Life was unfair.

Arya had known that plain truth for many years. Since she'd learned she would need wed for the sake of her House some time in the future, since she'd been forced into lessons meant to please this unknown husband and the various suitors that would try for her hand, since she'd been refused martial training and the ability to do as she wanted. Bran and Robb and Rickon were allowed to have fun; Arya was allowed to be a doll to dress and breed. It was, as she had always proclaimed, unfair.

Sometimes Arya wished she were born a commoner girl; at least they could do as they pleased. But then she would sigh and mutter her own foolishness and get back to her dreaded lessons, for no matter how pleasant that sounded Arya knew that that was not true, not really. Commoner girls had more struggles to deal with than she fully understood and were more like to be raped and made thralls than they were to adventure and make merry in lands unknown.

Jon Snow had been the light of her life; a beacon with which she could embrace without fear of reprisal or malignance regarding his bastardly station. He understood and often agreed with her wants, taught her to fight as he felt needed, and would steal her away from those horrid lessons to go camping or hunting or fishing on the random. Jon always told her that the simpler things in life need be known by all, highborn and bastard alike, so they could always have dues in common. Arya did not wholly understand such a statement, but she liked spending time with her brother, and she grew to like the activities he would have her doing, so she agreed all the same.

She had been devasted when he'd left Winterfell. Two years he had been gone, and two years did Arya continue to think life unfair. Back to those horrid lessons, back to no longer having a training partner that could teach her. The only difference between what Arya had once dealt with was the heightening of her guard, for her Lady Mother knew her daughter well and would not allow her the chance to go running after Jon.

His return home had been like a dream, and she the dreamer. Only it was real, and that made it even better. He was bigger than ever, a lord of his own making, with story and song to tell and trophies to show. Valyrian steel was the rarest resource in the whole of the known world, and Jon had confided in her in the hush of the dark during their travel towards King's Landing that he held more than he'd shown, back in his domains on Skagos. She begged after the chance to see his hoard, and his eyes twinkled a bright thing as he accepted. He'd even offered to foster her once his castle was finished, and Arya wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her days with her brother. He would let her do as she pleased.

With Jon back, Arya's training continued properly; no longer did she have to settle for sneaking out with Bran or the humoring sons of castle workers. He had gifted her his old sword on the day of his return, before the feast had been called; the blade he called Woe, made of castle-forged steel linked with dragonglass veins. It was light like a bravosi blade, but wider and held only the one edge. She loved it, and she loved that she would soon be able to bare it openly. For she was to travel to King's Landing, and nobody would tell her to leave her sword.

Only, King's Landing was not as she'd hoped. It was meant to be fun; the place where Arya could begin to learn what it meant to be free. King's Landing was meant to be where she would finally be safe from her mother's damning gaze and the domineering veneer that Septa Mordane espoused. But she felt more suffocated than ever.

After her near-death in the crossroads, where a cutthroat made to knife her, she'd not been able to go anywhere without security, not even the privy. Her father always had guards on her person, silent protectors that offered no council or entertainment. At least with mother, though Arya did not want to do as she bade, Arya had somebody to hear her out.

Here, even with people surrounding her, Arya was alone.

Bran worked with Ser Barristan in the White Sword Tower from dawn till dusk, and Sansa had begged away from her horsefaced sister to spend time with Princess Myrcella and her friends. But Arya had nobody, and so she often made a game of losing her guards to explore the Red Keep. It was hard to do this at first, but she learned their tells and movements and soon enough was able to escape them on the regular.

It became such a commonplace occurrence that her father had demanded a compromise of her; he would not stop her exploring, but she needed protection. Anything, he said. Arya had demanded the direwolves as protection then, and Sansa and Bran capitulated. Bran was often refused his direwolf by Ser Barristan anyway during his training as a squire, and Sansa felt having Lady around as she spent time with other nobleman's daughters was rude and unfitting.

As a pack, the direwolves and the girl that bore one as a sigil explored. Arya had gotten the chance to know their personalities well during this time. Nymeria was like she was, wanting to see all that there was, rougher and bolder than her siblings. Summer was subtler though no less bold and was better at finding nooks and cranny's that might lead places. And Lady, stalwart and kind and loyal, preferred to take on the role of a guard, letting Arya know when servants approached. Sometimes, Arya swore she could see through their eyes, her dreams taking on their forms, but then she would laugh herself a fool and look for more to find.

