GOT: The Arcanine of the North

[WonderingWriter]

The cold didn't arrive all at once. It worked its way up from the ground, a slow, invasive chill that settled into my chest before I even managed to open my eyes. My first thought was that I'd left the window open. My second was that the bedding felt off, smelling like dirt?

I tried to push myself up, but my arms didn't work right. They felt short, locked in a position that forced my weight onto my palms without my fingers spread open to help balance me leaving me on all fours. When I finally forced my eyes open, the world was a smear of gray and dark green, positioned much closer to my face than it had any right to be.

I blinked, and the motion felt wrong. My eyelids were heavy, and there was a weight on the bridge of my nose that shouldn't have been there. I tried to reach up to rub my eyes, and that's when the first spike of real panic.

A furry, orange limb moved into my field of vision. It was thick, covered in coarse hair, ending in a white-furred bundle with dark, blunt claws.

I stared at it. I told my arm to move, and the paw moved. I flexed my fingers, and the claws dug into the damp earth.

"What?"

The word didn't come out. What came out was a high, choked yelp that vibrated through my chest and up into my skull. The sound was thin and sharp, sounding like a wounded animal. I clamped my mouth shut, but even that felt alien. My teeth were jagged, interlocking in a way that made my jaw feel crowded, and my tongue was too long, resting against a set of fangs that shouldn't have existed.

I scrambled backward, or tried to. My coordination was a disaster. I ended up tangling my own limbs, tripping over a back leg I hadn't realized was there, and rolling onto my side. As I tumbled, something heavy and fluffy slapped against my flank.

A tail.

I froze, lying in the dirt, my heart pounded against my chest rapidly. I could feel it, a whole new appendage attached to the base of my spine. I could feel the wind moving through the fur on it. I could even move it.

I didn't want to move it. I wanted to wake up.

I lay there, waiting for the dream to break, for the bedroom ceiling to appear. It didn't. Instead, the sensory input started to sharpen. It was a physical assault. I could smell the sap in the trees fifty yards away. I could hear the skittering of an insect under a rock ten feet to my left. I could feel everything beyond what I should.

It was too much.

A faint blue flicker appeared in the corner of my eye. I ignored it at first, thinking it was another trick played by my brain. But it stayed, hovering just out of focus.

[System Initialized]

[Species: Growlithe]

[Level: 1]

"Growlithe?"

The thought was a dull echo. I knew the name. It was a memory from a childhood of handheld games and Saturday morning cartoons. A fictional creature. I looked down at my chest of white fluffy fur, the orange and black stripes on my legs.

I wasn't just a dog. I was a Japanese cartoon character dropped into a cold, damp forest that felt far too real to be a game.

I forced myself to stand again. It took three tries to get all four legs to cooperate, to find the center of gravity that allowed me to stay upright without swaying. I felt small, the trees massive around me, their roots twisted limbs reaching out to trip me.

I started to walk step by step, watching my paws hit the ground. It was humiliating, the way my body knew how to move better than I did. There was an instinctual grace beneath my confusion, a biological imperative that kept my steps silent despite my inner turmoil.

…

I found a clearing an hour later. It was a campsite.

The smell of ash and dried blood drew me toward a pile of snow near a dead fire pit. I nudged a piece of metal with my nose, it felt strikingly cold to my heightened senses, it was a dagger.

I stared at the hilt. Made of bone, carved into the shape of a wolf's head with a heavy, snarling jaw.

Confusion started clouding my mind, way beyond it already did. Nothing makes sense, neither what I'm now nor the world around me.

The sun started to dip, and the temperature plummeted. The fur helped, but the cold began to bite at my white underbelly. So I found a hollow beneath a fallen cedar, gathered some soft foliage to use as bedding and crawled inside, still my breath coming in short, with visible puffs.



I needed heat.

Then I felt a spark in my chest, a literal physical heat sitting at the base of my throat. It felt like something that refused to go out. I focused on it, trying to push it upward, the same way I would force a cough.

I exhaled, and a small, orange burst of flame hit the foliage I'd gathered.

It wasn't a "move." It was a violent, internal combustion that left a scorched taste in my mouth and made my lungs burn. I watched the foliage catch, the small flame flickering in the dark of the hollow.

I curled around the fire, my tail tucked tight against my nose. I looked at the blue screen still hovering in the dark.

[Level: 1]

I wasn't a man anymore. I was a Level 1 pokemon in a World I'm not sure about. Which is nothing but a death sentence. I closed my eyes, the heat of the fire clashing with the cold in my marrow.

I didn't know how I got here. I didn't know how to get back. All I knew was that I had four legs, a throat full of fire, and a very long way to go before I was safe.

 

[Despacitoleo]

Peak

 

[Tom122000]

Definitely watching this I'm very interested in where you will go with this

 

[WonderingWriter]

The fire had died down to a bitter gray ash by the time the vibrations reached me. It wasn't a sound at first, but a rhythmic thumping through the earth that didn't belong to the wind or the trees.Rather Hooves, heavy ones.

I woke slowly, my new body still feeling like a suit that was a size too small. I pushed myself up, shaking the damp foliage from my fur. The awkwardness of four legs was still there, but it felt better than the first day. My brain was starting to accept the new hardware, even if my ego hadn't.

I didn't rush toward the sound. In the world I came from, I would've called for help. In this one, it was better to stay in the shadows until I got a better understanding of my surroundings.

I kept low, my stomach nearly brushing the wet dirt as I moved through the brush. And I could already smell the leather of the saddles, the salt of human sweat, and blood.

I eased up to a ridge and looked down.

The scene straight out of an episode I remember. A massive stag lay tangled in the roots of an ironwood tree, its guts spilled across the frost. A few yards away was the wolf. It was the size of a pony, its fur matted with dark gore, a jagged piece of antler still buried in its throat.

And there, men in heavy wool cloaks stood around the carcass. I recognized the one in the center immediately, Eddard Stark. He didn't just look like a character from a TV show; he looked like a man who hadn't slept well in a decade, his face etched with a gravity that didn't need a script.

I watched from the ridge as they found the pups. The mood shifted. The sad reality of the dead mother was replaced by the frantic, high-pitched whimpering of five small brats. Then, the sixth, the white one. The outsider.

"You will train them yourselves," Ned's voice carried through the trees, hard and final. "You will feed them yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves."

The decision was made. They were leaving.

I had a choice. I could stay in these woods and hope my Ember was enough to keep my death away, or I could gamble on the only man in this world who took "honor" seriously.

I stepped out from the treeline
…
I didn't run. I walked at a steady, deliberate pace. I wanted them to see I wasn't a wild animal looking for a meal.

The reaction was quick. Jory and the others had their swords halfway out before I'd even cleared the brush.

"What in the hells is that?" someone muttered.

"Look at the color of it," another added, reaching for a bow. "A forest freak. Let me put an arrow in it, My Lord."

I didn't stop. I walked right past the dead direwolf, ignoring the smell of rot, and stopped ten feet in front of Ned Stark. I sat back on my haunches. I didn't growl. I didn't bark. I just looked him in the eye, trying to project a level of "human" awareness that didn't belong in a dog.

Ned stayed on his horse, his reins pulled tight. He studied me with a focus that made me feel like he was looking through my flesh and into my soul.

"He isn't afraid, Father," Bran whispered from his pony.

"He isn't a wolf," Robb noted, his hand still in his sword hilt.

Ned dismounted. He walked toward me, his heavy boots crunching in the snow. He stopped just out of reach and lowered himself to one knee, extending a gloved hand. He didn't rush giving me the chance to bite or flee.

I met him halfway. I leaned in and pressed my forehead against his palm.

He froze. I felt his fingers twitch against my fur, then tighten slightly as he felt the sheer heat radiating from my skin. To a man living in a frozen wasteland, I must have felt like a living coal.

"He's warm," Ned said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Warmer than any beast I've ever touched."

"Can we keep him?" Bran asked.

Ned stood back up, looking at the empty forest behind me as if searching for a mother that didn't exist. "A lone hound in the Wolfswood," he said to himself. "Winter is coming. He wouldn't last a night."

He looked at Jory. "Find a place for him in the wagon. If he stays quiet, he comes to Winterfell. If he bites, throw him back to the woods."

I didn't wait for Jory to lead me. I turned and walked straight to the supply wagon, leaping into the back with a certainty that surprised even me. I settled onto a pile of rough furs and stayed still.

The wagon began to move, the wheels groaning against the frozen ruts of the road. I watched the trees of the Wolfswood recede, the blue light of the system flickering at the edge of my vision.

[Level: 1]

[Status: Healthy / Sheltered]

[Objective: Survive the journey to Winterfell.]

I closed my eyes. The confusion of being a Pokémon in Westeros was still there, buzzing at the back of my brain, but for the first time, I wasn't cold. I was part of a pack now.

That was enough for a start.

 

[WonderingWriter]

Winterfell didn't just look like a fortress; it carried a weight that pressed into everything, from the thick peat smoke hanging in the air to the damp stone underfoot. People here treated the place less like a home and more like a massive machine that required constant maintenance.

The wagon stopped in the courtyard of the Great Keep. I didn't wait for a command. I jumped down, landing without a sound and taking in the scale of the walls. The change from Wolfswood was sharp, but I didn't let the noise of the yard distract me. I stayed at Ned Stark's heel as he moved toward the main hall.

People noticed. Stable boys paused their work. Guards adjusted their grip on their spears. They watched me with a mix of suspicion and curiosity, trying to figure out where an orange hound with black stripes fit into a castle full of gray. I gave them no reason to see me as a threat.

Within a week, the castle staff realized I wasn't going to stay in the kennels. The space was fine, but it didn't suit my purpose. I wasn't a wolf, and I wasn't a standard hunting hound.

Maester Luwin was the first one to truly study me.

He had me sit on a wooden table in his turret. The room smelled of old parchment, dried lavender, and ink. Luwin moved with a patience that made it easy to stay still. He didn't treat me like a dangerous animal. He treated me like a puzzle.

"Stay," he said, his voice quiet. He rested a hand against my chest.

I followed the command. I let him lift my paws to check the pads and measure my teeth. If I wanted a place here, the man with the maester's chain needed to trust me.

He paused when his fingers pressed against my side. He pulled back, his brow furrowing. He tried again, slower, his expression tightening as he realized what he was feeling.

"Lord Stark," Luwin said. He didn't look away from me.

Ned stood by the window, his arms crossed over his heavy leather doublet. "The beast's blood runs hot. Hotter than any fever I've recorded in a living creature."

Ned stepped closer. "He kept the boys warm in the wagon. Theon thinks he's a freak, but the animal has a calm about him."

"It is not a fever," Luwin replied. He tapped a quill against his chin. "His breath is steady. His eyes are clear. It is simply his nature. Like a hearth-fire."

I leaned into Luwin's hand. It was a deliberate, small gesture to show I understood the contact. He looked surprised for a second, then his face softened. He scratched behind my ears in a way that felt more like a greeting than an inspection.

[Level 2]

It was slow progress, but I wasn't in a rush. I spent the next few weeks adjusting my survival strategy.

The direwolves made it clear that I couldn't compete with them physically. Ghost, Grey Wind, and the others grew at a pace that defied biology. While they gained size and raw power, I stayed low to the ground. I had to find a different kind of utility.

I started paying attention to the household's needs. When a servant dropped a ring in the rushes or a set of keys went missing in the kitchens, I found them. I didn't bark. I didn't make a scene. I simply brought the item back and left it where it belonged.

The name "orange freak" died out quickly. The servants started calling me something else.

"The hound."

It wasn't accurate, but it was a title they could understand.

Catelyn Stark remained the outlier. She didn't trust the wolves, and she looked at me with the same wariness she gave anything that didn't fit her view of the world. I understood her logic. She saw risk where others saw a helper. I stayed out of her path.

Instead, I focused on managing the wolves. Shaggydog was the most difficult unpredictable and already strong enough to be a problem. I found him in the solar once, shredding a Myrish rug. I didn't growl. I walked up, caught him by the scruff, and dragged him outside. He snapped at the air, but I didn't let go until we were in the courtyard where the damage didn't matter.

I did this for the kitchens and the armory too. I became the silent mediator between the Stark children's pets and the castle's order. I didn't need Catelyn's approval. I just needed her to stop seeing me as a liability.

The atmosphere in Winterfell changed the morning the raven arrived from King's Landing.

Jon Arryn was dead. The news moved through the castle like a cold draft. The pace of work accelerated as preparations began for the King's visit. I found myself busy, tracking down supplies or carrying small messages for the stewards.

One evening, as I settled near the fire in the Great Hall, the system updated.

[Level 5 reached] [Title Earned: Household Guardian] [Effect: Increased trust from non-combatants; servants will provide food and shelter without prompting.]

The change was subtle but real. Guards didn't tense when I passed their posts. Servants offered me scraps of meat without me having to ask. I had become a part of the masonry.

I watched the flames in the hearth. In my old world, people talked about power as something you took. In this world, it felt more like something you earned by being the only reliable thing in the room.

The wolves howled in godswood, the sound carrying through the night. They sensed the shift in the wind. Robert Baratheon was on the road, and whatever followed him was going to break the peace of the North.

I lowered my head onto my paws. I wasn't just a man in a dog's body anymore. I was a part of the Stark household. And I was ready for the King to arrive.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The royal procession was still days away and I spent most of my time moving through the keep, but not wandering without purpose though.

Winterfell wasn't built like the castles I'd seen in the show. It was older, shaped by use more than design, with heat rising through the walls from the springs below and narrow passages that let people move without crossing the main halls. I followed those paths when I found them, paying attention to where they led and how they connected, building a picture of the castle that didn't rely on sight alone.

