Chapter 39

Androw came to a halt as the direwolf, suddenly wary, stopped in its tracks. They had finally reached the edge of the forest, where a long cliff awaited them. Androw squinted, trying to see what had caught the wolf's attention, but just as he strained his eyes, a soft sound—a brief blow—came from behind them.

Both Androw and Jon turned toward the sound, and there, standing quietly, was a white stag. The majestic creature raised its head, its large eyes focused on Androw. Its ears flickered, a sign of curiosity. For a moment, Androw was taken aback by the sudden appearance of the stag, especially here in the Wolfswood, where such creatures didn't belong. A white stag was more often seen in the Kingswood. Its presence here was unusual, to say the least.

Androw's mind briefly wandered to the old superstitions about the white stag in Westeros. Many believed its appearance was a sign of the gods' favor, a symbol that they had chosen someone to lead, to rule. But to Androw, it seemed like just another one of this world's countless, convoluted symbols—none of it made much sense to him. His skepticism lingered even as the white stag stood before him.

The direwolf growled softly, pulling Androw's attention back. Its gaze was fixed beyond the forest, toward the direction of the cliff. Androw followed the wolf's eyes and saw faint firelight flickering in the distance, the glow of several torches.

His face turned serious as he focused on the approaching lights. More trouble was coming.

Androw then turned back toward the white stag—but it was gone. The animal had vanished as silently as it had appeared. Confusion flickered in his eyes as he glanced at Jon, who was still staring into the trees, watching the spot where the stag had disappeared.

Androw remained silent, his mind already calculating the next steps. The torches in the distance were a sign that they had found the burnt body of the Kingsguard at his forge, and by now, they would surely have pieced together who the culprit was. After all, it was Androw's forge, and his absence had already raised suspicions. The search party might have been sent out, but Androw knew they would never catch up with him in time—not after he had disappeared into the Wolfswood. But that wouldn't stop Lord Stark from sending ravens to his loyal bannermen, alerting them to the hunt.

He glanced again toward the flickering torches, now realizing the urgency of the situation. The men approaching the Wolfswood weren't just a small party anymore—it was an organized effort. And with them, they would have hounds, and it wouldn't be long before those hounds would catch the scent of him and the direwolf by his side.

Without hesitation, Androw reached up and offered Jon a hand. "Jon," he called softly.

Jon, still curious and somewhat confused, took Androw's hand as his master helped him down from the direwolf's broad back. Androw then untied the sack from the wolf, placing it aside carefully. The wolf whined, a soft, worried sound that conveyed its concern. It understood the danger too.

Androw didn't say a word, but in a rare gesture, he pulled the direwolf into an embrace. The beast stilled in his arms, the subtle warmth of its fur grounding him. It was a silent thank you, a farewell.

Androw looked down at Jon, his expression serious. "We need to move silently," he whispered. Jon nodded, but the boy's wide eyes betrayed his nerves.

For a second, Androw closed his eyes, focusing. He reached out mentally, trying to connect with Baal, who had flown toward the cliff to hunt. He could feel the Baal's presence in the distance, moving through the night skies. But until Baal reached him, they had to make their way through the forest as quietly as possible.

Androw took Jon's hand and began leading him along the forest's edge. For a while, Jon did his best to keep up, but soon, the strain was evident. His small legs couldn't match Androw's pace, and the effort was wearing him down.

Minutes passed as they moved, Androw urging Jon to follow, but it wasn't long before Jon began to lag, his breathing growing heavier with each step. Androw slowed, casting a worried glance down at the boy. He couldn't push him much further.

Androw paused, his mind racing. They couldn't afford to stop for long, not with men and hounds closing in, but Jon was tired. He briefly looked to the sky, hoping for a sign of Baal's arrival.

"Hold on a bit longer," Androw said quietly, his voice gentle despite the urgency. He had to trust that Baal would reach them soon. Until then, they had to keep moving, even if it meant slowing their pace.

Just then, Androw sensed something approaching—too fast to fully react. He turned quickly, but before he could reach for his sword, a hound lunged from the bushes, its jaws clamping down on his raised arm. Struggled but he didn't falter. Instead, he gritted his teeth and slammed the hound down onto the ground, his other hand swiftly reaching for his knife.

With quick, brutal stabs, he drove the blade into the hound's flesh, feeling it squirm and gasp before it finally lay still. Androw kicked the lifeless body aside just as more hounds emerged from the underbrush, growling and circling him.

Androw took a step back, positioning Jon protectively behind him as he moved toward the edge of the forest, where the terrain opened up. He could feel their hunger; they had likely gone days without a proper hunt, and now they had him in their sights.

As Androw about to draw his sword, a group of men stepped out from the shadows of the trees, bowstrings taut in their hands. Androw strained his eyes, scanning the faces, but none were familiar. They were strangers, mountain tribesmen whose presence only heightened his sense of danger. One of them, a tall man with a scruffy beard, stepped forward, speaking in a thick Northern accent.

"What are ye doin' in the woods?" he demanded, eyeing Androw suspiciously. "What's yer name?".

Androw remained silent. He had lost his shield and goods in the forest, and now he was surrounded by these men and their hounds. More troubling was of keeping Jon safe. Yet, as daunting as it seemed, it wasn't the worst predicament he had faced in the past.

Then he felt it—a presence approaching from the sky. A smile broke through his face, and without a second thought, he squeezed Jon's hand and took off running as fast as he could. It might have seemed idiotic for a normal human, but he was different. 

Behind them, the men shouted, and one of them nocked an arrow, aiming for Androw's leg. Just as he felt the arrow whiz past him, he stumbled, a sharp pain lancing through his calf. Jon cried out in fear, not knowing Androw's intention.

As the sun began to rise, the black shadow descended from the sky. The hounds, who had been racing after them, suddenly cowered in fear. One rolled onto its back, tucking its tail and licking its lips, trembling in terror as it instinctively tried to flee back toward its handlers. Confusion spread among the men as they struggled to comprehend the sight above them.

But it was too late. The shadow unleashed a torrent of green flame that engulfed the men and their hounds, reducing them to ashes in an instant. Androw instinctively turned to shield Jon from the searing heat, embracing him tightly as the fire spread, consuming the forest behind them.

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