But exploring the castle was far to the back of Arya's mind right now. Jon was gone again, and this time it was not to go adventuring. He had played the role of a hero as he was wont to do; saving a white-polished knight from his black armored foe, to the adulation of the masses.

The Mountain was known even to Arya, though the manner in which she discovered her crimes would have earned her a cuff to the head. She'd thrust her ear through a hole of the Tower of the Hand's barrack and overheard her father's men jeering about how the false knight had gotten what he'd deserved; that he'd killed the baby Prince Aegon and raped Rhaegar Targaryen's lawful wife, Princess Elia, only to kill her too. How he was Lord Tywin Lannisters dog, the purveyor of all things to fear in the Westerlands, and that he'd been wed thrice now but his wives never lived past a year.

Arya thought the king would be happy with such a man being killed. And yet, her brother was in prison.

It's not fair! Arya bemoaned. As if sensing her distress, Lady piled over her, offering a warm furred body as comfort. Arya buried her face into Lady's neck, the salty taste of tears falling onto her lips.

Three days Jon had been gone. Arya had found the prisons weeks ago, but she hadn't found her brother. She looked hard through those cells, ignoring the various offers of desperate men for better food or freedom. One even offered sweets from behind their barred quarters to come close, though Arya was smart enough to know not to trust such a thing. How could such a dreg have sweets to give?

Nobody knew where Jon was, not even the servants that cleaned the castle, and they knew everything; all the castle gossip and the best paths and the secrets of the halls and such. Worried beyond anything, Arya had sent Nymeria and Summer searching for her brother, hoping that the wolves could find something.

That had been yesterday. She'd not seen them since.

Lady's head snapped up, and she shuffled away from Arya, barking at her closed door. Arya had come to understand those sounds better than anybody else could claim during her time in King's Landing with the wolves and knew that that bark was reserved for packmates. Flinging herself from her bed, Arya bounded over towards the door and wrenched it open, Summer barreling inside, tugging backwards on the hem of her shirt, trying to make Arya follow.

Heart swelling with hope, Arya did, though not before grabbing Woe from her hidden place beneath her feather bed.

Summer led Arya and Lady on a merry chase, down the Tower of the Hand, through the kitchens and butchering rooms, up another flight of stairs leading side-face from the inner walls of the Maidenvault. A narrow alcove was then met, getting thinner and thinner the further they trekked, until all that was left was a dead end lit by a singular torch of yellow fire. Nymeria was at that dead end, scratching and whining against its pale red stone.

Arya huffed in disappointment, thinking she'd been running for nothing. But then, Nymeria started to hammer her flank into the stone, whimpering with each strike of flesh, though she continued to make such movements.

"Nymeria!" Arya whispered, worry now filling her. She knelt next to her wolf companion and tried to hold the beast back, but even at her young age Nymeria had strength enough to outmatch her master. Nymeria shrugged Arya away, and continued to try and unsuccessfully break the wall down with her body. Summer and Lady both joined her, and Arya knew not what to do.

She tried to hold the wolves away, only to be met with similar responses. She tried to put herself in front of the wall, but even that did not stop the wolves. At one point, Summer had checked Arya in the rib something fierce, and she hissed and knelt against the stone. It was then that the actions of the direwolves made sense, for she held her weight against a thicker rockface that she belatedly realized did not belong amidst the rest of the stonework. It clicked a loud thing, steam whirring from the other side of the wall, and what Arya presumed to be Valyrian runes of some sort lit up through the wall mold. It fell away, from a solid piece to a door of sorts, and with one last rush of the wolves Arya was thrown inside a cavern of darkness.

It was not a cavern, though, not really. It was a slide wrought of the earth. Arya struggled with her footing, barely holding herself up, only to be tripped by the direwolves. They slid down the pass for what seemed like hours uninterrupted, a blackness that scared Arya strongly enough to release her bowels. It was a swirling sort of slide whose turns were sharp enough to further hurt Arya's bruised ribs. She'd never experienced anything like it before.