The kitchens, the granaries, the smaller doors people didn't think about unless they needed them, those mattered more than the wide corridors and open courtyards.

If things ever turned bad, it wouldn't be the main gates that decided who survived.

It would be the paths no one else paid attention to.

The system stayed in the background, quiet enough that I didn't have to think about it unless I chose to.

[Level 6]

[Detection Radius Expanded]

In the afternoons, when the yard cleared out and the noise settled, I usually found Jon.

He didn't stay where the others gathered. While Robb drew people in without trying, Jon kept to the edges, working on his own or watching without stepping forward. It wasn't something anyone pointed out, but it was easy to see once you knew where to look.

I found him near the armory, sitting on a mounting block with a whetstone in hand, drawing it slowly along the edge of a practice blade. The sound carried across the empty yard.

I didn't sneak up on him.

I walked straight across the open space and stopped beside him, lowering myself to sit near his feet.

He didn't react right away.

The motion of his hand slowed, then stopped, and after a moment he glanced down at me, not surprised, just… aware.

"You again," he said, his voice low, like he wasn't used to speaking louder than he needed to.

I didn't make a sound.

I leaned slightly against his leg instead, letting the warmth carry through without pushing for attention.

He noticed.

They always did.

Jon looked at me for a second longer than necessary, then reached down, his hand hovering briefly before resting against my head. The hesitation was still there, but it wasn't as sharp as it had been the first time.

"You don't act like the others," he said, more to himself than to me.

His hand stayed where it was, fingers moving slowly through my fur like he wasn't sure how much pressure to use.

"Don't beg, don't make noise… just show up."

I nudged his hand lightly, not enough to demand anything, just enough to keep the contact there.

He let out a breath that sounded like it had been sitting there for a while.

"Ghost does that too," he said after a moment. "He just… disappears when he feels like it."

There was a small pause before he added, quieter this time, "Guess that makes sense."

I didn't respond to that.

Didn't need to.

I moved slightly, then rested a paw against his boot, not as a trick, just a simple point of contact that kept him grounded in the moment.

He noticed that too.

His shoulders eased a little, the tension that usually sat there loosening just enough to be visible if you were paying attention.

"Strange hound," he said, though there wasn't anything dismissive in it.

His hand moved again, scratching behind my ears with a bit more confidence this time.

For a while, neither of us said anything.

The yard stayed quiet, the only sound coming from the wind moving past the walls and the faint scrape of steel somewhere farther off.

"Ghost's been going down into the crypts," Jon said eventually, like the silence had stretched long enough that he felt the need to fill it.

"He likes it there. Quiet, I guess."

He looked down at me again.

"You're different though."

He paused, as if trying to find the right way to say it.

"When you're around, it doesn't feel as… empty."

The way he said it wasn't meant to sound important.

It just came out that way.

I stayed where I was, not moving, not breaking the moment by reacting too much.

After a while, the bells rang from the Great Hall, the sound carrying clearly through the yard and breaking whatever quiet had settled there.

Jon pulled his hand back and stood, adjusting the sword at his side before looking down at me again.

He gave a small nod and gone.

I watched him walk toward the hall, his steps a little more certain than before, though the difference was small enough that most people wouldn't notice it.

I did.

I turned away after he disappeared inside and made my way back across the yard, passing along the outer wall where the air carried something new.

It wasn't strong yet, but it was there.

Horses. A lot of them. People. Movement.

The road was getting closer.

I didn't need to see it to know what it meant.

The King wasn't far.

And where he went, others followed.

I moved toward the kennels and settled into the straw near the direwolf pups, who were already far larger than anything their age should have allowed. Grey Wind moved slightly when I lay down, letting out a quiet breath before settling again.

I closed my eyes, not fully resting, just letting my thoughts settle into place one last time.

The castle was mapped out well enough.

The paths were there.

When things changed and they would, I wouldn't be guessing where to go.

I'd already know.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The sound reached the castle before the procession ever came into view, thousands of hooves struck stone and dirt in uneven rhythm.

I stayed near the back of the gathered line, between Robb and Jon, keeping still while watching the entrance. The air was crowded with scents layered over each other to the point where most of it blurred together, but a few stood out through the noise, wine, roasted meat, leather that had never seen hard use.

The King.

Robert Baratheon came through the gates like a man who had once been unstoppable and hadn't quite accepted that time had caught up with him. He still had presence, still carried himself like someone used to being followed.

Behind him, the Lannisters moved in a way that didn't match the North at all. Too polished. Too clean. Cersei's gaze passed over everything without interest, as if she'd already decided none of it mattered, while Jaime rode with an ease, his expression relaxed in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes.

I didn't move or react, just watched.

Ned stepped forward, knelt, and was immediately told to stand again, the exchange between him and Robert carrying the kind of familiarity that didn't need ceremony to prove itself.

Robert looked Ned over, a grin spreading across his face.

"And you've gotten old." he said, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard as he laughed.

Ned answered without missing a beat. "You've gotten fat,"

Robert barked out another laugh at that, clapping him on the shoulder before pulling him into a rough embrace.

His attention drifted after that, moving across the Stark children one by one before settling on me.

That pause mattered.

I could feel it before he spoke.

"And what's this supposed to be?" Robert said, stepping closer, his tone changing into something more curious than amused.

I made the adjustment before anyone else could react.

Instead of holding still the way I had been, I let my posture loosen slightly, my ears tilting forward as I stepped out just enough to be seen clearly without pushing too far. I stopped a few paces in front of him and sat, tail brushing once against the ground, not frantic, not eager, just enough to look like I belonged.

Ned answered before Robert could press further. "Found him in the Wolfswood. He's taken to the children."

Robert crouched with a grunt, the movement heavier than it should have been, and reached out a hand.

I didn't hesitate.

I leaned in, nudging his palm lightly before giving his glove a quick touch, just enough to make the interaction simple and easy to read.

He let out a short laugh. "That's a strange-looking hound."

His hand moved to my head, fingers pressing into my fur as he tested it, and I let him, keeping still without stiffening.

"Warm too," he added, more to himself than anyone else. "Feel that, Ned. Like he's got a fire in him."

Ned didn't argue, just watched.

Robert scratched behind my ears with more force than necessary, and I leaned into it just enough to sell it without overdoing the reaction.

"Good eyes on him," Robert went on. "Not stupid. I've seen enough hounds to know the difference."

For a moment, it felt like he was considering something.

"I should take him south," he said, half to Ned, half to himself. "Would make a fine hunting hound."

That landed harder than it should have.

I felt Robb tense beside me, while Bran leaned forward like he was about to say something he shouldn't.

Ned didn't raise his voice.

"He's settled here," he said simply. "Wouldn't take well to being moved."

Robert looked at me again, then back at the children, reading the reaction without needing it explained.

After a second, he snorted. "Aye. No point dragging a hound away from where he's decided to stay."

His hand came down once more on my head, firmer this time.

"Still," he added, standing up with a grunt, "he's got the look of something that knows how to track."

Then he moved on, the moment passing with him as easily as it had come.

I didn't follow.

I stepped back instead, returning to where I'd been before, and Robb's hand came down almost immediately, gripping the scruff of my neck a little tighter than usual.

"He wasn't serious," Robb muttered, though there was a question in it he didn't say out loud.

I leaned into his leg in response, giving him something solid to focus on.

The tension eased.

Not gone.

Just enough.

The courtyard slowly returned to motion as the procession moved deeper into the castle, voices picking back up as people followed, and I stayed close to the Starks until the crowd thinned.

....

The feast that night filled the Great Hall with laugher and heat, the kind that made it harder to think if you stayed out in the open too long.

I kept low, moving under the table where the light didn't reach as clearly, staying close to the Stark children while watching everything from below instead of above.

Boots told more than faces did.

Polished leather passed by without slowing, heavy steps marked the Northmen, and every now and then a softer tread cut through both, careful enough to avoid drawing attention.

Tyrion Lannister noticed me.

Not immediately, but once he did, he didn't look away as quickly as the others.

He sat near the end of the table, wine in hand, watching as I moved back and forth, picking up small things that had been dropped or nudging them toward where they needed to go.

He didn't smile.

Didn't speak.

But he paid attention.

And I settled near the edge of the hall after a while, close enough to the warmth of the fire to stay comfortable without being in the center of anything.

The noise blurred together, voices overlapping until it stopped meaning anything, and I let it fade into the background while focusing on what mattered.

Bran would climb soon.

Jaime and Cersei would find their moment.

Everything was already in motion.

I lowered myself onto the stone, keeping still while the hall carried on around me, my eyes half-closed but not resting.

[Level 7]

[Social Stealth: Active]

 

[WonderingWriter]

The cold that morning settled deeper than usual, the kind that stayed in your chest after each breath and made the air feel thinner than it should have.

Most of the men had already ridden out with the King, and without them the castle felt off in a way that wasn't easy to explain. It wasn't silent, but the weight of movement and noise had changed, leaving something stretched and uneasy behind.

I stayed near the Great Hall for a while, letting the sounds and scents separate enough to make sense of them. The trail of the royal party was already fading toward the gates, but not all of them had left.

The ones that mattered were still here.

I didn't need anything to confirm it. I already knew what this day was.

I found Bran near the armory, standing still and looking up at the First Keep as if he could already feel the climb before taking the first step.

He wasn't thinking about risk.

He never did.

I moved in front of him before he could start, placing myself directly in his path so he would have to acknowledge me.

"Out of the way, boy," Bran laughed, reaching down to pat my head.

I didn't move.

When he tried to sidestep me, I moved with him, blocking again without making it look aggressive, then lowered myself into a sit right in front of him, pressing my weight into the ground so he couldn't just push past me. I leaned forward slightly and nudged his shins, trying to guide him back toward the yard where the other pups were.

He frowned, clearly annoyed now.

"I'm just going for a climb. You're worse than Mother."

He gave me one last scratch behind the ears, like that settled the matter, and then he moved.

Not toward the stairs.

Toward the wall.

I turned as he ran, but he was already climbing by the time I reached the base, his hands finding holds in the stone with the ease of someone who had done this too many times to hesitate.

By the time I looked up properly, he was already too high.

Too fast.

And completely out of reach.

That was when the scent hit properly.

Not strong at first, but clear enough once I focused.

Cersei.

Jaime.

They were already there.

Everything narrowed after that.

There wasn't time to think things through step by step. I couldn't reach him, and I couldn't stop what was coming, but stopping it wasn't the only way to change the outcome.

I just needed to control where he landed.

I turned and ran for the wagon.

It sat a short distance away, loaded with thick sacks meant for storage, piled without much care, heavy enough that they wouldn't shift unless something forced them to.

I grabbed the first sack with my teeth and pulled.

It resisted at first, dragging against the ground, but I dug in harder, claws cutting into the dirt until it finally gave and slid free. I dragged it toward the base of the tower without checking placement, then turned back immediately.

The second sack came easier.

The third didn't.

By then my breathing had picked up, the cold air burning as it moved in and out, but there wasn't space to slow down.

Above me, voices carried faintly.

Close enough.

I shoved another sack into place, forcing it into the growing pile, trying to center it without wasting movement. The ground beneath me had already turned soft where I'd been dragging weight back and forth, and I could feel the strain building in my legs, but I went back again anyway.

One more.

That was all I had time for.

"The things I do for love."

I heard it clearly that time.

There was no doubt.

I didn't look up.

There wasn't a reason to.

I drove the last sack into place with everything I had, forcing it into the center of the pile just as the shadow broke from above.

Bran fell.

The air rushed around him as he dropped, fast enough that there was no time for a cry, no time for anything except the impact.

He hit the pile hard, the weight collapsing under him instead of stopping him clean. The sacks moved, absorbing most of the force before rolling him off the side and onto the ground.

The sound wasn't sharp.

It was heavy.

I was at his side before the dust settled.

His breathing was there, shallow but steady enough to see, his face pale, his body slack in a way that didn't sit right. One leg was twisted at an angle that made it clear how bad it was without needing to think about it.

Alive.

That was enough.

I looked up.

For a split second, I saw a flash of gold at the window.

Then nothing.

I didn't stay quiet.

I threw my head back and let the sound out, not a growl and not a bark, but something sharper that carried across the courtyard in repeated bursts, loud enough to cut through everything else.

Help. Here. Now.

I kept it going, my throat tightening with the strain as I stood over Bran's body, not moving from his side.

I saw the first of the guards turning, then running.

"Over here!" Jory Cassel's voice boomed.

They reached us within seconds. Jory dropped to his knees beside Bran, his hands moving quickly but carefully as he checked him.

"He's breathing. Someone get the Maester! Get Lord Stark!"

The yard broke into motion.

Men ran in different directions, voices overlapping, urgency replacing the quiet that had been there moments ago.

I stopped then.

Stepped back just enough to give them space while keeping Bran in sight as they lifted him, careful despite the rush, and carried him toward the keep.

The courtyard emptied almost as quickly as it had filled, leaving behind only the disturbed ground and the scattered sacks where the fall had been softened.

The blue screen flickered at the edge of my vision.

[Level 8]
[Title Earned: Life-Binder]
[Effect: Slightly increases the survival chance of allies in critical condition.]

I watched until they disappeared inside, then turned away, my legs heavier now that everything had slowed.

I had done what I could.

I hadn't stopped it.

But I had changed it.

The castle didn't feel quiet anymore.

It felt like something had already begun.

And it wasn't going to slow down.

 

[WonderingWriter]

Bran's breathing was the only thing in the room that proved he was still alive.

It came slow and uneven, quiet enough that you had to watch for the rise of the furs instead of listening for a sound. Once you focused on it, the rest of the chamber seemed to fall away. The cold of the North tried to creep in through the stone, but I wouldn't let it reach him.

