Chapter 272: Hello, Arya

Barristan had taken two arrows to the buttocks, and his thigh had been pierced by a crossbow bolt. These injuries had only occurred a day ago. Yet, within just twenty-four hours, he had crossed thousands of miles—from Oldtown to the Red Mountains, then to King's Landing, and even spent an entire afternoon freezing in the cold winds of Blackwater Bay.

He hadn't gotten any sleep either. Just as he was about to rest, they took off again at midnight, flying all the way until dawn.

Enduring such physical torment was bad enough, but back at Stokeworth, even the lowlife sellsword Bronn, the old maester Qyburn with only a few links left on his chain, and the slightly senile Lollys had all mocked him—openly and subtly—for violating guest rights. The mental strain was overwhelming, and the old maester was on the verge of a breakdown.

The combined physical and psychological agony pushed him to the brink of suicidal thoughts.

Just as the sun was barely peeking over the horizon and the sky was still dim, whether by accident or intention, the old maester suddenly tilted and fell off Drogon's back.

Fortunately, Dany had maintained a constant dragon bond with Drogon while carrying passengers. She quickly commanded the dragon to snatch the "aerial acrobat" out of the sky with his claws.

His life was spared, but Drogon, being far from gentle, tore open the stitched wounds on his buttocks in the process. Blood gushed out—it was a pitiful sight.

By early morning, the river was shrouded in cold mist. The rippling waters in the center were barely visible, though the soft sound of flowing water revealed the river wasn't too turbulent in this early winter.

Under the gray-white sky, the river water appeared dark and cold, sending shivers through the three figures standing on the pebbled bank.

At that moment, Dany and her companions had landed at the Trident. Barristan was using river water to clean the old maester's wounds and re-stitch the torn flesh.

Dany squatted by the river, picked up a pebble, and skipped it across the water. She loudly complained, "You old fool—if you were bold enough to kill a king, how is it that you've lost the courage to keep on living?"

The old maester flushed red, defending himself in shame. "I wasn't trying to k—kill myself. I was just so tired, I dozed off and accidentally fell off the dragon."

"Ha! Drogon's back has leather straps tied on. Unless you undid them yourself, even snoring in your sleep wouldn't make you fall," Dany mercilessly exposed him.

"I didn't—I wasn't trying to k—kill myself, I wasn't!" the red-nosed old man stammered, caught in his own lie, repeatedly muttering as if trying to hypnotize himself.

Truthfully, half an hour ago, he had indeed planned to end his life.

He'd been brooding all night, unsure who to be angry at. In a moment of despair, he had the impulsive thought to just jump off and be done with it.

But the moment he really jumped, regret hit him instantly—he wasn't the only one who had violated guest rights, so why should he bear the shame alone?

More importantly, during those ten seconds of freefall, he suddenly started missing the sweet goldwine of Greenstone, the crispy pork chops at Quill and Tankard, and those sunny days on the library lawn reading ancient texts while eating lemon cakes. He even found himself longing for Drogon's flame-grilled steak.

In short—he realized he hadn't lived enough.

"Awoo—" Just as Barristan finished stitching the wound and began applying medicine, a deep and eerie wolf howl echoed from the shadowy woods by the riverbank. A moment later came the sound of light, rapid footfalls through the frost-covered underbrush.

Within seconds, over a hundred gray wolves burst through the mist, trampling the frosted leaves and dead grass as they surrounded the riverbank from three directions.

"Direwolves?" The old maester looked at the encroaching pack with more curiosity than fear, focusing on the enormous lead wolf, as big as a calf, with gray fur.

"Woo woo woo…" The great wolf responded to the shout, its cold, yellow eyes—void of any warmth—glancing at the old man. Its mouth opened, exhaling puffs of blood-scented steam.

Aside from its size—two or three times larger than normal gray wolves—and its coloring, it didn't look much different from the rest of the pack.

If the old maester hadn't pointed it out, Dany would have assumed it was just a particularly large wild wolf.

"Why would there be a direwolf in the Riverlands?" he asked in puzzlement.

"Woo…" The direwolf didn't intend to give him time to think. With a powerful push from its hind legs, it lunged straight at Dany.

When the wolves had first surrounded them, Dany had already stepped forward, placing herself between Barristan and the old maester. The red-nosed elder observed the direwolf with a calm curiosity, while the old knight didn't even lift his head, focused solely on treating the wound.

Neither seemed remotely concerned that Dany might be torn apart.

And rightly so—at the moment the lead wolf pounced, Dany's violet eyes flared with a hint of red. She opened her mouth and shouted, "Begone!"

The enormous wolf hit an invisible wall midair, let out a miserable yelp, and was flung back. The rest fared even worse—the sheer force of Dany's dragon presence entered their minds like a storm. Nearly half of the hundred-plus wolves collapsed on the ground, bleeding from all seven orifices, dead without a sound. The rest fled in a frenzy, tails between their legs, abandoning even their alpha.

"Huh…" Dany released her dragon spirit state and looked curiously at the struggling direwolf.

"Arya?" she called out tentatively.

To Barristan and the old maester, all that could be heard were the howls of wolves—but in her spiritual state, Dany saw the ghost of a girl in a plain robe emerge from within the direwolf. Under the pressure of Dany's dragon soul attack, the girl clutched her head and screamed in agony, her features contorting.

In that flash of clarity, Dany realized the truth—the direwolf was in a warg state.

