Into The Belly of The Beast

He had always been counselled to travel with reinforcement. The north was brutal and unforgiving. The climate made coexisting with nature impossible for weaker men, however, the dangers that lurked near the wall weren’t merely of natural circumstance. Bandits of all color and creed swarmed these lands like roaches and akin to blights, devoured all who they infested. Alas, the young Stark favored himself against any opponent and for good reason. Still, moments like these made the elapsed lessons of the maesters more tolerable.

As the steel, frozen by the north’s embrace, touched skin, Jeren halted in his tracks. Aware of the incomers presence, the fractional time granted merely wasn’t enough. Words entered his ears, though his mind traveled elsewhere. A woman? musing, the heir did well to mind his tongue and not to threaten her sword. It would take nothing more than a jerk of her wrist to end his life as the sharpened edge rested on the center of his throat.

“I could do that,” despite circumstances, the mysterious raider would notice the complete calm of his tone. Normally, the mention of death soured the moods of many; this was only reinoced in those who had death knocking at their doors. Still, despite all, no noticeable shift in his posture occurred.

“But then he’d be would be forced to kill you,” a fraction of a second had elapsed before a growing snarl developed to the woman’s instant rear. If she had taken the moment to inspect what approached, she would notice a wolf cub several footfalls to her back. It’s white as white as the snow that fell and eyes a piercing yellow, the small cub appeared normal until she grasped further. While still a child, Dyzun was far larger than any normal wolf of his age. Following in the distance behind his sire, the Direwolf acted as the only protection Jeren would ever made. As the beast grew more irritated, the thinning of its lips, revealing long fangs suggested it’s intention defiantly.

“Be a waste to rob me, only for death to stop you from spending your spoils,” a smile would go unnoticed to the lesser bandit as Jeren remained stoic in his stance.

Dyzun retreated his fangs at sight of the woman’s surrender, his docile nature mirroring her forfeit in perfect unison. Still, if supcision trended towards another dishonorable approach, the creature was readily able to target the woman’s jugular with rapidity.

“What kind of bandit gets surprised in the midst of her own surprise attack?” Moments following the blade leaving his throat, the young lord would shift his mass. A subtle spin on the heel would ultimately place his sights on the antagonist who favored the contents of his purse. What he would settle his vision upon, however, startled him more than the direwolf did the feminine fatale.

“The north favors no one man, be fortunate he’s reasonable,” the snow-covered wolf panted slightly, his eyes never leaving the crimson-eyed woman as Jeren inspected his outlaw. Her form was…. Pleasant, though concealed sufficiently beneath garbs meant for the cold. From what he could tell, her hair was as pale as the winter’s descent and a certain softness exuded from her visage. She didn’t fit the mold of a typical aggressor---no, something called to another purpose in life. Still, assumptions were the greatest threat to men and he wouldn’t allow his focus to be shattered by ‘what ifs’ and ‘possibly’.

“If he’d be wild, your days would have ended,” Dyzun silently navigated towards Jeren’s side, his head quickly nuzzling beneath the gloved hand of the Stark inheritor. “In truth, I prefer him home, nonetheless, he’s rather attached to me—and I to him,” a soft shaking of the hand excited the creature as a soft whirr escaped the wolf’s mouth. Pleasantries aside, her attempt wouldn’t go unnoticed and without consequence. The handle of scarlett clearly visible from his hip, the man’s eyes sharpened as he peered upon the porcelain features of the mysterious soul who made herself his enemy.

“What’s your name?”he commanded. “I’d rather know who felt so inclined to threatened me,”

The hell!?, His thought raced in response to the invasion of words. Her lips moved none, yet the resonation of her voice echoed soundly in his psyche. She’d notice a physical shift in his deportment. Eyes once narrowed by retaliation widened in sheer surprise. Nonetheless, Dyzun showed alteration as well; his brand of response was far more aggressive.

A quick leap would propel the wolf to mere feet from the woman as she retreated. Fangs once concealed revealed malice as saliva poured viciously from his maw. Snarling with aggression, the beast demonstrated rare fear in response to the foreign invasion. Feeling cornered, the direwolf reacted. Fright was evident on its features, nonetheless, never corner a wolf. It may show its teeth.

In progress to tear the woman’s skin from her neck, Jeren looked down with swift, his hand quickly reaching out to take hold of the rabbit animal by its fur. “Steel, boy!” Akin to the metal composition, Dyzun instantly transitioned from aggressor to statue. Falling back on all fours, the direwolf sat peacefully by his sire’s side, as if his deathly intent had never existed moments before. A moment would passed as the Stark attempted to process what transpired, his expression still stained by confusion and ignorance as his eyes remained fixated on the woman.

“W-what did you do?” She’d note the severity in his tone as his hold of the beast notably loosened by the second.