I stayed at the foot of the bed, pressed against the blankets covering his legs. I didn't move more than I had to. The heat from my body spread through the layers of wool and skin, . Time to time I adjusted my weight slightly, making sure the warmth covered his feet, which felt like ice beneath the covers.

Maester Luwin came in and out through the day. His chain made a soft clicking sound whenever he moved. He checked Bran the same way each time. Careful hands, steady eyes, never rushing even though there was nothing new to find.

On the third day, he paused.

His hand rested near my flank, his fingers still as he felt the temperature of the bedding. "He is still warm," Luwin whispered. He looked toward the window, where the light was gray and weak.

Catelyn didn't turn. She sat in that chair as if she'd been carved from the same stone as the walls. Her attention was remain pinned to her son. "The direwolf is outside, howling for him," she said, her voice dry and distant. "And this one... he won't even go to the kitchens to eat."

Luwin's hand moved against my fur, a brief, thoughtful pressure. "It is a mercy, My Lady. The chill often settles in the limbs when the spirit is far away. This creature is fighting the death-chill for him. He is keeping the blood moving."

I didn't look up. I kept my eyes on the boy's chest. In the world I came from, we had machines to do this. Here, there was only me and the heat in me.

After a while, Catelyn moved. It was a small change, the rustle of her dress against the wood, but then her gaze moved to me. It wasn't the distant look she usually gave the animals. She reached out, her hand unsteady, and let it rest on my head.

"Why do you stay?" she asked softly.

I didn't have an answer that would make sense to her. I couldn't explain the logic of a plot or the fact that I knew what was coming for this family. I just let out a slow breath and leaned into her touch, a simple, grounding contact. She didn't pull away. Her fingers moved through my fur in a slow motion to keep herself from breaking.

"He loved to climb," she murmured to the empty room. "I told him... I told him a hundred times."

I stayed silent. Some memories didn't help when spoken aloud.

The Departure

Time lost its meaning. Day and night became a single, blurred cycle of shadows and candlelight. I didn't sleep deeply. Part of my mind stayed pinned to the door, tracking the footsteps in the hall and the muffled voices of the household.

Ned came before the sun was up on the day he was meant to leave.

He didn't announce himself. He just stepped into the room and stood by the bed, his heavy traveling cloak smelling of frost and his scent. He looked at Bran first, his face drawn tight, the weight of the south already bowing his shoulders. Then his gaze found me.

He didn't speak for a long time. When he did, the words were short.

"Watch him."

I met his eyes. I didn't move, and I didn't bark. The look we exchanged was enough. He reached down and gripped my shoulder, his hand firm for a brief second, then he straightened and walked out. The door clicked shut, and the room felt emptier than it had a moment before.

Outside, the direwolf howled. It was a long, jagged sound that carried across the courtyard. It wasn't random. It knew the pack was splitting.

I lowered my head, my eyes half-closed but my ears tracking the fading sound of horses. The heat in my chest stayed strong. If someone came through that door with a blade, they wouldn't find a helpless boy. They would find me.

The blue light of the system flickered at the edge of the dark.

[Title Updated: The Silent Sentry]

[Effect: Increased detection of hostile intent within the immediate vicinity.]

[Status: Vigilant / Level 9]

Tomorrow, the assassin would come. And I would be ready.

 

[MetalGearDull]

Will be watching with great interest.

 

[WonderingWriter]

Bran lay where he had been for days. Catelyn hadn't left his side, and the space around her felt worn thin. Everything else in the room had been pushed aside for the single purpose of waiting.

And I stayed pressed against his legs, letting my body heat sink through the blankets. It wasn't something I had to think about anymore. It had become instinct, the same way breathing had.

Maester Luwin stood near the table with a stack of ledgers in his hands.

"It's time we reviewed the accounts, my lady. You'll want to know how much this royal visit has cost us."

Catelyn didn't turn from the window. Her eyes stayed fixed on the gray sky outside.

"Talk to Poole about it."

"Poole went south with Lord Stark, my lady," Luwin said keeping his tone careful. "We need a new steward, and there are several other appointments that require our immediate attention..."

"I don't care about appointments!"

The sharpness of her voice showed roughness of her emotion.

Robb stepped forward then. The hesitation had gone from his movements over the last week. The pressure of Winterfell had changed something in him, and it showed the way he carries himself.

"I'll make the appointments. We'll talk about it first thing in the morning."

"Very good, my Lord. My Lady."

Luwin gave a small, stiff nod and left. He closed the door behind him, taking what little normalcy remained with him.

Robb didn't follow. He stayed where he was for a moment, looking at Bran, then at his mother. Finally, his gaze dropped lower. It stopped on me. But I didn't react. rather I kept still, keeping my body a living hearth against Bran's legs. I wasn't looking for attention. I stayed where I belonged.

Robb watched me for a second longer than he probably meant to. His expression tightened as his thought wondered. Eventually he stepped closer to the bed.

"When was the last time you left this room?"

"I have to take care of him."

"He's not going to die, mother. Maester Luwin says the most dangerous time has passed."

"What if he's wrong? Bran needs me."

"Rickon needs you," Robb said, and this time the strain was clear in his voice. "He's six. He doesn't know what's happening. He follows me around all day, clutching my leg, crying..."

Just then wolves began to howl outside before he finished. The sound carried through the thick stone walls in a long, restless echo that made the air in the room feel tighter.

"Close the windows!" Catelyn cried, pressing her hands over her ears. "I can't stand it! Please make them stop!"

Robb turned toward the window, but he didn't close it. He stopped instead.

I caught the smell first. It was the scent of burning wood, something that shouldn't happen inside the safety of the Great Keep. A second later, Robb saw the smoke.

"Fire," he said, already turning toward the door. "You stay here. I'll come back."

He didn't wait. He was gone before the words settled, the door opening and shutting behind him.

The silence that followed wasn't empty rather felt like waiting. Something was close. Something was wrong.

The door handle turned slowly.

The man who stepped inside looked like a beggar, but the Valyrian steel blade in his hand told a different story. He smelled bad for to get even close. His eyes moved from Catelyn to Bran with a dull, vacant gaze.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said with a dry voice. "No one is supposed to be here. It's a mercy. He's dead already."

"No!"

Catelyn moved without thinking. She caught the blade with both hands as it came down. The blade cut into her fingers immediately, but she held on, forcing the strike off its path even as he pushed his weight into her.

He tried to overpower her quickly, his face twisting with the effort to finish the job before anyone returned. She didn't let him. She fought like a mother would do, her blood staining the white furs of the bed.

I waited for the moment. When his feet planted and he lunged to drive the knife home, I moved.

I launched from the bed and clamped my jaws down on his wrist just above the hilt of the dagger. I drove the heat from my chest into the bite, a searing, internal temperature that made the man scream.

His grip weakened. The dagger drove into the mattress inches from Bran's side instead of through his chest.

The assassin struck back with his free hand, a heavy blow that hit my shoulder and sent me sliding across the floor. He turned to lunge again showing his desperation.

Then Summer hit him.

the direwolf moved like a gray shadow, slamming into the man with enough force to take him off his feet. The struggle didn't last long. It was quick, violent, and messy. When the wolf was done, the room went still again.

Catelyn crawled back toward Bran, her hands shaking. Blood ran down her fingers as she checked his breathing. Her movements were uneven, but she held herself together.

I pushed myself up slowly. The pain in my shoulder was sharp, a dull throb that pulsed with every heartbeat. The heat in my body was already working against it, but it would take time.

Bran hadn't moved. But he was alive. And nothing had changed.

Footsteps came fast this time. The door opened, and Robb rushed in with guards behind him. He stopped when he saw the body, then moved straight to his mother. The room filled with voices and the smell of blood, taking over where the silence had been.

No one noticed me move.

I looked once toward the bed. Catelyn was there. Summer stood beside her. Bran was breathing. That was enough.

I slipped out into the hall while the attention stayed on the boy. I moved through the castle the way I had learned to over the weeks, avoiding the main paths and using the confusion left behind by the fire in the library.

The postern gate stood open when I reached it, left unguarded by men who had run to help with the buckets. The cold outside hit hard, but it didn't slow me. I stepped through the stone archway and didn't stop.

Winterfell stayed behind me, a dark silhouette against the fading glow of the fire. Bran was alive. That remained the same. The rest of the story shouldn't.

I turned south and picked up the trail. The Kingsroad stretched ahead, long and empty in the moonlight, but the scent I needed was still there.

I started running. My shoulder burned with every stride, but it didn't matter. What mattered was ahead.

The game was already moving in King's Landing. But I wouldn't let it end the same way.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The run had taken more out of me than I wanted to admit, but I didn't slow until the smell of smoke and boiled grain finally reached me through the cold.

By then my paws were burning with every step, the skin worn thin from frozen ground and broken stone, still I kept going until the trees gave way and the camp came into view.

It spread across the land in the gray light of early morning, quiet but not empty. Most of the men were still asleep, their tents low and still, but the banners told me where to go. Stark colors marked the northern side, easy to follow even through the haze.

I didn't bother hiding, with the guard near the edge too busy with the cold, rubbing his hands together and breathing into them, his attention turned inward instead of outward. I passed close enough to hear him mutter to himself, but he never looked down.

Inside, the camp felt different. Horses changed in their position, leather creaked, and somewhere a man coughed in his sleep.

After a while, I found Ned near his horse, already awake, already working, checking the straps on his saddle. There was no rush in what he did, just the motions of his daily life.

I slowed my approach, more because my body demanded it than anything else stepping into his view, not making a sound stopping a few paces away and lying there.

He noticed immediately.

His hands stilled on the strap, and for a moment he didn't move. His eyes stayed on me, then moved past me toward the road leading north, as if expecting to see something else behind me.

When his gaze returned, it had changed.

"Red?" he said quietly letting go of the reins and walking toward me, boots pressed into the frost as he closed the distance. He knelt near me, his hand on my shoulder, checking the injury before anything else.

He felt the heat, then the rough edge of the wound, his expression tightened, but only slightly.

"You've come a long way," he said while keeping his voice low. "You shouldn't be here."

I held his gaze, letting him see what he needed to see. He saw what he needed to as a moment later he stood calling out, "Jory."

Jory came over at a quick pace, slowing his pace when he saw me stopping a step short, looking me over. "Red?" he asked, frowning. "How in the world did it get here?"

"He followed us," Ned said.

Jory glanced down at my paws, then back up. He spoke in disbelief, "That's no short distance."

Ned didn't answer that. His attention stayed on me."Find a man riding north," he said. "Send Red back."

Jory nodded and stepped forward, reaching for me.

"Come on, then. Enough of this."

I didn't move,even when his hand caught my scruff, I moved just enough to slip free without force and turned away from him, heading toward the wagons instead. I could feel his confusion behind me, but I didn't stop.

The wagon marked with the Hand's seal stood where I expected. I jumped up into the back and settled in between crates and bundled furs, the wood hard beneath me. I looked at Ned.

Jory followed up a second later, in a less patient tone, "Down," he said, reaching again.

I didn't resist with teeth or sound. I simply leaned away, holding my ground, keeping my attention on Ned instead of him, while Jory tried again, putting more effort into it.

It didn't work. After a moment, he let out a breath and looked back.

"He's set on it," he said. "Won't budge."

Ned stepped closer to the wagon, his gaze moving over me slowly. He took in the state of my paws, the wound, the way I held myself.

There was no confusion left in his expression now, only thought.

"He ran the whole way," Jory added. "Look at him."

"I see him," Ned said.

He rested his arms on the edge of the wagon, not crowding me, just close enough to say, "I left you for Bran," quietly. "That hasn't changed."

I leaned forward slightly, resting my head against the crate unmoving, while he watched me for a long moment, then exhaled, "Leave him."

Jory looked at him. "M'Lord?"

"I said leave him."

That was enough for Jory to step back.

Ned reached in and set his hand on my head, firm and brief.

"You've made up your mind," he said. "I won't fight you on it."

He straightened and looked toward the south, where the road stretched out beyond the camp.

"If you've come this far, you'll see the rest."

The camp stirred soon after.

Men woke, horses were brought forward, and the slow movement of the column began again. The wagon moved beneath me as it joined the line, wheels turning back onto the road.

I stayed where I was.

The pain in my body didn't leave, but it faded into something I could manage.

Winterfell was behind me now.

The road ahead was what mattered.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The Neck didn't feel like a place men were meant to cross, only endure.

The road narrowed as it pushed through the marsh, raised just enough to keep the wagons from sinking, though even that looked uncertain in places where the ground bled into dark water on either side. Fog hung low over everything, not thick enough to blind you, but enough to blur distance and dull sound until everything felt more muted than it should.

I kept near the Stark girls' horses as we moved through it, not because it was easier, but rather it was necessary. My paws still hadn't recovered from the run south, the skin tender beneath forming scabs, and every uneven stretch of stone reminded me how far I'd pushed them. The wagon would have spared me that, but the air here carried too much for me to sit inside and ignore it.

The swamp spoke to those who paid attention to it.

There were things in the water that didn't break the surface, but their presence carried anyway, a thick, low scent that clung to the reeds and drifted across the road whenever the wind blew. The horses felt it long before they saw anything, their steps turning uncertain, ears twitching, as they noticed something they couldn't trust.

I moved ahead when I needed to, just far enough to read the signs before it reached them. When the smell turned wrong or the ground softened underfoot, I gave a short huff or pressed against a leg to guide them back toward the center.

It didn't take long for someone to notice.

Jory rode slightly behind us. Wary of the Neck, his eyes wandered more than the others, watching the edges instead of the road alone. After the second time I veered the horses away from a stretch that looked solid but wasn't, he spoke, "Keep them to the middle," more to the riders than to me, though his glance flicked in my direction. "Road"s narrow for a reason. Don"t trust what"s off it."