Then, light could be seen. It was a small thing, at first. But the light grew larger and brighter with every second, until Arya and Summer and Nymeria and Lady were flung outside, higher than they would have liked. They rolled atop one another, a heap of bodies, and righted themselves after a few minutes of panting and the gathering of their bearings.

Arya took in her environment and goggled in confusion. They were no longer in King's Landing, no longer even in the Red Keep. This was a dense canopy of green and gold, the warm climate counter to the titanic foliage that was the Wolfswood. The Kingswood, Arya realized. Mummers called the Red Keep the Ruby of Westeros, and some island in the Stormlands its Sapphire. The Kingswood was called its Emerald.

Though this was not what Arya wanted, she did not complain. That was easily the greatest discovery she'd made as of yet. She spun around, intent on returning to make tale to Bran, only to still. Where the pass with which she had slid should have been, she saw nothing now. It was gone. All she saw was the southern edge of the cliff that King's Landing had been built atop, the scent of shit wafting over her nose. Rocks of salt and steep water sheers made up that cliff, but no pass or cave or any semblance of something touched by man could be seen unless one craned their neck towards the high-walled gate overhead.

Worry unlike anything she'd felt before pooled in Arya's gut, and she turned once more to seek comfort with the direwolves. They were not there.

Panicking, Arya called out for them. "Nymeria! Summer! Lady! Anybody!" But no answer came. She took a deep breath, centered herself, and made to calm down. Jon had once told Arya that panic offered nothing useful, and much as her body trembled, she agreed. Undoing the cloth covering the held Woe back, Arya tightly palmed the hilt of the blade, eyeing her surroundings more closely, searching for anything that might seem out of place.

There! Along the ground, where mud was more common than dirt, Arya saw a trio of fresh tracks. It had been a long time since she last went hunting, and she'd not thought much on such obvious signs. Concluding they belonged to the direwolves of Stark, leading a trail away from King's Landing. Scared but knowing she'd feel worse without the wolves, Arya followed after them.

The tracks led her through an expanse of woods, where knobby branches of ancient make echoed the sounds of birds and beasts alike, a symphony of the forest that left Arya dizzy. The Kingswood was similar to the Wolfswood in scale, its sentinel trees standing high like castle-tops, offering a constant vigil. The only difference clearly felt was that Arya knew the Wolfswood, knew the signs of the land and the animals that called it home. The Kingswood was similar, but foreign. And that was scary.

Arya saw the tracks begin to peter out, past a thick shrub of thorny flowers that she could not see through. She swiped Woe through their stems, a billowing of yellow petals gusting around her, and like a blind girl discovering color for the first time Arya saw.

It was a magnificent glade, beautiful beyond reproach; a natural wonder to be seen. A canopy of flowered trees that arched over a pool of crystal-clear water lay beyond those shrubs, where deer and squirrels and boars and bears chittered amongst one another, not a care in the world for their natural enemies. Arya felt shameful for but a moment, for her cutting of those flowers made this place seem less perfect than it should have been. But then her attention was held away. The direwolves were here, lapping at the waters, a pair of mice dancing atop Lady's back. More wolves surrounded them, fifteen in all, sat down reverently.

And there, in the center of them all, stood atop a boulder in the middle of the lake, was nature incarnate. It was a stag, twice as big as any horse Arya had ever seen before, with a pelt as pale as fresh snow and eyes bluer than any sapphire the Stormlands could claim. Its antlers were massive, wider than it was long, with prongs snaking around its body like a crown far exceeding any majesty that King Robert could hope to claim. Were this buck a man Arya felt it would be Hugor of the Hill reborn, such was the splendor it represented.

It turned its eyes onto her though, and sound stopped. The gentle sway of wind, the movement of the spring, the noises the animals around made, all of it came to a halt. The stag turned wholly towards her, its powerful body poised to attack, and then it loped over the water with one great jump, head low and intent on the kill. Intent on her death.

Panicking, Arya dove to the side, her rib hurting fiercely. The White Stag barreled past her, cutting through the side of a tree cleaner than an axe of Valyrian steel could ever hope to do, bark and dust clouding from behind it.

