– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

  The heavy oak door of his father's solar—his solar now—groaned shut behind Robb as he entered, the sound echoing through the chamber like the closing of a tomb. A shiver ran down his spine, settling in the pit of his stomach like a stone dropped in a still pond. Was it the chill that always clung to Winterfell's ancient stone walls, or the weight of responsibility that now rested upon his young shoulders? Robb couldn't say, but the feeling gnawed at him all the same.

  He paused just inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The room, bathed in the amber glow of the hearth, was as familiar to him as his own chambers. He'd spent countless hours here as a boy, watching his lord father dispense justice and wisdom in equal measure. Yet now it felt alien, as if the very furniture had rearranged itself in Lord Eddard's absence. Father's only been gone a few moon's turn, Robb thought, but it might as well be a lifetime.

  His gaze swept across the solar, lingering on the worn tapestries that adorned the walls. They depicted direwolves in mid-hunt, their fabric dulled by age but no less fierce for it. Robb's hand unconsciously moved to the pommel of his sword, drawing strength from the cold metal. A lord must be as steady as the walls of Winterfell, and as sharp as a direwolf's teeth, he reminded himself, echoing words his father had oft repeated.

  Narrow windows allowed thin shafts of pale northern sunlight to pierce the gloom, casting long fingers of gold across the stone floor. Motes of dust danced in the air, swirling like snowflakes in a gust of wind. The scent of smoke and ancient wood permeated the room, a smell that spoke of countless generations of Starks who had sat where he now sat, ruling the North with iron wills and wolf's blood in their veins.

  Robb's boots scuffed against the worn flagstones as he crossed to the massive desk that dominated the center of the solar. He lowered himself into the high-backed chair behind it, wincing at the loud creak of wood. The seat felt too large, as if it might swallow him whole. For a moment, Robb felt like nothing more than a child playing at lordship, borrowing his father's clothes that were still too large for his frame.

  Is this how Father felt when he first took up the mantle of Lord Stark? The thought came unbidden, and he pushed it aside with a grimace. His fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on the arm of the chair. There was no time for such musings; the North needed a lord, not a boy lost in daydreams.

  "Seven hells," Robb muttered, running a hand through his auburn hair. It was getting long; he'd need to have it trimmed soon. A lord should look the part, even if he doesn't feel it. He reached for the first of many scrolls that littered the desk's surface, their wax seals a rainbow of colors representing houses both great and small.

  At his feet, Grey Wind stirred, the direwolf's massive form unfurling as he raised his head to regard his master. Those golden eyes seemed to hold all the wisdom of the old gods, patient and inscrutable. Robb allowed himself a small smile, reaching down to scratch behind the wolf's ears.

  "At least I have you to keep me honest, eh?" he murmured. Grey Wind chuffed softly in response, a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. The young lord drew comfort from the great beast's presence, solid and unwavering as it often was.

  With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his very being, Robb straightened in his chair and turned his attention to the mountain of parchment before him. Each scroll unfurled was another weight added to his shoulders, another test of the mettle of the Young Wolf. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the neat script, brow furrowing in concentration.

  Harvest reports from the Barrowlands spoke of a bountiful yield, yet warned of early and oddly intense frosts for the summer that threatened to cut the season short.

  A missive from Lord Manderly caught Robb's eye, the wax seal bearing the merman of White Harbor. He broke it open, fingers still clumsy with the weight of his new responsibility. The parchment crackled as he unrolled it, eyes scanning the neat script. Increased shipping levies at White Harbor, it seemed. Robb's brow furrowed as he considered the implications.

  A necessary evil, he mused, lips pressed into a thin line. The North's coffers needed bolstering if they were to weather the long winter to come. Yet he could almost hear the grumbling of merchants and smallfolk alike, their voices a distant echo in his mind. His hand unconsciously moved to Grey Wind's fur, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth.

  The next scroll brought news of border skirmishes with wildling raiders along the New Gift. Robb's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. The Wall stands tall, but what good are stones against desperation? He'd need to send more men north, perhaps speak with Uncle Benjen about the state of the Night's Watch. The thought of his uncle brought a pang of longing for simpler times, when he was just a boy playing at swords in Winterfell's yard.

