The tall, ancient trees of the Wolfswood stood like silent sentinels, their thick canopy perfect for the deadly game of hunter and hunted now unfolding beneath their boughs.
The free folk moved with practiced caution, maintaining tight formation as they pursued their prey. Twenty-five warriors advanced in concert with the massive snow bear, its powerful muscles rippling beneath thick white fur as it sniffed the air for the scent of their quarry.
Blood had already been paid as toll for this venture. Though only five of their number had been sent to kneel before whatever gods the wildlings kept, none harbored illusions about the dangers that awaited. The direwolf and that other monstrous beast—a lion of impossible size—were not foes to be faced alone. No sane man would seek such a confrontation willingly.
If not for the skinchanger's compulsion, they would never have dared pursue those who had already proven themselves deadly. If not for his unrelenting commands, they might already be fleeing southward toward warmer, more prosperous lands and the stone fortress of Winterfell.
The southron kneelers insisted Winterfell belonged to the North, but that was folly. Compared to the true North beyond the Wall, these lands were as southern as the shores of Dorne.
But such thoughts were as useless as wishes for summer in the depths of winter. The free folk had no choice but to press forward into this forest where death awaited.
The snow bear padded forward, tracking the scent of their enemies while the wildlings followed with wary steps, their footfalls muffled by the carpet of fallen leaves and soft earth.
An eerie silence had descended upon the forest. No birds called from the branches above, no insects chirped from the undergrowth, no wild creatures stirred in the distance. The only sounds were those made by the hunting party itself—the crunch of leaves, the soft jingling of crude weapons, the occasional whispered word.
The free folk could smell the stench of their own fear, mingled with the metallic promise of danger.
Who, truly, is the prey here? many wondered silently, exchanging nervous glances.
Some could not help but recall their fallen comrades who had perished beneath the claws of that golden monster: the reddish-yellow viscera amid shattered bone, the terrible struggle of men cleaved in two at the waist, the mingled stench of blood and fouler fluids, the horror frozen in the eyes of the dead.
Those who now carried bows remembered their predecessors, who had fallen with throwing knives buried in their skulls. That golden-haired lordling had been merciless in his violence.
The archers felt their throats tighten with regret. This was but a hastily assembled band, not a proper tribe with bonds of kinship and loyalty. The archers seemed marked for death, likely to be the first to fall should battle commence anew.
Throughout the party, a single question burned: why was the skinchanger so determined to hunt these kneelers? What prize could be worth such risk?
Elsewhere in the forest, Joffrey pondered the same question.
The skinchanger's presence in these lands was already a puzzle that defied easy explanation. Such relentless pursuit must conceal some deeper purpose, some conspiracy as yet unrevealed.
Whatever the truth might be, the immediate concern remained paramount: the enemy must be defeated.
After securing his horse—a skittish beast unaccustomed to the scent of wildlings—Joffrey placed a shattered piece of steel in his palm, his face serene with concentration.
The true hunt was about to begin.
Tyrion waved his dagger through the air with nervous energy, his mismatched eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and vengeful desire. "Nephew," he said in a low voice, "when the time comes, leave that bald man to me. You understand? A Lannister always pays his debts."
Joffrey rolled his eyes at his uncle's posturing.
Had he not been concerned for the safety of Tyrion and the others, he would never have ordered their strategic withdrawal. He would have settled matters there on the Kingsroad, leaving none alive to tell the tale.
"From this moment forward, you will all follow my commands without question," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Is that understood?"
Benjen silently drew his short sword, the gesture answer enough.
Joffrey nodded, satisfied. "Good. If we work in concert, these wildlings will perish here in this forest, while we shall not shed a single drop of blood."
He focused his awareness on the information transmitted by the shattered steel fragment in his palm. The range of his mental powers remained limited, but with the other fragments scattered throughout the forest serving as conduits, he could track the wildlings' movements in real time.
After a moment's contemplation, Joffrey outlined his plan.
"We shall ambush them here."
Through his information runes, he shared images of the terrain and ambush location with the other four men.
"Jon, you and Ghost will move with me. Benjen and Yoren shall be responsible for taking prisoners and ensuring Tyrion's safety."
Jon nodded his acceptance, but Benjen and Yoren stared at the prince with undisguised astonishment, their eyes wide as saucers.
"What manner of sorcery is this?" Yoren asked, his voice trembling with awe and fear. "Have the gods themselves granted you power?"
Joffrey doubted they had even remembered their original mission, so shocked were they by this display of his abilities.
"Perhaps it is not the gods who have blessed me," he said carefully, "but it must be the grace of some great, supreme being. In any case, I have received this boon, which shows that the Seven Kingdoms are deeply favored by fate."
He placed a hand on Benjen's shoulder, his gaze direct and honest.
"I understand your concerns, Benjen Stark. The Others are real, not mere legends from wet nurse tales. That is why I decided to journey to the Wall. The threat of the Others approaches, and the Seven Kingdoms remain woefully unprepared—but this matters not. I shall unite the realm, and humanity will ultimately triumph."
Benjen's assessment of the crown prince underwent a profound transformation in that moment.
"We move immediately," Joffrey commanded.
As they set forth, he added, "Leave some alive for questioning. I trust you have sufficient experience to manage this. Ensure that not a single wildling escapes to carry tales northward."
Benjen and Yoren struggled to compose themselves. "As you command, Your Highness."
