GOT: The Arcanine of the North

[TheLastDreamer]

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

 

[TheLastDreamer]

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.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

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.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

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

 

[TheLastDreamer]

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.

 

[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.

 

[ApatheticArchivist]

I gave this story the best shot I could, reading the first 24 chapters, but it's just pissing me off at this point. No human without active and trained Aura could stand against even the weakest pokemon. A Growlithe is not a weak pokemon, even at a low-ish 'level'. If he wasn't weakened to the level of an ordinary dog, which he has been, for the sole purpose of making tension and leaving him entirely fucking useless, making only the barest changes to canon, I might actually enjoy this story.

I figured in the beginning that the weakness was just him being in a sort of 'infant' stage of development but no, it's not, he's just fucking weak. A Growlithe that hasn't been nerfed to nothing could have ripped through these baseline aura-less humans like paper, armour or not. When I came into this story I expected a Growlithe in Westeros, not a normal, weak dog that just looks like a growlithe following the plot around.

Sorry if I'm being unnecessarily harsh but the story was advertised as one thing, only to be nothing of the sort. I mean, come on, he got hit--not even that hard--by an untrained civilian and was complaining about bruises for the next few chapters!

If you're going to put a pokemon in Westeros, have the decency to not pretend they aren't an apex predator on the level of a dragon (once they evolve for most pokemon, but their earlier evolutions are still fucking dangerous).

If "But take heed: this is no typical Pokémon journey." was supposed to be a warning that he isn't even a damn pokemon but just cosplaying it, then you could do to be more specific.

Again, sorry if this is a bit harsh but I kept expecting him to grow into his power as a Growlithe and take a truly active role in the story, make changes to protect his pack, not just... flit around the edges of the story doing shit-all. And he'd not. He hasn't. Everything's just going down the shitter, and a story that's supposed to be centred around a non-verbal dog, is 98% political. Like, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Sorry, I'm just frustrated and annoyed about the time I spent on this. Good luck with the story.

I'm not sure if I should actually post this. Its mostly my annoyance talking here. Eh, I'll see if I can put a more impartial review/critique in.

The writing itself is fine, a little repetitive at times with some odd, short sentences (but I've noticed that's kind of common in a lot of fanfics so that's neither here or there) but the grammar isn't bad. The story itself is fine if you're looking for a political fanfiction that doesn't diverge much from the original Game of Thrones, I just hate politics beyond a certain level, especially stupid politics, which is why I usually avoid GoT fanfics. I was hoping that a pokemon throwing canon off the rails would make an enjoyable story out of a shitshow and ended up disappointed. So yeah, it's fine for what it is, it's just not advertised as what it is, hence my annoyance.

All the best, AA.

 

[Mori]

The writing itself is fine, a little repetitive at times with some odd, short sentences (but I've noticed that's kind of common in a lot of fanfics so that's neither here or there) but the grammar isn't bad. The story itself is fine if you're looking for a political fanfiction that doesn't diverge much from the original Game of Thrones, I just hate politics beyond a certain level, especially stupid politics, which is why I usually avoid GoT fanfics. I was hoping that a pokemon throwing canon off the rails would make an enjoyable story out of a shitshow and ended up disappointed. So yeah, it's fine for what it is, it's just not advertised as what it is, hence my annoyance.

Click to shrink...

Reason why the writing feels robotic and off is cuz they're using AI, got ripped off by it on SB.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The evening rain washed the worst of the blood from my coat. I lay in the center of Riverrun's lower courtyard, resting my head against the damp flagstones. The castle around me had changed once again. The fear that had gripped the men around me for days had morphed into a strange terrified reverence.

Above the main portcullis, the head of Gregor Clegane, the monster who had terrorized Riverrun had been driven onto a thick iron spike. The rain dripped down his beard, washing the gore down the stone walls and the beast resting in their courtyard was the one who had dragged him down.

The three orphans had been taken into the castle kitchens by a cook. At least they could live if their fate is kind.

A few hours later, two guards had carried out a massive wooden trencher piled high with roasted mutton and half a butchered stag, setting it near my paws before backing away with their heads bowed. I ate the meat, tearing through the bone, savouring the meal.

Then footsteps sounded out of a hallway leading to the courtyard.

I stopped chewing and lifted my head. Roose Bolton stood in front of the hallway. He wore a pale grey cloak over his dark armor, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. The Lord of the Dreadfort did not tremble like the Tully men. He did not look away. His pale, colorless eyes studied me with a cold detached expression. He looked at the sheer bulk of my shoulders, the embers glowing faintly beneath my fur, and then up at the Mountain's head on the spike.