"Nymeria! Lady! Summer!" Arya cried out, tears and sweat pooling from her face. But the wolves remained still. Nymeria looked as if she were struggling to do this, as if she wanted to move but couldn't. Summer and Lady looked complacent though, unwilling and unable to even shift from their positions.

The stag turned once more, its sapphire eyes narrowed on Arya, and it dug its heavy hooves onto the ground. Once, twice, thrice, it bolted towards her, once more ready to kill.

Arya felt a sense of futility, that if she just accepted this death it would be easier. But then she shook her head and dove once more, the stag breaking trees again, goring through a placid boar too. I am a Stark of Winterfell, she thought harshly, slapping her own cheek. I bare my neck for nobody! If this was the moment she would die, she would do it as her ancestors did and not leave this world meekly.

"Winter is Coming!" Arya screamed, positioned in front of the pool, Woe at the ready. The White Stag met her scream with one last charge. Closer and closer it came, and Arya, not even a girl of twelve, felt a sense of acceptance and finality. Adrenaline surged through her, but it was the sort you felt after doing something right, like the time she finally did a stitching to Septa Mordane's standards. It took weeks longer than Sansa, but it was hers and she was proud of her work.

Arya felt that this was a good death.

So it came as quite a shock when, just before she made to swipe her blade towards the White Stag, Nymeria moved. The she-wolf had broken from whatever stupor held her and raced to protect her master. Sharp teeth and claws at the ready, Nymeria found violent purchase onto the stags great neck and savagely bit into its neck, dark red blood staining that pretty white coat. The stag flailed in surprise and it tripped over its own legs, falling into the waters, though the loss of momentum did not come at a cost.

Nymeria had taken a wound. One of those sharp prongs had speared her belly, and the slap of water had forced Nymeria away, her body inert. Arya's tears fell heavily at the sight, but she did not allow grief to overcome her person. To fall to such a state would suit her poorly right now. Already the White Stag was making back to the shore, looking far more comfortable in water than any deer Arya had ever seen. It was still a deer however, and was not meant for water, struggling regardless to regain its bearings.

Arya screamed and jumped boldly onto the beast, gripping harshly onto its prongs. It bucked and brayed and made to knock her away, but Arya did not let go. Stubbornly she stayed in place, and hatefully she grabbed Woe. With one last movement, a shriek of agony and fear and mourning for her wolf, Arya stabbed Woe right through the muscly neck of the White Stag.

It buckled at the movement, the noises coming from it now muddled. Blood pooled from its mouth and nose and ears, and its eyes rolled away, until it finally lay dead, floating listlessly atop the blood stained waves.

Arya gasped and flung Woe back to shore, then swam after Nymeria. She held her wolf tightly, crying salty tears against Nymeria's unmoving chest. The wound the wolf took was deep, too deep. She did not live.

A laugh broke out then, through Arya's tears. But it was not Arya that made such a noise. She whirled around, watery hateful eyes meant for whoever would mock such a sacrifice, only to confusedly stop. For there where the White Stage once lay, something else did stand.

It was a spirit. A translucent sort of thing, pale-blue mist making up its form. It looked to take the form of a stag one moment, then a wolf, then a boar, then a lion, and so on and so forth the next. It kept no true shape, but a presence wafted from the body of the spirit, heavy and unyielding, a thousand times more intense than the Heart Tree in the Winterfell Godswood.

"So." The spirit said, sounding pleased, now a snake. "My pet has been felled, and in such a manner! A fine kill for a girl so young. And your own wolf; a loyal companion beyond reproach. To fight past my magic is worthy of praise. Indeed, a Hunter is born!"

The animals around the glade echoed their agreement. Boars brayed, squirrels and mice chittered, deer and bears roared, and Lady and Summer howled. It was a cacophony of noise, one that made Arya's ears hurt.

"Who are you?" She asked, her voice harsh and angry, still holding Nymeria's prone form.

"Who am I, little Hunter?" The spirit asked, mockingly. It was an eagle now. "I am the Hunt manifest, keeper to the beasts of this world. The God of the Great Game, Champion of the Chase. I am Hircine."

Upon stating such a name, Arya buckled at the knees. It rolled through her body, heavier than any plate of armor could hope to be, and she knew then that this was no mere spirit. This- this was a god, wasn't it?