  Petty lords squabbled over grazing rights and ancient, half-forgotten slights, their grievances laid out in flowery script that did little to mask the venom beneath. Robb resisted the urge to crumple the parchments in his fist. Seven hells, do they not see the real threats we face? He took a deep breath, forcing his fingers to relax their grip on the quill.

  Each unfurled scroll presented a new challenge, another test of his mettle as the fledgling Lord of Winterfell. Robb's quill scratched across parchment as he penned responses, the sound harsh in the quiet of the solar. He glanced at his handwriting, a pale imitation of his father's strong, sure script. Doubt gnawed at him like a persistent wolf. What would Father do? The question haunted his every decision, a constant reminder of the impossibly large shadow he stood in.

  As the afternoon waned, the solar grew darker, shadows creeping across the worn stone floor. Robb's eyes began to strain in the fading light, the words blurring before him. He rubbed at them, fighting back a yawn. A lord cannot show weakness, even alone, he chided himself. He was about to call for more candles when a soft knock at the door broke his concentration.

  "My lord," came Maester Luwin's steady voice from the other side, "may I enter? There is news."

  Robb straightened, his spine cracking in protest. How long had he been hunched over the desk? Hours, it felt like, though the sun had barely moved in the sky. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness. "Aye, come in," he called, striving to keep his voice strong and even, despite the weariness that tugged at him like a physical weight.

  The door opened with a familiar creak, and Maester Luwin shuffled in. His grey robes seemed to blend with the silver of his hair in the dim light, giving him an almost ghostly appearance. In his arms, he carried a fresh bundle of scrolls. Robb felt his heart sink at the sight, a leaden feeling settling in his stomach. More problems to solve, more decisions to make. He wondered, not for the first time, how his father had borne this burden for so long.

  The maester laid the scrolls before him with a deferential nod, his chain clinking softly with the movement. The sound was oddly comforting, a reminder of lessons past and the steady presence of knowledge in a world that seemed increasingly chaotic.

  "News from the Wall, my lord," Luwin began, his tone carefully neutral, though Robb caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "And others from across the North." He tapped one scroll sealed with the direwolf of House Stark, the wax a deep grey that seemed to absorb what little light remained in the room. "This one is from the Lady Stark. She writes from the eastern road, on her way south."

  Robb's fingers twitched toward the letter, his heart quickening at the mention of his mother. He broke the seal with trembling hands, cursing inwardly at the show of weakness. The parchment unrolled with a soft whisper, revealing his mother's familiar script. Her words conveyed warmth and love, but beneath them, Robb could sense the strain of her journey and the weight of her own burdens.

  She wrote of treacherous roads and suspicious innkeepers, of the strain of travel on her body. Robb's throat tightened as he read, imagining his mother – always so strong, so steadfast – struggling against the hardships of the road. Yet, she assured him of her safety and her determination to reach King's Landing, to stand by his father's side and uncover the truth behind Bran's fall.

  As Robb set his mother's letter aside, a lump formed in his throat, thick as the Wall itself. He swallowed hard, willing the emotion away. A lord must be stone, he reminded himself, though the words rang hollow in the quiet of the solar. Grey Wind stirred at his feet, the direwolf's golden eyes fixed on his face, as if sensing his disquiet.

  Maester Luwin continued his report, his voice a steady anchor in the sea of Robb's churning thoughts. "Lord Commander Mormont reports increased wildling activity beyond the Wall. Nothing dire, but vigilance is advised."

  The mention of the Wall brought thoughts of Jon unbidden to Robb's mind. He could almost see his brother, dark curls dusted with snow, standing atop that vast, icy expanse. The image was so vivid it made his chest ache. Jon, bound by an oath as old and unyielding as the North itself, while Robb sat here in their father's solar, playing at lordship.

  To take the Black is an honor, Robb thought bitterly, his fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on the arm of his chair. And yet it feels a punishment to us both. He found himself longing for Jon's quiet strength, his steady presence that had always been a balm to Robb's more impetuous nature. How often had Jon's measured words stayed Robb's hand when anger threatened to overcome reason?