“I’d advise you to respond before Dyzun feast on your flesh,” his expression spoke volumes. His words weren’t falsehoods as certainty cloaked his statement. Meanwhile, the looser his grasp became, the more agitated the wolf became.

“A mind reader?” an eyebrow curled in curiosity as the man stood, devoid of any true response. Tales of such sorcery had crossed his sights before, though through scripture and word of mouth respectively. To see its practice in person, nevertheless, was an entirely different phenomenon.

What followed in her confession would shatter his perception of the bandit indefinitely. Shes of royal blood? it had all seemed too convenient. Dishonesty was a common practice when one’s life crept closer to the inevitable end. As Dyzun remained still, allowing his emotions to flow through his maw instead, the fear seeped from ‘her majesty’ with a pungent odor more foul than stallion shit. This was none the more evident in the moment as she fell to her rear, rump meeting cotton snow as she stumbled over herself in defense. A soft laughter escaped the man’s south near immediately after.

“Get her boy,” with his hand falling from the wolf’s beautiful coat, Dyzun gradually marched forward. Steps calculated and purposeful, the beast advanced upon her with a singular objective: to inspire fear. She would feel every ounce of fear and hopefulness spill through her pores until none remained and only death seemed suitable. His snarl growing insistently, the direwolf merged with the snow, becoming nigh-invisible. His only recognition of existence coming in the glare his bright yellow eyes pulsed through the cold’s embrace. Each step guiding him closer to the trembling woman, he finally reached his destination. Inches from her face, he growled and narrowed his sights. Her end was near:

……

lick. A long strip of pink washed across Jeleva’s face as the direwolf licked the woman often soon after. “I apologize, my grace,” beyond his thick white mane and playful affection, the ginger would notice a leathered hand extended as Jeren offered to help her from the snow.

“Your story isn’t too convincing,” he exclaimed. “But I think you’re telling the truth”

If she accepted his gesture or not was of no consequence to the Stark. Still, questions sought answers in kind.

“Why are you searching for the Greyjoys?”

“Brave words from a fragile girl, my grace,” his smile present through the words, Jeren—with a single tug—elevated Jeleva from the ground. Now both standing at full height, the Stark finally realized the gap in stature of the two. A viper’s tongue poisoned her words in compensation for her previous demonstration of fear and for a moment’s second, the man regretted believing her to be of royal descent. Still, if her claim was to be true, Jeren would love to venture to a land where such obscene language was befitting of a queen.

“And if you must know,” patting the scattered white from her visage, shoulder to the finger, he’d glanced her over casually. “My ‘Lord Stand’ needs little to steel,” a casual laughter parted his lips as he finally removed the majority of the snow from Jeleva’s form, neglecting to reach for any areas of indecency. A woman was quick to attempt assassinations on men’s characters by the tip of their cocks or lack thereof. It had become commonplace and an instrumental of emasculation; still, Jeren was far from the typical man and his ‘Lord Stand’ was far from the masses. She’d never get the opportunity to see the falsehoods of her words once again unfortunately, however.

“Your assumptions of my cock and fetishes aside,” the man’s piercing yellow hues that eerily matched those of Dyzun’s focused in on Jeleva. “You never answered my question,” the direwolf paced around, encircling the woman as the length of his tale often rubbed off against the thickness of her garbs.

“Why are you looking for the Greyjoys?” the heir wouldn’t ask a third time.

The more she spoke, the more vivid the picture became. Giving blood and flesh to the skeleton of her tale, Jeleva indulged in painting the picture she wanted him to see. The extent of lies and truths still unknown, Jeren merely listened with active intention.

In the chaos that was her defection, she had lost her sibling, and apparently the Ironborns were the epicenter of her misery. She spoke proudly, and with conviction, though in her approach, pride and conviction would surely mean her end. “Hmmmm,” bringing his hand to his face, Jeren rested his chin diligently on his finger. “Rumor has it the Iron Fleet is made up of a thousand ships,” the sheer thought of such a volume sea fleet inspired fear in the eyes of children as tales of their rape, pillage and plunders were among common legend. In truth, if the Greyjoys were instrumental in her story, Jeren could only assume her words to be honest. They were renowned for their brutality and errant ways.

“And they’re unkind to foreigns,” he looked up. “I’m sure you speak to that truth,” casual steps unconsciously guiding the man to the woman’s side, his wide fur brushing against her side accidentally. “And your plan is to march passed those thousand ships, beyond the men sailing said ships to which you’ll confront the Greyjoys and demand the return of your sister who may or may not be with them any longer,” a soft hand would pat Jeleva on the shoulder as the back of Jeren grew more distance with each step he took in the opposite direction.

“Well, it’s a plan,” Not a very good one. “I wish you well in finding your sister,” gradually moving further away from the woman, Jeren continued on his way, somewhat removed from all he had heard prior. She was a brave soul, though that soul would sink beneath the request of the drowned gods if she ever carried out her actions.