And gods could perform miracles, right?

"Please," she begged; her eyes trailed onto Nymeria. "Please, bring her back to life. She's my friend, my best friend."

Hircine hummed, walking over the water, until he was stood less than a foot away, donning the body of a monkey. "Yes. Friend. That is what these are, for regardless of race, those that hunt together are bound beyond mortal comprehension, thicker than the bonds of blood. But she has died well, little Hunter. Your wolf has earned a place in the Hunting Grounds, where she will have game aplenty for eternity to come-."

"I don't care about that!" Arya shouted, to the simultaneous anger and bemusement of the god before her. "I don't care that she'll be able to hunt! I don't! I just want her back. I just- I need her."

The direwolves that kept to the Stark children were special. Each wolf held a bond that was not easy to describe with their masters. Nymeria was special to Arya, in ways that she could not truly define. Nymeria was the one Arya took solace in when thinking of Jon beyond the Wall. Nymeria was the one that Arya clung onto for weeks after nearly being murdered by the cutthroat. Nymeria was the one that saved Arya from the rush of the stag. Not Lady, not Summer; Nymeria.

Arya wanted her back.

Hircine both hummed and huffed, a unicorn now. Amusement made up his tone, but Arya could detect understanding as well. "Loyalty cuts both ways, it seems. To demand of a god for life anew… yes. YES! A Hunter is not just one that hunts, but one that embraces all that there is in the Great Game. The discovery, the chase, the kill, the celebration, the consumption. The death of a companion brings these low, but even through grief, they are celebrated. Rare is it that a Hunter so loves their companions to have them celebrate beyond the grave, however."

Hircine cackled into a shark, and both Nymeria and Arya were lifted out of the water by the air itself. They circled his misty body, not by choice, but by the will of the god before them. "You wish for you companion back; I understand. I cannot grant her life, however. It goes against the law of the Hunt. Her spirit has already ascended to my lands. But I will do you a greater service, Arya Stark. I will gift you my esteem, and gift you her body."

Even though she was floating, Arya remained stubborn. "What good does her body do? Do you expect me to taxidermy Nymeria? I won't!"

Hircine's laugh stopped at that, and her growled his words, donning the face of a bug. It was ugly. "Stay your tongue on such a practice. That is the arrogance of men, staining the Hunt. The whole of an animal is meant to be used, the flesh and skin and bone all. To stuff the kill as false trophy is sacrilege."

"No," Hircine declared, shaking its head. The god now sported the muzzle of a crocodile. "Her body you shall have, but your mind and soul shall take. I give you my blessing, Arya Stark. Rare has it been offered in this world, for rare does this world hold my attention. Use it well."

Hircine's form dissipated then, and Nymeria turned to smoke. The smoke of her body invaded every entry into Arya's own body. From her ears and nose, to her mouth and eyes, even to her lower regions, through her cunt and bunghole. The smoke filled her, making Arya feel bloated and horrid, and when Nymeria's body had melded fully with Arya, the change occurred.

It was not a subtle thing. It was painful, agonizing even. The whole of her body elongated, limbs lengthening, thickening. Her torso swelled out, and her face turned lupine, gaining a muzzle with the likeness of a wolf, only humanoid and big like an ox. Fur sprouted over her body, and howling, Arya's voice echoed. Instincts rolled through her very core, the thrill of the fight and the want to run, and she'd only the chance to catch but a single glimpse of her new visage through the water of the pond before she ran off, Lady and Summer and that other pack of wolves loping at her side. As her vision turned a hazy red and Arya felt her spirit fall away to these newfound impulses, she thought on the face that was now hers.

Her grey eyes, borne of Nymeria's muzzle.


"More wine, your grace?" Lancel Lannister queried.

Robert grunted and took the two-gallon skin from his squire, greedily drinking from it, the sour yet fruity taste of Arbor stock had always been his favorite. Trekking the Kingswood was thirsty work, but nobody had better reason to be in this forest than the king of Westeros.

King. Robert would not lie; he loved that title. King Robert of the House Baratheon, the first of his name, Lord of the Seven Kings. Protector of the Realm. Heftier titles did not exist, not in any of the known world. Blood and steel won him the Iron Throne, and Robert enjoyed the vices that his crown offered.