  Robb forced his attention back to Luwin, whose lined face betrayed nothing of the gravity of his words. The maester's report shifted to more local concerns, each one another weight added to Robb's already burdened shoulders. The young lord straightened, unconsciously mimicking his father's lordly bearing.

  "There are reports of bandits on the Kingsroad, my lord," the maester said, his voice grave as a silent sept. "And Lord Waynwood requests additional men to fend off raiders in his lands."

  Robb's jaw clenched at the news, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. He could almost hear his father's voice: The North is vast, but our people are few. We must protect our own. Bandits and raiders were a constant threat, like wolves circling a wounded deer, always probing for weakness. The irony of the comparison was not lost on him.

  And now they think the North weak, with Father gone and a green boy holding Winterfell, Robb thought, his blood beginning to boil. He had to force himself to unclench his fists, aware of Grey Wind's ears pricking up at his rising anger. The direwolf's hackles rose slightly, a mirror to Robb's own tension.

  "Send word to Lord Waynwood," Robb said, his voice low and tight with barely contained anger. He barely restrained the urge to grit his teeth, tasting the metallic tang of fury on his tongue. "Tell him he shall have his men. And double the patrols along the Kingsroad. I'll not have it said that the King's peace cannot be kept in the North."

  The words came out harsher than he'd intended, and Robb saw a flicker of something—concern? approval?—in Luwin's eyes. The maester nodded, making a note on a scrap of parchment. The scratch of quill on paper seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet solar.

  "There is more, my lord," Luwin said after a moment, hesitation coloring his voice. Robb's eyes narrowed at the maester's tone. Luwin was not a man given to uncertainty, and the break in his usual composure sent a chill down Robb's spine.

  "What is it?" Robb asked, leaning forward in his chair. Grey Wind mirrored the movement, rising to pad closer to the desk, his presence a comforting warmth against Robb's leg.

  "A letter from Lord Greymont in the Lonely Hills," Luwin replied, his fingers worrying at the edge of a scroll. "He speaks of... unsettling rumors."

  Robb's eyebrows rose, a queasy feeling settling in his stomach. The Lonely Hills were aptly named, a desolate stretch of the North where even the hardiest of his father's bannermen struggled to thrive. What could unsettle men who faced the harshest of winters without flinching?

  "What manner of rumors?" he asked, proud that his voice remained steady despite the growing knot of dread in his gut.

  Luwin's face tightened, disgust etching deep lines around his mouth. "Slavers, my lord," he said, the word falling between them like a curse. "Prowling the shores, looking to snatch the unwary."

  A cold fury settled in Robb's gut at the word, spreading through his veins like the chill of a northern winter. Slavery was anathema in the North, a vile practice that no true son of Winterfell could tolerate. His father's voice echoed in his memory, clear as the day his father had taken Robb to his first execution: "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

  Robb's hand unconsciously moved to the pommel of his own blade, fingers tightening around the cool metal as he felt like swinging it through as many of those men he could get his hands on.

  "Dispatch scouts," Robb growled, his voice harder than he intended. The words scraped in his throat, rough as the granite walls of Winterfell. "I want eyes on every league of our coastline, from the Stony Shore to Widow's Watch."

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  He leaned forward, the carved direwolves on the arms of his chair digging into his palms. "And send word to White Harbor. Lord Manderly is to increase patrols along the shipping lanes. Any vessel suspected of carrying slaves is to be boarded and searched." Robb's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. "If slaves are found..."

  He trailed off, the unspoken sentence hanging in the air between them like the blade of an executioner's sword. Grey Wind's ears pricked at his master's tone, the direwolf rising to pad closer to the desk.

  Luwin bowed his head, the links of his maester's chain clinking softly. "It shall be done, my lord." The old man's voice was steady, but Robb caught the flicker of concern in his eyes. He still sees the boy I was, not the lord I am, Robb thought, fighting the urge to fidget under that knowing gaze.

  There was one last scroll in Luwin's gnarled hands, and the maester seemed to hesitate before mentioning it. Robb's eyes narrowed at the uncharacteristic pause. "What is it, Maester? Speak plainly."

  "A curious report from House Steelmarch, my lord," Luwin said, his tone carefully neutral. "A masterly house under Karhold. They speak of... sightings."