He didn't wonder how I knew. He didn't need to. Men like him learned early that the difference between living and dying often came down to listening to the right thing at the right time.

Arya leaned forward in her saddle, peering down at me as we moved. She had too much energy for this kind of travel, far too restless to like being told where to stay.

"He's itching to run," she said, not loudly, but with that certainty she carried when she thought she understood something. "Look at him."

"I'd worry more about what's in the water than what the hound wants," Jory replied dryly, not looking at her. "You keep your seat and your hands where they belong."

Arya made a face at his back but didn't argue, meaning she was considering his words rather than dismissing them. Satisfied, I kept moving; restlessness wasn't a problem, but missing something was.

The days blurred together after that, the marsh stretching on longer than it had any right to, the road bending just enough to keep the end out of sight. Sansa stayed inside the wheelhouse whenever she could, complaining about the smell when she did come out, while Arya drifted where she wasn't supposed to, sometimes near the front, sometimes trailing back, never settling for long.

The wolves adjusted faster than anyone.

They were larger now, their steps lighter despite their size, their attention fixed on things no one else noticed. They weren't afraid of the swamp, but they weren't careless either.They were clearly unaware of what was waiting for them beyond it.

When the land finally changed, it did so without announcement.

The ground hardened first, the soft underfoot fading until the road felt solid again, and the smell followed after, the rot thinned out and gave way to something cleaner. The fog broke in patches, then lifted entirely, revealing green where there had only been gray before. The Riverlands opened up around us.

Men straightened in their saddles without thinking about it. Horses stepped easier. Even the wagons moved with less strain. It should have felt like relief.

It didn't last long enough.

The inn came into view late in the day, larger than most you'd find along the road, built where the crossings met. It should have been a place to rest, to eat, to let the journey pause for a night.

Instead, it looked claimed.

The banners made that clear before anything else.

Red and gold stood out, clean and deliberate, not the kind of thing you mistook for coincidence. The yard was already full, men moving in armor that caught the light in sharp flashes, their presence filling the space in a way that left little room for anyone else.

We weren't the first to arrive.

The Hound sat near the stables, working a whetstone along his blade with slow, steady strokes. The sound carried in a way that made it hard to ignore. He didn't look up when we entered, but nothing about him suggested he needed to.

Joffrey strode further in, near a group of boys his age, though he didn't look like he belonged with them. His posture loose, almost careless, but his eyes moved around, tracking things with a kind of idle attention that wasn't really idle at all.

He wasn't tired.

He was waiting for something to entertain him.

A pair of Lannister guards pushed past me as the yard filled, one of them knocking his boot against the dirt near me without looking down.

"Mind it," the other muttered, though there wasn't any weight behind it.

I stepped aside without reacting and stayed near as the Stark girls dismounted.

Sansa moved toward the inn with purpose, already adjusting herself into something more composed, something that fit the place she thought she was stepping into. Arya lingered, her attention already drifting past the buildings, past the people, toward the open space beyond.

The river.

I watched her go before she moved.

So it's happening.

The screen flickered at the edge of my vision, sharper than before.

[Current Objective: Change the Fate of the Wolves.]

[Detection: Hostile Intent rising near Prince Joffrey.]

Arya slipped away the moment no one called her back, moving toward the riverbank with Nymeria pacing easily beside her, both of them drawn by the same instinct for open ground.

No one stopped her.

I moved after her, keeping my pace even, letting the noise of the yard fall behind me as the space opened up ahead.

The light was lowering, stretching the shadows longer across the grass, and the river came into view in pieces, flashing between trees.

Everything that was meant to happen was already moving toward that clearing.

This time, I will be there first.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The Trident made its own presence known long before I reached the clearing.

The sound of it pushed through the trees, deeper and more constant than anything in the marsh, water forcing its way over stone in a steady rush that swallowed smaller noises without effort.

There was a soothing quality to it.

I followed the bank through the taller grass, keeping low as I approached. My paws still stung with every step, the skin not fully recovered from the road, but the looming danger at the edge of my awareness kept me moving without hesitation. The ache in my shoulder lingered as well, but it had settled into something I could work through.

The clearing came into view in pieces between the reeds.

Arya and Mycah stood near the water's edge, circling each other with sticks raised, their movements uneven but full of energy. They were laughing, both of them flushed from the effort, their focus locked on the game rather than anything beyond it.

"I'll get you!" Mycah shouted, swinging his stick.

The moment held for a breath longer than it should have.

Then it broke.

"Arya!"

Sansa's voice cut across the clearing. She rode in from the path, her mare stepping carefully over the uneven ground, Joffrey close beside her on his taller horse.

They didn't belong to the scene in front of them, and the contrast showed in everything from their posture to the way they looked at what they were interrupting.

Arya lowered her stick, the change in her expression was immediate. "What are you doing here? Go away."

Joffrey ignored her completely.

His attention fixed on Mycah, narrowing slightly as he took in the boy standing there with a stick in his hands and no understanding of what was about to happen.

"Your sister? And who are you, boy?"

"Mycah, my Lord," the boy stammered, his grip tightening.

"He's the butcher's boy," Sansa added, as if that settled everything.

"He's my friend," Arya snapped.

Joffrey nudged his horse forward, the animal's hooves pressing into the soft ground as he closed the distance, using the height and weight of it to force Mycah back without touching him directly.

"A butcher's boy who wants to be a Knight, eh? Pick up your sword, butcher's boy. Let's see how good you are."

Mycah's eyes dropped, his voice shaking. "She asked me to, my Lord. She asked me to."

"I'm your prince, not your lord, and I said pick up your sword." Joffrey's voice smoothed out as he spoke.

"It's not a sword, my prince. It's only a stick."

"And you're not a Knight. Only a butcher's boy. That was my lady's sister you were hitting, do you know that?"

"Stop it!" Arya yelled.

"Arya, stay out of this," Sansa pleaded, her voice already breaking.

Joffrey continued.

He drew Lion's Tooth, the blade catching the last of the light as it cleared his side. The change in the situation was immediate, the play gone from it completely as sword replaced wood.

He came down from his saddle, bringing the point toward Mycah's face, letting it hover just long enough to make the threat real before dragging it lightly across the boy's cheek.

"I won't hurt him... Much."

Arya moved before anyone else could.

She stepped in and swung her stick hard, the impact landing across Joffrey's arm with a sharp crack.

"Filthy little bitch!" Joffrey screamed, recoiling as his grip faltered. He turned on her, whatever restraint he had left gone completely.

Sansa's control broke with it.

"No no, stop it, stop it, both of you. You're spoiling it. You're spoiling everything!"

Joffrey lunged forward, blade lifting as he closed on Arya.

"I'll gut you, you little cunt!"

"Arya!" Sansa shrieked.

I saw Nymeria move in the brush as her protective instinct took over.

If she stepped in now, it would end the same way it should be.

I moved before that could happen.

The distance consumed by each step, my focus narrowing down to timing and angle as I broke from the grass. I didn't go high and I didn't hesitate. I drove forward into the back of Joffrey's knee just as he was about to strike.

The impact took him off balance immediately.

His leg folded, and he went down into the mud with a heavy, uneven fall, it knocked the breath out of him in a sharp gasp.

I didn't give him time to recover.

I lunged again, catching the crossguard of the sword in my jaws and twisting hard, using the slickness of his grip and the angle against him. The blade came free before he could tighten his hold again.

I turned and carried it with me in the same motion, closing the short distance to the water.

The throw wasn't clean, but it didn't need to be.

The sword spun once in the air, caught the light briefly, and disappeared into the current with a soft splash that was gone almost as soon as it happened.

When I turned back, the change in the situation was complete.

Joffrey pushed himself up from the mud, his clothes ruined, his expression caught between disbelief and rage as he stared at his empty hand.

"You..." he choked out. "You filthy... My sword! You threw away my sword!"

I stood where I was, placing myself between him and the others without making it obvious. I didn't need to show teeth or make noise. The absence of the blade had already done that for me.

Sansa hadn't moved, her hands still pressed over her mouth as she stared toward the river.

Arya stood just behind me, her attention fixed on Joffrey now, the shock already giving way.

Nymeria had settled back as the moment passed without her needing to act.

"Mycah, run," Arya whispered.

The boy didn't hesitate. He turned and ran for the trees, disappearing into the brush before Joffrey could get his footing.

Joffrey staggered upright, mud clinging to him.

"I'll have you killed! I'll tell my father! I'll tell the Queen!"

"Tell them what?" Arya stepped forward. "That a dog tripped you because you were bullying a boy? You weren't even bitten, Joffrey. There isn't a scratch on you. Go ahead, show them your 'wounds.'"

He looked at himself then, really looked, and found nothing but mud and humiliation.

There was no blood to point to.

No injury to claim.

Only the fact that he had lost control in front of witnesses.

As Sansa tried to calm him, he spat out. "Don't touch me!"

He turned away, climbing back onto his horse without looking back.

I watched him leave, the tension in the air easing slowly as distance replaced it.

The system flickered faintly at the edge of my vision.

[Objective: Change the Fate of the Wolves - Completed.]

[Level 13 reached]

[Status: Target Humiliated / Wolves Safe]

Arya came over after a moment and knelt beside me in the grass, her hand settling against my head without hesitation. She didn't speak right away, her attention drifting toward the river where the sword had vanished.

"Thank you, Red," she whispered, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

I nudged her hand lightly.

The moment had passed, but it hadn't ended anything.

Joffrey would remember this.

So would the people around him.

I turned back toward the inn and started walking, the sounds of the camp rising again as I moved closer, the peace of the river fading behind me.

We still had miles to go before King's Landing.

But the drama hasn't ended.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The hall, packed with men who stood along the edges without moving, waiting for this show to come to a conclusion.

I stayed close to Ned as we stepped inside, my paws light against the floor keeping out of sight, but there was no hiding from the attention. Every eye moved. Every gaze lingered.Some curious, others cautious. One with a certain malice.

Cersei stood near the hearth, still and composed, her eyes fixed on me and Ned from the moment we entered. There was no confusion in them, no doubt, only judgment.

Joffrey stood beside her, cleaned and dressed as though nothing had happened, but something had changed. He didn't look at Arya. He didn't look at me. His shoulders sat lower than before, his chin not quite as high.

At the center, Robert Baratheon sat slouched in his chair, a goblet hanging from his hand, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else than here. He didn't look like a king holding court, rather a man dragged into something he had no patience for.

…

Cersei spoke first.

"That animal set upon our child," she said, "It knocked him down and cast his sword into the river. You would keep such a creature near your children?"

Ned remained unmoved .

"Your son drew a sword," he said. "On a boy."

"That is not the point, Lord Stark" Cersei cut in, quicker now. "It's your hound. You don't get to decide when it acts or who it decides is a threat."

"It decided that."

Cersei's gaze snapped to him, clearly enraged.

"Decided?" she repeated, her voice thinning. "Your filthy hound attacked the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."

"It stopped him," Ned said. "There's a difference."

Robert, his patience gone, stared Joffrey down. "Well? Did it bite you?"

Joffrey hesitated. "No, but.."

"Did it bite you?"

"…No."

Robert let out a breath through his nose, something close to a laugh slipping out before he could stop it.

"So you had a sword," he said, more leaning forward now, "and the hound didn't even try to hurt you. Still you end up on your back in the mud."

Joffrey flushed. "He came at me from behind..."

"And you let him," Robert cut him off.

Cersei losing her composure, stepped forward.

"This is no jest, Robert."

Robert shot back, "No? Sounds like one to me."

Indignation in her eyes, she spoke in an even tone: "You would sit there and laugh while your son is attacked?"

"He wasn't attacked," Robert said. "He was made a fool of."

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.

Joffrey didn't speak, his voice was his mother and she uttered with a hardened gaze. "That thing is dangerous."

Ned, unwilling to give an inch countered, "It showed more restraint than most men would have."

That did it.

Cersei turned fully toward him now.

"You presume too much for a man who forgets his place."

Ned didn't respond to that, but Robert on the other hand slammed his goblet down bellowing, "That's enough."

The sound carried through the hall, cutting through everything.

"I'm not killing Ned's hound because the boy played around." He declared.

"Robert"

"I said it's done."

That ended it.

He pushed himself up, not waiting for agreement, not caring for it, and walked out of the hall with heavy steps that echoed behind him.

The tension in the air continued after he left.

It stayed.

Cersei didn't speak again, but the look she gave me was worse than anything she could have said. It wasn't anger in the moment. It was something held back, something stored for later.

I met her gaze for a moment, not challenging, not backing away, just enough to show I understood.

Then she turned, pulling Joffrey with her, leaving the hall.

I looked toward Sansa.

She stood near the back, her face pale, her hands tight around Lady's collar, holding on as though letting go would change something. The wolf stood beside her, calm, alive, unaware of how close everything had come to ending differently.

That alone told me what had changed.

Ned let out a slow breath, the strain showing now that the room had emptied. His hand came to rest briefly on Arya's shoulder before he glanced down at me.

"Come," he said. "We ride at first light."

Outside, away from the gazes, the air felt easier to breathe.

Arya remained closeby, the tension finally leaving her as we stepped away from the hall. Her hand came down onto my fur without hesitation.

"You saw him," she said, a grin breaking through despite everything. "Not so brave, is he? "

I nudged her hand lightly.

The moment passed, but it wouldn't be the end of anything.

They would remember.

I lifted my head, looking south where the road stretched into the dark.

The system flickered at the edge of my vision.

[Level 14]

[Status: The Queen's Enemy]

[New Objective: Navigate King's Landing]

We fell into step as we made our way back toward camp, the sounds of the night settling in around us.

The wolves still alive, the pack whole.

That was good enough for now, but what waited ahead wouldn't be settled with a fall in the mud.