He firmly returned the heavy wine skin to his squire, burping loud enough to echo the trees. That caused him to laugh. "Hah! You hear that? Ah, a better sound there was not."

"If you say so," Renly said, a roll in his shoulders. Robert knew his youngest brother was acting kind, though he liked it little. Renly could do little else but act, be it kindness or anything else. There was not enough steel in his spine.

Mayhap Robert should send Renly off to skirmish in Essos? Westeros was lacking in war, that which brought Robert and Stannis their esteem. Robert did not like his middling brother near as much as he liked Renly, and he liked Renly little, but he was not fool enough to deny Stannis as a military general. He was good at that. Very good.

"What was I saying before?" He asked, blinking. So caught up in thoughts of his brothers was he that Robert was blanking on his previous words.

"Simpler times?" Ser Mandon Moore said, his Kingsguard accompaniment. Robert would have preferred to take Ser Barristan on this hunt, but the elderly knight was dedicating his time to young Brandon Stark. Robert was both ward and squire for Jon Arryn, and he missed the man terribly. Bran Stark deserved the chance to form such a bond with Ser Barristan Selmy, and Robert had no intention on interrupting their training. That, and he did not want the boy to accompany them. Gods, but he was pissed at Ned. Having Ned's son about would stoke that anger further.

What right did Ned have to question Robert, the king? Robert had elevated his friend beyond his station, taking him from his frozen hovel to Hand of the King, only to be wrought with conflict. First the Targaryen pair, making merry in Volantis. They said Viserys Targaryen was mad as a hat and wore a mask in the likeness of a demon, and that his sister, Daenerys, she was the only one that could keep him calm. Robert wanted them dead. Ned refused. And now the Mountain slain against his orders at the feet of Tywin Lannister? Much as Robert enjoyed Jon Skruul, that demanded punishment.

Gods but that was a fool of a man. A fun fool though. What Robert would not give to have Joffrey or Tommen act a similar way. Broad and big, taking to the North in looks more than even Ned did, Skruul was a man. A self-made man, a blacksmith turned adventurer turned a lord of fair station. Robert likened him to what Orys Baratheon must have been like. Only, without the Targaryen influence, or the dragons, or the fresh castle and pretty woman.

Robert blinked once more, peering at the wine skin strapped to his squires' side. That must have been strong stuff.

"Simpler times!" Robert barked, shaking his head. He wanted to hunt not only to catch the White Stag, but also to keep his mind away from the Starks. "Right! Gods, but times were simpler back in the day. You're too young to remember, Renly. Wasn't it simpler, Moore?"

"It was, your grace." The knight concurred.

"They were right there in the open, vicious as you like." Robert reminisced. "All but sending you a bloody invitation, the enemy. Unlike today. Schemers and liars are my enemy now, they tongues their blades and the pen their hammers. What I would not give for a proper fight once more. Gods, I would show them what."

"Sounds exhilarating." Renly drawled.

Robert caught the tone easily enough and felt at playing his brother. "Exhilarating, yes. Almost as exhilarating as those balls and masquerades you like to throw. Hah!"

Renly ground at his teeth but kept silent a retort, and there was a quiet. They walked over rolling roots, dappled with green moss and weedy leaves. The trees were thick in this area of the Kingswood, thick and looming. Like- like…

Like a cock.

"You ever fuck a Riverlands girl?" Robert asked, on that topic of thought. Renly was unwed, and Robert wanted to know his preference. Rumor had it that Renly was a sword swallower, but Robert did not believe it. Mayhap he'd make a match for his littlest brother near enough. Shireen was a sweet girl, but Stannis was unlikely to have any more children with that shrew of a wife. It would fall to Renly will give Robert more nieces and nephews. The more Baratheon's in the world, the better, he believed.

"Once." Renly said, pausing. "I think."

"You think?" Robert laughed. "I think you'd remember. Ah… Back in our day you weren't a real man until you'd fucked one girl from each of the seven kingdoms and the Riverlands. We called it making the eight."

Renly snickered a low thing. "Those were some lucky girls."

