GAME OF THRONES: AEGON THE AVENGER

The minor lord from The Rills spoke again.

He likely thought that since the hearts of the men had strayed after Robb executed Rickard Karstark, the young king had softened, needing to appease the lords and not daring to draw his blade easily again.

His face was flushed with resentment, and his voice rose as he prepared to pour out all his accumulated dissatisfaction...

"What use are Glover's three thousand men? If it were me..."

Before he could finish.

A grey shadow, fast as a bolt of lightning and carrying the scent of blood, lunged at him from behind his side!

The minor lord didn't even have time to turn his head before he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and arm, and his entire body was slammed to the ground by a massive force!

The heavy body of the wolf pressed down on his chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

He widened his eyes in terror, seeing Grey Wind's eerie green pupils inches away and smelling the hot breath, scented with raw meat, puffing from the wolf's mouth.

He instinctively used his right arm to block, but the wolf's jaws had already bitten down hard!

The dull sound of leather, cloth, and flesh being pierced by sharp teeth mingled with his own short, agonizing howl.

"Aaargh—!"

He struggled desperately, using his other hand to beat and tear at Grey Wind's fur, but the direwolf remained motionless. Its biting force was terrifyingly strong, and bones let out an unbearable creak.

Robb's expression was cold as he stood up, his hand tightly gripping the hilt of Ice.

Holding the greatsword point-down, the tip dragging on the ground, he walked step by step toward the minor lord who had been pinned by Grey Wind and was struggling and screaming in vain.

The tent fell into a dead silence, then suddenly erupted.

"Your Grace! You mustn't!"

"Stop!"

"Grey Wind! Let go!"

Several Northern lords nearby instinctively took a step forward, their faces changing drastically. Some reached out as if to intervene, while others looked at Robb with eyes full of shock, anger, and disbelief.

With a look from Robb's captain of the guard, several guards immediately drew their swords. The bright blades barred the way in the tent, blocking the lords from stepping forward.

A few hot-tempered lords also gripped their sword hilts, but looking at Robb's icy profile and that chillingly cold greatsword, they ultimately didn't dare to actually draw them.

Robb stopped before the screams and struggles.

He didn't look at the man on the ground; his gaze slowly swept across the faces that were shocked, angry, anxious, or grim.

"Once, and then again." Robb's voice wasn't loud, but it was like it was wrapped in ice shards, clearly overriding all the noise. "Is it because you think I am young and lack the strength to hold a sword, or do you think the title of King in the North is merely an ornament?"

Lord House Manderly was panting, his face covered in sweat, and he said urgently, "Your Grace! Your Grace, calm your anger! Executing a commander before a battle is seen as ill-omened! The army's morale..."

"He is no commander!" Robb interrupted him, his gaze like a knife pinned to House Manderly's face. "He is a traitor who has repeatedly disobeyed orders and openly challenged the King's authority! You..."

His gaze swept over the crowd again, his tone decisive. "If you still consider me the King in the North, then stand down!"

The last few words carried an unquestionable resolve.

The tent fell silent instantly, save for the man's weakening screams and the threatening low growl in Grey Wind's throat.

The lords' expressions shifted as they exchanged glances.

This time, that boy from The Rills had indeed gone too far.

Even if Robb had made mistakes, he was still the King, The Young Wolf who had led them to victory.

Openly disobeying orders, repeatedly provoking...

Robb no longer looked at them.

He gripped the hilt of Ice with both hands and raised it high.

No hesitation, no wasted movement.

The blade fell with the sound of whistling wind.

"Squelch—"

A very soft sound.

The sharp blade severed bone and flesh, clean and swift.

The screams stopped abruptly.

Grey Wind released his grip and stepped aside, licking the blood foam from his muzzle. A head rolled onto the carpet, eyes still wide with terror, its expression frozen in final agony and disbelief.

From the headless neck, blood gushed out, quickly soaking the dark carpet.

On the broad blade, the ripples of Valyrian Steel shimmered under the firelight, without a single stain of blood, still gleaming with a cold light.

Robb flicked his wrist, shaking off non-existent blood droplets, and sheathed the sword. The sound of metal friction was particularly piercing in the silent tent.

He looked up, his gaze slowly sweeping across the face of every Northern lord in the tent.

Greatjon Umber's jaw was clenched tight, Lady Maege Mormont's gaze was sharp, Wyman Manderly's face was pale, Robett Glover's brow was furrowed, and other lords were either terrified, pensive, or looking down to avoid his gaze.

The deterrence was achieved.

At least for a short time, no one would dare to so blatantly challenge the King's authority again.