 

[Allen S Price]

This is awesome

 

[Legrio]

Interesting premise, but you're sticking too close to canon. Also, I feel you are severely underestimating just how powerful a Growlithe would be, even a low level one. The MC should have been able to incinerate or ragdoll the meager thug Joffrey sent after Bran with ease.

 

[RainyDay]

Interesting premise, but you're sticking too close to canon. Also, I feel you are severely underestimating just how powerful a Growlithe would be, even a low level one. The MC should have been able to incinerate or ragdoll the meager thug Joffrey sent after Bran with ease.

Click to shrink...

Yeah I agree with this, a Growlithe is pretty strong despite being a "puppy" at level 14, he is no pushover anymore. And once he evolves he's basically a pseudo-legendary from first gen, no way he should struggle doing anything but fighting dragons. That said canon is changing slowly which I agree, but if Ned's death becomes inevitable then that's when this is jumping the shark, because Growlithe should absolutely be able to change that. Especially with Bite, Take down, Ember, Flame Wheel, Roar, etc.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The smell reached us before the city ever could. The rot, sewage, fish left too long in the sun, and the many bodies living too close to each other, it all came looking for me.

By the time the Mud Gate opened, I wasn't just unpleasant, my nose was overwhelmed.

To a human, it might be foul. For me, it was chaos.

Every step forward brought a dozen new scents layered over the last, none of them fading, all of them competing. My nose twitched as I tried to sort through it, separating what mattered from what didn't, forcing the noise into something usable instead of letting it drown everything out.

I stayed close to the Stark horses as we entered, keeping pace beside them while the city swallowed us whole.

King's Landing didn't look like a place built with intent, rather it looked as though it had grown too fast and never stopped.

Buildings leaned into each other at odd angles, timber pressed against brick, streets narrowing and widening without pattern, people spilling through them in constant motion. Voices overlapped, merchants shouted, carts rattled over uneven stone, and somewhere in it all, arguments flared and died just as quickly.

Jory pulled a strip of cloth up over his nose as we pushed in deeper.

"Gods above," he muttered, his voice muffled.

Arya didn't seem to mind, she leaned out slightly from her saddle, eyes moving from one side of the street to the other, taking everything in with restless curiosity. Jugglers, shouting vendors, a man with a monkey on his shoulder, all of them pulled at her attention in quick bursts.

Sansa stayed inside the wheelhouse, the curtains drawn just enough to let light in but not much else. I caught a faint hint of something floral when the wind shifted, likely a scented cloth pressed close to her face.

I didn't blame her.

As we climbed higher toward Aegon's High Hill, the press of the city eased slightly. The air didn't become clean, but it changed, the heavier rot giving way to the sharper scent of salt from the bay.

The Gold Cloaks lined the path ahead, their formation more for appearance than discipline. Their armor caught the light well enough, but the way they stood told a different story, loose grips, uneven spacing, men more used to watching than acting.

I marked them by instinct.

That was enough.

We reached the Red Keep just as the gates opened to receive us.

The change from city to castle was immediate. The noise dulled, the movement slowed, and the chaos outside gave way to something more controlled, though no less dangerous.

A man stepped forward before the horses came to a stop.

Petyr Baelish.

He wore the place like he belonged in it, his clothes neat without being ostentatious, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested he trusted the ground beneath his feet. His eyes moved constantly, not nervously, but deliberately, taking in everything without ever settling too long in one place.

"Lord Stark," he said, his voice easy, almost welcoming, though there was nothing warm in it. "The Small Council has been waiting on you. His Grace grows impatient when made to wait."

Ned had barely dismounted when the words reached him. The road still clung to him, dust, fatigue, the weight of travel and he looked like a man who would have preferred a moment's pause before stepping into whatever waited next.

"My daughters have been on the road as long as I have," he said. "They will be seen to first."

Baelish's smile didn't falter, though it sharpened slightly at the edges.

"The King's business rarely allows for such comforts," he replied. "It would be unwise to keep him waiting longer than necessary."

Ned didn't respond immediately.

He looked at him for a moment, measuring, before giving a short nod that wasn't agreement so much as acknowledgment.

I stepped closer, settling near his heel, drawing a slow breath as I did.

Baelish carried a careful scent, something chosen rather than natural, mild enough to be overlooked if you weren't paying attention. It fit him.

Pleasant, Forgettable, until you looked twice.

Another figure approached before the moment settled.

Varys.

He moved quietly for a man of his size, his steps soft against the stone, his robes moving around him in silence. The scent reached me before he did, floral like the smell surrounding us, but still he failed to hide from me.

"Lord Stark," he said, his tone smooth, almost amused. "What an unusual companion you've brought with you. He seems… attentive."

Ned's posture changed, not openly, but enough.

"Lord Varys."

Varys's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, not with curiosity, but with interest. It wasn't the kind of look given to an animal.

It was the kind given to something unknown.

As Ned allowed himself to be drawn toward the inner halls, I followed without hesitation.

A pair of guards stepped forward to block my path, more out of routine than intent, but they stopped when Ned's gaze settled on them.

"The hound stays," he said, not raising his voice.

That settled it, as they stepped aside.

The Red Keep didn't feel solid. It looked like it, with its thick walls and high ceilings, but once inside, something about it felt hollow in a way that had nothing to do with space.

There were too many places for someone to stand just out of sight, too many corners that didn't quite reveal everything at once.

My attention changed as we walked.

Not outward rather Inward.

The new awareness settled in at first, then sharpened as I let it take hold. It wasn't sight or scent, not exactly, but something that filled the gaps between them.

Behind one of the wall hangings lining the wall, there was movement subtle, but there. Not enough to be seen, but enough to be felt.

Further ahead, near a pillar, another presence lingered, still but not absent.

Breathing and waiting while listening to secrets, for their masters.

Ned stepped into the council chamber without slowing, his boots echoing faintly against the floor as he crossed the threshold.

I remained near the entrance, settling where I could see the proceedings without being in the way.

Men of power filled the space, but they weren't the only ones there.

I let the awareness spread, tracing the edges of the room, the walls, the spaces between them.

The real audience wasn't seated at the table, it was hidden behind it.

King's Landing didn't feel like a city.

It felt like a place where nothing stayed where it seemed to be.

Where words were never just words.

Where every silence held something behind it.

I watched Ned as he took his place among them.

He carried himself the same as he had in the North, direct and built for honesty in a place that didn't value it.

He wasn't walking into a battlefield, he was stepping into something worse.

The system flickered faintly at the edge of my awareness.

[Level 15 reached]

[Passive Skill Unlocked: Detection (Internal)]

[Status: Active]

I lowered my head slightly, just settling into stillness as I kept my attention on everything at once.

The walls, the breathing behind them and the men in front of them.

I had mapped the scents, marked the players.

And now I could feel the ones who thought they were unseen.

Ned Stark wasn't alone in this room.

He just didn't know it yet.

And I wasn't going to let him face it blind.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The chamber in that corner of the Red Keep was quiet except for the soft thump of my tail on stone.

Arya stood in the middle of the floor with the practice sword Ned had given her clutched in both hands. The thing looked too large for her, and she held it like she meant to argue with it until it obeyed. Her brow was drawn tight. With Arya, that usually meant tears, temper, or both.

I lay near the wall and let [Detection] murmur at the back of my mind. Two small heartbeats stirred somewhere beyond the stone. Little birds, likely. I paid them no mind, while the man at the door was worth watching.

He was black haired, sharp-featured, and dressed in worn leather that had seen years of use. A wooden blade rested easy in each hand.

"You are late, boy," Syrio Forel said. His voice carried that smooth Braavosi accent.

"I'm a girl," Arya shot back.

"Boy, girl... You are a sword, that is all." He came a step farther into the hall. "What shall I call you?"

"Arya."

"And I am Syrio Forel. And you will be doing what I say."

He tossed her a second wooden blade. Arya caught it badly, nearly lost it, then set her feet again.

"It's heavy," she complained.

"It is as heavy as it needs to be to make you strong," Syrio said. "Now, to your post."

He began with stance and balance, not strength. No knight's chopping blows. No grand flourishes. He taught her where to place her feet, how to hold herself and how not to lean before she moved. The Water Dance, he called it. Arya hated it at once, which meant she needed it.

While he worked with her, I began my own drills.

Pride will not save Ned Stark when the betrayal comes. Men like to pretend otherwise, right up until the knife slides in. If I want to get him out alive, I would need more tools at my disposal than now.

A crossbowman shows signs before he fires, if you know where to look. A swordsman has some tells before he draws. Choice has signs before the decision. That was the instant that mattered.


The Gold Cloaks would have crossbows when the trial happens, Ilyn Payne his great sword. If I was going to grasp an opportunity at that moment, I would have to move before the shot, before the swing, before the man had finished deciding.

So I worked on the turn even though I'm still a puppy.

So I started at the edge of the room, called [Quick Attack] into my legs, and drove toward a pillar. At the last instant I twisted hard, cut to the side, and let my claws dig for grip. The first try was poor. Too wide, too slow at coming out of it. I reset and did it again. Then again. Forward burst, hard pivot, new direction. No wasted motion, just a repetition of motions.

Syrio stopped talking.

"The four-legged one," he said, gesturing toward me with his wooden blade. "He has the spirit. See how he moves, Arya?"

Arya glanced over, flushed and sweating.

"He moves from the core," Syrio said. He watched me as if I were another student and not some odd beast haunting the edge of the hall. "Good footwork. Just so."

Then he turned back to Arya.

"A dog does not think 'I am a dog.' He just is. You must be the same. When you move, you are not a girl. You are the wind. You are the water. Now, again!"

Arya muttered under her breath and raised the blade.

The lesson found its rhythm after that. Wood struck wood. Arya missed, corrected, lunged, overreached and learned. Syrio never wasted a word. When he praised her, it was dry, a husk of a thing. When he rebuked her, it hit like cold water.

I kept to the far side of the room, running the same turn until my legs felt exhausted. The chamber felt removed from the rest of the castle, and that was enough. In here there was only a hard-headed girl, a foreign swordmaster, and me.

Three things out of place.

Arya's fear began to leave her by degrees. Not all at once. It thinned instead, giving ground to concentration. Her eyes sharpened. Her shoulders loosened. She stopped watching the blade and started watching the man.

"Dead," Syrio said softly, tapping her in the ribs.

Arya hissed out a breath.

"You are dead now. Why?"

"I was looking at the stick," Arya panted.

"Just so. You must look at the man. The stick is a lie."

That, more than anything, was the lesson.

I sat back for a moment, breathing through the ache in my legs. The small heartbeats beyond the wall had gone still. Even the birds seemed to be listening. My paws grew strong. The new strength from Level 15 had settled well enough, but I knew better than to trust it. Speed was only one piece.

Fire was the other.

When the time came, [Incinerate] could not be something I reached for in panic. It had to be there at once, clean and ready. No hesitation. No fumbling. No hope and prayer and desperate luck.

Syrio called an end at last.

Arya let the practice sword fall to the floor with a clatter and leaned herself against the wall beside me. Sweat had plastered dark strands of hair to her face. She looked wrung out, sore, and happier than she had any right to be.

Syrio dipped his head in a Braavosi bow.

"Tomorrow, we begin again. And the hound... he will practice his turns. He has the heart of a dancer, even if he has the face of a hound."

Arya gave a tired snort, then reached down and buried her fingers in the fur at my neck.

"We're going to be okay, aren't we, Red?" she whispered.

I nudged her hand and looked toward the door.

The real world waiting beyond it. Lions, Stags, Roses, Dragons and many more.

When I looked back, Syrio was still there.

He met my gaze and gave me the smallest nod before he went. That fearless man, I was not the only one in this castle who knew how quickly a lesson could turn into a fight.

[Level 15]

[Agility: Increased]

[Status: Training with the First Sword]

The game was moving faster.

So would I.

 

[WonderingWriter]

Ned was busy. The Small Council meetings were getting longer, and the lines on his face deeper. He spent his hours arguing over coin and tournaments with men who viewed honesty as a disability. I couldn't sit in those chairs, and speak in his defense, so I spent my time learning the anatomy of the Red Keep.

The castle was a mess of secrets. Maegor the Cruel had built it with the intent of being the only person who knew all the exits, and while he was long dead, the walls hadn't forgotten the paths.

I found the first entrance behind a heavy, moth-eaten wall hanging in the library. It wasn't a grand door, just a narrow gap in the masonry that smelled really bad. I was small enough to slip through without disturbing the hanging.

Inside, the world narrowed.

The tunnels were cramped, designed for rat spies, but for a Growlithe, they were perfect. I didn't need a torch. My vision was adapted for the dark, and my [Detection] acted like a sonar, mapping the heartbeats above and below me. I moved silently, my claws retracted as I padded through the dust of centuries.

I wasn't exploring for the sake of it. I needed an exit strategy. In the movies, the heroes always had a "plan B." Here, Plan A was Ned's honor, which was a death sentence. Plan B had to be a way out that didn't involve the main gates.

As I pushed deeper and lower, the air changed. The rot of the city faded, replaced by a dry, manageable heat that seemed to radiate from the very foundations of the hill.

I turned a final corner and the tunnel opened into a massive, cavernous space.

It was the basement where Robert had stowed the Targaryen trophies. The Dragon Skulls. They were everywhere, some no larger than a hound's head, others massive enough to swallow a horse whole. Even in the dim light filtering from the vents above, they looked majestic.

I walked toward the largest one, Balerion the Black Dread. The skull was a mountain of black bone, the empty eye sockets wider than I was tall. I sat in the shadow of its jaw, my fur prickling.

The heat here was intense. This part of the castle sat near the old forge areas and the volcanic vents of Aegon's High Hill. I moved toward a corner of the chamber where the stone floor was cracked, exposing the dark, jagged bedrock beneath the masonry.