"You ever make the eight, Mandon?" Robert asked. Though he already felt he knew that answer-

"I have, your grace." Well wasn't that interesting.

"Truly?" Robert asked, shifting his attention fully towards the dour Kingsguard. Ser Mandon Moore was a competent swordsman of a similar skill to the Kingslayer, but he held the personality of a fish. A yes-man if there ever was one, he followed orders to the letter and did not allow anything to get in the way of such. Robert never would have pegged the man able to even get with eight girls, let alone eight from the continent over. "Where? When? Details man!"

Mandon hummed, his pale grey eyes scrunched in thought. "I was raised in the Vale and had bedded a serving wench before my squiring. I squired in White Harbor and was chanced with the queerness of the North. I protected a family of merchants from poachers, and the husband allowed me a night with his wife in return."

Robert's cheeks went pink as he roared out a laugh. "HAH! I bet the fool got off to that! Share your wife with another man? Pah! Weakness is what that is! Were Cersei to try such a thing on me I'd have her neck, hers and the whole damned family of whoever she made to cuckold me with."

Lancel tripped on a branch as Ser Mandon continued his tale. "When Rhaegar died and the van made for King's Landing, I lay with a camp follower in the Riverlands. After you took the throne, I accompanied Lord Arryn to Sunspear to return the bones of Princess Elia and settle the grievances of Dorne. I lay with a fisherman's daughter at port, there."

"And that's four. What of the rest?" Renly said, sounding interested. Good! Robert hoped this might spur him towards the pleasures of women more and lay to rest those foul rumors.

The Kingsguard nodded shortly. "Upon our return to King's Landing, Lord Arryn then travelled to the Reach, to gather the recompense of House Tyrell. I lay with a Highgarden whore that trip. Our return brought us through the Stormlands, at Wendwater, and I came across a widower woman whose husband had sworn to the Conningtons. She offered me her bed to join us on our return to King's Landing."

Robert hated the House Connington. They were the Stormlords that raised the biggest fuss against Robert and his righteous crusade against the Targaryens. Jon Connington had even been Hand to the Mad King. Robert stripped them of their lordly titles after he became king, and it was only the mercy of Jon Arryn that let them keep their lives. They would live with being a knightly house.

"During the Greyjoy Rebellion, while we made for battle, a Lannisport washerwoman took me to bed. And then, the Iron Islands."

"You lay with an Ironborn?" Mandon got better every moment he spoke. Damn, but Robert had thought him dull as a rock. Seems he was just quiet as one was all. Making the eight normally rejected the Iron Islands in favor of the Crownlands; their women too far away or too vicious. It was a rare man that bed one without worry of a knife to the throat.

The knight grunted his answer. "She was a Pyke bastard thrall to some reaver from Harlaw. I know not her name, nor the peoples she was bound to. But she fucked the whole of my ship it felt for safe passage off those islands. I know not what happened to her, nor do I care. I presume she settled in the Westerlands, though."

"Better a whore than a thrall." Renly mused.

"Too right." Robert agreed, barking at Lancel for more wine. The Lannister boy did as bid, and Robert took three great gulps before returning the skin to his squire, swaying. That would be empty before the day was done, likely. Good. Robert loved his wine, but he loved his hunting more. The less distraction, the better. "And now? You were elected to the Kingsguard after the Greyjoy's had their tantrum. What sort of wenches have you taken to since donning the white cloak?"

"None." Moore announced. "I took a vow of celibacy."

Robert grumbled. He admired knights who followed their vows, but the idea of no longer fucking was one that always bothered him something fierce. Even the Night's Watch had a brothel in Moles Town.

Intent on allowing his knightly guard further freedoms, Robert made to speak, only to halt bodily, his arm raised and fist closed. Renly and Mandon and Lancel all stopped with him. Something was off.

"What is it?" Renly asked.

"Don't you hear it?" Robert returned.

Renly scoffed. "Hear what?"

A growl sounded from all around them then. It was a deep, dark thing. Robert tensed at the sound and gripped his spear more assuredly. A howl echoed then, matched by other howls. The forest felt alive with sound.

