransom."

Ned looked at him. There was no pity in his eyes.

"The siege is broken," Ned said, his voice flat and cold. "Order your men in the other two camps to lay down their arms and surrender."

The captain scoffed. "Or what? You'll execute a prisoner of war? You have an honor, Lord Stark. You don't butcher unarmed men."

Ned drew his longsword in one smooth motion. He leveled the point directly at the captain's throat.

"My honor?" Ned said. "You have five minutes to give the order. If you refuse, I will hang you from the highest branch of that oak, and I will hang every men you have left. Choose."

The Greatjon let out a booming laugh, his massive hand slapping his thigh. The other Northern lords exchanged looks of fierce approval.

The Lannister captain stared at the cold steel at his throat, the color draining from his face. He saw the ashes of his siege engines and the hard, unyielding eyes of the Stark lords. He swallowed hard and nodded.

I sat near the edge of the clearing, Nymeria resting by my paws. The vision had worked. Ned Stark had finally woken up.

 

[TwilightTheKittyCat]

This is really feeling like an observer story. I know it says non cannon and there is some changes. But those changes really arnt feeling like changes.

 

[StupidTired]

You got a good story going here, my only (personal) issue with it is how short it is, but that's just bc I prefer reading very long stories

 

[WonderingWriter]

The drawbridge of Riverrun lowered with the grinding groan of rusted iron chains. I watched from a limestone outcropping a quarter-mile away, the morning wind pulling the thick smoke of the ruined Lannister siege engines across the Tumblestone river.

Nymeria sat on her haunches beside me, her yellow eyes tracking the movement below.

Edmure Tully led the Riverlands cavalry out of the castle gates. He looked exactly how I remembered from the show, proud, eager, and currently deeply confused. Beside him rode a much older, harder man in scale armor, Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. They spurred their horses through the charred, bloody remnants of the Lannister camps, taking in the splintered trebuchets, the collapsed tents, and the sheer scale of the rout.

Ned rode forward to meet them, flanked by Robb and the Greatjon.

From the ridge, I couldn't hear the words, but I could read the situation. Edmure pushed his horse forward, opening his arms in a relieved greeting to his good-brother. Ned didn't dismount. He sat stiffly in the saddle, his mud-spattered cloak hanging heavy over his shoulders. He gave a curt, hard nod, pointing his gauntlet back toward the captured Lannister officers kneeling in the mud under Northern guard. There were no smiles or warm embraces.

The Blackfish noticed the change immediately. The old knight pulled his horse up short, his eyes narrowing as he looked past the Stark banners. He scanned the tree line, tracing the path of the scorched earth until his gaze locked onto my position on the ridge.

Even from hundreds of yards away, a six-foot beast with charred cream fur and glowing amber eyes stood out against the grey Riverlands morning.

I didn't move into the shadows. Rather I wanted the Riverlords to know that the North hadn't just brought an army of men; they had brought a monster as well.

By midday, the Northern host had fully integrated with the Tully forces. The wounded were moved into Riverrun's keeps, and the banners of the direwolf and the leaping trout hung side by side over the battlements. The Lannister prisoners, including a feverish, one-handed Jaime Lannister, were dragged down into the dark, damp dungeons beneath the castle.

While I found a quiet, shaded spot of an ancient dense grove just outside the castle's western approach. Nymeria curled up at the base of a massive tree near me. She was growing accustomed to the ambient heat I radiated, treating me more like a massive, living hearth. She rested her chin on her paws and closed her eyes.

An hour later, footsteps crunched heavily on the fallen leaves.

Ned walked into the grove alone. He had finally stripped off his plate armor, wearing a simple boiled leather tunic and a dark grey wool cloak. The deep bags under his eyes were still there, the lingering toll of the vision I had forced into his mind, but his demeanor was entirely different. The honorable victim in a den of snakes was gone.

He stopped a few paces away. Nymeria lifted her head, acknowledged him with a lazy twitch of her ears, and went back to sleep.