Something caught the light.

I nudged a pile of rubble with my nose. Beneath the dust lay a fragment of glass. Black, razor-sharp, and cold to the touch. But as I nudged it, I felt a faint rush in my chest.

Dragonglass.

In this world, it was just volcanic glass. To my system, it was a data point. I picked it up, the sharp edge drawing a tiny bead of blood from my lip, and felt the heat of my Incinerate flare in response. It wasn't a Fire Stone, but it was a part of the same logic. Volcanic energy frozen in stone.

I looked around. There were more fragments scattered near the base of the walls, likely cast aside during the construction of the vaults or the moving of the skulls.

I couldn't carry them all. I didn't have pockets, and my mouth could only hold so much before I risked swallowing a shard. Common sense dictated a cache. I found a hollow space behind the vertebrae of a medium-sized dragon skull, a safe corner where the "little birds" wouldn't think to look.

I spent the next hour gathering the fragments I could find. It was a tedious process, picking up one or two pieces at a time and dragging them back to my hiding spot. By the time I finished, I had a small, shimmering pile of black glass.

It wasn't enough to trigger an evolution. I needed something larger, purer. A piece of true Dragonstone. But this was a start. It was a battery for my fire, a way to ignite the fire.

I sat back, my breathing echoing in the silent chamber. Up above, Ned was likely discussing the debt to the Lannisters or the upcoming tournament. He was surrounded, but I was down here in the dark, surrounded by the ghosts of dragons instead.

Then the system flickered, the blue light reflecting off the black glass.

[Fire Potency: +2%]

[Status: Building Dragonstone Cache]

I looked up at the massive jaw of Balerion. The Targaryens thought they were the only ones who could control the fire. They were wrong.

I turned and headed back toward the tunnel entrance. I have my plan and a pile of obsidian in the dark. I wasn't just a dog in a palace anymore. I was a saboteur with a hoard.

I just had to hope I had enough time to use it.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The tourney grounds felt like a fever dream. The sun was too bright, the banners too colorful, and the sheer volume of the crowd cheering made my ears ring. Thousands of people had gathered just to watch men knock each other off horses, oblivious to the fact that they were sitting on a powder keg.

I sat at Ned's feet, tucked under the heavy wooden railing of the Hand's pavilion. While Ned sat stone-faced beside the King.

Robert was already three goblets into the morning, shouting jests and slapping his thigh while Cersei sat next to him like a statue carved from ice. She hadn't looked at me once, but I could feel her presence. To her, I was a stain that wouldn't wash out.

I kept my [Detection] active, but it was being drowned out by the crowd. So I had to narrow my focus. I turned my attention toward the tilting strip, where the knights were preparing for the first jousts.

That's when I saw him.

Gregor Clegane, The Mountain That Rides.

In my old life, I'd seen the CGI hulk of the Marvel film, being that could level cities. Seeing Ser Gregor in the flesh was a different kind of horror. He didn't look like a man; he looked like a giant orc in plate armor. He stood nearly eight feet tall, his massive shield decorated with the three black dogs of his house.

[Threat Detected: Gregor Clegane]

[Aura: Unfiltered Bloodlust]

A deep, pulsing red light began to bleed from his form in my vision. It wasn't the jagged red of a common thief or the flickering heat of a palace spy. This was a solid, suffocating cloud of violence. It draped over him like a shroud, so thick it seemed to darken the air around his horse. He wasn't just a knight; he was a mad man that only knew how to break things.

"Ser Hugh of the Vale!" the herald shouted.

A young man rode out to face the Mountain. His armor was polished to a mirror finish, blue and silver, but it was new. It looked like it had never seen a real strike. I saw Ned lean forward, his eyes narrowing. He'd been trying to get a word with the boy for days. Hugh had been Jon Arryn's squire. He was a link to the truth, and he was currently shaking in his saddle.

The horses took their positions. The crowd's roar reached a deafening peak.

I looked at Gregor again. The red aura intensified, focusing on the tip of his lance. He wasn't aiming for the shield. The angle was wrong. He was aiming for the throat, right where the young knight's gorget was fastened poorly.

Common sense told me I couldn't stop it. I was a hundred yards away, separated by a wooden wall and thousands of people. I watched the Mountain's horse begin its charge. It sounded like a landslide.

The impact was a hollow, sickening crack.

The Mountain's lance didn't shatter against the shield. It drove upward. The splintered wood caught Ser Hugh in the throat, punching through the steel and the flesh with the force of a battering ram. The boy was lifted out of his saddle, his body spinning through the air before he hit the dirt with a heavy, final thud.

The silence that followed was instant. It was as if the world had forgotten how to breathe.

Ser Hugh lay in the dust, his legs kicking once, twice. His blood began to pool around his neck, staining the blue-and-silver silk of his surcoat. He was dead before the blood even reached the grass.

The Mountain didn't stop. He didn't look back. He simply rode to the end of the lists, tossed his broken lance aside, and signaled for a new one. To him, this wasn't a tragedy. It was a Tuesday.

I felt wrong. But this wasn't a movie where the hero arrives in the nick of time. This was the raw, ugly reality of this world.

So I didn't think about the crowd. I didn't think about the Queen. I stood up, my claws digging into the wooden floor of the pavilion. I threw my head back and let out a howl.

It wasn't a bark. It wasn't the sound of an animal looking for food. It was a long, mournful, hollow note that vibrated through the silence of the arena. It carried my current nature, my current self and my current emotion.

The sound seemed to hang in the air, echoing off the stone walls of the Red Keep in the distance. When the howl finally died away, no one cheered. No one spoke.

I felt the change in the atmosphere. I looked up and saw people in the stands pointing at me. The commoners were whispering, their eyes wide with superstition.

"That's not right," a man muttered from the front row. "Hear it? That's death, that is."

A woman beside him drew in a breath. "The Seven save us…"

Ned looked down at me, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His face was unreadable, but I saw the way his fingers tightened on the pommel. He knew the death of the boy wasn't an accident. He looked at the Mountain, then back at me, his expression softening for a fraction of a second.

Robert cut through it with a loud, rough laugh and carried too far.

"Seven hells, Ned," he said, shaking his head as if the whole thing were an inconvenience. "Your bloody dog sounds like a funeral bell."

He leaned forward in his seat, already waving a hand toward the field.

"Get the boy off. I won't have the day spoiled over this."

He snorted, more annoyed than anything else.

"Plenty of fighting left in it yet."

But the crowd didn't come back the same way.

The cheers didn't rise clean.

Doesn't matter in the end, so I sat back down at Ned's feet, my gaze fixed on the red aura still radiating from Gregor Clegane.

[Level 15]

[Status: Omen of the South]

 

[WonderingWriter]

The Street of Steel was a place to my liking, at the same time hated. To the men walking beside me, it was a busy thoroughfare, but to my senses, it was an obstacle course. Hammers hit anvils in a continuous, uncoordinated beat that vibrated through the pads of my paws. And the only thing I like, the heat.

I stayed five paces ahead of Ned, my [Detection] scanning the heartbeats in the alleyways. More clearly, I could feel the "Little Birds" watching from the rooftops, their little hearts followed us everywhere. I kept my ears pinned back, marking the scent of lavender oil, Littlefinger's men lingering near a weapon stall. They are all watching and aware why our visit here Street of Steels matters.

We stopped at Tobho Mott's smithy. The forge was wide and open, radiating a dry, searing heat that felt strangely welcoming to me. Racks of half-finished blades and heavy breastplates lined the walls.

Tobho Mott came forward, wiping soot from his hands. He wore a high-collared doublet under a heavy leather apron, the look of a man who dealt in both gold and iron.

"Lord Stark," Mott said, bowing with an eager smile. "An honor. I did not expect the Hand to visit my humble shop."

"I'm told you have an apprentice who was of interest to Lord Arryn," Ned said keeping his voice flat showing no interest in small talks.

Mott's smile faltered. My [Detection] caught the sharp spike in his pulse. He was nervous, looking over his shoulder toward the back of the shop. "The boy... yes. Gendry. He's at the forge. A stubborn lad."

I didn't wait for Mott to lead the way. I trotted into the heat of the forge, my eyes locking onto a tall boy working a bar of red-hot steel. On a bench nearby sat a heavy helmet shaped like a bull's head.

I recognized the boy's build instantly. I'd seen Robert Baratheon; this boy is just his younger version, less fat obviously.

Ned stayed back, watching. He was waiting for a clean moment to speak. I didn't bother with that.

I edged into Gendry's space. A rounding hammer sat near the lip of the anvil. As he raised his hammer again, I stepped in and knocked the back of his knee with my head.

The heavy iron tool skidded across the stone and clattered hard against Gendry's boot.

The ringing stopped.

Gendry let out a grunt of surprise and stepped back, his rhythm broken. He pushed a curtain of sweat-soaked black hair out of his eyes to see what had tripped him. As he straightened, the orange glow of the forge hit his face fully.

I sat back and looked at Ned, then back at Gendry. I had forced the "reveal."

Ned went perfectly still. I watched his eyes move from Gendry's square jaw to those deep, startling blue eyes, just like Baratheon. The silence in the forge stretched, broken only by the hiss of the bellows. Ned looked like he'd seen a ghost, his face pale against the heat of the room.

Soon he got back to his senses, acting to mask his bewilderment.

"Is that your work?" Ned asked, nodding toward the bull's head helmet. His voice was thick, the authority of the Hand momentarily forgotten.

"I'm still learning, my Lord," Gendry said. He looked down at me, his brow furrowing. He wasn't happy with what I had done as he looked at me with a strange expression. "Did he do that on purpose?"

Ned barely glanced at me. "Seems he did." He stepped closer, his attention already back on the boy. "Who was your mother?"

"She died when I was small," Gendry said, his tone turning guarded. "She worked in an alehouse. I don't remember much... just that she had yellow hair. She used to sing to me."

I watched Ned's reaction. He didn't need to say a word. The "Seed is Strong" wasn't just a phrase in a book anymore; it was standing right in front of him.

The blue flicker in my vision pulsed.

[Political Chaos Meter: 75%]

[Warning: Information Leak Detected]

I snapped my head toward the street. My [Detection] picked up a heartbeat that had just doubled in speed. Someone had seen Ned's reaction. I let out a low, sharp huff at the direction the other person went.

"Get back to your work, Gendry," Ned said, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. It was a brief touch, but I saw the way Ned's fingers tightened. He was already thinking about how to protect him.

Later we walked back out into the sun. Ned was lost in his own head, his mind storming through the mystery of Jon Arryn's death. He was vulnerable.

I didn't stay at his heel this time. I circled to his left, positioning myself between Ned and the shadowed alleyways where the lavender-scent was strongest. After all, I'm the only companion who understood him.

Jory was already scanning the crowds, his hand on his hilt. He looked at me, and I saw a flash of understanding in his eyes. He knew I'd sensed something.

We had the answer. We had the bastard. But as we walked back toward the Red Keep, I knew the game had changed. I had accelerated Ned's discovery, and in doing so, I'd likely moved up the timeline of the Lannisters' response. And the canon I know is moving faster than I wish for.

I looked up at the Red Keep, my thoughts remain elsewhere.

[Level 15]

 

[WonderingWriter]

The council chamber doors didn't just open; they slammed. The heavy oak thudded against the stone walls, and the sound echoed down the vaulted hallway.

I was waiting right outside. I didn't need to see through the wood to know how it went. Robert's voice had been echoing for the last ten minutes, vibrating through the floorboards and into my paws. When Ned stepped out, he wasn't wearing the small gold hand on his doublet anymore.

His face has turned cold. He didn't look at the guards. He didn't look at the servants shrinking to the side. He just walked.

"Lord Stark?" Jory asked, stepping forward from the wall. He saw Ned's chest, saw the empty spot where the badge had been, and his hand instinctively went to his sword hilt.

"We're leaving," Ned said. His voice was flat, carrying the kind of finality that didn't allow for questions. "Find the girls. Tell them to pack only what they need. We leave for Winterfell by nightfall."

I trotted beside him, my [Detection] flaring. The Red Keep had always been a hive of activity, but the frequency had changed. Usually, heartbeats here were steady, masked by the arrogance of office. Now, they were spiking.

Two Gold Cloaks were stationed at the turn of the corridor leading to the Tower of the Hand. Usually, they are very attentive or at least move their pikes to let the Hand pass. Today, they stood against us without much care, their eyes fixed forward, their pikes crossed just enough to force Ned to break his stride.

"The way is barred, Lord Stark," one of them said. His heart was hammering against his ribs- thud-thud, thud-thud, but his voice held a new, ugly edge of borrowed authority. "Orders from the Queen. No one enters or leaves the Tower without her leave."

Ned stopped. He didn't growl or shout. He just leaned in, his shadow stretching over the man. "I am still the Warden of the North. Move, or I will move you."

The guard hesitated. He looked at Ned's eyes, then he looked at me. I didn't snarl. I didn't have to. I just focused my gaze on the soft spot under his chin, my weight shifted forward, ready to launch. The guard felt the heat radiating off me, and the pikes parted just enough. Even little things could make men think twice.

We pushed through. The atmosphere inside the Tower was worse. The servants were scurrying like rats in a flooded cellar. I could smell the sharp, sour tang of their fear. They knew how the game worked. When the Hand falls, the household usually follows.

Ned went straight to his solar. He didn't sit. He began pulling parchments off his desk and shoving them into the hearth. The smell of burning ink and vellum filled the room.

"I won't let him do it," Ned muttered, more to himself than to me. "He wants to kill a child halfway across the world. A girl he's never met."