Robb knew the consequences of doing this.

House Manderly was right; executing a commander before a battle was ill-omened and would shake the army's morale.

But he knew even more clearly what they were about to face.

Information pieced together from scouts and deserters: the invincible Bloody Heavy Cavalry under Aegon Targaryen's command that had crushed the Riverlands Allied Forces in half a day, the terrifying giant dragon that had yet to appear in The Riverlands but surely existed, and the well-equipped black-armored army that was as silent as mountains.

Facing such an enemy, his army could not afford even a hint of discord or a moment of hesitation.

Any internal cracks, under the impact of a true iron tide, would be infinitely magnified, leading to total collapse.

He had to use the most drastic measures to completely snuff out any potential sparks of internal rebellion before the battle.

Would hearts stray?

Then use victory after victory to forge them anew.

His gaze finally turned toward the south outside the tent, as if he could pierce through the camp and the night to see the shadow of Harrenhal.

"Everyone says," Robb began, his voice not loud but possessing a strange piercing quality that pulled everyone's attention back, "that Aegon Targaryen holds true dragons and that his army is invincible wherever it strikes."

He paused, his hand pressing on the hilt of Ice again, slowly drawing the greatsword halfway.

The unique ripples of Valyrian Steel flowed with a glimmer of ghostly blue and silver-grey under the light of the torches in the tent, beautiful yet deadly.

"But the swords of my North," he raised the longsword, pointing the tip diagonally upward, his voice suddenly rising with the cold hardness and pride tempered by the Northern snows, "have endured the winter winds and snows, tempered a thousand times..."

His gaze was like lightning as it swept over every face.

"...and are no less sharp!"

The tent was silent, with only the crackling of the torches and his clear yet resolute voice echoing.

"I know what you worry about, what you fear."

Robb continued, his tone calming down, "It is nothing more than the dragons of legend returned, and that Bloody Cavalry that is whispered about as if they were gods."

He sheathed Ice completely, his hand resting on the pommel of the hilt, his posture upright.

"A dragon is indeed the sharpest sword in the world. But the power of a sword also depends on whether the person wielding it is worthy of that power." His gaze was sharp.

"The outcome of a war is never decided by a single charge. Tactics, terrain, morale, resolve... there is still much room for maneuvering."

He tilted his chin slightly, his young face sharp-featured in the firelight, and those ice-blue eyes reignited with the sharp edge and confidence familiar to the lords, belonging to The Young Wolf.

"On this march south, I intend to personally meet this returned true dragon." He said every word with powerful resonance. "To test just how bright the edge of this Aegon Targaryen truly is!"

He looked around at everyone, his voice clear and firm, like an oath:

"I will lead you once again to victory."

"In the name of the King in the North, I so swear."

As the words fell, the tent was quiet for a moment.

The lords looked at the young king in the high seat with complex expressions.

Blood was still spreading silently at his feet, but at this moment, his posture was upright and his gaze sharp.

The indomitable determination and the strategic insight of calm analysis revealed in his words made them feel as if they were seeing The Young Wolf again—the one who had led them in the surprise attack on the Whispering Wood, the raid on the Westerlands, and victory after victory.

The confusion and resentment caused by days of setbacks and the lack of a path home seemed to be somewhat diluted by this hot blood and resonant oath.

Fear remained, but a faint yet real hope, accompanied by memories of the young man's past achievements, reignited in their hearts.

Perhaps... this time, he really could create a miracle?

Greatjon Umber gave a heavy snort, breaking the silence, and said gruffly, "Since Your Grace has made up your mind, my House Umber has no objections! Forget about dragons or cavalry, we Northerners have never feared a hard fight!"

Lady Maege Mormont nodded slowly, her hand moving away from the sword hilt at her waist, and said deeply, "The warriors of Bear Island are ready to fight at any time."

Robett Glover took a deep breath and stepped forward: "Your Grace, those of House Glover who went north will surely not fail their mission. Those who remain will also follow you to the death."

The other lords also bowed one after another, and suppressed sounds of agreement rang out in the tent.

Although their thoughts varied, at least on the surface, that cohesion which had been on the verge of collapsing was forcibly pulled back together by Robb's bloody and decisive stroke and his resounding declaration.

Robb looked at them and nodded.

"Return to your camps and organize your men. In three days, we break camp and march south."

"Yes, Your Grace!"

Everyone exited the command tent in turn. Each person's footsteps seemed heavier than when they entered, yet they also held a bit more resolve.

Only Robb, Grey Wind, the cooling corpse on the ground, and the thick, lingering scent of blood remained in the tent.

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