The expression on Slyvia's face had still not changed. It remained as placid and neutral as it had been all along. She looked calm. But no one was in the slightest of doubt that she was livid. She was furious, and that a burning rage was bubbling right beneath her skin.
And it was not only her. The Dothraki and the soldiers of Lord Aeos were enraged too. The residents of Winterfell could feel the sheer hatred radiating from their bodies. They could tell that, if not for Slyvia herself standing right in front of the perpetrator, they would have already rushed forward with their blades drawn to butcher Theon Greyjoy.
Slyvia did not reply. At least, not with words. She took a couple of steps, closing the distance between herself and Theon. A victorious and provocative smile appeared on his face. He was pleased that he had finally forced Slyvia to move from her position and lose her temper. But this was all the victory and happiness that he was going to enjoy. As he saw her closing in, he brought his sword down, intending to cleave her in two.
Slyvia raised her hand and caught Theon's wrist in mid-air, abruptly halting the incoming strike. The blade was a few inches away from her face. Her hand was like an iron grip, and Theon was unable to budge his arm even a single inch.
His eyes widened in shock, seeing his movement intercepted so effortlessly. Given that she was a woman and he a man, he had never expected her to possess such overwhelming strength.
Before Theon could even struggle to free himself, Slyvia exerted a fraction of her force. There was a sickening crunch that echoed in the silent Winterfell training yard. She had snapped his wrist bones.
"Ahhh!" A loud, agonizing screech erupted from Theon's mouth. His grip lost all its strength, and the sword tumbled harmlessly to the ground.
The spectators gulped in fear and horror. But Slyvia was not done. She raised her leg and struck sideways against Theon's knee.
There was another sharp snapping sound, followed by another painful howl escaping his lips. His shattered leg could no longer support his weight, forcing him to collapse onto one knee.
And still, Slyvia was not done. A relentless and cold fury had consumed her, and it seemed as if nothing could calm her down.
In front of the shocked and stunned eyes of every spectator, she exerted pressure on the arm she was still holding in her grip. She pressed it slightly downwards and yanked it towards herself. There was another loud pop. She had just dislocated his shoulder joint.
"Ahhhh!" Another howl, thick with misery and blinding pain, erupted from Theon's lips.
She let go of his arm, which fell limply and lifelessly against his side. With multiple bones broken or dislocated in mere seconds, Theon was experiencing an unimaginable level of pain. He was gasping for breath, grunting in agony. And yet, the sheer hatred burning in his eyes had only increased.
"I could pluck every little bone in your body for disrespecting Lord Aeos," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "I could pluck the worthless life right out of your worthless body."
She drew her own sword in one fluid motion, pointing the lethal steel directly at Theon's throat.
"General Slyvia," Ned finally interjected, standing on the balcony. "Please! Do not kill him."
Until now, he had let her do as she pleased. He knew that what Theon had said was a grave sin. He had committed a crime.
It was the very same kind of insult that had initiated Jon Snow's alienation years before he had fled Winterfell. And so, Ned had allowed her to vent her rage. Three broken bones were more than enough to satisfy it. But for a multitude of reasons, Ned absolutely could not allow her to kill him.
Slyvia did not respond. She did not budge. Her sword remained pointed directly at Theon. She was a mere thrust away from driving it through his throat.
"General Slyvia," Ned continued, his voice firm. "I absolutely cannot allow you to kill Theon Greyjoy."
"I have allowed you to vent your anger," he said. "But I have other considerations. He is the heir and future Lord of the Iron Islands. You killing him in Winterfell would stain the honor of House Stark."
"And not only that, but the Iron Islands will surely start a war if their heir is killed by your hands," he added.
"A war, you say, Lord Stark?" A voice cut through the oppressive atmosphere of the training yard.
Every neck, including Slyvia's, craned toward the source of the voice. It was Lord Aeos. Jon Snow. He was riding a horse with Melisandre in tow just behind him. His direwolf, Ghost, was perched on the horseback just in front of him.
At his arrival, a few people breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that things would calm down. The majority, however, tensed. They were uncertain of what stance Lord Aeos would take.
He jumped off the horse, holding Ghost in his arms. He bent down and set the direwolf on the ground, who immediately scurried toward his siblings. Jon finally lifted his chin, looking at Ned Stark once again.
"Would they dare?" He questioned.
"I do not know what has happened here for Slyvia to lose her temper like this," he said, his gaze settling on Theon.
Jon and Melisandre had gone on a ride around the outskirts of Winterfell and had just returned. Even so, he was not completely oblivious.
He had an excellent understanding of Slyvia's personality. Most of the time, she was a very calm and composed lady. There were very few things that could have made her snap in this manner. And given that Theon was involved, it was highly probable that the insult was related to Jon himself.
"But," Jon continued. "Even if Slyvia decided to kill Theon merely in jest, merely for fun, even then, would the Iron Islands dare to ignite a war with me?"
#
#
#
[Add the book to your collection. Send it some power stones. Leave a rating and a review.]
[Access advanced chapter on P@treon. Replace @ with a. One additional advanced chapter each week on P@treon. ]
[email protected]/imaginarywriter