I jumped up onto the window ledge, looking out over the city. From here, King's Landing looked like a sprawling scab on the earth. I knew the timeline. Robert was furious, Cersei was already whispering in his ear, and Jaime… Jaime was out there somewhere, nursing a grudge about his brother.

A blue flicker pulsed at the edge of my vision.

[Political Chaos Meter: 80%]

[Status: The Safe Horizon has Vanished]

The system wasn't lying. At 70%, the city was dangerous. At 80%, the laws of hospitality were being shredded. We were no longer guests; we were targets.

Ned stopped his frantic cleaning and looked at me. He looked tired. Not just "end of a long day" tired, but the kind of exhaustion that gets into the marrow of a man's bones. He reached out and let his hand rest on my head. His palm was clammy.

"You've been a good companion, boy," he whispered. "Better than the men I call friends in this place."

I leaned into his hand, a solid weight against his leg. I wanted to tell him that packing wouldn't save him. I wanted to tell him that Littlefinger was already setting the trap and that leaving by nightfall was a dream Robert would never let him realize.

But I was a dog. I could only offer the heat of my body and the sharpness of my ears.

"Lord Stark!" Jory called out, entering the room. "The girls are ready. But the stables… the Master of Horse says the King's men have taken the mounts for 'official business'."

Ned's jaw tightened. "Official business. He's penning me in."

"What do we do?"

"We wait," Ned said, turning back to the fire. "Robert will cool. He always does. Give it an hour, then try the stables again."

He was wrong. Robert wouldn't cool fast enough this time. I looked back at the Chaos Meter. 80%. Every second we stayed in this tower, the walls were getting thinner.

I stayed by the door, my ears swiveling to catch the sound of boots on the stairs. I wasn't listening for servants or Jory's men. I was listening for the clank of Lannister gold. I knew the movie. I knew the scene. The storm wasn't coming; it was already inside the gates.

I sat down, my claws digging into the rug. I didn't care about the King or his council. I just looked at Ned, then toward the rooms where Arya and Sansa were waiting. The pack was in danger, and the only one who saw the knives coming was the one who couldn't speak.

 

[WonderingWriter]

I followed Ned out of the establishment followed by Jory and a few of the Stark men when Jaime and his Lannister men came out of the alleyway. On seeing this Petyr who followed us out of the establishment shouted "My Lords! I'll bring the City Watch!"

I moved closer to Ned's boot, my fur matted and heavy with the smell of the gutter. My [Detection] was a chaotic blur of red pulses. Jaime Lannister sat his horse with an easy, mocking posture, his golden cloak sagging under the weight of the water. The around twenty men-at-arms formed a semi-circle, their hands resting on their spear.

"Lord Stark," Jaime said, his voice effortless despite the wind. He didn't sound angry; he sounded like a man bored by an errand. "I'm looking for my brother. You remember my brother, don't you? Tiny fellow, clever with his tongue?"

"He was taken on my order," Ned replied, his voice clear. He didn't draw his sword, but his hand there, knuckles white. "To answer for his crimes."

Jaime's expression didn't change. He just looked at the rain for a moment before turning back. "I'm afraid I can't let you go until he's returned. Kill the others," he said, flicking a casual wrist toward Jory and the rest of our detail. "But leave Lord Stark alive. I want him to have time to think about his mistakes."

The violence started at that. Jory lunged first, his blade catching a Lannister guard in the throat. The clang of metal on metal filled the narrow street, punctuated by the panicked neighing of the horses.

Then Jaime dismounted ignoring the muck. He drew his sword and caught a strike from a Stark man, parrying it with a flick of his wrist before his left hand dipped toward his belt.

I'd seen this scene more than once. It was to draw a dagger, something Jory wasn't prepared for. He was stepping inside Jory's reach, the blade angled for Jory's eye.

I didn't have time for a plan. I threw myself forward in a desperate [Quick Attack], my paws sliding in the slurry. I didn't get a clean hit. I slammed into the side of Jaime's knee just as he lunged. It wasn't enough to knock him down, but his foot skidded in the mud. The dagger missed Jory's face, scraping loudly against his leather guard.

Jory stumbled back, a panicked gasp escaped his throat. He didn't look like the shiny knight he always portrayed himself as; he looked like a man who had just felt the cold breath of his death. He scrambled to find his footing, his sword shaking as he reset his guard.

"Annoying creature," Jaime murmured. He didn't scream or rage. He simply adjusted his stance, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me annoyed.

Ned moved then, his longsword coming out in a defensive sweep. He didn't drive forward; he held his ground, forcing Jaime to come to him. The two of them exchanged a flurry of strikes, the sound of their steel ringing out through the alley. Jaime was faster, his movements more fluid, but the mud made his pivots sluggish.

I stayed low, weaving through the chaos of boots and falling men. Again I snapped at Jaime's heels, making him hesitate for a fraction of a second before he stepped. As he prepared a heavy overhead strike, I lunged and caught the hem of his golden cloak, giving it a sharp, violent yank.

Jaime's head jerked down for a split second to see what was hindering him. He didn't lose his head, but his stance broke.

Ned didn't hesitate. He reacted to the opening, his blade catching Jaime in a shallow arc across the ribs. There was a sharp clink as the steel found a gap in the golden plate, followed by the wet sound of a strike. Jaime stepped back, his hand coming up to touch the red stain spreading across his side. He looked at the blood on his fingers with almost detached curiosity.

The Lannister guards saw their commander bleed and their focus split. Three of them turned toward me, their faces shown their rough, simple intent to kill. "Get the Hound!" one shouted, his voice cracking.

A short-sword hissed through the air, narrowly missing my flank. I didn't stay to see where the next one went. I turned and bolted into the dark, my heart pounding against my chest. A throwing knife thudded into a wooden door just inches from my head. I dived under a water trough, hearing the heavy, clanking boots of the guards behind me.

I didn't have a clear escape. I scrambled over a pile of wet crates, nearly slipping, and squeezed through a narrow gap between two stone walls. A spear tip scraped the stone beside me, sparking in the gloom. I could hear the guards cursing, their heavy armor making it impossible for them to follow through the tight space.

Then shouts began to be heard in the distance, the City Watch was finally moving.

I circled back through a butcher's yard, my lungs burning, and watched from the shadows of a cellar entrance. Jaime was already back on his horse. He wasn't shouting orders or showing his rage rather he was looking at the Tower of the Hand with a cold gaze that felt far more dangerous than anger. He signaled his men to retreat just as the first Gold Cloaks arrived at the end of the street.

Ned and Jory were still standing in the middle of the rain, their chests heaving. Jory was leaning against a wall, his hand trembling as he wiped the mud from his face.

The immediate danger was over and we were back in the castle, but the peace was gone.

[Level 16]

[Status: The Lion's Bane]

[Detection: Jaime Lannister marked as Nemesis]

I stayed in the shadows, waiting for the street to clear before I followed Ned back. He hadn't won, and we weren't safe, but we were still a pack. For now, that had to be enough.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The tower solar was cold.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to red embers, and the mist from the street outside seeped through the stone.

Ned sat at his desk, still wearing his damp doublet from the ambush. Unlike his usual demeanor suitable for the Hand of the King, he now looked like a man who had spent too many hours contemplating a wall with thoughts elsewhere.

His hands were still. He didn't speak about the fight or the Lannisters. He just watched the candle flame flicker.

And Jory? He was in the hall; I could hear the occasional scuff of his boots, tense about the current situation.

I moved across the floor and sat by Ned's chair. My shoulder was stiff where I'd taken a blow in the alley, but I ignored it. I rested my head on his knee. He didn't look down immediately, but after a moment, his hand found the fur behind my ears. His grip tight, fingers unyielding.

The book sat open on the desk. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. It was a massive, ugly thing bound in iron and calfskin.

"Jon Arryn was looking for this," Ned murmured while his voice was rough. "He spent his last days with it. He kept saying it to the King. The seed is strong."

He turned a page. The vellum made a dry, scraping sound in the chamber. He was looking at the Baratheon lineage, but his eyes were unfocused. He was tired, his mind caught between his wife's recklessness and the mystery in the King's bloodline.

I stood up and put my paws on the edge of the desk. And I didn't point or bark rather just rested my chin on the heavy page, my weight pressing down on the entry for the Baratheon line. I stayed there, my eyes fixed on the guttering candle.

Ned looked at me, a brief, weary shadow of a smile touching his face. He didn't say anything. He just watched me for a moment before his gaze dropped to the page where my head lay.

He looked at the description of Orys Baratheon. Black of hair.

He reached out and turned the page back. Then forward. He began to read the descriptions aloud, his voice gaining a hard, brittle edge.

"Lyonel Baratheon, black of hair. Steffon Baratheon, black of hair. Robert Baratheon, black of hair."

He stopped. He flipped through the thick vellum until he reached the end of the chapter. He found the marriage of Robert and Cersei.

"Joffrey. Myrcella. Tommen."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. The words on the page described a lineage of black hair, yet the children in the Red Keep were all gold.

Ned's breathing changed. It wasn't a gasp, just a sharp, controlled intake of air. He leaned back in his chair, the book left open. I stepped down from the desk and sat back on the rug. He wasn't looking at the book anymore. He was looking at the empty air in front of him.

He was thinking of the smithy. He was thinking of Gendry's black hair. He was thinking of the girl in the brothel with the same dark crown.

"Gold," he whispered.

The realization didn't take long, but the sad truth was something he couldn't ignore. He looked at the book, then at his own hands. The secret Jon Arryn had died for was now clear to him.

Ned closed the book and sat there for a long time, the silence of the solar stretching until the candles were nothing but nubs of wax. He didn't look at me and ask if I knew. He just looked at the embers in the hearth.

"Jory!" he called out.

The door opened. Jory stood there, his hand already on his hilt. He looked at Ned, then at the closed book on the desk.

"My Lord?"

"Double the guards," Ned said, keeping his voice cold. "On the girls' chambers. On this tower. I want four men on the door at all times."

"What's happened, My Lord?"

Ned stood up, his movements stiff. "The world has changed, Jory. And we are in the middle of it."

He walked toward the window, looking out at the dark city.

While I stayed by the hearth, watching the last of the red glow.

[Level 16]

[Status: The Lion's Bane]

[Objective: Protect the Pack]

The investigation was done. There was nothing left to find. Just the moment of truth.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The solar was cold, the air stale and smelling of tallow candles that had burned down to nothing over the night. Ned sat at his desk, eyes bloodshot, staring past the balcony.

The heavy thud of boots in the hall broke the silence, followed by the jingle of spurs. Robert didn't bother to knock. He shouldered the door open, looking every bit the man who had tried to drink away a disaster and only succeeded in making his temper shorter. He was in his hunting leathers, his face a mottled red, his beard stiff with dried ale.

"Seven hells, Ned," Robert growled. He didn't look at the book. He looked at the floor, the walls, then wiped a hand across his mouth. "Enough of it. I've had enough. The fool is bleeding, the court ... I won't sit here. I won't sit in this stinking castle and listen to the whispers. I can't breathe in this place."

Ned stood up, his movements stiff. "Robert..."

"I'm not here for a sermon," the King snapped, cutting him off. He reached into his belt and pulled out the gold badge of the Hand. He didn't hand it over; he dropped it onto the desk. It clattered against the iron binding of the book and slid an inch. "I'm going to the woods. I need a hunt. Something honest for a change... kill something. When I get back, I want this mess sorted. Put it on. Gods know I need someone who isn't a Lannister whispering in my ear. Put it on, Ned. That's an order."

Ned looked at the badge, then back at Robert. The words were there, the truth about the children, the lie they were all living. He opened his mouth, but the look in Robert's eyes stopped him. Robert wasn't looking for the truth; he was looking for an exit.

"I'll be here," Ned said.

"Good. Don't let the women or that eunuch crawl into your head while I'm gone." Robert turned and stomped out, his heavy cloak catching on the doorframe as he vanished.

I followed him. Ned didn't call me back; he was already sinking into his chair, his hand hovering over the gold badge.

The courtyard was a mess of noise and smell. Hounds baying in their kenneled wagons, the smell of wet horses and woodsmoke making it worse along with their shit. Robert's hunting party moved with a frantic, messy energy. I wove through the legs of the horses, my ears twitching. Most of the men were just eager for the trees.

Near the stables, the scent changed. Honey and cinnamon. A wine strong enough to turn a man's head after a few swallows.

I saw Lancel Lannister. The boy was struggling with a leather skin, his face pale and covered with sweat despite the morning chill. He was fumbling with the straps, his hands shaking so much the wine sloshed audibly inside. He looked skittish, his eyes darting toward the King and then back to the wine skin, never settling.

I moved toward the horses, intending to stick to the King's shadow. If I could get to the Kingswood, I might be able to keep the boar away or at least rouse Robert before he got himself gutted.

A spear butt thudded into the mud just in front of my nose.

"Get back... go on, get back," Lancel hissed. His voice was thin and shaky, lacking for someone in his career. He held the spear like someone more afraid of the butt than the tip of the spear, the tip wavering near my chest. "The King... he doesn't need a Northern mutt underfoot. Move!"

I didn't growl. I looked past the boy. Ser Barristan and the other Kingsguard were already mounting up. They didn't care about a squire and a hound.

Lancel stepped closer, trying to look bold, though his heart was thumping a frantic heartbeat audible from feet apart. "I said... I said move! I'll have you dragged off. I'll have the master of hounds... just move!"

I changed my stance, ready to bolt past him, but then I stopped. I looked back at the Tower of the Hand.

High up, near the arrow slits of the servants' quarters, I saw a flicker of movement. Two shadows, small and still, watching the courtyard. They weren't looking at the King. They were watching the door to Ned's tower.

I felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the morning air. Robert was riding out into the trees, but the real hunt was happening here. If I followed the King, I'd be miles away from the Red Keep. While Ned was alone. Arya and Sansa were in their rooms, and the only man guarding them was Jory, whom I trust unlike other northern men still in Red Keep.