"Edmure wanted to throw a feast," Ned said. His voice was flat, his eyes staring past me into the dark of the woods. "To celebrate the breaking of the siege and our reunion. I told him to double the watch, execute any Lannister scouts they catch, and begin rationing the grain."

He looked down at his scarred hands.

"Tywin Lannister is still in the field," Ned continued. "He is marching toward Harrenhal. Once he gets word that the siege is broken and his golden son is rotting in my dungeon missing a hand... he will not sue for peace. He will unleash mad men. He will try to burn the Riverlands to ash out of pure spite."

I gave a low, rumbling exhale. It was exactly what Tywin would do. The transmigrator knowledge in my head aligned perfectly with Ned's tactical assessment.

Ned looked at me. He noticed the dried scar under my eye from Jaime's dirk, now scabbing over.

He stepped closer, his boots sinking into the soft moss.

Ned become hesitant but still said his intention. "I sent another raven to King's Landing this morning. Cersei has three days to agree to the exchange. Sansa's safe return to the North, for the Kingslayer's miserable life."

Ned paused. He remembered the blood on the floor of the Twins. He remembered the crossbow bolts in Robb's chest from the vision I showed him. The ghost of that nightmare hardened the lines of his face.

"If she refuses," Ned whispered, the words carrying a cold, lethal promise. "Or if she sends terms I do not like... I will march this host to Harrenhal. And I will not ask you to hold back."

I held his gaze. I didn't need to use the [Empathic Link] for this. I simply dipped my massive head in a single, deliberate nod.

Ned let out a long, slow breath. He didn't reach out to pet my mane. He didn't treat me like a hound that needed praise. Rather he just turned and walked back toward the towering stone walls of Riverrun, leaving me to the quiet of the grove.

The board was set. The Northern army was whole, the Riverlands were secure, and the Lannisters were bleeding. I rested my head on my front paws, closing my eyes to sleep.

Let the lions come.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The cold, ceaseless drizzle that turned the earth around Riverrun into a sucking bog. I spent the night walking the camp's fringes while Nymeria shadowed my steps.

The Northern men stared at their boots as we passed the watchfires. They held their breath, stiff and silent in the gloom, trying not to draw the gaze of the beast that had walked out of their nightmares. The Tully men were worse. They gripped their spears until their knuckles turned white, edging back into the deepest shadows to avoid my gaze. They murmured about the beast.

By dawn, we retreated to a grove. I settled onto a patch of dry moss. The fire beneath my skin baked the dampness from my fur, curling the morning chill into faint wisps of steam. Nymeria curled tight against my flank, seeking the warmth, and closed her eyes.

...

My ears pricked. Two sets of boots squelched through the mud, approaching from the castle drawbridge.

Ned Stark pushed through the dripping branches with Robb at his shoulder. Ned looked hollowed out. He carried a crumpled roll of parchment crushed in his fist. He stopped a few paces away. I didn't stir, resting my heavy chin on my paws.

"The Riverlords want to march at once," Ned said. "Our own lords agree with them. Edmure wants Jaime Lannister executed for what was done to his lands."

Ned stepped closer, studying the healing scar beneath my eye.

"I refused them."

Robb frowned. "Father, if we remain here while Tywin sits behind those walls, the men will lose heart."

"Perhaps," Ned admitted. "But Harrenhal is not a castle that would fall without cost. A siege there could drag on for years, and I will not leave your sister in that woman's hands that long."

Ned glanced down at the parchment clenched in his fist before looking back at Robb.

"A raven will fly south before midday," he said. "Kingslayer for Sansa. Whatever terms the Cersai demands, we will hear them. Until your sister is safely returned to us, nothing else matters."

Robb swallowed, the argument dying in his throat. He nodded once.

Ned turned back toward the grey walls of the Tully keep. Robb lingered for a second, eyeing me warily, before following his father back into the mist.

....

By mid-morning, the drizzle finally stopped, leaving behind a thick, grey fog that clung to the riverbanks.

I stood up, shaking the dampness from my heavy coat, and looked at Nymeria. She was already watching me, her stomach giving a low, hungry growl.

