Inside the Dreadfort, Harley Snow leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching with keen interest as a pack of beasts milled about inside the dog kennel.
A dog bowl was filled with meat, but the hounds merely sniffed it and left it untouched. A cleaning servant muttered in confusion, "Strange, these beasts have meat right in front of them and won't even eat."
The servant who held the keys to the kennel smiled ingratiatingly, "Lord Harley, are you going hunting today? Which one would you like to take?"
Harley pointed casually at one of them. "Bring out Little Roose. I'm taking him out for a walk."
The servant's flattering smile didn't waver in the least as he deftly led out a brownish-yellow hound. He handed the leash to Harley and gave the dog's head a firm pat.
"Lord Harley has a sharp eye. This one... Little Roose is the fiercest of them all."
Harley gave the servant a meaningful look, then vaulted onto his horse and galloped out of the castle with the hound in tow.
Several figures who had been lurking in the shadows watching him split into two as soon as Harley rode out, tailing him, while the others turned and headed back into the inner ward.
The North is vast. Riding straight west from the Dreadfort takes two or three days before Winterfell comes into view. From Winterfell, another ride northwest leads straight into the notoriously dangerous Wolfswood.
The Wolfswood is immense, completely enveloping the northern and western borders of House Stark's lands.
Deep within the Wolfswood, the mountain ranges stretch endlessly in gloomy shadow, their treacherous terrain connecting to the Frostfangs to the northwest. Any hunters daring enough to venture deep into the Wolfswood never return, a prospect that makes the people of the North turn pale at the mere mention.
Some say that deep within the Wolfswood flows the bloodline of ancient giant direwolves, and that the wolves here are damnably smart—sometimes leaving hunters wondering just who is hunting whom.
Others claim that terrifying horrors are hidden deep in the forest... but those are merely the chilling tales passed down from grandmothers of old.
The Wolfswood teems with game and resources, and the deep mountains hold mines; a large portion of Winterfell's food supply comes from here.
Harley's adoptive father had been bold yet cautious in his youth, making his living off the Wolfswood for a lifetime of hunting, even losing a leg and a few fingers to it. The wolf and bear pelts he had killed could reportedly pave the floor of the Dreadfort lord's great hall.
Yet such an experienced old hunter, unconquered by harsh winters and ferocious beasts, had died in a tavern over a mere cup of ale.
Harley Snow, alone with one horse and one hound, galloped for days, making a brief stop at Winterfell for supplies before braving the wind and snow to enter the Wolfswood.
At last, he stopped beneath a giant tree thick enough for six men to span with their arms joined.
High up on the trunk of the massive tree, the warped, crooked carving was still faintly visible: *The House of Ilgen and Harley*.
Harley dismounted and tied up both the hound and his horse. Keeping a sharp, silent watch all around to ensure nothing was amiss, he finally approached.
He bent down to push open a door disguised with bark, slipping in beneath the roots of the ironwood tree.
The base of the tree had been hollowed out and converted into a hunter's cabin crammed with miscellaneous items. All sorts of hunting gear were piled haphazardly—axes, water buckets... pelts and strips of cured meat hung from the walls.
On the floor, stones were stacked in a circle around a pit containing partially burnt wood, and a small pot hung from an iron tripod.
Harley sat on the ground to build a fire, pulled a leather waterskin from his tunic, and took long, heavy swallows.
His gaze remained fixed on the wall, where a giant crossbow taller than a man hung—a contraband item he had smuggled in at great expense from a smuggler in White Harbor.
Once the steel winch was cranked tight, this heavy crossbow could easily pierce the finest plate armor from the Lannister family. Its power was several times that of an ordinary hunting crossbow.
Whether killing wolves or men... it was as effortless as tearing paper.
Harley's gaze went vacant, shining with a dim, inscrutable light.
Come on, little dogs. This is the graveyard prepared just for you.
When night fell, Ghost sneaked out once again.
She dug up a few vole nests along the way, planning to bring them back for the wounded patient.
When she arrived, the Black Wolf was still unconscious, though the bleeding had stopped. All she could do now was wait; she hoped he was lucky enough to survive.
Ghost felt a twinge of remorse. She didn't quite know what had come over her at the time—she had simply been triggered, remembering some unpleasant things from the past, and then she...