If I stayed, Robert would likely never come back. I knew what the wine would do. But I looked at Lancel, then back at the tower. I couldn't be in two places, and Robert had been inviting his own death for years. Maybe it's better to stay back.

I backed away from the spear. Lancel let out a ragged breath, a weak, shaky smirk appearing on his face as he thought he'd won. He turned and hurried to tie the wine skin to the back of the King's saddle.

"Move out!" Robert bellowed.

The party began to file through the gate. The sound of the hooves on the drawbridge was loud. I sat in the mud of the courtyard and watched the yellow banners fade into the city streets. I didn't feel like I'd made a noble choice. I felt like I'd just watched a man walk off a cliff. He deserves to die anyway, just not the right time for us.

I turned and walked back toward the Tower of the Hand. I didn't run. I moved slowly, my ears swiveling to catch the whispers from the shadows and the scuffle of feet in the stone hallways.

I reached the door and sat. Jory was there, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning the courtyard. He looked down at me, his brow furrowed.

"Back already?" Jory asked. "Thought you'd be off with the hounds."

I didn't look at him. I looked at the stairs leading up to the girls' rooms. The King was gone, and the Red Keep was beginning to feel very, very small.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The air in the room was stagnant with the stench of blood and the vinegar wash used to swab the King's torn belly. Robert lay sunk into the bed. The man who had once been a giant was now a gray, sweating figure whose breath came rough and uneven, each pull shallower than the last.

I stayed at the foot of the bed.

The sweetness lingered beneath everything else. It was the same wine I'd smelled at the stables. I watched the way the King's hands twitched and went still, his movements sluggish, hampered by the brew Lancel had kept pouring. It had been more than enough to make a seasoned hunter's feet heavy when the boar charged.

Ned sat beside the bed, his knuckles white as he held Robert's hand. He looked exhausted, his face a sad mask that couldn't quite hide the hollowness in his eyes.

"The girl," Robert wheezed, "The Targaryen girl. You were right, Ned. Let her live. Stop it... if there's time."

"I'll see to it," Ned said as his voice got thinner.

Grand Maester Pycelle hovered in the corner, his many chains clinking softly as he moved. Near him stood Ser Barristan Selmy. The old knight's head was bowed, his posture mirroring the shame he couldn't mask. He had been there in the woods, yet he was watching his King die.

Robert coughed, red flecks dotting his matted beard. "My will. Ned... you write it. You're the Regent. Lord Protector. Guard the realm until my son comes of age."

Ned called for the parchment. I watched him sit at the small table, the quill scratching in the silence. He paused, a drop of ink pooling on the tip of the nib. He didn't write Joffrey. I saw the tremor in his fingers as he penned 'my rightful heir' instead. He looked at the words for a long moment, the parchment trembling slightly. He was trying to find a path through the lies with his honor still intact, even while the room grew colder.

I watched the ink soak into the paper. In this city, that ink was as thin as the air, and Ned was counting on men who had never cared for his words. I really wanted to nudge the table, to ruin the page, but still nothing would change.

Renly stood by the window, his gaze darting between his brother and the hallway. He was young and dressed in fine silks, but his eyes mirrored his fears. When the King finally drifted into a drug-induced sleep, Renly leaned toward Ned.

"Lord Stark," Renly whispered. "We must act. My brother won't see the sunrise. We have a hundred swords between us. We can take the children now, before the Queen knows the heart has stopped."

Ned looked up, his expression hardening. "I will not dishonor my friend's final hours by shedding blood in his halls and dragging children from their beds."

"The Lannisters won't be so hesitant," Renly hissed.

I looked at Renly, then at Ned. Renly was already looking toward the door, his mind already halfway out of the city. He knew that without the King, they were all just targets. But Ned stayed firm, his gaze returning to the bed. He was a man of the North; he would follow the law until there was nothing left to follow.

Renly saw the refusal and didn't ask again. He gave a short, final nod and slipped out of the room. I knew he was heading for the stables. He was smart enough to run while the gates were still open.

The hours stretched deep into the night. Robert's breathing grew shallower, the gaps between gasps becoming long, heavy silences. Finally, there was one ragged exhale that didn't lead to another.

Pycelle leaned over the body, his long fingers feeling for a pulse. He straightened up, keeping his face blank, he announced. "The King is dead."

The room felt empty. The shield Robert had provided, however broken it had been, was gone. I felt the change in the castle with the King gone.

I looked at the small collection of things I'd managed to scavenge. The system interface flickered briefly at the edge of my vision.

[Inventory]

[Obsidian Shard ]

[Stark Sigil (Worn)]

[Iron Key]

The shards were small, jagged pieces of dragonglass I'd found in the corners of the keep. They weren't much, but they were all I had. I needed more. I needed something to bridge the gap between a hound and the beast in this city.

A red pulse flickered at the bottom of my vision.

[Event Triggered: The Fall of the Hand]

[Instability Rising: 95% Chaos]

[Evolution Mandatory for Survival]

Ned stood up, his hand resting on the parchment. He looked ten years older than he had when the sun was up. He didn't see the way the guards at the door were already looking at him, their eyes no longer downcast. But he only saw the duty he had left to do.

"Jory," Ned said. His voice was clear, though it sounded hollow in the chamber.

"My Lord?"

"Assemble the men. We go to the Throne Room. It's time the Council heard the King's final word."

I followed him into the hall, my claws clicking on the stone. I didn't stay behind him. I moved ahead, my ears swiveling toward the barracks. I could hear the clatter of armor being buckled and I could feel what's coming. The Red Keep wasn't mourning; it was arming itself for a slaughter.

The bell began to toll from the Great Sept, a heavy, mournful iron sound that shook the floor beneath my paws.

The King was dead. The wolves were walking into the lion's mouth. And I was out of time.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The doors to the Throne Room didn't just close; they thudded with a weight that carried through the stone under my paws. The sound was cold and dry. It didn't echo. It just settled there.

I knew what was coming next.

There wasn't anything I could do to stop it.

Still, I stayed close to Ned's boot.

I could hear his heartbeat and I could feel the tension in him. He didn't like this. Didn't like the way this court worked, the way words and smiles hid lies.

And he didn't know what was about to happen.

I wanted to look up at him, do something to warn him. To make him stop. And let him know, every second he stood here brought him closer to the end.

But I was just a dog to them, too weak to do anything. Maybe I could burn something… but how far would that get me?

My gaze moved to the Kingsguard. Then to the City Watch Commander.

Janos Slynt stood among his men, and I caught the sour edge of sweat coming off him even from where I was. He wasn't standing straight. His weight leaned forward slightly. And I'm sure he'd already made his bed.

Still clueless Ned walked on.

His pace didn't change. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, on the throne. The parchment sat tight in his hand, creased along the edges where his grip had tightened, like it still meant something.

He stepped to the foot of the dais.

Alone.

Still expecting there is something he could do.

"Lord Stark," Joffrey said.

He slouched on the Iron Throne, legs not quite reaching the edge. He looked bored at first, but when his eyes settled on me, a thin smile touched his lips. I had seen that look before and I know what's coming for me.

"My mother says you're done being Hand."

Ned didn't look at him.

He handed the will to Ser Barristan.

The old knight broke the seal. The sound of wax cracking carried in the silence. For a moment, no one moved.

Then Cersei stepped forward, took the parchment and tore it in one clean motion.

"Is this your shield, Lord Stark?" she asked. The look on her face said everything. "A piece of paper?"

Ned's jaw tightened. I felt the tremor in his leg beside me.

He looked at the torn scraps, then at the Gold Cloaks surrounding him.

"Those were Robert's words," Ned said. His voice was rough.

"We have a new King now," Cersei replied.

Janos Slynt didn't hesitate to utter, "Seize them!"

Everything broke at once.

Golden cloaks surged forward. Stark guards tried to close in, but the space was already gone. Too many cloaks and too little time to react.

Littlefinger moved in behind Ned, his hand sliding toward the dagger at Ned's belt.

I saw it and knew it.

It was all happening the way I knew it would. Maybe a little different. But not enough to make a difference.

Frustration hit me hard. I really wanted to bite Littlefinger's throat out, but I'm too weak for such a demonstration to come out alive. If I die here, nothing gonna change.

Then Ser Meryn Trant came for me instead, his gauntlet dropping fast.

I dropped lower and slipped between his legs before his hand hit the ground.

A servant girl stood ahead of me, frozen with a tray in her hands. There wasn't room to go around so I drove straight through her ankles.

She cried out as she fell. The tray crashed against the stone, silver cups scattering, wine spilling wide across the floor.

My paws hit the wet stone and slid, but only to catch myself and keep moving.

A spear came down behind me, striking the ground where I had been a moment before. Another blocked my path. I veered, slammed into a guard's knee, and felt him stumble into the spilled wine.

That gave me just enough space.

The hanging along the wall moved as I hit it.

Behind it, a narrow servant's door.

I forced my way through with my shoulder. The wood slammed shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the hall, the shouting, the clash and the dying men's screams.

I ran.

...

The passage was tight, the air stale there. Still I kept going. My claws scraped against the floor as I pushed deeper into the dark.

I didn't stop until the noise faded enough to think.

A junction opened beneath the floor above. I dropped low there, pressing into the shadows.

Boots thundered overhead.

"The hound went this way!" a voice shouted. Armor clanked as they ran. "Check the lower vents. His Grace wants the hound."

"The thing nearly took my foot off," another grumbled. "Why are we chasing a hound?"

Their voices faded as the last of them moved on.

I stayed perfectly still, my muzzle pressed against the cold dirt of the tunnel floor. Joffrey really wants to break me.

I lifted my head and looked down the tunnel ahead.

The Red Keep was full of paths they didn't know. I slowed for half a step, thinking of Ned standing alone in that hall with a knife on his neck.

Nothing changed

I stood there for half a breath longer before I kept moving.

 

[WonderingWriter]

The sound of the massacre followed me everywhere I went. In the tunnels, the screams were muffled, reduced to a hollow vibration that reached me. Still I kept moving, my paws light on the layers of dust that had sat undisturbed for decades.

I'm nervous and scared, not sure how it's gonna end. Every time a door slammed or a man shouted in the distance, I flinched. As a man who had seen this scene play out on a screen a dozen times, the screen could never give you the same dread as when experiencing it firsthand. The Red Keep was giving off a dread I never wanted to experience.

Later I found a crawlspace overlooking the Small Hall. Through the iron slats of the floor grate, I saw the training area.

Syrio Forel stood in the center of the room. He looked small against the five Gold Cloaks and Ser Meryn Trant. He only had his wooden practice sword, the lead-weighted one.

"Be gone, child," Syrio said. His voice was calm, the Braavosi lilt as steady as if he were teaching a lesson. "Run to your father."

Arya was backing away, her eyes wide, her hands trembling as she gripped the doorframe. She looked small. Too small for what was happening.

I pressed my muzzle against the grate. My [Detection] was pulsing. There were more boots coming down the hall behind Arya. If I went out there, I'd be pinned in seconds.

I'm sorry Arya..

Then Meryn Trant drew his longsword. The steel shrieked against the scabbard. "The girl comes with us. Step aside, dancing master."

"The First Sword of Braavos does not run," Syrio replied.

The wooden sword moved faster than I could track. He took out the first two Gold Cloaks before they even leveled their spears. A crack to the temple, a thrust to the throat. They went down hard, their armor clattering against the stone.

Meryn Trant stepped in. The Kingsguard didn't play. He swung with the full weight of a man who knew his plate armor would protect him from a stick. Syrio dodged, the wooden blade cracking against the stone floor as Trant's blade sliced through the air where his head had been a second before.

Trant was coiling for a second swing, a heavy, decisive blow meant to break both the stick and the man holding it. He wasn't guarding his face.

I focused on the narrow eye-slit of his helm and activated [Ember].

It was a small effort, barely more than a spark, shot from the shadows of the grate. Trant's armor was heavy steel, but the fire didn't have to melt it. I shot the ember straight through the visor.

Trant let out a strangled grunt as the searing heat of the ember connected. His heavy swing buckled mid-air, and his gauntleted hand instinctively reached at his helm. He stumbled backward, his balance shattered as he fought the blinding pain.

Syrio didn't hesitate. He didn't know why Trant had faltered, and he didn't care. He dropped the wooden stick. In a single motion, he kicked the fallen longsword of the first Gold Cloak into the air, catching it by the hilt.

The wooden sword was gone. Syrio Forel now held real sword.

"Arya, go!" Syrio shouted, his voice changing, hardening.

She turned and ran. I watched her disappear into the shadows of the outer hallway. Syrio didn't look back. Trant was recovering, his sword coming back up, but the remaining three Gold Cloaks were hesitant now. Syrio moved. He was no longer "dancing." He thrust the steel blade under the gorget of the nearest guard, dropping him instantly, before turning to face Trant.

I backed away from the grate. The "human" part of me felt relief. Syrio isn't going down easily this time. He was the First Sword of Braavos, and I'd just leveled the playing field. He might not win against a Kingsguard and three men, but he wouldn't die in the first minute.

Aside from that, I still needed to find a way to save Ned. But I don't know where to start

When I reached a junction near the spiral stairs that led to the pits. Two Gold Cloaks stood at the top, leaning on their pikes.

"How many did we get?" one asked.

"Few," the other said.

"The boy-king's pissed about the hound, though. Heard it took a piece out of Hallyne's leg."

"Let the boy-king whine. I'm not going into those tunnels after a hound. Let it starve in the tunnels."

I looked down into the dark of the stairwell. I'd helped Syrio, but I don't know if I could do anything for Ned. Unless....

I guess I don't have any other option in the end.