The petty lord from the Streamlands spoke again.
He probably thought that after Robb executed Rickard Karstark and lost the loyalty of his men, the young king had gone soft. He needed to placate his lords and would not dare wield the blade so readily again.
Resentment flushed his face. He raised his voice, ready to pour out all his pent-up grievances...
"What good are Glover's three thousand men? If you ask me..."
He never finished.
A grey shadow, swift as lightning, lunged at him from behind and to one side, bringing a gust of rank air!
The petty lord did not even have time to turn. Agony tore through his shoulder and arm as an immense force slammed him to the ground!
The heavy wolf crushed his chest beneath its weight, almost knocking him unconscious.
His eyes widened in terror. Grey Wind's green eyes were inches from his face, and he smelled the hot breath pouring from the wolf's mouth, thick with the scent of raw meat.
He instinctively raised his right arm to shield himself, but the wolf's jaws had already clamped down!
The dull sound of sharp teeth piercing leather, cloth, and flesh mingled with his own brief scream.
"Aaargh!"
He struggled desperately, pounding and tearing at Grey Wind's fur with his other hand. But the direwolf did not budge. The pressure of his jaws was terrifying, and bone creaked beneath the unbearable strain.
Robb rose, his expression cold, his hand gripping Ice's hilt.
He held the greatsword point-down, its tip dragging along the ground, and walked step by step toward the petty lord pinned beneath Grey Wind, screaming and struggling in vain.
The tent fell deathly silent, then erupted.
"Your Grace! You mustn't!"
"Stop!"
"Grey Wind! Let go!"
Several nearby northern lords instinctively stepped forward, their