Magic isn't gone. It waits, under the bloody roots of the weirwoods. It waits for one to seize it, to feed it, to master it. An age of magic is coming. An age of wolves. An age of blood.
Wolf Age (Harry Potter x ASOIAF insert fic)
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Decided to do the NaNoWriMo thing this year after seeing some stuff on it. Here's my story.
He woke.
What was waking but life? The rush of senses, the smells the sounds the tastes.
That tyrant that sat in the sky was blinding and he threw an arm over his eyes.
He had arms, he had eyes. That much was clear. But little else besides that…
By degrees, the world came back to him.
Slowly, the man lowered his arm, slowly light filled the world.
He was surrounded by large brown pillars, and atop them, little green things.
Trees, he realised, they were trees.
The man stood. He was a man, yes this was true too…
Many trees were a forest, and the little daggers beneath his feet was a carpet of grass.
He was a man, this was a forest, but what was a carpet?
Slowly the world came back to him. The man looked around himself, looked around the forest.
The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odour of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant cooking fires. He caught a glimpse of a black squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak, and paused to study the silvery web of an spider.
Where was he?
Who was he?
The trees around him were tall, they stood like sentinels, grey-black bark hoary with moss and dew in the sunlight. Around their roots stretched the grass and small plants and upon the leaves crawled little things, things of life and purpose.
But what was his purpose?
It was peaceful, he was untroubled in the nakedness of his mind and body as he stepped, simply existing in the forest.
But it wasn't enough. Hunger grew in him as he wandered, nails brushing through the ferns as he walked among the trees. His limbs were strong, his body well formed. His gait steady with confidence. His feet took him toward the smell of fire and blood.
It was the scent of civilisation and it drew the man onward. The fire-smell grew stronger and the man inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he took it in. It reminded him of something, of struggle and of battle, of burning and killing and death. Mixed with the scent were other smells though, smells of a different sort of struggle, a desperate stench of sweat, a finality and a hunger-suffering.
The man heard muttering. The wolves called and the birds sang, but this was conscious speech.
Strong hands brushed aside the branches that tugged at his skin and he stepped forward, into a clearing.
Here was shelter and food, the man needed these things, he knew.
But there was another in the glade, bent over examining a broken stave, no, a broken bow, for it had the remnants of a leather grip. He was a hunter, his face thin and weary. His eyes sunken and dark, his hair was greasy and unkempt. He had a scraggly beard that covered his chin and neck, but was only dark whisps on his cheeks, and he wore tattered clothes which seemed too big for him, even the patched cloak about his shoulders. He wore no hat or gloves, and his shoes were bark-bound slippers.
There was a misery in those eyes, the stranger knew. A misery of inevitability, of a failed struggle.
The hunter was unaware of him, still examining his bow in hopes of salvaging it. The stranger, for truly he was a stranger to this place, looked at him closely, his steps having brought him within only a few feet of the hunter now without the other perceiving him.
Something must have caught the hunter's eye and he looked up, "Seven hells!" he shouted, voice cracking as he fell back, grasping for a knife at his belt.
The stranger just regarded him as he began to babble. The hunter's words were unintelligible, but it didn't matter anyway.
"Please, I don't have anything!"
The stranger stepped past him to an unmade fire. The wood was too wet, the stranger saw, for even in small nuggets of bark and birch-sap wood, the hunter had not been able to make a fire and draw warmth.
The stranger strode to the firepit, over the frozen ground and reached out.
The wood burst into flame.
His will had called the fire, his command.
And to the stranger, that was the first thing that day that had not seemed strange.
"Old Gods help me." The hunter babbled in fear behind him and the sound of the hunter's knife cut across the glen as the weapon fell uselessly to the ground.
The stranger sat. The fire burned merrily away, as if flint and steel had set it hours ago. The world was strange, this place was strange, but the power that lit the fire? That was not so strange.
The stranger inhaled again. The scent was not of woodsmoke, the fire burned too purely for that, no it was the scent of heat itself almost and a searing clarity. Then the stranger turned toward the hunter's dwelling, scenting the meat drying on a rack.
The temptation was there, to leap up, to devour the meat in that moment, to gorge himself till fresh blood ran down his chin, to sup and bite and rip and gnaw until…
Where had that come from?
The stranger frowned. He looked back to the hunter, then to the meat.
"What'd you want?" the hunter asked quietly, half crouched across the glen. "I told ya, I've nothing, not enough to survive the week with my bow broken… The meat's all I have!"
The stranger just looked at him. He held the hunter's gaze till the later looked away meekly.
"Alright, just don't, do'n hurt me, please, I do'n have much."