We needed to eat, and I had zero intention of relying on the Stark supply lines. The men were already rationing grain and salted beef; feeding a six-foot hound and a growing direwolf would only breed resentment among the mens.

We pushed deeper into the Whispering Wood, moving miles away from the Riverrun perimeter. The wet leaves muffled our approach. I let Nymeria take the lead on the scent tracking. Her instincts were sharp, unburdened by human thought. Within an hour, she caught the musk of a large wild boar rooting near a rocky incline.

We flanked it in total silence. When the boar finally noticed the danger, it was far too late. Nymeria darted in from the left, snapping at its hind legs to turn its massive, tusked head toward her. I hit it from the right blind spot. My jaws clamped down on the thick muscle of its neck, the sheer weight of my body driving the beast straight into the mud. The beast kept struggling till light faded from it's eyes and let go of hold. Nymeria didn't wait for me as she started feeding on flesh, a moment later so did I.

We returned to our ridge overlooking Riverrun just before midday. The castle was a hive of frustrated activity. The mud in the camp outside the walls was knee-deep in places. Men were trying to dig trenches to divert the pooling water, cursing the weather and the war in equal measure.

My hearing picked up the raised voices coming from the main courtyard.

"They are burning my smallfolk, Lord Stark!" Edmure Tully's voice echoed, tight with anger. "Every day we linger behind these walls, Tywin's men range deeper into the Riverlands. We have the strength to meet him in the field."

"Harrenhal's walls are a hundred feet high, uncle." Robb answered, his tone trying to mediate but failing to hide his own frustration.

"Then let them starve behind those walls!" The Greatjon bellowed. "I didn't march my boys all the way south to sit in the mud and wait for a woman to send a letter!"

Ned's voice cut through the noise. It wasn't loud, but the weight in it silenced the courtyard.

"You marched because my heir called the banners, Umber," Ned said. "Tywin Lannister wants us to march on Harrenhal. And I will not fight the war he wants."

A silence followed.

"And the Kingslayer?" Edmure pressed, quieter now. "He sits warm while my people burn. Give him to me, Lord Stark. Let me have his head."

"Kingslayer is worth more alive than dead," Ned replied. "So long as he lives, my daughter lives with him. Any man who lays a hand on him answers to me. Is that understood?"

There were muttered agreements. The lords were unhappy, but the Wolf's Blood had shown itself at the siege camps. None of them were willing to cross Ned Stark while he carried that fury in his eyes.

I watched the courtyard gates open. A heavy escort of Karstark spearmen marched out, forming a tight ring. In the center walked Jaime Lannister.

Ned was completely pragmatic about keeping the hostage alive. The wooden cage at the edge of the camp was fine for a night, but the damp cold of the Riverlands would not allow Jaime's maimed arm to heal, leading to a fatal infection. They were moving him from the field camp into a high, secure tower inside Riverrun, ensuring the Lannister gold didn't rot before the trade could happen.

Jaime looked terrible. His golden hair was matted with mud and dried blood. His right arm was heavily bandaged in fresh linen, bound tightly to his chest.

Halfway across the drawbridge, he stopped. The guards shoved him with their spear shafts, shouting insults, but Jaime barely registered them. He turned his head slowly, his sunken eyes searching the fog-shrouded tree line. He couldn't see me through the thick mist, but the weight of the nightmares he should have endured lingered in his bones. The strange, horrifying vision of the Mad King's death had shattered him. He stared at the ridge for a long, trembling moment, before dropping his chin and letting the spearmen herd him into the dark maw of the castle.

An hour later, a sharp caw echoed over the battlements.

A black raven launched from the Maester's tower. It circled the keep once, caught the wind, and banked south toward King's Landing.

I rested my head on my paws. The terms were set. Now, it was entirely in Cersei Lannister's hands.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The waiting settled over Riverrun like a sickness. For two days, the army sat in the mud, staring at the southern sky for a bird that had not come. The Riverlords paced the battlements, listening to the faint, dark rumors carried on the wind. Smoke was rising in the east.

