Chapter 1: Blood Upon the Snow
The night was dense and moonless.
The wind cut like steel, but the man fleeing through the trees did not feel it. His bare feet stepped on mud, snow, and corpses without flinching. His muscles—now broader, thicker—moved with the efficiency of a predator. His breathing was deep, measured, though the stench of blood still burned in his throat.
Behind him, the Twins burned with an invisible fire.
Not real flames—at least not yet—but the echoes of his fury would remain etched in those walls for generations. No one yet knew that the stitched-up corpse of Robb Stark had vanished.
No one… except those who tried to stop him.
They were no longer alive to tell the tale.
Just as Walder Frey had received a small gift of his own.
~ Flashback ~
The first scream was muffled by the hand that choked it.
The second never came. The servant's throat was opened with a single swipe of claw. Robb let the body fall without emotion. He had already moved through the guts of the Twins in silence, like a specter in the dark. He passed through shadowed halls, past drunken guards and snoring fools who didn't know they were dead until it was far too late.
He reached old Walder Frey's chambers unnoticed.
The door creaked gently as it opened. The room reeked of dampness, stale sweat, and old skin. The ancient man snored in his bed with his mouth wide open like a rotting toad, wrapped in furs far too fine for someone who fed on betrayal.
Robb crept close, soundless. He stared at him for a long time.
—Not yet, he whispered in a voice that was no longer fully human.
With monstrous precision, he cut one of the old man's ears clean off without waking him. The knife slid in like hot steel through butter. Then, from his belt, he pulled a small linen bundle. Inside, the proof of another silent visit that night: a finger, perfectly severed, still bearing Roose Bolton's ring.
He sat at the desk. Took a quill and wrote with dark ink on a parchment he deliberately stained with a drop of blood. His handwriting was elegant, firm. Words carved in venom.
"Sleep well, old Walder, and pray you wake.
When my claws are at your throat,
and my fangs taste your blood,
you will remember what you did,
and you will beg for mercy."
Folding the letter with precision, he left it on the pillow beside the severed ear. Roose's finger—still fresh—he placed beside it, carefully.
Before leaving, he stood at the threshold. Looked at the old man one last time.
—I'm no longer your king… I'm your sentence.
And with that, he vanished into the shadows like a living curse.
Hours later, when they found the bloodied bed, he would already be long gone. But the fear… the fear would linger in the Twins long after winter passed.
~ End of flashback ~
He didn't scream. He didn't stop. He simply moved forward, wearing the blood-stained robe of a stolen servant. One hand gripped an old sword he barely needed to use. His claws were more than enough.
He crossed the frozen river like a wild wolf, without hesitation. Felt the icy current bite his flesh, but he didn't retreat. Heracles wouldn't have. Grey Wind wouldn't have. And he… he was no longer just one of them.
When he finally stopped, he was leagues away from the Twins, in a clearing of snowy woods. He fell to his knees, breathing through his nose, exhaling slowly. The snow fell upon his shoulders, clinging to his sweat like frost on a statue of war.
—I'm alive… he whispered, barely able to recognize his own voice. It was deeper now, rougher. As if spoken from a throat carved from stone.
His golden eyes, still burning with power, fixed on his hands. Long fingers, strong, with nails that could shred flesh like parchment. The bracelet he had ripped from a Frey guard still hung from his wrist, stained with the man's blood.
—What the hell am I now…?
Silence answered, but his mind was not alone. He felt the three presences within him: the wolf, instinctive and fierce. The Berserker spirit, blazing and violent. And his own consciousness… that of the boy who had once dreamed of living in this world, but never imagined doing so with the weight of a kingdom and the fury of a monster.
He leaned back against a tree, eyes turned skyward.
The stars were not the ones he knew.
But the gods… perhaps, were.
—There's no turning back, he murmured. Robb Stark is dead… and I'm no hero. I'm no Stark. I'm no noble warrior or savior. But I can be something worse. Something the North fears more than winter.
His eyes closed for a moment. His mind returned to the show. To the books. To the history he had once known.
—Roose Bolton… the traitor lord. Cersei, still on the throne. Stannis marching. Jon at the Wall… Arya lost. Bran beyond. Rickon… Sansa…
Saying their names was to summon ghosts.
So much I can change…
So much that must burn.
He rose with force. His muscles creaked like twisted wood. The cold had become his ally. The scent of blood still marked his path. The wolf's instinct guided him north, but his soul… his soul demanded war.
—The North first, he said, gripping the sword hilt, then the rest.
He turned on his heels and walked into the woods.
He didn't run. He didn't need to.
He was the hunter now.
And those who had betrayed him… were his prey.