The hunters took their positions with practiced efficiency.
Joffrey and Jon concealed themselves within the dense canopy of an ancient oak, hidden by the thick foliage.
Ghost and Rain lay prone beyond the ambush point, muscles coiled and ready to join the fray at the perfect moment.
Benjen, Yoren, and Tyrion established a position further back, prepared to intercept any who might flee once the initial assault began.
The wind whispered through the trees, causing leaves to rustle with a sound like distant rainfall.
The wildlings immediately tensed, scanning their surroundings with wary eyes. The skinchanger kept his gaze alert, while the snow bear, momentarily freed from his control, let out several agitated growls.
There were too many scents, too intermingled—the beast could not pinpoint their quarry's exact location.
The wildlings detected nothing unusual in the forest around them.
But they had already entered Joffrey's mental domain.
From this moment forward, every movement of every wildling would be known to him, every breath and heartbeat sensed through his magic.
The prey was firmly entangled in the hunter's net.
Joffrey silently drew five throwing knives, the steel glinting dully in the filtered sunlight.
It would be wise to keep the skinchanger alive if possible; even if killed, the man's consciousness might flee into the snow bear's body, complicating matters unnecessarily.
The remaining archers still presented the most immediate threat and must be neutralized first.
The wildlings drew steadily closer. Sixty yards became fifty, then forty, then thirty. Joffrey waited no longer.
Several small shadows flashed above the wildlings' heads, moving faster than an eye could follow.
The wildlings panicked, attempting to dodge the unseen threat.
The archers had no chance to move. They simply crumpled, falling into the carpet of leaves, bows still clutched in stiffening fingers.
The skinchanger's body collapsed instantly, his eyes rolling back to show only whites as his consciousness fled into the snow bear. The beast's gaze, suddenly more intelligent and filled with malice, fixed upon Joffrey's hiding place with uncanny precision.
Rain charged forward, tearing through the wildlings that stood between him and the bear. Men were ripped apart in seconds, their screams cut short as the massive lion's jaws closed around throats and limbs.
The snow bear turned to face the golden challenger and rose to its full height, towering nearly fifteen feet tall on its hind legs. Its massive paws, tipped with claws as long as daggers, raised high in challenge. Its maw gaped wide, revealing rows of yellowed teeth like a wall of waiting blades.
In less than the span of a heartbeat, the two beasts collided with a sound like thunder.
Lion claws and bear paws became a blur of motion, while their fanged mouths sought vulnerable flesh. Roars and howls grew louder and more ferocious with each passing moment, sending chills through the bodies of all who heard.
Ghost joined the fray, darting between the legs of a wildling to disembowel the man with a single savage bite. The direwolf's pristine white fur became spattered with crimson droplets.
"Jon," Joffrey called out as he leapt from the canopy, "come and see what blood looks like on a true battlefield."
His sword flashed once, and a terrified wildling's head tumbled from his shoulders. Blood fountained from the severed arteries, spraying Joffrey's fine leathers.
This was no tournament melee or practice yard skirmish. This was life and death, played out with steel and sinew.
Jon drew a deep breath, steeling himself, then joined the battle with his sword drawn.
The free folk, not yet ready to surrender to despair, exchanged quick glances before charging toward the golden-haired lordling. Their battle cries echoed through the forest as they rushed forward.
If they could capture this one, they might yet survive the day.
Eight warriors against one southron boy—they could not imagine failure.
But their confidence shattered like brittle ice against the reality of Joffrey's prowess.
His sword cut through their crude weapons as though they were made of parchment, not bronze and steel. No blade or axe could withstand a single strike from that fearsome weapon.
Two warriors were cleaved in two with a single sweep, their upper halves sliding from their lower with grotesque finality.
The wildlings' terror grew. The noble youth seemed impervious to harm—he had been stabbed more than once, yet not a drop of his blood flowed. More terrifying than even the White Walkers of legend!
Three points of red light flashed from the prince's blade, and more wildlings fell, reduced to scattered pieces of flesh and shattered bone.
He cannot be human, they thought with growing horror.
The wildlings' resolve collapsed entirely. The snow bear was now covered in bloody wounds and burns, while the giant lion's fur remained frustratingly pristine, as untouchable as its master appeared to be.
Several wildlings cast down their weapons and fell to their knees in surrender, while others turned to flee in blind panic.
Benjen and Yoren moved forward to intercept the fleeing men, their swords making quick work of those who refused to yield.
Joffrey lowered Dragonflame's tip and turned his attention to the snow bear.
Rain had been infused with the mirrored images of fortification, restoration, and growth runes—what threat could a mere snow bear pose to such a creature? As expected, the great white beast was rapidly losing its will to fight, overwhelmed by the lion's relentless assault.
Joffrey was about to command Rain to show mercy.
Suddenly, the snow bear let out a series of haunting roars that echoed through the forest. Its massive body stiffened for a moment, as though responding to some unseen command. Then, disregarding its grievous injuries, it lunged toward the prone form of the skinchanger.
Several sickening cracks split the air.
The skinchanger's body shattered beneath the bear's massive paws, crushed beyond all recognition.
The snow bear then collapsed to the ground, its strength spent, the strange intelligence fading from its eyes as it drew labored breaths.
Joffrey narrowed his eyes and gazed up into the clear northern sky.
There were no ravens to be seen, yet he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched by eyes far more ancient and knowing than those of the wildlings or their skinchanger.
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