Tywin Lannister had locked his host behind the towering stone of Harrenhal, but he had opened the gates for his mad dogs. The Mountain was loose.

I lay in the oak grove, listening to the distant, bitter arguments echoing from the castle courtyard. Edmure Tully was pleading with Ned again, begging for leave to take his knights and defend his burning smallfolk. But Ned's answer remained the same.

Ned was bound by the heavy chains of the war. He had to guard the Kingslayer, hold a fractured coalition together, and secure his daughter's life. He couldn't afford to chase raiders through the woods.

But I wasn't a lord. I didn't care about any raven.

I stood, shaking the damp earth from my coat. Nymeria lifted her head, her yellow eyes questioning. I gave her a low, rumbling growl, a firm command to stay. She whined softly, dropping her snout back to her paws. She belonged with the Northern camp, a symbol for the men to rally behind. To strike the way I wanted, I needed to move faster than a direwolf could run.

I left the grove, slipping past the outer pickets before the men even realized the shadow had moved.

Once I reached the open stretch of the kingsroad, I let the furnace in my chest flare to life. The damp air around me hissed. I lowered my head, dug my claws into the packed dirt, and broke into a run.

The world narrowed. The trees flanking the road blurred into walls of solid grey and brown. The wind tore at my ears, a deafening roar that drowned out the heavy thud of my paws. I tore through the distance, burning the miles away as a blur.

By midday, the smell of rain faded, replaced by the stench of scorched bodies.

I slowed, my chest heaving, the steam rolling off my back in thick white clouds. I followed the smoke to a clearing near a bend in the river.

It used to be a village. Now it was an abattoir. The wattle-and-daub houses were engulfed in flames. Bodies lay scattered in the mud whether farmers, women, children, cut down mid-stride. A dozen men in red cloaks were dragging livestock and sacks of grain toward a line of massive warhorses.

In the center of the slaughter sat the Mountain That Rides.

Gregor Clegane.

He sat astride a stallion the size of a draft horse. A massive greatsword rested across his saddlehorn, its edge dripping red. He was watching his men work.

Then a villager, bleeding from a severed arm, tried to crawl away through the muck. Gregor didn't say a word. He simply spurred his stallion forward, raising the greatsword, intending to cleave the man in half for the sheer sport of it.

I didn't give them the mercy of a warning.

I hit the clearing like a falling star.

One of the red cloaks turned, his mouth opening to shout, but my jaws clamped down on his chest piece. The steel crumpled like parchment. I threw his broken body into the nearest burning house and kept moving.

The horses panicked first. They screamed, rearing up and snapping their tethers, terrified by the sudden, suffocating heat flooding the clearing.

Gregor wheeled his massive stallion around, hauling back on the reins. He saw me, a six-foot beast of scarred fur and glowing amber eyes, standing amidst the butchered villagers.

"Kill it!" Gregor bellowed.

Three of his men charged, raising spears and axes. I didn't slow down. I ducked beneath a spear thrust, snapping the wooden shaft with my shoulder, and drove my skull into the man's chest. Ribs shattered with a sickening crunch. I spun, catching the second man by the throat, the fire beneath my skin searing his flesh before my teeth finished the job.

Gregor didn't wait for his men to die. He drove his spurs brutally into his horse's flanks, charging me. He swung the massive greatsword in a wide, devastating arc meant to take my head off.

I dropped flat into the mud. The heavy steel whistled inches above my ears.

Before the Mountain could recover his swing, I lunged upward. I didn't aim for the armor. I slammed my full weight into the chest of his stallion. The horse screamed as its ribs caved in. The sheer force lifted the animal off its hooves, sending it crashing backward into the dirt.

Gregor Clegane was thrown from the saddle. He hit the ground with the sound of collapsing anvils.

Any normal man would have broken his neck, but the Mountain rolled, hauling his eight-foot frame upright. He gripped his greatsword with both hands, panting, his eyes burning with blind, unhinged rage beneath his helm.

He swung again, a vertical chop that could have split an oak tree.

