"A lone one, by the looks of it," Bennard muttered. "No sign of a pack nearby… thank the gods for that."
He could feel the prince's presence behind them, observing silently. The prince didn't flinch from the gore; he was studying it with the same intense focus.
Benjen rose, his brow furrowed. He glanced from the dark tree line to Aegon and back to his father. "Father, if it's a direwolf… perhaps it would be wiser for Prince Aegon to stay in the hamlet with a guard. The risk…"
Aegon answered before Bennard could. A faint, confident smile touched his lips. "I appreciate your concern, Benjen. But I can fight quite well, I assure you. A lone wolf, even a large one, holds little terror for me." There was no boast in his tone, only a simple statement of fact that carried the weight of dragonfire and pyromancy. Benjen, wisely, did not press the issue.
Bennard stood, his knees cracking in protest. He followed the trail of blood and footprints with his eyes. The story was plain to read. The beast had come from the woods, taken the goats with brutal efficiency, and had dragged part of the offal back the way it came.
"It's not far," Bennard said, his voice grim. "It made its kill, gorged itself, and retreated to the woods to sleep it off. It will be sluggish, cornered in its den." He looked at his son, seeing the mix of apprehension and determination in the boy's eyes. "Benjen. Instruct the guards. We form a line. Spears out. Move into the woods, and we find it."
Benjen straightened his shoulders. He turned to the guards, his voice losing its boyish uncertainty, "You heard my father! Form a skirmish line. Watch the undergrowth. It will be close."
As the guards readied their spears and began to advance towards the silent, waiting wall of trees, Bennard drew his own sword. The familiar, solid weight of the steel in his hand was a comfort. He glanced at the prince, who had taken out his own long-polished sword from his belt, his expression one of calm readiness. Their gaze met, and the prince nodded to him. Bennard returned the nod and turned his focus to the front.
The world narrowed to the dark, silent aisle between the trees. Bennard led the way, his boots making little sound in the damp, snow-dusted leaf litter. Behind him, he heard the soft, careful steps of his men and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Seven guards fanned out in a loose crescent, their spear points glinting in the pale light that filtered through the canopy. Benjen and the Prince followed just behind, their own swords drawn.
They moved with caution, eyes scanning the gloomy undergrowth. Only the tracks of small game marked the snow. For a time, the wind's sigh through the pines was the lone sound. Then, one of the guards on the left flank raised a hand, pointing down at a patch of snow between the roots of an oak.
There, clear as day, was the massive paw print. It was fresh, the edges still sharp.
Bennard nodded, a grim satisfaction settling in his gut. He signaled for silence and pointed forward, in the direction the track was headed. The group advanced, even more cautiously now. They had not gone fifty yards when the trees thinned around a large, moss-covered boulder.
And there it was.
A great grey direwolf lay curled at the base of the stone, its sides moving slowly in its sleep. It was larger than any hound, its fur thick and shaggy, its paws the size of a man's fist.
Bennard began to move his hands, giving sharp, silent commands. He pointed two guards to the left, two to the right, motioning for them to flank the beast. He would take the center with the remaining three. He then turned and fixed Benjen and the Prince with a hard look, jabbing a finger towards the ground at their feet. Stay. Back.
They understood. Benjen's knuckles were white on his sword hilt, but he nodded. The Prince watched silently, his expression unreadable.
Step by careful step, the circle of men closed in. Spears were leveled, aimed at the sleeping form. Bennard raised his own sword, ready to give the signal to strike. But then a sharp crack echoed through the clearing. One of the flanking guards had stepped on a fallen branch.
The direwolf's eyes snapped open.
It uncoiled with terrifying speed, a low, rumbling growl building in its chest as it took in the men surrounding it. Its lips pulled back from teeth as long as a man's finger.
Grr-rr-rrh!
It didn't wait for them to attack. With a sudden lunge, it threw itself at the guard on the right. The man bravely held his ground, thrusting his spear.
A-woo-woo-woo…
The point sank into the beast's shoulder, and it let out a yelp of pain and rage, twisting away. Another spear grazed its haunch as it spun. Now wounded and furious, its yellow eyes swept the circle and landed on Bennard. He was the only one without a long weapon, a clear target.
Khh-rrah!
The wolf charged him.
Bennard stood firm, bracing himself. As the beast leaped, he sidestepped with swift motion, his long sword swinging in a sharp arc. The steel bit deep into the wolf's flank, opening a gash that welled with dark blood. The wolf landed with a snarl, its rage now completely unleashed.
"Father!" Benjen's scream was raw with panic.
The wolf's head whipped around at the sound. Its gaze locked onto the source: Benjen, who stood a head shorter than the men around him, his young face a mask of fear. The beast saw an escape route.
"BENJEN, RUN!" Bennard roared, his heart slamming against his ribs.
It was too late. The direwolf ignored the spears and the shouting guards now rushing to intercept it. It put its head down and sprinted straight for Benjen. The boy, to his credit, didn't turn and flee. He planted his feet, his sword held out before him in a shaky two-handed grip, a desperate, determined look on his face. He was trying to be brave, trying to be a Stark.
But he was just a boy.
Bennard's world slowed to a crawl. He saw the massive wolf cover the ground in three powerful bounds. He saw the saliva flying from its jaws. He saw his son, small and terribly brave, standing in its path. He was running, shouting, but he knew he wouldn't make it in time. The guards were too far. There was nothing between the beast and his son but a few feet of air and a slender piece of steel.
His heart thundered a single, deafening beat as the wolf left the ground, its body stretching into a final, lethal lunge towards Benjen's throat.
Hraaagh!
