The sword rang out with a sharp clang as Winter Night flashed through the air, slicing toward the direwolf's head with deadly speed. The cold steel gleamed like black ice beneath the scorching sun.
The wolf, ever alert, reacted instantly. It glanced up, saw the descending blade, and leapt aside with the grace of a shadow, landing four or five feet away.
Horses whinnied in fear. If Cole hadn't clenched his legs tightly around his mount's flanks, the beast would have bolted into the dense forest.
"Easy, boy. It's just a beast," Cole muttered, as if reassuring both himself and the trembling old horse beneath him.
Nearby, Yoren's Night's Watch companions and Tyrion's guards struggled to calm their own mounts. The direwolf's eyes gleamed crimson in the dim light, its teeth bared, back rigid, emitting a low, menacing growl.
Tyrion lay sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain. His mare, terrified, had bolted into the woods, but Yoren, quick as ever, managed to snatch its reins before it could disappear entirely.
Cole dismounted swiftly, sword in hand, facing the direwolf. He kept his gaze locked on its bloodshot eyes and spoke softly to Tyrion beside him. "How bad is it? Can you stand?"
"My legs are cramping, and my ribs feel like they're broken," Tyrion gritted out, his face contorted in agony. His hands and feet trembled as he struggled to move.
The direwolf paced back and forth, searching for an opening. At that moment, Jack, one of Tyrion's guards, and the Night's Watchmen moved to join Cole, forming a defensive line.
Yoren, a seasoned ranger, murmured grimly, "Wolves don't hunt alone."
His words proved true. As the direwolf glared at them, pairs of green eyes began to emerge from the shadows, creeping forward like ghostly fireflies in the summer night.
Morris, another of Tyrion's guards, helped him to his feet. Morris, though no great warrior, was loyal, often tasked with tending to Tyrion's needs—his meals, his shelter, and his horse.
The three black-cloaked brothers flanked Cole, while Tyrion's guards closed ranks around their wounded charge. Soon, the glowing eyes revealed their owners—snow wolves, circling like predators drawn to a wounded stag. The direwolf at the forefront was their leader.
Yoren knew that as long as the pack leader stood firm, the others would not retreat. Gritting his teeth, he whispered, "We have to take down the big one first, or none of us are leaving here alive."
A full-grown direwolf was the size of a small horse. Even together, their chances were slim. The rangers of the Night's Watch had experience battling direwolves and snow bears, but Yoren was no ranger—just a recruiter traveling the Seven Kingdoms in search of fresh recruits.
The wolves had encircled them completely, predators closing in on their prey. Fortunately, the two other black-cloaked brothers were seasoned veterans. If they fought as one, they might stand a chance.
Wolves were intelligent. They knew when to retreat, when to push forward. If Cole and his men showed even a hint of hesitation, the pack would sense it—and strike.
"Stay close, and follow my lead! No one moves alone!" Yoren barked.
Cole tightened his grip on Winter Night. Fear gnawed at him, but he forced it down. This would be a fight for survival. Sweat trickled between his fingers as his eyes darted across the battlefield, his mind sharpening, time seeming to slow. He studied the direwolf's every move with unrelenting focus.
"If they surround us, we're finished," Tyrion muttered. Despite his pain, he managed to keep his wits about him. He cursed himself for not heeding Lord Mormont's advice to travel with a larger escort. This was the second time a wolf had knocked him down, and this time, he was badly hurt.
Pain lanced through his ribs like a dagger, sharp and relentless. He wasn't sure if they were broken, but every breath sent a searing agony through his chest. He fought to stay conscious. If he blacked out now, he knew he wouldn't wake up.
"Someone has to hold that monster off, or we'll never break through!" Yoren urged.
A grim silence fell over the group. Who would be the one to stay behind—to sacrifice themselves for the others? Hesitation flashed across their faces. And in that fleeting moment of doubt, the direwolf struck.
It lunged at Morris.
Cole and the others had formed a tight defensive line, but Tyrion and his servant were their weak link—too many openings, too much fear. The direwolf saw it and seized its chance.
Morris barely had time to react. He looked up in horror as the massive beast descended upon him, its fangs flashing in the dim light. He raised his sword, but he was too slow.
The direwolf's jaws clamped down on his arm. Pain exploded through him as teeth crushed bone. A scream tore from his throat, lost amidst the growls of the encroaching pack.
Cole and his four companions moved swiftly, swords at the ready, but the wolves moved with an uncanny coordination that far surpassed their own. As their leader charged forward, the rest of the pack surged ahead like a relentless tide.
Cole was the fastest. Within moments, he reached the direwolf's flank and swung his sword in a wide arc.
Winter Night gleamed like a waning moon, tracing a deadly path through the air.
The direwolf had Morris pinned beneath its massive paws, the struggling man helpless against the predator's crushing grip.
Sensing the imminent threat, the wolf released its prey and prepared to dodge, but Cole's heightened senses had already anticipated its move. The blade, which had been cutting through the air, abruptly changed course. Instead of slashing, it became a precise thrust. Cole dug his heel into the rock, using his momentum to leap forward.
Winter Night shone like a streak of light piercing the sun, closing in on the direwolf mid-air. This time, there was no escape.
A chilling howl split the night as Cole's sword met its target, driving deep into the beast's ribs. The force of the impact sent both warrior and wolf crashing to the ground. The blade had sunk over a foot deep—if not a killing blow, it was certainly a grievous wound.
Even so, the direwolf managed to stagger back to its feet, its fierce gaze locked onto Cole. Blood poured from its wound, its strength faltering despite its defiance.
Winter Night dripped crimson. Cole flicked the blade, sending droplets flying, its steel once more catching the moonlight's cold gleam.
The direwolf hesitated.
Bloodlust surged through Cole's veins. He roared, "Come again, beast!"
The sheer ferocity of his voice rang through the clearing, and it was no wonder that Lord Commander Mormont had once praised him as a natural ranger.
The direwolf recoiled, inching backward. It met Cole's furious, unyielding stare, growled lowly, and finally, unsteadily, retreated into the shadows of the forest.
Everyone stood in stunned silence, watching as Cole drove the wolves away. His chest rose and fell heavily, his pupils still burning with adrenaline. His eyes were bloodshot, as wild as the wolves themselves.
Only when the last of the predators disappeared into the trees did he lower his sword and let out a deep, steadying breath.
Relief washed over the group like a wave. Yoren, ever the veteran, spoke urgently. "They're not far. Wolves hold grudges—we need to move. Now."
Cole exhaled sharply but nodded, striding toward his horse. As he passed Tyrion, he asked, "Can you ride?"
Tyrion still seemed dazed by Cole's display of power, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Cole frowned. "What, are you stunned speechless?"
Tyrion finally lifted his gaze and pointed at him. "That big head of yours is surprisingly clever."