One of Her Own in the Wild
Harley Snow walked out of the council hall. A figure emerged ghostlike from around the corner, and a cold longsword pressed against his neck.
He had no choice but to stop and slowly raise his hands. "Whoa~~ Easy there, little Roose. Careful your hand doesn't slip."
Roose Bolton sneered and pressed the blade down slightly. A thin line of blood immediately appeared on Harley's neck.
Taking the hint, Harley changed his tune. "Young Master Roose, how may this humble servant be of service to you?"
Roose Bolton was a handsome youth with short, glossy dark brown hair, neatly combed into a side part.
He was good-looking, but unfortunately, he had inherited his father's hooked nose. Though young, he had a somewhat gloomy air.
"I won't let a lowborn bastard like you steal the show!"
He paused, then sneered. "Father would never listen to you, either."
Harley's lips curled upward. He bent slightly and leaned close to Roose's ear, completely ignoring the blood streaming from the cut on his neck. Roose had to move the blade away. Unless he truly intended to steel himself and kill Harley, he could only put some distance between them.
It made him look somewhat as though he had been bluffing...
Harley gripped the boy's shoulder tightly and leaned toward his ear. "Do you know how hunters usually describe wolves and dogs?" His deliberately lowered voice was like the hiss of a viper.
"No matter how fiercely a dog barks, it isn't much of a threat to a man."
"It's the wolves that silently tear out your throat in the dead of night and drink their fill of your blood that are truly terrifying."
"Little Roose, which one do you think people are afraid of?"
He dared compare him to a dog...
Roose Bolton was furious. He struggled free of Harley's grip, raised his sword to strike, and shouted:
"I'll kill you! You lowborn scum..."
The attendant knights and servants nearby hurriedly blocked their young master's sword. A group of them clung to him like koalas to a tree, holding him back and trying to calm him down.
Harley Snow strode away, laughing heartily, but not before tossing out one last remark. "I'm so scared!"
Once he was completely out of sight, Roose Bolton's face, twisted with rage, instantly went blank. The attendants around him hurriedly released him.
Roose Bolton raised his sword, slowly wiped it clean on an attendant's clothes, and returned it to its sheath. He spoke in an icy voice:
"Have someone keep an eye on him. Find out what's going on."
The hundred-person melee was also called the Hundred-Person Hunt. It had an official name as well-the North Family Hunting Season.
Some nobles from southern Westeros also derisively called it the "Savages' Circus."
It sounded like fun, but it was exceptionally fierce.
Supposedly, a southern noble had once sent an entire company of his house's knights to take part. Not only had they failed to win, but their horses and swords had been stolen. Even the boots on their feet and the gleaming armor on their bodies had nearly been stripped from them.
Though none of the knights lost their lives, the noble lost everything, including his dignity, and went home with his tail between his legs.
That showed how dangerous the event was, in every sense. But that was only a minor aspect of it; for all anyone knew, the northerners had deliberately taught the southerners a lesson.
The harsh conditions of the North made its people tough by nature and straightforward in character, and their blood was filled with brutal genes. The Hundred-Person Hunt was a competition where the houses of the North honed their strength, vented their violence, and hunted game all at once.
Unlike the knightly contests favored in the south, the Hundred-Person Hunt had no rules, no restrictions on killing, and no regard for courtesy whatsoever.
Every Hundred-Person Hunt resulted in heavy casualties. People went from fighting over prey to slaughtering one another; from fighting on horseback with spears to tearing at one another with their teeth and gouging out eyes with their nails...
If two houses with a grudge happened to meet on the hunting grounds, they would go so far as to beat each other's brains out.
Hundreds of the finest fighters from the houses of the North joined the melee, but in the end, only one house could win.
Historically, House Stark had usually won the most, though House Bolton had won a few times on occasion.
In recent years, with House Stark's intervention, the Hundred-Person Hunt had gradually shifted toward sparring and building strength. It was no longer a scene of blood flowing in rivers, with no regard for the consequences.
Presumably, House Stark's ancestors had originally founded the event as a large-scale hunt to help people survive the winter. It was anyone's guess why it had developed into what it later became.