  Robb frowned, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him, a sound as familiar as his own heartbeat. "Sightings of what?" he asked, though a knot of dread was already forming in his gut. The North was vast and wild, its secrets as deep as the wolfswood. What manner of trouble now? he wondered.

  "A great black dog, my lord," Luwin replied, his tone suggesting he found the matter somewhat beneath their notice. "With eyes like spilt blood, they say." The maester paused, weathered fingers worrying at the edge of the parchment. "Among other things. Creeping figures in the night, too big or too wrongly shaped to be man, woman, or child, and certainly no simple beast."

  Robb's hand unconsciously sought Grey Wind's fur, fingers burying themselves in the direwolf's thick ruff. The beast's presence was a comfort, solid and real amidst talk of shadowy horrors. "Superstition, likely," Robb said, echoing Luwin's unspoken sentiment. "But...?" He let the question hang, sensing there was more.

  Luwin sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of countless winters. "Lord Steelmarch has spoken with other houses in the Karhold and along the Last River. There are whispers of men gone missing, my lord. And... darker things."

  A chill ran down Robb's spine that had nothing to do with the perpetual cold of Winterfell. He thought of Old Nan's tales, of the monsters that lurked in the dark of winter. The crackle of the hearth seemed to fade, leaving only the whisper of ancient fears. The summer has lasted too long, he thought, remembering his father's oft-repeated words. Winter is coming.

  With a long, heavy sigh, Robb leaned back in his chair. The letters spread before him like a map of mounting troubles, each scroll a new shadow cast over his land, his people. Monsters, slavers, bandits—the weight of it all pressed down upon him, threatening to crush him beneath its immensity.

  What would Father do? The question hung in the air, unanswerable but constant, a specter that haunted his every decision. Robb could almost see Eddard Stark standing before him, grey eyes stern yet kind, offering the wisdom of countless Starks who had ruled Winterfell before.

  But Father wasn't here. He was leagues away in King's Landing, leaving Robb to face these troubles alone. The realization sat heavy in his chest, a cold weight that threatened to steal his breath.

  Robb's gaze fell upon Grey Wind, seeking comfort in the direwolf's presence. The beast's golden eyes met his own, ancient and knowing. In that moment, he felt something shift within him, a resolve hardening like steel fresh from the forge.

  He turned back to Luwin, his expression set in lines of grim determination. The solar seemed to grow smaller around him, the weight of Winterfell pressing down upon his shoulders. Yet as he straightened in his chair, Robb felt a strange calm settle over him.

  Yet... The thought formed slowly, a realization that had been building since the moment his father rode south. I am Lord Stark. Not Eddard Stark.

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

  The next Lord of House Bolton stood in the clearing, pale eyes flicking over the bustling camp with a predator's gaze. The forest near Karhold loomed around them, dark and deep, its secrets hidden beneath a canopy of ancient trees. He adjusted his sable cloak, the fabric whispering against his velvet doublet. His boots, crafted from the finest calfskin, seemed out of place amidst the wild tangle of roots and fallen leaves.

  Another day, another hunt, he mused, his lips curling into a wet, wormy smile that never quite reached his eyes. The past fortnight had been... interesting.

  Yes, that was the word for it.

  Interesting and amusing, in ways he hadn't expected when they'd set out from the Dreadfort.

  His gaze settled on Luton, and Ramsay's smile widened. The fool was still shaking like a leaf in a storm, his eyes darting about as if expecting some river monster to leap from the undergrowth and drag him off. Ramsay chuckled, a low, mirthless sound that set his men on edge.

  Ye'd think he'd never seen a corpse before, Ramsay thought, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he recalled the creature they'd encountered at The Last River. It had been a sight to behold, all slimy green skin and rotting flesh. The stench of it... now that had been something special.

  Like death and shit and something else, something unnatural.

  He remembered how Luton had screamed when the thing grabbed him, its fingers – if ye could call 'em that – digging into his leg as it tried to pull him under. For a moment, Ramsay had been content to watch, enjoying the spectacle of his man fighting for his life.

  But then the screaming had grown tiresome, and well... a dead Luton was no use to him.

