I had left Castle Black on my own terms, putting leagues between myself and the vanguard before they even cleared the mountain passes.
Robb's cavalry was still days behind, bogged down by freezing mud, exhausted mounts, and the needs of a moving armed force. I however was bound to nothing.
For three days, I tore through the woods alone. Whenever my stamina dipped, I took a break, let the sunlight hit my fur, and triggered [Morning Sun]. The restorative magic washed away the fatigue, allowing me to push my physical limits far beyond what I was capable of a moment ago.
With every mile I put between myself and the Wall, the unnatural pressure faded. The sluggishness in my chest evaporated. My internal fire grew stronger, and my fur regained its brilliant, golden luster.
The pale blue interface flickered, shifting back to a vibrant gold.
[Combat Efficiency: 100%]
At dawn on the fourth day, the dense pines finally gave way to jagged coastal cliffs and the smell of salt. I had reached Stony Shore.
I slowed my pace, creeping silently over a rocky ridge. Below, sitting in a small, sheltered cove, was a fishing village, or what was left of it. I was not quick enough. The ironborn had already come and gone. The wooden homes were smoldering husks, and the bodies of fishermen lay scattered across the freezing gravel.
I padded quietly down the ridge and into the ruins. The silence was heavy, broken only by the crackle of dying embers.
As I walked past a collapsed roof, I heard a ragged, uneven gasp.
I turned my head. Backed against a stone wall was a teenage boy, barely thirteen. He was bleeding heavily from a slash across his thigh, his trembling hands gripping a splintered whaling spear. He was standing protectively over the bodies of an older man and a woman.
His knees gave out. He collapsed into the dirt, the spear dipping as he looked up at me with wide, terrified eyes.
"Gods..." his voice cracked, barely a whisper. "Stay back..."
I didn't step forward. I stopped exactly where I was, leaving a wide stretch between us. I lowered my massive frame to sit. As I moved, I deliberately shifted my weight, carefully avoiding the outstretched hand of the fallen fisherman, and lowered my enormous head.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for an attack that never came. Instead, the freezing coastal wind suddenly lost its presence. I didn't actively try to comfort him; my mere existence in the enclosed space shifted the atmosphere. The warmth radiating from my core washed over the ruins, staving off his shock and the winter chill.
Slowly, the boy opened his eyes.
I wasn't looking at him. I had my head turned slightly, my ears swiveling, my nose testing the air. I was searching.
His white-knuckled grip on the splintered wood began to loosen. The spear tip dipped until it rested in the dirt. His ragged breaths slowed, breaking into a sudden, heavy sob. The events that transpired had been too much for the boy. With the comfort of heat and the impending death had finally broken. He understood I wasn't there to finish the ironmen's work.
He swallowed hard, tears cutting tracks through the soot on his face.
"They took her," he choked out, staring out at the sea. "My sister."
I turned my head back to him. I didn't approach or nudge him. I simply met his terrified eyes and gave a single, slow blink.
Then, I turned my gaze out toward the sea. I lifted my snout into the coastal wind, drawing the air deep into my lungs.
I smelled seawater. Blood. Fresh smoke. Children.
I dug my claws into the gravel and exploded into motion.
I ran south along the cliff tops, following the scent of panicked sweat and blood. I passed abandoned fishing nets, slaughtered livestock, and silent, empty shores.
A few miles down the coast, I found them.
Down on the pebbled beach, thirty ironmen were shoving a sleek, wooden longship off the gravel. The fierce offshore wind was already biting through the sea spray, violently snapping the heavy, unspooled fabric of a kraken-painted sail.
They were ruthlessly efficient, but entirely at ease. A veteran reaver sat on a water barrel, loudly counting stolen copper stars, while another roughly shoved a weeping, bound woman over the gunwales, tossing her into the belly of the ship alongside half a dozen other captives.
"Heave, you mutts!" the ironborn captain bellowed, wading waist-deep into the freezing surf and hauling himself up the side. "Let the wolves choke on the piss! We'll be counting this stars in Pyke before they even saddle their damn horses!"
The reavers laughed, the hull scraping loudly against the stones before catching the tide.
In the center of the ship, the captives huddled together against the freezing spray. A mother covered her child's face. An old fisherman bowed his head, whispering, "Don't look," while a younger man beside him quietly tested the strength of the ropes binding him.
The ship cleared the breakers, instantly pitching and rolling on the morning swells. The oars dropped into the water in perfect unison, pulling the longship toward the open expanse of the Sunset Sea.
I burst from the treeline at the top of the coastal cliff.
A flock of gulls scattered from the rocks, screeching wildly into the wind. Down on the ship, a reaver at the oars paused, hearing the sharp, violent crack of shattering stone. He turned his head toward the cliffs, his brow furrowing. "Look at the ridge!"
I hit the beach at a dead sprint. A jagged, black sea-stack jutted out from the shoreline, pointing out toward the ocean.
I didn't hesitate. I triggered [Extreme Speed].
The world around me blurred. I hit the sea-stack with earth-shattering force. The kinetic energy launched my thousand-pound frame directly into the sky.
I soared over the crashing surf, perfectly eclipsing the rising morning sun.
"Turn her! Hard to starboard!" the captain roared, his arrogance instantly shattering as he grabbed an axe. "Where are the spears? Throw, damn you!"
The crew erupted into panicked chaos. Four men threw their entire weight onto the starboard oars, desperately trying to swing the bow. A veteran hoisted a throwing spear, his hands shaking too badly to aim. A young reaver simply dropped his oar, falling to his knees on the pitching wooden deck. "Drowned God..."
Below them, the mother pulled her daughter tightly against her chest. "Close your eyes," she sobbed. "Don't look."
But the little girl ignored her. She stared straight up at the blinding silhouette of fire descending from the light.
"Mother," she whispered, her tiny voice carrying over the crashing waves. "It's the sun."
Beside them, the bound man who had been testing his ropes let out a bitter, manic laugh, perfectly happy to die if it meant the ironmen burned with him.
Suddenly, the violent offshore wind that had been snapping the sail slammed into me mid-air, threatening to push my trajectory directly over the huddled villagers. I contorted my spine, forcing a heavy shift in my weight to fight the gale, correcting my path to pass the main hull.
I aimed straight for the stern, the captain, the steering oar, and the massive mast.
I unhinged my jaws.
The back of my throat flared blindingly white, and I unleashed the fire.
The highly pressurized torrent of [Flamethrower] hit the stern like a meteor. The heavy kraken sail instantly vaporized into a cloud of glowing ash. The wooden steering oar combusted on impact, and the massive mainmast let out a deafening, catastrophic crack, snapping cleanly in half as the crippled ship spun violently sideways into the boiling sea.
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