Benjen's world was a tunnel of grey fur and yellow teeth. He braced for the impact, for the tear of fangs, his own sword feeling as light and useless as a twig.
Then, a boom.
A sphere of orange fire, brighter than any forge, slammed into the direwolf's side in mid-air. The force of the blow was immense, throwing the massive beast sideways as if it were a stray dog. It crashed into the snow with a pained, startled yelp, the smell of singed hair instantly filling the clearing. Benjen stumbled backward and fell, his backside hitting the frozen ground hard, his eyes wide with shock.
The direwolf roared, a sound of pure agony and fury. It thrashed on the snow-covered ground, rolling and kicking to smother the flames clinging to its fur. Just as it was about to succeed, two more fireballs streaked through the air. Thump. Thump. They struck the beast's flank and shoulder in quick succession, reigniting its coat with a whoosh. The wolf's desperate cries turned into high-pitched whines.
Through the haze of his panic, Benjen saw the tall, silver-haired figure walk calmly past him. Prince Aegon moved with a purpose that seemed utterly detached from the chaos, his sword raised.
His eyes darted to his father. Lord Bennard had skidded to a halt a dozen paces away, his face stunned, then quickly morphed into overwhelming relief.
Bennard, with a roared command, began running towards them again, the guards rallying and closing in behind him.
Benjen looked back at the wolf. It had managed to roll the flames out again, but it was a horrific sight. Great patches of its hide were blackened and bleeding, the skin ripped and chafed. It staggered to its feet, movements clumsy with pain. Its yellow eyes, now clouded with fear and a deep, burning rage, fixed on the Prince who had caused its torment.
With a final, desperate snarl, the wounded direwolf lunged at Aegon. It was a clumsy, pain-filled charge, nothing like its first powerful attack.
The Prince didn't retreat. He moved forward to meet it, his steps a swift gait. As the wolf tried to bite down, Aegon sidestepped with fluid ease, just as his father had moments before, only faster. The sword in his hand became a blur of silver.
Crack.
A sharp, torn sound echoed, and one of the wolf's front legs flew through the air, severed cleanly. The beast crashed down, its cry cut short as Aegon's blade struck twice more in quick succession. Each swing was precise and devastating, opening deep gashes along its neck and remaining shoulder. Blood, dark and hot, poured out, dyeing the snow a deep, vivid red around the thrashing animal.
The wolf tried to scramble away, to find an escape from the pain, but the Prince seemed to know its every flinch and twitch. He stepped where it tried to go, his sword always waiting. Each time the steel found its mark, the wolf let out a weak, pitiful whimper. The fierce light in its eyes was dimming, replaced by a glazed-over look of agony and exhaustion. Its huffing breaths came in ragged, bloody gurgles.
Then, the prince stopped. He took a single step back. His bloody sword still held ready but no longer striking. He slowly turned his head, calm lilac eyes sweeping over Benjen, then to Lord Bennard, and finally to the circle of guards who stood with their spears, looking on in a mixture of awe and horror.
"All yours," the Prince said, his voice even, as if commenting on the weather.
The shock broke. The guards gulped, exchanged nervous glances, and then refocused. They stepped forward, their spear points aimed at the dying, bleeding wolf. There was no fight left in it.
Bennard understood Aegon's intentions. The direwolf was the sigil of House Stark, and the prince of dragons would not be the one to strike it down.
"Make it quick," Bennard ordered in a low voice, and the guards moved. With a few quick, merciful jabs, they ended its life. The clearing fell silent. Only the heavy breathing of the men and the deep-red snow with the mangled body of the once-mighty direwolf remained.
The sound of careful cutting filled the clearing. Bennard and his men set about the grim task of skinning the beast and preserving its head; not as a trophy, but so its remains could be buried near the hamlet it had terrorized. Even a direwolf, sacred to their house, could turn killer when driven from its range.
Benjen stood a few paces away, his earlier bravery gone, replaced by a nervous shyness. He kept sneaking glances at Aegon with a new kind of awe, one that Aegon pretended not to notice.
Once the pelt was rolled and the head secured, Bennard wiped his hands on a cloth. He looked at his son, safe and whole, then took a deep breath and walked over to Aegon. His posture was different now; the stern northern lord was tempered by a deep gratitude.
"My prince," Bennard began, his voice low and earnest. "You saved my son's life. I can… "
Aegon gently interrupted him with a calm smile. "There's no need, Lord Bennard. Any man of honor would have done the same."
Bennard nodded, though his solemn gaze said he did not agree. The words were polite, but the truth was undeniable. A life-debt had been incurred, and it was clear in the newfound respect.
Aegon had successfully bound the brother of the Lord of Winterfell to him. It was a connection that would be very useful in the future.
"Let's go, my prince," Bennard said. His men were already ready to leave.
Aegon, who had been gazing thoughtfully into the shadowed parts of the forest, turned and nodded. The group began their slow walk back toward the hamlet and their horses.
As they moved away from the bloody clearing, a faint, private smirk touched Aegon's lips. The confrontation with the direwolf had yielded more than just a Stark's gratitude. His spirituality that had been spread outward caught a detail the others had missed. About a hundred meters away, in a patch of soft mud partially hidden by undergrowth, was another set of footprints. They were larger, deeper, and spoke of a beast that made the direwolf seem small. That larger predator was likely what had driven the wolf from its deep-wood territory, forcing it to hunt near human settlements.
This discovery was a hidden gain, and for Aegon, it was potentially the most important one. The fight with the wolf had been controlled. But a solo fight, without magic, against whatever made those larger prints… that would be different. That might be the real, desperate struggle he needed…
The life-and-death fight.
***
⚔️POWER STONE MILESTONE⚔️
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