  So he'd put an end to it, swift and clean. The creature's head had come off easy enough, though the sound it made... like no living thing Ramsay had ever heard. It had sent a shiver down his spine, a feeling he wasn't accustomed to and didn't much care for.

  Maybe I should've kept it, he thought, regret tingeing his musings. Might've made a fine plaything.

  But that hadn't been the end of it.

  Oh no, Karhold’s forests seemed determined to show them all manner of queer beasts. That little demon-thing that had sprung up in front of Blood...

  Now that had been something to see. Barely came up to his knee, but with claws that could've gutted a man easy as breathing.

  Ramsay's hand went to his boot, where he'd stowed one of the creature's finger-long nails as a trophy. He could still feel the satisfying crunch as he'd stomped the life out of the little beast, punishment for daring to spook his horse. Looking at what remained of the little creature after, Ramsay had to admit it was more queer than he expected. Dark gray skin, covered with mud, it smelled of deep earth and had a face like a dead man, wide jaws with open lips full of sharp teeth, and a skull that held sick-looking green eyes that looked like they belonged to a creature from one of the Hells the Southerners talked about.

  He had found that funny as well.

  Ramsay Bolton, Slayer of Demons, he thought with a sneer. Blessed by the Seven and all that horse shit.

  Apart from that, and the odd rats the size of a cat with long noses and long ears, the nights had been as quiet as usual.

  Still, Ramsay thought to himself, these creatures may have been interesting but he only had mind for one of them, his new favorite beast.

  His eyes narrowed as he surveyed his men, each absorbed in their own tasks. Yellow Dick was cackling as he drank, the sound grating against Ramsay's ears.

  Skinner sat apart, his fingers moving nimbly as he played some game with a set of dice, his eyes darting up now and then to watch the others. Always watching, that one.

  Sour Alyn sat with a stone in one hand and sword in the other, his rotten teeth bared in a permanent grimace as he glared at the surrounding trees.

  And Grunt...

  Well, Grunt just stood there, silent as always. Sometimes Ramsay wondered what thoughts rattled around in that empty head of his with no tongue to voice them.

  But it was Ben Bones who truly caught Ramsay's attention.

  The old kennelmaster was tending to the hounds, his weathered hands gentle as he checked each dog for burrs or cuts. He spoke to them in low, soothing tones, showing more care and affection than Ramsay had ever seen him direct at a human being.

  "Ain't that sweet," Ramsay muttered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Treating those dogs better than his own kin, I'd wager."

  He watched as Ben Bones knelt beside one of the bitches, carefully examining a paw she'd been favoring. The gentleness in the old man's eyes was almost... tender. It was enough to turn Ramsay's stomach.

  Pathetic, he thought, his lips curling in disgust. Wasting all that care on dumb beasts.

  And yet... there was something amusing about it all. The way Ben Bones could be so gentle with the hounds, yet stand by without a word as Ramsay flayed a man alive. The contrast was almost... delicious.

  A grin spread across Ramsay's face, his pale eyes glittering with cruel mirth. In fact, it was.

  His pale gaze swept across the clearing again, taking in the sorry lot he called his men. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and fear, a scent that made his nostrils flare with pleasure. He could taste it on his tongue, metallic and sweet, like blood fresh from a wound.

  Yellow Dick was off to one side, his high-pitched cackle cutting through the air like a rusted blade. The man was telling some crude jest about a whore and a mule, his face flushed with ale and idiocy. Ramsay watched as the others shifted away, trying to escape the cloud of stink that seemed to follow Yellow Dick wherever he went.

  Bloody fool, Ramsay thought, his lips curling in disgust. Might be worth skinning him just to shut him up.

  But no, Yellow Dick had his uses. The man was cruel in a way that even Ramsay could appreciate, though he lacked the finesse to make it truly artful. Still, there was something to be said for brute force now and again.

  His attention was drawn by the sharp crack of a whip. Damon Dance-for-Me was at it again, practicing his craft on some poor sod who'd caught his eye. The boyish-faced man was all smiles as he flicked the whip, each strike coming closer and closer to the young town guards face. Ramsay could see the fear in the boy's eyes, the way he flinched with each snap of leather.