And according to the Game of Thrones storyline, there was only one direwolf in the Riverlands—Nymeria, released by Arya.

"Woo…" Hearing Dany's call, the bloodshot yellow eyes of the direwolf showed a flicker of human-like confusion and surprise.

"It really is you," Dany whispered in awe. "Where are you?"

The direwolf's pupils shrank. It struggled to its feet, clearly intending to run.

"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid—I mean no harm. I won't hurt you," Dany quickly said in a soothing voice.

But with dozens of wolf corpses around her, blood pouring from their eyes and noses, her words lacked credibility. The direwolf grew increasingly panicked, the flicker of humanity in its eyes fading fast.

"Don't exit your warg state—I need to speak to you," Dany urged, backing away and speaking more quickly. "You're just a child, you might not know the taboos of skinchanging. Let me tell you—there are two rules you must follow."

"First: never eat human flesh while in your beast form. It will strengthen your animal instincts and weaken your humanity."

"Second: your direwolf is fully grown now and will begin to seek mates. But remember—do not indulge in non-human desires and pleasures. When your wolf goes into heat, exit the warg state immediately."

From the direwolf's practiced coordination in hunting humans, Dany could tell Arya had already killed—and eaten—in her beast form more than once. And consuming human flesh was a major taboo among skinchangers.

Hmm, there are taboos for skinchangers.

After Daenerys became a dragon spirit, she would seize every opportunity to seek knowledge about skinchangers.

There are actually four taboos for skinchangers. In addition to not consuming human flesh and not mating with wolves while in wolf form—which, according to rumors, can become dangerously addictive if one switches repeatedly between male and female wolves—there are two more:

Third, do not resist your instincts as a wolf spirit.Fourth, never seize control of another human's body.

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Robb and Jon both violated the third taboo. Deep down, they were aware of their differences, but they were terrified and refused to accept the truth.

Robb's wolf-spirit gift was the ability to foresee danger—truly overpowered. Had he trained his wolf-spirit abilities as diligently as his younger brothers, Bran and Rickon, the Red Wedding might never have happened.

As for the fourth taboo, Daenerys was very skeptical about it.

Skinchangers possessing humans?Isn't that veering from fantasy into cultivation fantasy?

"Awoo, awoo!" The ice wolf howled at Daenerys, its eyes gradually filling with a singular emotion—fear.

It stepped back into the woods and ran off without looking back.

"Your Grace, who were you speaking to?" Barristan asked with a puzzled expression.

"The wolf spirit." Perestan mumbled, then suddenly shouted, "The wolf spirit! I understand now—there was a human soul inside that ice wolf just now. A skinchanger!

By the Seven... what kind of world is this? Skinchangers, fire mages, demon dragons—monsters of every sort are crawling out of the woodwork. Is Westeros truly doomed?"

"Essos and the Jade Sea never banned mystical forces, yet tell me, has any city-state fallen to magic? And yet Westeros… it's already teetering on the brink."

Daenerys gave a mocking smile, then turned and explained to the old knight, "I suspect that ice wolf was being controlled by Arya Stark of House Stark."

"Arya Stark? I thought she'd died long ago. Could she have turned into a wolf?" Perestan asked, shocked and suspicious.

"Shh, someone's coming!" Barristan raised a finger to his lips and listened carefully. After a moment, he said with confusion, "Chanting… sounds like monks are approaching."

Sure enough, within four or five minutes, devout chanting began to disperse the morning mist, gradually filling the entire forest. The voices were synchronized, powerful, and rolled like distant thunder.

The general meaning was a prayer for the Warrior's protection, the Mother's mercy, a plea for the Crone to light the way, and the Father…

Then, the source of the sound appeared along a path in the woods and entered the view of Daenerys and her companions. It was a ragged and dirty band of beggars, led by twenty gaunt, yellow-skinned men in rough robes—some barefoot, some in worn sandals, some wielding axes, machetes, or long wooden spears.

Their shields and leather armor bore a symbol Daenerys recognized—the red seven-pointed star.

"The Poor Fellows."

As the group emerged from the forest, the beggar soldiers were followed by over a hundred ragged refugees—men, women, children, and even infants.

In the center of the crowd was an old yellow ox, a dozen sheep, and three two-wheeled carts.

The first cart carried a half-load of turnips, shriveled apples, and onions still caked in fresh dirt. The second held three burlap sacks—likely filled with grain or wheat. The last cart was piled high with skulls and broken bones.

"So many wolves!" Upon seeing Daenerys and her group, the beggar brothers halted. Their chanting faded as they looked suspiciously at the wolf corpses by the riverside, hesitant to move forward.

"Honored knights," one burly man with an axe finally stepped forward and said, "May the Mother have mercy on you."

"And may she have mercy on you too, brother," Daenerys replied with a smile. "Fellow faithful, where are you headed?"

"Ah, milady, are you a knight of the Faith?" the burly man asked with delight.

"I am a septa."

"Uh…" the man was stunned. Then an old man pulling a cart shouted from behind, "Holy Sister, we're on our way to King's Landing, bringing these holy relics to the Great Sept of Baelor, and seeking aid and protection from the king."

"Join us, sister. The road is dangerous, and we could use a warrior like you—someone strong enough to slay a pack of wolves," a small man stepped forward and said.

He wore a tattered monk's robe and had a crystal pendant around his neck—a septon.

(End of chapter)

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