Bolton didn't say a word. He continued onwards to the landing, gliding up the stairs into the Great Hall.

Always calculating and cruel. The men I hate the most.

I rested my chin back on my paws, my ears swiveling toward the high, open archways of the keep. The acoustics of the stone courtyard were perfect, funneling the voices of the war council directly to me.

"The Mountain is dead." Edmure Tully's voice echoed down showing his newfound, reckless confidence. "His raiding parties are scattered or rotting in the mud. Tywin is blind in the Riverlands now. If we strike Harrenhal..."

"If we strike Harrenhal?" Ned Stark's tired voice cut through. "Tywin Lannister did not die with his dog, Edmure. He sits behind his walls."

"Then let me take the van!" the Greatjon boomed. "I'll ride down the Kingsroad and burn every bloody wagon the lions have. Let Tywin see how he likes it!"

"No." Ned's command was absolute. "We do not scatter our strength."

Silence followed. Angry men are seldom fond of being denied.

Then, the soft, reedy voice of Maester Vyman drifted out from the hall. "My Lord Stark. A bird from the Kings Landing."

The sound of boots shifting on the stone floor. The sharp crack of a heavy wax seal breaking. I listened to the parchment unroll. The silence in the Great Hall stretched as they waited for the news.

Ned then spoke, his voice was completely flat, betraying nothing of the storm raging in his chest. "She accepts the terms. Kingslayer for my daughter."

A collective exhale went through the room, followed immediately by the low murmur of cautious men.

"Where?" It was the Blackfish who asked. Brynden voice was rough as bark. "Cersei won't send the girl to Riverrun. She doesn't have the stomach for it."

"The Ruby Ford," Ned answered. "In ten days' time. We are to bring the Kingslayer to the crossing on the Trident. Kingsguard and the City Watch will meet us there."

"The Ruby Ford?" Edmure spat. "That is on the Kingsroad. It is barely a week's hard ride from Harrenhal. The moment we bring the Kingslayer out into the open, Tywin will march."

"It's a mummer's trap!" Greatjon roared, slamming a heavy fist against a wooden table. "The Lannister bitch is baiting the hook."

"Lord Umber speaks truly." Roose Bolton's voice was a soft whisper, yet it carried clearly over the lingering echoes of the Greatjon's outburst. "If you march out of Riverrun with the Kingslayer, Tywin will know of it. He will abandon Harrenhal to intercept you. You risk the prisoner, the army, and your own life, Lord Stark. The exchange is deeply compromised."

"I am aware, Lord Roose," Ned said, the cold iron returning to his tone. "And I know the Lannisters."

"Then you know this is madness," the Blackfish warned gently. "Ned, if they take you at the ford, the North loses its Warden. The war is lost."

I heard the sound of a chair scraping back. Ned Stark had stood up.

"My daughter is in the hands of the people who butchered my household," Ned said. The weariness was gone as he continued. "She is surrounded by traitors and murderers. I will not leave her there another month. I will not leave her there another day. Trap or no trap, I am leaving for the Ruby Ford, and I am bringing my daughter home."

No one argued. When Ned Stark spoke with that voice, men obeyed or they drew their swords.

"Brynden," Ned commanded, turning to the Blackfish. "You will take fifty of your best outriders. Ride ahead of the column. Screen the woods along the Kingsroad. I want to know if a single Lannister scout breathes between here and the Trident."

"It will be done," the old knight replied grimly.

"Jon," Ned continued. "Pick two hundred of your heaviest lances. Northern men only. Men who don't break when the arrows start falling. They will form my vanguard."

"Aye, My Lord," the Greatjon growled, the prospect of a fight smoothing his earlier outrage.

"Edmure, you hold Riverrun. Robb, you hold the host. If I do not return from the crossing, you march this army North, fortify Moat Cailin, and you defend the Neck."

"Father.." Robb started, his voice cracking slightly.

"You will defend the North, Robb," Ned repeated, leaving no room for a son's argument. "Prepare the Kingslayer. We ride at first light."

The council dismissed. Men poured out of the Great Hall, shouting orders into the rain.

A moment later, Ned walked out onto the stone landing. He stood at the top of the stairs, the rain soaking into his grey wool cloak, and looked down into the courtyard. His eyes locked onto mine.

He didn't ask me to come. The Warden of the North didn't beg for help from a beast. But he knew exactly what was waiting for him at the Ruby Ford. He knew Tywin Lannister wouldn't let his golden son be traded away without trying to spring a steel trap on the men holding his chain.

I stood up, the muscles in my shoulders rolling as I shook the rain from my coat. I didn't need an invitation. Ned would take his heavy lances down the main road. I would take the deep woods. When the Lannisters finally sprung their trap, they were going to find a bitter pill.