The stranger watched, absorbing the heat of the fire as the hunter prepared the meat. He set it upon spits, he bound it with a thin cord of bark, then set it over a frame of wood above the fire. The fat sizzled at is fell and the meat darkened.
The stranger longer to taste it, but he waited, a man could wait, a beast could not, but he kept his eyes on it as it turned, the rich scent filling his nostrils and his mouth as he tasted the air.
"The name's Torren." the hunter said. "Can you even hear me, wizard? I never thought I'd see the day… Listen, do you want a cloak? I don't have much, just some furs, look, here…"
The stranger looked, and in the hunter's hands were untreated furs. The stranger nodded, clothes, these were familiar too and he draped the fur around shoulders.
"Not even your smallclothes." The hunter murmured. "Where've you come from then, eh?"
The stranger ignored him. If the hunter would babble to himself there was no point trying to listen. What were his words? The stranger didn't know. He remembered speech, he thought, he remembered talking to other people, shouting, calling curses and laughing. When had that been? Not here certainly.
The hunter took the meat off the spit when it was done. He served it up on a rude wooden plate without any accompaniment, only the dripping seared flesh.
It was juicy, tender but slightly burnt in some places which gave it a ashy taste. The taste was of blood, of copper and iron, the texture stringy and tough. No matter. It was good, thought the stranger, and he ate. He ate some more, then looked to the hunter again.
The hunter stared at him unblinking. "By the Gods…" he whispered, but his vision fled the stranger's in terror, looking back down at his own plate.
Under the stranger's gaze, the hunter set more meat above the fire, dripping and sizzling. Next to the fire, the hunter had placed a large rock, where he had laid his bow and a flask of grease. He used a piece of cloth to wipe and oil his bow, making sure it was in good condition for his next hunt, or rather it would have been, save for the fact that it was broken in two.
The stranger looked at him still, not breaking the gaze till the hunter delivered up another platter of meat.
The hunter's hands shook as he took up his cloth again, nervously running the rag over the bow's wood, as if maintaining the tool would somehow maintain his calm.
The rest of the equipment was hardly better. There was but one bow, one axe and one knife. Only a few arrows lay in a cloth quiver hanging from the tree under which the hunter had set his shelter, and that item like all the others was patched and darned till it was more patchwork than the original material, whatever it had been. There was no cheese, no bread, no wine and no more furs or horns. Only a small pile of bones and the fur the stranger now wore were to show the hunter's employment, meek that it was. Nor were there any companions to his existence, no horse or dog. He was alone and poor, living from day to day in the wild.
"Torren." the hunter said, drawing the stranger's attention. He pointed to his chest, enunciating the word, "I'm Torren."
"Torren." the stranger replied. His voice was rough and he coughed, licking his lips.
The hunter grinned for a moment, then hastened to hand over his skin of water.
The mountain stream wet the stranger's lips in a refreshing coolness as he looked again at the hunter.
"Damn those eyes." Torren whispered. Then he seemed to marshal himself. "And who're you?"
The stranger just looked at him. He still didn't understand the words, and the longer he sat here the more he began to remember.
"Longshanks, it'll have to be." Torren murmured. "Alright, Longshanks, we've no meat and I've no bow. I hope you can use that magic of yours to muster up a meal."
The stranger said nothing.
Day turned to night, and Torren pulled his ragged cloak around him and curled up under a cocoon of bark. It would be little respite from the biting cold, but the stranger, no, 'Longshanks', simply commanded the fire to burn anew.
After his command it burned with a blue flame, and Torren shut his eyes tight as he whispered fearfully to himself.
Morning came soon. Longshanks hadn't slept. Or had he? He had a name now, and names had power. He stood, the fur falling from his naked form, stepping out into the forest.
The sun was high in the sky. He had slept long, he released. Night was his ally, but he'd hunted in the day too before. Longshanks followed his nose, followed the scent of blood. Not more than a mile away he knew. Loping through the trees he ran toward it, stomach demanding the rewards of victory. Under the canopy of leaves, over rough roots and the soft damp forest floor. Brothers howled around him, birds took flight as his passing and branches cracked beneath his tread. There was peace in the forest yes, but there was struggle too.
The wolf stood before him, muzzle dripping viscera from the preybeast under it. It stepped over the aurochs, paws on the creature's broad back, growling, teeth bright in the sunlight. It was as tall as a man at the shoulder, a long snout and legs, a lean, gaunt aspect but a terrible sight to find in the forest.
Longshanks held the wolf's gaze. He pierced it's mind. He felt the rush of the chase, felt the broken rib where the aurochs had crashed it's horn into his side. He felt himself, the wolf, felt himself rush and run, felt himself scent the wind.