I stepped into the swing instead of away from it. The flat of the blade glanced off my thick shoulder, tearing a gash through my fur, but I ignored the sting. I closed the distance.

My jaws clamped down on his right wrist.

Gregor roared, trying to wrench his arm free. It was useless. My teeth sank through the heavy chainmail and boiled leather, grinding against the thick bone underneath. I pushed the heat from my core straight into my mouth. The iron gauntlet began to glow a dull red.

Gregor's roar of rage turned into a shrieking wail of agony. The steel was cooking the flesh right off his hand. He dropped the greatsword, wildly beating at my head with his massive left fist, denting his own gauntlet against my skull.

I held on, the heat flaring brighter, melting the links of his armor into his skin. The smell of burning hair and roasting flesh filled the air.

With a brutal jerk of my neck, I ripped backward. The bone snapped.

Gregor collapsed to his knees, clutching the smoking, ruined stump of his arm, screaming at the grey sky. The terror had finally found him. The monster of the Lannister army was looking up at something far worse than himself.

I stood over him, the fire receding back into my chest.

 

[Tsureai]

The Mountain vs Pokémon was the match-up i didn't know I needed. Also probably the closest thing to a fair fight

 

[WonderingWriter]

Gregor clutched the smoking, ruined stump of his right arm. He sank into the blood-soaked mud of the village square, his chest heaving. The agony finally pierced the mindless rage that had driven him his entire life. He looked up at me, his face twisted into pure unhinged hatred beneath his heavy iron helm.

He sucked in a ragged, wet breath, opening his mouth to bellow a curse, or perhaps to scream.

Without giving a second my jaws snapped shut over his head.

The scream died instantly in his throat, cut off before it could even reach the air. I wrenched my neck sharply to the side. The massive, headless body swayed for a fraction of a second, blood geysering from the torn gorget, before the body crashed heavily into the bloody mud.

I held the helm-encased head in my mouth for a long moment, tasting the blood of another madman. I unhinged my jaws and let it fall. It hit the ground with a heavy, hollow thud, rolling slowly until it bumped against the corpse of a slaughtered peasant.

The fire bleeding into my muscles began to cool, retreating deep into my chest, leaving behind the damp, biting chill of the Riverlands. The village was completely silent, save for the crackle of burning thatches and the hiss of rain hitting the dying embers.

I turned away from the butchery, ready to make the long run back to Riverrun, when a scent caught the edge of my senses.

Beneath the overwhelming stench of burnt bodies and burning wood, there was something else.

I followed the scent. I stepped over the bodies of peasants who had died clutching pitchforks and rocks, moving toward the edge of the tree line. A small wattle-and-daub hut stood half-swallowed by the shadows of the woods. Half of the peat roof had caved in from the fire, but the back wall still held against the rain.

I pushed my massive, blood-stained muzzle through the ruined doorway.

Three children huddled in the darkest corner of the dirt floor, buried beneath a pile of filthy, moth-eaten wool blankets. The oldest was a boy of perhaps eight or nine years. He stood in front of the others, his knees shaking so violently they knocked together. In his small, dirt-caked hands, he held a rusted harvesting sickle, pointing the curved blade toward the door. Behind him cowered a younger girl and a toddler no more than three winters old.

The moment my frame blocked the light of the doorway, the boy gasped, dropping the sickle. The girl shrieked, a high, piercing sound of absolute despair. They scrambled backward, kicking the dirt, pressing themselves completely flat against the rear wall. They wept in paralyzing terror. They had just watched men in armor butcher their mother and father, and now a towering strange beast dripping with fresh blood had come to eat them.

I didn't step forward. I stood in the doorway and let out a long, slow breath, blowing the smoke from my nostrils out into the rain.

I lowered my front legs, sinking my heavy chest onto the packed dirt floor. I folded my ears flat back against my skull and rested my chin on my paws. Slowly, deliberately, I swept my tail across the ground. A heavy thump. Then another.

I just watched them as I let the ambient warmth of my thick coat push back the cold dampness filling the ruined hut.