 

[Tsureai]

Hmmm. I mean the problem is he's behind the walls of Harrenhall, than this solves that problem?

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The woods bordering the Kingsroad were filled with morning fog and the smell of wet decay. I moved through the deep brush without disturbing a single branch, letting my [Detection] guide me through the mist.

A quarter-mile ahead of Ned Stark's vanguard where the trees grew dense, two Lannister scouts crouched in a hunter's blind woven from dead branches, overlooking the muddy rut of the road. They wore studded leather and forest-green cloaks to break up their silhouettes in the brush. One was chewing quietly on a wad of sourleaf, his heavy crossbow resting across his knees. The other was staring down the road, waiting for the Stark banners to appear through the fog.

I had to strike quickly so as to not betray my presence to the Lannisters.

I pushed with a burst of power in my hind legs. I cleared the twenty yards like a blur crashing into the blind from the side, shattering the dead wood. My jaws clamped over the face of the scout with the crossbow, snapping his neck before he could even register what just happened.

The second man scrambled backward, his eyes wide with absolute terror as he fumbled for the hunting knife at his belt. He opened his mouth to scream.

I pinned him to the soft earth with one massive paw, the weight driving the air from his lungs. I opened my jaws and let the furnace in my chest flare. A wave of suffocating, blistering heat washed over his face, singeing his eyebrows and cooking the scream right out of his throat. He thrashed for a second before his eyes rolled back, his mind shattering from the pain. I crushed his windpipe and left them both in the dirt. Leaving Tywin's eyes blind.

On the southern bank of the Trident, the brown, rushing waters of the Ruby Ford crashed heavily over the rocks. A massive gilded wheelhouse sat, sunk deep in the mud, surrounded by an escort of gold cloaks and two knights of the Kingsguard.

Inside the stifling carriage, Sansa Stark sat rigidly on the velvet cushions. She wore a fine silk dress the color of autumn leaves, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her fingers ached. She tried desperately to remember her courtesies, but her breathing was shallow and frantic.

Sandor leaned heavily against the open doorway of the wheelhouse, blocking the damp river wind. He took a long pull from a skin of sour red wine, wiping his scarred mouth with the back of his gauntlet.

"Stop shaking, little bird," the Hound grunted.

"I am not shaking, Ser," Sansa replied, her trembling voice betraying the lie instantly. "The Queen promised I would see my father. She gave her word."

Sandor let out a harsh, barking laugh. "The Queen's word is worth less than the mud on my boots. She's sitting in the Red Keep shitting herself because your father brought a monster out of nowhere. She didn't send you here out of mercy. She sent you here out of her terror."

Sansa looked down at her hands. "It... it saved my father."

"Aye. And the rumors say it ate my brother's raiding party and sent his head back to Riverrun in a basket," Sandor said, taking another drink. His dark, dead eyes scanned the fog on the opposite bank. "Tywin is camped at Harrenhal. You think the old lion is going to let your father walk away with his golden boy? There's a trap waiting in those woods, little bird. I can smell it from here."

"My father has men," Sansa whispered, clinging to hope.

"Men die," Sandor replied bluntly. He looked back at her, the burnt half of his face twitching. "But men might not matter today. Let's see if your father's monster is hungry."

Across the rushing waters, the mist finally parted.

The direwolf banners of House Stark broke through the tree line. Greatjon rode at the front, holding the massive standard. Behind him came Ned Stark, his face set in carved stone, sitting tall on his warhorse.

Finally dragged between two Northern heavy lances, sitting slumped on a miserable palfrey, was Jaime Lannister.

Ser Meryn Trant, waiting on the southern bank, spurred his white horse forward to the edge of the water. The left side of his face was a mass of red, puckered scar tissue, a lasting gift from the past. He squinted through the fog, trying to see the Kingslayer. When Jaime lifted his head, the bloody, soiled linen wrapped around the stump of his right arm became visible to the entire Lannister escort.

Meryn Trant cursed under his breath, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The gold cloaks murmured to each other shifting uneasily. The Kingslayer was maimed, they had not expected him to be harmed by the northern host.

....

A mile upstream, hidden deep within the woods and thick underbrush of the northern bank, Tywin Lannister sat perfectly still atop his massive destrier.

Three thousand heavy lances of the Lannister vanguard sat in the gloom behind him, silent and ready. The trap was beautifully simple. He had let Ned Stark reach the ford. He would wait for the exchange to begin, wait for the Stark men to step into the water and then he would sweep the flank crushing the Northmen against the Trident.

