Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 139: The Monster Beneath the Chapel
The moment Arya stepped out, the fight was finished before it began.
She was the heart of the matter, Arya Stark, highborn daughter of Winterfell. Who would still dare lay steel on her friend, the butcher’s boy, in front of her?
A prince’s order was still a prince’s order, but she was the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell. What business did a handful of paid swords have meddling in a quarrel between such bloodlines?
If they insisted on killing Mikael, what if the girl put herself in front of him? Would they shove her aside? Strike her?
That would be a fine way to die quickly.
No one with sense would believe wounding the Lord of Winterfell’s daughter was a smaller matter than wounding a prince.
So Lannor gave a soft laugh and slid his sword back into its scabbard. Across from him, the six men sheathed theirs with a stiffness that made the silence worse. Everyone there knew they would not be cutting down anyone now. Holding steel after that would only make them look foolish.
“Come with us, Lady Stark. His Grace and your kin are worried.”
The Hound knight lifted the visor of his helm, revealing a face badly burned and twisted by old fire. His voice was still rough enough to frighten children, but Lannor guessed this was probably the gentlest tone he owned.
Nymeria padded behind Arya. The girl clutched the edge of Lannor’s armor and met Sandor Clegane’s gaze with a stubborn little nod.
They followed the torchlight to a large camp. Butchers, carpenters, and cooks moved about their work, while well-equipped knights and soldiers patrolled the perimeter. In the dark, with firelight shifting between tents and mail, it was hard to tell how many men there were.
Lannor looked it over with mild curiosity.
According to Arya, this was the king’s party, escorting the Lord of Winterfell south to take office as Hand of the King. A procession of this size was not something one saw every day.
On the way, Arya whispered that the Hound knight was Sandor Clegane, the prince’s sworn shield.
Sandor led the three of them and the wolf toward the largest tent at the center of the camp. It did not take a scholar to guess whose tent that was.
Nymeria was taken to a horse post and fitted with a collar, beside another direwolf who looked much quieter. That must be Arya’s sister’s wolf, Lady.
At the entrance, a man with the same brown hair and grey eyes as Arya strode out.
“Father!”
Arya cried out and ran to him.
The man carried the cold, hard air of frost-bitten stone, the look of someone shaped by a harsh land. Yet the instant he saw Arya, the ice broke. His shoulders loosened first, as if a weight had slid off his back; then worry came rushing in, and he caught the girl as she threw herself into his arms.
Arya had never been parted from her father for so long. The feeling burst out of her too plainly to hide, and the rebuke already on his tongue died before it found breath.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was known for silence, justice, and severity. Men called him the Silent Wolf. He did not know why his daughter clung to him as if she had been gone for years, but some instinct told him she needed comfort now, not correction.
“You should not have ... no. It’s done. Arya, you’re back. That is what matters.”
Lannor watched in quiet satisfaction.
This was why he had wanted to send Arya home.
His own appearance, and the shoulder-length hair like molten silver, drew the eye quickly. After comforting his daughter, Eddard let Arya pull him over to Lannor.
“This is Lannor, Father. He saved my life!”
The girl’s voice leapt with excitement.
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