The girl's screaming turned into ragged, breathless sobbing. The boy kept his eyes fixed on my amber gaze, his chest heaving as he waited for their end.

Minutes dragged by like hours. The fire outside began to die down, smothered by the steady drizzle. The Riverlands chill crept into the hut, biting at the children's thin, threadbare tunics. They were orphans now. The winter was coming, the woods were full of scavengers, and the Lannister outriders would eventually return for the bodies. Leaving them here meant leaving them to starve or freeze.

I waited, perfectly still, offering nothing but warmth.

The toddler stopped crying first. He wiped a dirty hand across his runny nose and pointed a small finger at my tail, which was still giving a slow thump against the dirt. The older boy swallowed hard. He looked at the rusted sickle in the dirt, then back at me. He didn't pick the weapon back up.

The cold finally broke their paralyzing fear. The toddler took a clumsy step forward, drawn by the heat radiating from my fur. The boy tried to grab his brother's shirt, but his hands were too numb. The youngest child reached out and pressed his small palms against my thick, cream-colored mane.

He let out a soft, shuddering sigh as the warmth seeped into his freezing skin. The older boy and the girl finally crept forward, burying their faces in my coat, clinging to the only safe thing left in their ruined world.

....

The fog was rolling thick off the Tumblestone when I reached the Stark perimeter late that afternoon.

A Karstark man standing near the treeline raised his spear, peering into the dense mist. The weapon began to shake in his hands as my silhouette broke through the fog. The man opened his mouth to shout a warning, but the sound died in his throat. He stumbled backward over a thick tree root, landing hard in the mud, his eyes wide and unblinking.

I walked past him, into the heart of the Northern camp.

The three village children sat huddled on my broad back. Their small hands were buried deep in my mane, holding on tight as they stared down at the armored soldiers with exhausted, hollow eyes.

Held in my jaws was the severed head of Gregor.

The camp ground to an absolute halt.

The ringing of the blacksmith's hammer ceased. Men carrying firewood dropped their bundles into the mud. Knights pulling saddles onto their warhorses froze, the animals shying away and stamping their hooves nervously. The shouting and the idle curses died away, replaced by a sudden silence.

Men scrambled out of my path. They fell over each other to clear a wide avenue through the sea of grey and white banners, leaving me a straight line toward the center of the camp.

Ned Stark stood outside his large command pavilion. He wore a heavy dark cloak over his boiled leather, speaking quietly with Bolton and Robb. A map table was set up beneath the canvas awning.

Jon Umber saw me first. The massive lord was in the middle of a booming laugh, but the sound was severed instantly. He went completely still, his massive hand dropping away from the hilt of his greatsword. Robb turned to follow his gaze. The young lord's breath hitched visibly in the cold air.

Ned turned slowly.

He watched me approach, his face remained unreadable. His grey eyes swept up to the three shivering, mud-stained children perched safely on my back. Then, his gaze dropped to the yet massive, gory prize hanging from my teeth.

I stopped three paces from the Warden of the North.

As I opened my jaws. The Mountain's head hit the mud and rolled twice, stopping dead against the toe of Ned Stark's leather boot.

The flat-topped helm was crushed inward, warped by the sheer force of the bite. Blood pooled into the puddle beneath it. Through the dented visor, the dead, unseeing eyes of Tywin Lannister's greatest terror stared blankly at the Riverlands sky.

I lifted my head and met Ned Stark's gaze.

Silence stretched across the camp.

I hadn't just killed a Lannister raiding party. I had hunted down the monster who burned the Riverlands, and brought back the pieces.

[

For more chapters, access my patreon

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]

 

[Tsureai]

I wish my dog was this in tune with me. But no. He just eats off the counter and farts under my desk

 

[Wivk]

I'm not paying for a fan fiction and I'm tired of people abusing sites like patreon to illegally profit from it. You should be ashamed.

 

[igfry]

I'm not paying for a fan fiction and I'm tired of people abusing sites like patreon to illegally profit from it. You should be ashamed.

Click to shrink...

Chill bro. It's not water, you don't die if you go without it for 3-7 days. Completely optional.