  Now that's more like it, Ramsay mused, wetting his lips. There was an art to Damon's cruelty, a grace that Ramsay could appreciate. He watched as a bead of sweat rolled down the boy's temple, imagining the salty taste of terror on his tongue. The fair-haired man caught Ramsay's eye and grinned, a smile that failed to match the harshness of his actions.

  Nearby, Sour Alyn was tending to his blade, the scrape of stone on steel a steady rhythm in the chaos of the camp. His face was twisted in concentration, or maybe it was just his usual scowl. It was hard to tell with Alyn; the man's temper was as foul as his breath, but his loyalty was unquestionable. Ramsay valued that, even if he found the man's lack of imagination... disappointing.

  Loyal as a dog, that one, Ramsay thought. And about as clever.

  His eyes drifted to the edge of the clearing, where Skinner lurked in the shadows. Now there was a man who knew his craft. Ramsay had seen him work, had watched as he peeled the skin from a man's body with the care of a lover. It was almost beautiful, in its way. Their eyes met for a moment, and Ramsay felt his narrow. Skinner was useful, aye, but dangerous too.

  Too clever by half, that one.

  Need to watch him, Ramsay reminded himself. Might be he knows too much.

  But all thoughts of his men faded as his gaze settled on the true prize of the day. Tied to a tree at the edge of the clearing, bound with heavy iron chains, was Runt. The massive black dog was anything but small, standing at the height of a small man at the shoulder, its muscles rippling beneath its midnight coat. But it was the eyes that caught Ramsay's attention, blood-red and burning with an intelligence that no beast should possess.

  Ramsay felt a thrill run through him as he approached Ben Bones, the old kennelmaster. He could see the fear in the man's eyes, the way his hands shook as he tended to the other hounds. It was... delicious.

  "How are the hounds?" Ramsay asked, his voice smooth as silk. A smile crossed his face at the way Ben flinched at the sound, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

  "Aye, m'lord, they're well," Ben replied, his voice quavering. "Never seen 'em so calm."

  Ramsay's eyes narrowed. The old man's gaze kept flickering towards Runt, fear written plain across his weathered face. Interesting, Ramsay thought. Very interesting indeed.

  "And the new one?" Ramsay pressed, letting a hint of steel creep into his voice. "How does he fare?"

  Ben swallowed hard, the little thing in his wrinkly neck bouncing like a cork in choppy waters. "That one..." he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's no ordinary hound, m'lord. Not wild, he is. But 'e knows too much." The last words were spoken so softly that Ramsay had to lean in to hear them. "Listens only to you, m'lord."

  A smirk played across Ramsay's lips as he turned away from the trembling kennelmaster. He could feel the old man's eyes on him as he strode towards Runt, could practically taste the fear rolling off him in waves. It was exquisite.

  As he neared the chained beast, Ramsay felt a thrill of excitement course through him. He remembered the chase, the wild hunt through the forest that had led to Runt's capture. It had been pure chance, really. He'd seen the great black shape racing through the trees and had given chase on a whim, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt.

  It had been no easy task to bring Runt down. The beast was faster than any hound Ramsay had ever seen, its powerful legs eating up the ground with each stride. But Ramsay was nothing if not determined. He'd pushed his mount to the limit, urging Blood on with whip and spur until they'd finally caught up.

  Even then, it had been a near thing. Ramsay had barely managed to throw the iron chain around Runt's neck, the metal links biting into the beast's flesh. For a moment, he'd thought the dog would break free, its strength seeming to surpass anything natural. But then, something strange had happened.

  Runt had... yielded.

  Almost like he wanted to be caught, Ramsay mused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the great black dog. There was something unnatural about the beast, something that set Ramsay's teeth on edge even as it fascinated him.

  As he approached, Runt's blood-red eyes locked onto him with an intensity that was almost human. Ramsay felt a shiver run down his spine, a mix of fear and excitement that he rarely experienced. He reached out, placing a hand on the beast's muzzle, feeling the warmth of its breath against his skin.

  There was a moment of tension, a silent battle of wills between man and beast. And then, slowly, Runt lowered its massive head in submission. Ramsay felt a rush of triumph, of power, that was almost intoxicating. His smirk shifted into a dark, expectant grin as he leaned in close, his lips almost brushing the dog's ear.

  "Who's a good boy?"