Actually, some matters from her past life were slowly slipping away from her memory. Whatever she could still recall invariably consisted of events that had left a profound mark on her...
Ghost stared blankly at the ground, pinning down a vole that had stopped playing dead and was trying to make a break for it.
She poked it with a paw, rolling it back and forth, teasing it until the vole squeaked in alarm.
"Spare this poor little creature, and I'll find it a home, how about that?"
A weak voice echoed in her mind. The Black Wolf had woken up.
Ghost eagerly padded closer. "You're awake. A home for the rat? Where...?"
The wound hurt so much that the Black Wolf let out a few pitiful whimpers. His voice was hoarse and feeble. "You're one fierce she-wolf... refusing to mate is one thing, but trying to bite my head off? Still, whoever bears pups with you in the future is going to be something else. They'd definitely end up king of the pack..."
With that, he opened his massive wolf jaws wide, gesturing for Ghost to drop the vole in to feed him.
Speechless, Ghost unceremoniously tossed the vole into the wolf's mouth.
The Black Wolf chewed with satisfaction. Trying to shift his body, he found he couldn't move at all, and lowered his head.
"Awooo??" His wolf eyes went wide round, a look of profound disbelief crossing his face. "H-how did you tie me up? This is incredible!"
Ghost couldn't resist a mental retort: *Isn't the normal reaction supposed to be—why did I tie you up in the first place?*
The Black Wolf shook his head. "Right... so why did you tie me up?"
Ghost... helplessly changed the subject. "Let me change your bandages first, they're soaked through with blood. If you're hungry, then..."
She turned her head, only to find the voles had long since scampered away...
The Black Wolf blinked.
"Then... just stay hungry for now."
The Black Wolf wouldn't stand for it, howling straight into Ghost's mind: "You're abusing me! You want to starve me to death and then eat me, don't you? Awoooo, awoooo!"
Ghost: *Is it too late to abandon him right now?* She sighed and walked out the door...
While the Black Wolf restlessly tugged at the waist, belly, and legs that had him bound up like a mummy, a tiny human toddler suddenly trotted in from outside.
The Black Wolf was momentarily stunned, then began screaming for help in Ghost's mind like a pig being slaughtered: "Awoooo! It's a human! Help! Help me, someone's here!"
Ghost pressed hard against her ears, unable to block out the ear-splitting din that threatened to blow her mind apart.
Without a second thought, she picked up a stone from the ground and brought it down right in front of the Black Wolf's despairing eyes...
The Black Wolf passed out cold, crisp and clean.
Damn it... finally quiet.
With a wolf's body, doing any actual work was impossible, so Ghost irritably shifted into human form in front of the Black Wolf.
She changed the bandages on the Black Wolf's wounds, went out to dig up some edible roots and insect nests, tossed them aside carelessly, and left him to fend for himself.
On the way back, Ghost suddenly thought of an effortless way to make some money.
Thanks to a former colleague from East China in her past life who had enlightened her about various regional delicacies, one of which was barbecued voles.
Voles were the most abundant creatures here, reproducing at an incredible rate with very few natural predators. There were so many you could practically play Whack-a-Mole with them.
In lean years, voles were an excellent source of protein. Though Ghost wouldn't eat them herself, that didn't stop her from roasting them up to sell.
When it came to barbecuing, Ghost was actually quite skilled.
As for anything else, she hadn't come up with any good ideas yet, so she might as well try street food first.
While Ghost was idling away in her carefree pastoral life, Harley Snow's hunting grounds were already prepared.
Though he felt a twinge of guilt toward Old Bill's family, he couldn't wait any longer; Roose Bolton would soon discover his target.
As the biological son and heir of the Dreadfort's lord, Roose had numerous supporters. To eliminate him cleanly without arousing suspicion or leaving any loose ends, the hundred-man hunt was the only option.
And if he wanted to command the Bolton elite troops during the hundred-man hunt to manufacture an "accident," he first had to secure Old Bolton's appointment.
He needed to bring this undeveloped warg back, whole and alive, to Old Bolton.
And then...
Harley Snow gently stroked a small drum wrapped in yellowed leather, whispering softly:
"Old man, I'll help you get your revenge..."