The Game of Crusading Thrones, Self-Insert Edition (GoT CK2)

(Power of the Old Gods: 1d100+25 =92)
(??: 1d100+?? = 69)

You all tramp into the godswood, and the faintly hysterical terror which has been pressing against the edges of your thought lifts. In its place, you feel a sense of warm weight, like a blanket has been spread over you. Your breathing slows, your vision steadies, and the hideous, disturbing sensations recede from your consciousness. Everyone else seems comforted by the solemn face of the heart tree, especially your guards, although even here they do not relax their vigilance. The dogs quiet down, Brandon, Rivers, and Sebane all relax, and Frost reaches forwards, burying his hand in the fallen leaves and loam at the base of the heart tree.

(Signs and Portents: 1d100+?? = 67)

Frost shivers and his hand snaps back. He clutches it into his robes, pressing it against his slim chest, his breathing suddenly accelerating before it slows once more and he returns his hand to his side, a few drops of red staining his glove. He turns to you, face inscrutable behind the weirwood mask, but he is holding himself taut as a bowstring pulled back to your cheek. "After this is done, we must speak of the North, your grace." He tells you, and you nod. Frost has clearly seen something, but you know pressing him is futile. He will keep his counsel until he decides otherwise. Even with that unfortunate display, your men have been calmed and comforted by the soothing presence of the Old Gods, driving back that terrible, savage thing which filled your mind with unnatural wrath and your mouth with the warm taste of blood.

(The Commands of a King: 1d100+17 = 35)

You turn and leave, calling Rivers to your side as you walk out of the godswood and back into the courtyard proper. "I need you to stay here, Rivers. Keep an eye on things." Ordinarily you would be a little gentler about your command, add a few words to soothe any hurt feelings, but you are off balance and apparently still just slightly unsettled, and your tone is brusque and perhaps even a little harsh. Rivers does not flinch from it. He meets your gaze, nods once, and throws a pebble in Brandon's general direction, and then turns and walks away without a word.

You ride swiftly and arrive at your chosen location as the sun reaches its zenith. The Wolfswood makes a rough semi-circle before you, two strands of trees creeping forwards, a narrow trail just barely visible between two immense oaks, a small stream trickling diagonally across the clearing. You and your men dismount. Bows are readied, arrows thrust into the ground for easy access. The bait is prepared and sent into the forest, in the form of raw, bloody meat hung from trees, forming a trail stretching into the woods.

(The Wilds of the Wolfswood: 1d100+?? = 59)

As the huntsmen go about their work, you wait, the sun slowly sinking, the shadows slowly lengthening. The wolfswood takes on an ominous aspect as the shadows stretch towards you and your men like grasping limbs. Even the burbling of the stream begins to take on a sinister aspect. The air feels heavy, the wind picks up, and the silence is shattered first by a loud scream of agony, followed by a mournful howl which is suddenly cut off. The distant sounds are then drowned out by a loud rustling as something – or several somethings – barrel through the bushes, bursting out of the trees.

(Fire Discipline: 1d100+22+5=101.)

"Aim but hold your fire!" Brandon shouts, and your men hold, although arrows are drawn and aimed at the trees. Out of them comes something you never thought you would see: One of the huntsman you sent into the woods running side by side with three enormous wolves, their maws red with blood, their sides and muzzles slashed with vicious wounds. The wolves run directly towards you, but as your guard prepares to intercept them they skid to a stop and spin about. One of them, her belly bulging, her wounds more severe, stumbles to the ground and the other two begin to circle her, eyes on your men and the woods in equal measure, teeth bared and ears alert. Not a man moves. Even the huntsman simply stands and stares, dread and terror in his eyes as he gazes at the wood. For a long moment, no one speaks.

(The Direwolf: 1d100+14+5= 91)

You are the Stark in Winterfell. The direwolf is the symbol of your house. It is carved into your crown, it is embroidered above your heart. It is said that the Starks of old rode direwolves into battle. You will not fear these creatures. Even wounded and terrified, they are magnificent. One of them especially draws your attention, with fierce tawny eyes and dark brown fur. Slowly, carefully, avoiding its gaze, you step forward to meet it, and it allows you. You reach out to touch it, and it allows you. Your guards relax slightly. The pregnant wolf picks herself up and walks past your shoulders before collapsing once more. Some of the tension leaks out of the air. Then Brandon speaks softly, seemingly half to himself. "What could do that to a pack of direwolves?" He murmurs. And a screech splits the air. It's a sound full of rage and hate and bloody savagery, ripping and raw, and it feels for a moment like a knife embedded in your guts.

The feeling leaves you, but now you have a decision to make.

[] Wait and see. There's something in the woods still, but it seems to be coming to you. Let it. Fit for combat, you have two direwolves, your guards, Brandon, the huntsman, and Frost. You are reasonably confident you will be able to deal with whatever comes.
[] Leave. Whatever it is in the wolfswood is quite clearly dangerous. You will return and scour the forest clear of this menace, but not today. Today you are going to retreat, get some answers, and get some more men.
[] Forward! You need to end this threat now. Go into the woods, kill whatever is making that sound, hang its corpse from the walls of Winterfell and find out what it is and what you need to do to make sure it never troubles you again.