The only variable that made Tywin uncertain was the beast, the Northern monster he had no true measure of. But he had prepared for that as well. He glanced back toward the rear of his lines, where a hidden surprise waited specifically for the creature.

Tywin watched the road through the trees. "Where are the scouts?" he murmured to Kevan Lannister, who sat his horse nervously beside him.

"Overdue, My Lord," Kevan replied.

Tywin's pale green eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. The air had grown unnaturally still. The damp chill of the morning was fading, replaced by a sudden, oppressive warmth.

Deep in the woods halfway between Tywin's hidden army and Ned Stark's vanguard on the road, I dug my heavy claws into the wet earth.

My ears twitched, picking up the muffled snorts of thousands of warhorses and the faint clinking of chainmail hidden in the trees to the west. Three thousand heavy cavalry I couldn't fight an army alone.

Well, I didn't need to fight them. I just needed to build a wall.

I lowered my head, closing my eyes, and pulled every ounce of heat from my core. The fire built in my chest, a raging, pressurized inferno. I opened my jaws and unleashed it.

A stream of the inferno rushed out through my jaws. I swept my head in a wide arc, blasting the deep woods, the dead brush, and the dry rot of the forest floor. The sheer heat boiled the dampness right out of the timber.

The forest caught with a deafening CRACK.

Flames the size of watchtowers roared into the grey sky. The fire spread with unnatural, violent speed, fueled by the blistering heat rolling off my body. It tore through the trees, creating a massive, roaring wall of flame and black smoke that stretched for a mile, completely severing the woods from the Kingsroad.

The heat hit Tywin Lannister's vanguard first who were closer to it.

The sudden, blinding inferno erupted less than a hundred yards from their tree line. The destriers panicked instantly. The three thousand massive warhorses screamed in terror, rearing up and bucking wildly as the blistering heat washed over them. Knights were thrown from their saddles, crashing heavily into the mud. Men shouted in panic, trying to control their mounts, but the instinctual terror of the flames was absolute.

Tywin's horse fought the bit, backing away from the wall of fire. Tywin hauled hard on the reins, his face illuminated by the raging flame. He didn't shout or curse, rather sat in the saddle, his cold eyes reflecting the towering flames that now blocked his army from reaching the road.

The path to the Ruby Ford was completely cut off by a wall of fire.

Through the roar of the flames and the screaming of the horses, Tywin Lannister realized the bitter truth. His trap was useless. He was the Lord of Casterly Rock, commander of the greatest army in Westeros, and now he was completely powerless against a beast guarding the North.

Down at the ford, the heat washed over the rushing waters of the Trident. Ned Stark looked toward the blazing forest, the orange light reflecting in his grey eyes. He didn't flinch. He drew his longsword, the steel singing in the damp air, and looked across the river at the terrified gold cloak escort.

"Bring me my daughter," Ned commanded, his voice cutting through the roar of the burning woods.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

I quietly slipped into the violent waters of the Trident just as the fire took complete hold of the northern woods.I kept my eyes and nostrils above the waterline, letting the dark smoke over the river conceal my approach. Through the haze and the roar of the flames, my heightened senses painted a vivid picture of the City watch escorts falling apart on the southern bank.

The heat of the mile-long fire had rolled across the Ruby Ford. And I could hear the exact moment it swept through the open doorway of the massive, gilded wheelhouse sunk in the mud.

Inside the wheelhouse, the heavy, wet thud of a leather wineskin hitting the floorboards echoed in my ears. Sandor Clegane's heartbeat instantly skyrocketed, hammering against his chest. The Hound, the man who laughed at death and slaughtered without hesitation, completely shattered. The towering wall of fire seen through the carriage window triggered a terror so deep it silenced his rational mind.

He shoved himself backward with a desperate, strangled gasp, his heavy armor scraping against the fine velvet interior. He pressed his broad shoulders into the furthest, darkest corner of the wheelhouse, pulling his knees up tight. The burnt, puckered flesh on the left side of his face twitched violently. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing turning into rapid, shallow wheezes, completely paralyzed by the roaring fire that dwarfed the childhood brazier he still saw in his nightmares.

Across from him, Sansa Stark's reaction was entirely different.

At first, her heart raced with pure confusion and shock. She threw her small hands up to shield her face from the blinding, oppressive glare that had suddenly turned the grey morning into a blazing sunset. She looked at Sandor, her erratic breathing pausing as she watched the Hound, one of the most dangerous men in all of Westros, reduce himself to a whimpering, trembling mess in the corner.

Slowly, she lowered her hands and looked out the small window toward the river.

