Chapter 38 Wolves

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Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Wolves of Winter

The Wolfswood was quiet, but Robb Stark couldn't shake the unease curling in his gut.

The forest stretched around them, ancient trees towering above, their gnarled branches swaying gently in the wind. The only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds. It should have been peaceful. It would have been peaceful.

But Greywind's unease bled into Robb's own.

The bond between them had only grown stronger since Jon began teaching him how to embrace his gift. And now, Robb could feel Greywind—watching, waiting—somewhere behind them, unseen.

It was impressive, really.

Greywind had grown large, nearly as big as his mother, and yet he moved through the woods as silent as a shadow. If Robb had not been attuned to him, he would never have known his direwolf was there.

Robb exhaled, forcing himself to relax.

Greywind was just being overprotective.

After all, this was the Wolfswood—their woods. He and Jon had been running around here since they were little boys. They knew this land like the back of their hands.

That was why he had agreed when Theon suggested leaving the direwolves behind.

"Hunting isn't any fun when those freaks are doing all the work," Theon had laughed, flashing that cocky grin of his.

Robb had agreed, and Jon had only nodded.

That was also why Robb had waved Jory off when he tried to send men to escort them.

We don't need an escort, Robb had told him. It's just a simple hunt.

But now, deep in the woods, that unease only grew stronger.

He glanced at Theon, walking ahead of them, leading the way.

He had been acting strangely ever since they returned from White Harbor. At first, Robb thought it was because of Euron Greyjoy's death. That made sense—Theon had always spoken of his uncle with a mixture of admiration and unease. But this felt different.

Something is wrong.

Robb parted his lips to say something—when suddenly, Jon's hand shot out and yanked him aside.

An arrow whistled past, slicing through the air where Robb had been standing just a moment before.

It missed his leg by an inch.

His breath hitched. If Jon hadn't pulled him aside, the arrow would have buried itself deep into his thigh—or worse.

Before the shock of suddenly being attacked could even settle, men stepped out from the trees.

Robb's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

They were surrounded.

Twenty men, maybe more.

They reeked—rotting, foul—and their eyes gleamed in the dim light, hungry and cruel.

And they weren't alone. Hunting hounds stood at their sides, snarling, teeth bared.

Robb turned sharply to Theon—who had stopped walking.

Who wasn't drawing his sword.

Who was smirking.

Realization struck like a hammer blow.

"You led us into a trap."

Theon's smirk widened, but he said nothing.

Robb's stomach twisted. He had noticed something was off about Theon these past few days, but he had trusted him.

Trusted him like a brother.

Jon remained silent, standing still as if this were nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

Robb forced himself to calm.

Think.

He looked at the men surrounding them.

The one with the bow—the one who had shot at him—stepped forward, grinning.

"My, my," the man drawled, his voice smooth and mocking. "I almost had you, Stark. A shame. I was hoping you would provide some amusement for my boys."

His eyes—sharp and pale blue—gleamed with amusement.

"I am Ramsay Snow," the man continued. "Heir to Dreadfort."

Roose Bolton's bastard.

Robb's fingers curled tighter around his sword hilt.

The stench of the men around them was overwhelming.

Rotten. Foul.

Ever since he had started learning skinchanging from Jon, his senses had grown sharper. He could smell what Greywind smelled. And these men—these things—were wrong.

Robb's voice was steady when he spoke. "Why attack us? What do you want?"

Ramsay laughed. "Ah, I do love a good conversation, don't you?" He waved his hand lazily. "But since you asked so nicely… Someone is willing to pay a lot of gold for your heads."

Robb felt his blood run cold.

Ramsay's grin widened. "Of course, my dear father is too cautious for that sort of thing. He prattles on about not walking into a wolf's den and keeping the North's peace, but I know better." He tilted his head. "When I present your pretty heads to him, he'll have to acknowledge me. He'll have to make me a true Bolton."

His voice was dripping with manic glee.

Robb exhaled through his nose.

"Then you're a fool."

Ramsay's smile faltered.

Robb continued, voice calm. "If your father was too cautious to act, it's because he knows what happens when you provoke the wolves."

Ramsay scoffed, but Robb could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

Keep him talking.

They needed time.

Robb could feel Greywind's presence growing closer.

And Greywind wasn't alone.

Ramsay smirked again, regaining his composure. "Oh, I know what happens, Stark. I know all about wolves." His eyes gleamed. "And I know how to break them."

Robb didn't flinch.

He took a slow step forward, tilting his head slightly. "Do you?"

Ramsay's smirk widened. "I do. Would you like to see how?"

"Not really," Robb murmured.

And then—

A low growl rumbled through the air.

It came from everywhere.

The sound sent a shiver through the men surrounding them.

One of Ramsay's hounds whimpered.

Ramsay froze.

Robb smiled.

"Because I think you're about to find out."

And then, all at once, the direwolves pounced.

Grey Wind tore into the nearest man, jaws crushing bone with a sickening crack.

Ghost was a white blur, a phantom, moving faster than the eye could follow, his fangs sinking into a man's throat before he could scream.

Nymeria, Lady, Summer, and Winter lunged from the shadows, snarling, ripping into their prey with a fury that sent Ramsay's men into a blind panic.

Even little Shaggydog was a shadow of death, his smaller size allowing him to weave through legs, hamstringing men before they even knew what hit them.

Chaos.

Blood.

Screams.

The hounds, sensing their masters' terror, turned against them, snapping at their legs, confused and afraid.

Robb's sword was in his hand, and he was moving, cutting through a man's side as he tried to run.

Jon didn't even bother drawing his axe. He moved like a ghost himself, weaving through the chaos with the deadly grace of someone who had already seen how this battle would end.

Theon stood frozen, staring at the carnage, his smirk long gone.

And Ramsay?

Ramsay's eyes were wide, his body rigid with shock.

Because now—

Now it was he who was surrounded.

And the wolves were hungry.