The Young Wolf

The ground beneath Jaime Lannister's horse was slick with blood, the bodies of dead men and horses forming treacherous obstacles. The air was thick with a grotesque smell, the acrid scent of sweat, iron, and death choking his lungs. Men screamed and roared in battle fury, steel clashed, and dying horses let out high-pitched, agonized shrieks. The infamous Lannister cavalry—the pride of the Westerlands, the hammer of the Golden Lion—was being gutted before his very eyes.

Jaime carved a path through the chaos, his golden sword dancing as he struck down another Riverlander who had dared to get too close. A red-mottled blade flashed toward his face, and he twisted in the saddle, letting it slide off his raised gauntlet before running his own sword through the man's belly. He yanked it free just in time to bat aside the thrust of a spear, then hacked down with all his strength, severing the spearman's arm at the elbow. The man fell, screaming, only to be crushed under the panicked hooves of a fleeing Lannister knight.

"FALL BACK!" Someone was yelling, his own men, scrambling in confusion, retreating where there was no escape. The Northmen were everywhere, and Jaime had no time for fools who thought retreat was still an option. They had been trapped—completely and utterly ensnared.

He saw it now, clearer than ever.

The Starks had played them.

Jason Mallister's men had drawn them in, harried them, lured them into the trees, and Jaime, fool that he was, had chased after them with his full force. No scouts, no careful approach—he had played right into the Young Wolf's hands.

It stung.

Jaime was no green boy, no arrogant squire desperate to prove himself. He had fought wars before, had led men into battle since he was barely more than a child. He should have seen this trap before it was sprung.

Yet here he was, fighting for his life.

The Stark forces were moving now, pressing in from every direction, tightening the noose. Infantry and archers had already blocked the path behind them. A wedge of cavalry was descending from the trees, and even in the flickering firelight, Jaime spotted the Direwolf among them.

Robb Stark.

'So the boy had come himself.' Jaime almost laughed. Did the Young Wolf think to take his head himself? To make a name for himself in this little war of his? Perhaps he would. Perhaps tonight was the night Ser Jaime Lannister fell.

Jaime's horse stumbled over a corpse, nearly pitching forward, but he gritted his teeth and yanked the reins. He had no time for doubts. No time for regrets. He had led his men into this slaughter. He would lead them out.

"FORM UP!" Jaime roared, his voice cutting through the madness.

The few knights still standing turned toward him, battered and bloodied, but ready to follow. There were barely a hundred left now, maybe less. Three thousand had ridden into the Whispering Wood. Most were dead. The rest were either fleeing and begin chased down or about to be slaughtered in a desperate attempt to resist.

He could feel their terror, the way their hands gripped their swords too tightly, the way their horses pranced in nervous anticipation. This was not a battle anymore. This was a slaughter.

"TO THE SOUTH!" Jaime bellowed, pointing his sword through the carnage. "WE BREAK THROUGH THEIR LINE!"

They obeyed without question. If they hesitated, they were already dead.

Jaime pulled his horse around and led the charge, spurring the destrier into a gallop, cutting down another man as he rode. Blood splattered across his golden armor, dripping from his sword, staining the lion of Lannister crimson. The chaos of battle blurred around him—faces, steel, fire, the glint of moonlight against fresh blood.

Then, Jamie spotted him.

Robb Stark.

He had seen the boy before, in King's Landing, standing beside Eddard Stark at Winterfell. A boy of four and ten, fresh-faced, still more of a squire than a lord. That was the image Jaime had carried of him in his mind.

But now—now there was no boy standing before him.

Only a wolf.

Robb Stark sat atop his horse, his sword glinting under the firelight, his armor dark and muddied, his Direwolf prowling beside him like a beast out of the old stories. He was surrounded by his own personal guard—Northmen and Riverlanders, warriors who had fought and bled for him tonight.

Jaime did not hesitate.

With a grin, he turned his horse toward the Young Wolf and raised his sword. "Come then, Young Wolf!" Jaime roared, spurring his horse forward.

Robb's eyes met his, and there was no hesitation there, no fear. Only cold steel and the weight of winter.

The Whispering Wood raged around them.

Lion and Wolf.

Steel and blood.