Ghost blinked his great big eyes and asked in an innocent, adorable tone:
"Auntie Mesha, is the Hundred-Person Hunt really lively? Can I see people from House Stark there?"
Mesha added two pieces of wood to the brazier and tucked the blanket around Ghost's feet.
"Of course. The lords and ladies of every house in the North will be there."
"Then which lords and ladies from House Stark will come?"
Mesha spoke a little faster, excitedly listing them as though they were treasures she knew by heart. "Lord Rickard, the head of the house, will definitely be there, and so will the handsome young masters Brandon and Ned, and little Master Benjen!"
"Oh, and there's Lady Lyanna, who's both a great fighter and beautiful. Ah~~"
Mesha's eyes grew dreamy, and she clenched both fists as she sighed longingly. "Lady Lyanna Stark is as dazzling as a star in the sky."
Ghost: ...
What's going on, Auntie? That fangirl tone sounds so familiar... Is everyone in House Stark a superstar?
Still... come to think of it, I can understand.
To the people of the North, House Stark was more than just a leader. It was the backbone and guardian of the North.
For thousands of years, House Stark had led its people through countless natural disasters and kept them safe from the ravages of war... It had also supported the men in black as they held the Wall, providing them with all the manpower and supplies they needed.
From what her auntie had said, Ghost had also confirmed where she currently stood in the Ice and Fire timeline.
There was plenty of time, enough for her to find a way to intervene and save her favorite dragon-horse CP.
First of all, the current head of House Stark was Rickard, and his heir was Brandon. Neither of them had been turned into Turkish kebabs by the Mad King yet.
The major events that would shape the world-the last spring, the rebellion raised by the wolf, stag, and fish houses, and so on-had yet to happen.
Ah, speaking of which, I wonder where Littlefinger is. I'd love to meet him...
Ghost was very familiar with the storylines of the second generation in the Game of Thrones show, but this was clearly when that generation's grandfathers were still active...
People like Robert, Sansa, Mother of Dragons, and Joffrey... aren't even cells yet...
Once she met Lyanna and confirmed her age, she would have a rough idea of how many years remained before those major events.
Ugh, I'd better worry about the problem in front of me first.
How about doing a little business at the Hundred-Person Hunt?
Ghost couldn't help thinking of modern sporting events. If this is the biggest event in the North, maybe I could sell peanuts, sunflower seeds, and bottled water...
No, I mean the snack essentials: food, drinks, and popcorn.
Does the North have sunflower seeds...? Popcorn wouldn't be hard to make, but for a large batch, would I need one of those old-fashioned rotary poppers that make a whole sack of popcorn go bang?
Ghost lay awake, letting her thoughts wander as she thought hard about how to make sure she didn't die young of starvation.
The more she thought, the sleepier she grew, and before she knew it, she had fallen asleep...
That night, Ghost's furry ears twitched. He seemed to have heard something... A faint, foul, bloody smell also drifted to his nose.
The lambs were restless and began to bleat.
Ghost rose quietly and silently made his way toward the source of the smell.
A few hundred meters from the pasture, Ghost found his target-a black wolf hiding in a hole in the wasteland, drooling as it stared toward the sheep pen.
The black wolf spotted Ghost too and slowly emerged from its hiding place.
The two wolves stared silently at each other. The black wolf looked somewhat agitated. It kept scratching at the ground with its front paws, letting out threatening growls.
Ghost was much bigger than the other wolf, but she was all show. If they fought, she reckoned she might not be a match for this lone wolf.
But she wouldn't lose her nerve even if she lost the fight. She lowered herself slightly and let out a low growl of her own.
The black wolf did not have a single hair of another color; it was as black as coal. But its fur was dirty and tangled, with bald patches here and there. It was also much smaller than Ghost.
It looked like a lone wolf that had lost a fight and been driven out of its territory...
The lone wolf's nose twitched. As though it had caught a scent, it stepped back a few paces. Tilting its head slightly, it stared at Ghost without moving...
Huh, so cute... It looks like a good doggy!
Does it want to be friends with me?!