Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Old Way

Robb Stark ripped his sword free from the man's gut, watching as the light faded from his eyes. The man gurgled once, blood bubbling from his lips, before he crumpled to the forest floor.

Robb exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cool morning air.

His heart thundered in his chest, his muscles burned, but his hands still trembled slightly.

This was nothing like the yard.

In the courtyard of Winterfell, he was strong. Confident. His blade moved with purpose, his strikes clean and practiced.

But here—

Here, in the middle of a battle, with the stench of blood and death thick in the air, his movements felt slower. Heavier.

The second man had fought back.

Robb had struck first, wounding him, but the man had not turned to flee. He had roared, swinging his blade with wild desperation, forcing Robb to meet him blow for blow.

And it was hard.

Harder than it should have been.

His hands, so steady in training, faltered. His grip felt too loose, his footwork sluggish. He had barely managed to parry a strike before countering, sinking his blade into the man's gut.

Now, as the second body fell lifelessly to the ground, Robb realized something—

It was over.

The fighting had ended before he even had time to process it.

The direwolves had torn Ramsay's men apart with terrifying ease, their bloody jaws gleaming in the dim light.

And Jon—

Jon hadn't even drawn his axe.

He had fought with his hands.

Robb turned his gaze toward his brother and felt his breath catch.

Jon stood over Ramsay Snow's ruined body.

The bastard of the Dreadfort had been reduced to an unrecognizable mess of blood and broken bone. His face—if it could still be called that—was a pulp of shattered teeth, swollen flesh, and bone fragments. His body twitched faintly, but he was long past saving.

And Jon had done it with his fists.

Robb swallowed hard.

His brother's hands were soaked in blood, his knuckles dripping, but Jon's face remained impassive.

His grey eyes, so much like their father's, betrayed nothing.

Before Robb could speak, a low growl rumbled through the trees.

Ghost emerged from the darkness, dragging something behind him.

Or someone.

Robb felt his gut twist as he recognized the figure.

Theon Greyjoy.

Ghost released Theon near Robb's feet, the ironborn prince collapsing in a heap.

His fine clothes were torn, streaked with mud, blood, and piss. His face was pale, eyes wild with terror. He looked up at Robb, panting heavily, his lips quivering.

"P-please," Theon stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Robb, please, you have to understand—I didn't—"

Robb clenched his jaw.

"Mercy," Theon begged, his body trembling. "We were—we were brothers—"

Jon stepped forward.

"Do you want me to deal with him?"

Jon's voice was calm. Too calm.

There was no malice in it, no rage—only a simple, emotionless question.

Robb turned to his brother.

Jon would do it. If Robb gave the word, Jon would end Theon's life without hesitation.

But that was not Jon's decision to make.

This is mine.

Robb inhaled deeply, forcing his voice to remain steady.

"Ours is the old way."

And with one clean stroke, he slit Theon's throat.

Theon gasped, a choked gurgle escaping his lips as blood poured down his chest. His hands scrabbled weakly at his neck, but it was over in seconds.

He collapsed, twitching once before going still.

The world felt quiet.

Robb's heart pounded.

He had killed before—he had just slain two men in battle—but this felt different.

This wasn't a fight.

This was a judgment.

A sentence.

Jon placed a firm hand on Robb's shoulder.

"You did what needed to be done," he said simply.

Robb exhaled slowly, nodding. He had known, even as he swung the blade, that there was no other choice.

Theon had betrayed them.

If they had let him live, he would have done it again.

Still, something inside Robb felt… hollow.

Jon watched him closely, then spoke again.

"Did you know we were walking into a trap?"

Robb shook his head. "No."

Jon nodded. "I had my suspicions."

Robb frowned. "What do you mean?"

Jon's expression didn't change. "When Theon insisted we leave the direwolves behind, Ghost grew uneasy. I trusted his instincts." He paused. "You ignored Grey Wind's warnings."

Robb's stomach twisted.

Jon continued. "Let this be a lesson, brother. Our direwolves are not just any beasts. They are our other half."

His grip on Robb's shoulder tightened slightly.

"From now on, trust Grey Wind's instincts as you would your own."

Robb swallowed hard, then nodded. "I will."

Jon released him, turning to the carnage around them.

"What do we do with the bodies?" Robb asked after a moment.

Jon glanced at the corpses littering the ground.

"Leave them," he said simply.

Robb raised an eyebrow.

Jon looked back at him, his expression unreadable.

"The wolves of the Wolfswood are going to have a feast tonight."

Robb exhaled slowly, nodding.

They turned away from the slaughter, leaving the bodies behind as they made their way back through the woods.

Seven direwolves padded silently behind them, blood still dripping from their fangs.

And for the first time since Theon led them into these trees—Robb felt at ease.