Jaime drove his sword through the throat of a Northman, ripping it free as the man gurgled and collapsed. He barely had time to breathe before another enemy was upon him, a Riverlander with a notched blade and murder in his eyes. Jaime parried, twisting his wrist to turn the strike aside before slashing across the man's gut. Warm blood sprayed against his cheek as the Riverlander crumpled, his hands trying in vain to hold his insides in.

The battle was descending into madness, a desperate, chaotic melee with no order, no discipline—just men hacking and killing and dying in the mud. Jaime could feel the weight of the trap closing around them, the Northern and Riverland forces tightening their grip. They had played him, drawn him in, and now they were closing the noose.

He had only one chance left.

Robb Stark.

If he could get to the boy, take him captive, drag him back to King's Landing in chains—this war could end before it even truly began. Tywin would reward him. Joffrey would be satisfied. The Riverlands would collapse, and the North would surrender rather than risk their heir being flayed alive.

Jaime spurred his horse forward, his blade flashing as he cut through the men between him and the Young Wolf.

A Northman in a rusted breastplate lunged at him, swinging a chipped axe at his side. Jaime twisted, his golden armor scraping against the iron edge as he parried with a downward stroke, the impact jarring his bones. He kicked out, his boot connecting with the man's chest, sending him stumbling backward. Before he could recover, Jaime drove his sword through his ribs, twisting the blade before yanking it free.

Another man came at him, a Riverlander with a longsword, his face streaked with mud and blood. Jaime ducked under the first swing, his muscles screaming from exhaustion, and lashed out with his own blade. His edge caught the man across the face, splitting his cheek to the bone and sending teeth flying into the mud.

One more gone.

Jaime pressed on, cutting and slashing, his breath ragged, his limbs burning. He was close now. He could see Robb Stark just ahead, mounted, his sword raised as he called out orders. The boy was calm, collected—even in the midst of this chaos, he was commanding his men with precision.

But Jaime was faster.

He urged his horse into a gallop, his blade raised, his golden armor gleaming under the firelight. The boy was distracted, focused on the battle, on his men.

Jaime grinned.

He had him.

But then Grey Wind came from the side like a shadow of death.

The Direwolf lunged, a blur of dark fur and fangs, its maw already dripping red. Jaime barely had time to react before the beast slammed into his horse's flank, jaws clamping down onto its hind leg with bone-crushing force.

The horse screamed, a high-pitched, agonized sound, its legs buckling as it collapsed.

Jaime was thrown violently from the saddle, his body twisting in the air before he slammed into the ground. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, pain flaring through his ribs as he rolled over the bloodied earth.

His ears rang, his vision swimming.

Mud, blood, steel—the world spun around him in a blur of red and black.

He tried to rise, but then—Grey Wind was there.

The Direwolf loomed over him, lips curled back in a feral snarl, yellow eyes locked onto his like a predator savoring the kill. Blood dripped from its fangs, staining its fur, its breath hot and thick with the scent of torn flesh.

Jaime gripped his sword tighter, swinging it in a desperate arc. The Direwolf lunged just as the blade came up, snapping its jaws mere inches from Jaime's face. Steel met fur—the edge of his sword cutting into the beast's side. It was a graze, not deep but enough to drive the Direwolf back where it's attention was directed to a nearby Lannister soldier almost trampling on it.

Grey Wind snarled, recoiling slightly, but it didn't flee.

Jaime barely had time to process before the wolf lunged at another Lannister soldier, dragging him screaming into the mud. Gasping for breath, Jamie pushed himself up onto his knees, pain flaring through his side. His sword was still in his grasp, slick with blood and grime.

As he looked up to survey his surroundings, there was Robb Stark just ahead.

Still mounted.

Still calm.

Still leading the battle.

The Young Wolf's sword was raised, his eyes scanning the battlefield, his lips parting to issue more commands. Jaime gritted his teeth, cursing. The boy was supposed to be some green whelp, a child pretending at war. Yet he had fought smarter tonight than Jaime ever could have expected.

Now, Jaime was on the ground, surrounded by enemies, his men dying all around him.

The Young Wolf had won.

But Jaime Lannister was not done yet.

Not yet.