She saw the towering curtain of fire completely blocking the Kingsroad. Standing in front of it, untouched and unbothered by the flames, was her father. Ned Stark sat tall on his warhorse, his face remain expressless, his longsword drawn and resting across his saddle. Behind him sat two hundred massive Northern cavalrymen, their grey cloaks snapping in the wind, completely ignoring the fire at their backs.

The pieces fell into place in her mind. Sandor had warned her of a Lannister trap waiting in the woods. Now, those woods had burst into flames. The fire wasn't a disaster, it was a shield being wielded for her. Her terror slowly began to fade, replaced by sudden hope. She gripped the edge of her velvet seat, leaning closer to the window, watching her father demand her return.

Outside the carriage, the rest of the gold cloak escort was rapidly unraveling.

Ser Meryn Trant sat on his white horse near the water's edge, he gripped his reins, tight enough for the leather to creak. He was sweating profusely inside his white enamel armor. The left side of his face throbbed painfully in the intense baking heat.

Trant knew about the ambush. It was the only reason a coward like him had volunteered for this escort. He was supposed to bring the girl to the river, wait for Ned Stark to cross, and then Tywin Lannister's three thousand heavy cavalry would sweep out of the trees and butcher the Northmen. Trant was only here to watch the execution.

Now, Tywin's army was cut off by a mile of impenetrable fire. The trap with it.

Trant looked across the rushing water. Ned Stark wasn't alone. He had brought two hundred heavy lances, seasoned, hardened killers from the North who looked wild and eager for blood. Trant only had fifty Gold Cloaks and a handful of Kingsguard. They were hopelessly outnumbered and completely outmatched.

The Gold Cloaks were already losing their nerve. These were city watchmen, men used to bullying starving peasants in the alleys of King's Landing, not the vanguard meant to hold a river against a heavy cavalry charge. The blistering heat, the deafening roar of the burning forest, and the sight of the mighty Jaime Lannister sitting maimed and bleeding on a horse across the water had shattered their morale completely.

They began to back their horses away from the muddy banks, their armor clinking nervously. The murmurs started low, then grew louder, bordering on open treachery.

A captain hissed, his voice trembling as he looked at the flames. "Lord Tywin can't reach us."

"The Northmen," another muttered, his eyes widening with panic. "They'll slaughter us all in the mud!"

"I didn't march out here to die," a third man said, glancing back over his shoulder toward the southern road. "We need to withdraw. Now."

Meryn Trant heard them, but he was completely paralyzed. His mind raced frantically, trying to find a way out. If he ordered a retreat and left Jaime Lannister in Stark's hands, Cersei would have his head mounted on a spike before the week was out. But if he ordered his men to fight, the Northerner's would cleave him in half before he could even draw his sword. He sat frozen in the saddle, utterly clueless, unable to command the terrified men behind him.

The escort was entirely focused on the threat in front of them. Every single eye was glued to the 200 Northern lances and the towering wall of fire on the opposite bank. The roaring of the flames and the violent river masked all other sounds.

They didn't hear me pull my massive frame out of the water.

I stepped onto the muddy southern bank, coming up directly behind the rear guard of the Gold Cloaks. The freezing river water dripped from my thick, cream-colored coat, instantly hissing and turning into thick clouds of steam as the heat inside my chest flared back to ward off the chill.

I walked slowly toward the gilded wheelhouse, my heavy paws sinking into the mud.

The men were so stunned by the standoff across the river they didn't even notice the shadow looming behind them.

No one noticed me until a single Gold Cloak, stationed near the back wheel of the carriage to keep an eye on the southern road, turned around to check their retreat path.

The man froze. All the blood drained from his face in a heartbeat. His spear slipped from his trembling hands, clattering loudly against the smooth river stones. He backed up, tripping over his own boots, and fell hard into the mud. He opened his mouth and let out his scream of terror.

The scream cut cleanly through the murmuring of the escort.

Ser Meryn Trant spun in his saddle. The Gold Cloaks jerked their horses around in a wild panic, drawing their swords with the loud ring of steel.

They turned to find a six-foot beast of scarred fur and glowing embers standing right in the middle of their formation.

I ignored the fifty armed men completely. They didn't matter. I took a slow, heavy step forward and stopped right beside the gilded wheelhouse. I placed my massive front paws against the wooden frame, the sheer weight of my body making the heavy carriage groan and tilt on its axles.

I lifted my head and leaned close to the open window.

Inside the carriage, Sandor Clegane was still pressed tightly into the corner, his hands over his ears, hyperventilating as he hid from the fire. But Sansa Stark was sitting up straight.

She turned her head. Through the window, surrounded by the terrified shouts of the Gold Cloaks and the billowing steam rising from my wet fur, she met my glowing amber eyes.



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