"That." Robert grunted. He ambled his shield forward and felt a grin tug from beneath his beard. This was what he lived for. The thrill of the unknown, to battle foes and conquer enemies. Hunting was the closest thing a king was allowed near such thrills save for war. "Ready yourselves. Our prey thinks they're the predator."

Quiet fell, the rustle of the leaves their only companion. Then, movement. Wolves prowled out from the foliage, a pack all their own. Robert cursed quietly, for though he was armored and guarded, a pack this size was a task. But he knew wolves; they worked together. An army all their own. Kill the head, the alpha, and the rest would scatter away.

Robert surveyed the wolves and settled on a bigger one. It was a great wolf, a beast all its own, standing a head above the rest of the pack. Light grey fur and pale-yellow eyes, it somehow looked well groomed, and-… was that a collar?

"Fucking Starks." Robert hissed, recognizing the beast. He knew not which it was, but that was one of the direwolves that came south. One of the companions of the children. Clenching his teeth, Robert settled himself. He would kill the beast but tell no one. This would be his favor to Ned. The children need not know their pet was killed. Rumors would be spread that the wolf had been stolen. He knew enough that they would never leave their masters.

Another wolf approached then, next to the pet. It was even larger, its fur a dark tan thing. Ser Mandon unsheathed his sword, the ring of steel sounding against the growl of the pack. Renly stuttered and held his spear, and Lancel fell to the floor. Waste of wine, Robert thought, eyeing the liquid pooling from the flask. Wine and piss, if the stench was anything to go by.

"What are you waiting for then?" Robert barked, slapping his chest. "Have at me, beasts! Come make at being Kingslayers!"

The wolves howled, but then that deep dark growl echoed once more from the tree-line. As one, the wolves bent their heads, subservient, and backed away. Robert tensed; his lips pursed. Waiting.

He need not wait long. A grey blur rushed through the trees, faster than his eye could track. It sliced through Ser Mandon, treating the Kingsguard knight like a toy soldier. The white-cloaked man fell limp, dead; his sword bent and his armor pierced. Lancel shrieked then, only to quickly be cut off. He gurgled, and Robert whirled towards his squire, stopping still.

The monster that held Lancel up by his throat was like the legends of the old Starks reborn. A wolf that bore the build of a man bigger. It was a dark brown, grey eyed thing, yellow teeth large and apparent. Its claws were outstretched, one ready to fight, the other piercing through Lancel Lannister's throat.

It sniffed its kill, snarling. Then it threw it towards its pack, and the wolves fell onto the body, happy for a meal.

Renly proved to be the next surprise. Bolder than Robert had ever seen, Renly pierced his spear at the beast, making purchase against its flank. It yowled in pain and grabbed the spear by its shaft, pulling it out from its side. It twisted the spear around, and with a roar it threw it against Renly, against his skull, piercing him dead and unrecognizable. Renly had always been a pretty sort, groomed beyond measure. Now he was a red fountain against a spear of wood.

The beast palmed its wound and then hissed, pain in its eyes. Snarling, though whimpering too, it ran from the clearing, the pack of wolves dragging Lancel's corpse after it.

Robert fell to his knees, eyes wide and mouth hung open. His squire, dead. His guard, dead. His brother… Dead.

Then he screamed into the sky, a red rage overtaking him. He needed something to blame, someone. And there was only one family that had the potential to be involved in this.

Starks…


Hey all! It's been a bit. I want to say that that was by accident, but it is not. I've been focusing a fair bit of my attention on my Warcraft fic (y'all should check it out) and the virus has sadly put me out of work. This is a poor time to be in film. So, job hunting. Yay.

This was a big chapter, filling out a couple of future events while simultaneously putting us in more dire straits. Arya is a werewolf, though I need to clarify she's not a champion like Jon is. This was her first transformation, and as we known from the Skyrim Companion questline, that first transformation is uncontrollable. A werewolf needs to hunt, and she found her target.

It just happened to be Robert Baratheon, the fucking King of Westeros. That worst target she could have chosen.

Robert has never been the most stable of people. He holds an irrational hatred of the Targaryens for Lyanna's abduction, a woman he'd met twice. And now, his brother is dead, with the Stark's direwolves being the only thing he can blame in full. Meaning, the Starks, in his mind, are at least partially responsible.

It'll be fun to see where that goes.

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