He saw through the wolf's eyes. He saw colours and blurs that only made sense to its keen senses. He felt his urge to hunt to run to kill. He felt the rush of victory and the certainty of food. He felt desire and wrath. He was the wolf, the aurochs died beneath his bite, struggling as blood flowed into his mouth and the prey's lifeair bubbled out from the wound in spurts and sprays.
He felt himself struggle with the man, felt himself clawing and scratching as invisible blades cut into his own flesh. He felt the wolf die and hear the man roaring as he ripped into his neck.
Longshanks awoke, covered in blood. He was standing in the camp again. The aurochs and the wolf's corpses were floating behind him as he stepped into the clearing, Torren shaking in fear as he sat beneath the everburn flame.
Torren prepared the kills under Longshank's gaze. The man shivered, casting wary glances back toward the man every now and then. He would speak on occasion, to Longshanks and to himself, but Longshanks couldn't understand him anyway.
His beast's hunger sated, Longshanks was content to follow him when he started to break down the camp. They walked, walked a long distance through the forest as Longshanks commanded the dressed carcasses to float behind them. Torren had been moving too slowly, carrying the goods on a sort of sled before Longshanks had put forth his will, but it seemed like the hunter might have preferred that he not interfere, even if it slowed them. Whenever Torren would look back at the proceeds of Longshank's hunt he would quail in fear and swear an oath, finger an amulet of dark wood at his neck and look away.
Muggle.
The word was strange.
Each time he looked at Torren he felt hatred. Hatred of weakness, of ignorance. He felt superiority, but he didn't know what the word meant.
They walked further, joining a packed earth trail where the trees had been cut back to let wagons through. Then the forest opened out completely. Torren bade him frantically to give him back the hunting materials, to curtail his will, which he did. Torren quickly set them back on the sled and took up the rope, dragging the aurochs and wolf together. He didn't get far, he was weak.
But Longshanks was strong. He seized the wolf, setting it over his shoulder, then striding forward across the earth toward the village across frost-rime fields. Torren babbled behind him and he heard the sled grind over the earth.
The villagers came out to meet them. The muggles started talking to each other excitedly, gesticulating toward him. But he just strode forward. He could sense a power there, in the centre of the village a tree with bloody leaves.
He ignored those before him. Any who got in his way saw the fire in his eyes and stepped back swiftly, the children cried out as they saw him and Torren ran behind him calling calming words.
It was older than any tree he'd seen in the forest. Old and furious. Old and broken. Old and forgotten.
Blood ran down the roots and offers were weighing in the branches and around the trunk.
The tree wept. Longshanks saw a face carved into it, his mind flew within and he touched something ancient and terrible. He saw himself, reflected through the crimson sap.
The branches spread over him like a temple, bones and entrails hung from the boughs and Longshanks could smell the stench of death and decay. It was heady. Foul, nauseating. It was maggots and crawling things, suppurating poisons and malignant fungi growing amidst the world's roots. It was the fragility of life and the inevitability of death.
Then Longshanks stepped back, Torren was tugging at his side and before him was an old woman with a painted face, speaking to him in an ancient tongue.
He just looked back at her blankly, for it was no more intelligible to him than had been Torren's speech.
"I told you, I think he's simple." Torren explained to the others, though Longshanks could see that the fear never left his eyes, and he stank of deception.
"He may stay." a broad, fat man said, the headman of the village. "I'm satisfied he's no Wildling, no matter how strange he is, and he keeps the Old Gods."
The old woman reached up and fastened an amulet like Torren's around Longshank's neck. He looked down, fascinated by it.
"Come away, Longshanks, let's get you some food." Torren said, gently tugging at his elbow again.
The village became his home in time. Each day he rose, ate and drank, he would go to the stream near the village and command the water to warm to bathe him, though Torren had begged him not to.
He began to learn the language, though when he spoke it was rough and rude. Torren helped, as did the old woman, Valla.
Joram was the headman and when Longshanks had command enough over the community's language he question Longshanks thoroughly. There was little to be said though, for Longshanks remembered little, and Joram released him with a frown.
Longshanks went back to the woodpile. He chopped and chopped each day with an old axe he'd been given and the old charcoal burner living in the village would give him food and lodging. Sometimes he'd go into the woods with his axe. The burner had tried to stop him once, but when he'd returned bloody with a shadowcat's carcass over his shoulder the burner said nothing else.
Many looked to him with fear. They would not meet his eyes. They would avoid the Weirwood at the heart of the village when he was there, and would speak nothing in his presence when they could help it.
Some though were different.
Palla, the laughing one.
"Longshanks!" she cried one day when he asked her where he could find dragons (for they featured importantly in his mind for some reason), "You say the strangest things!"
Palla would twirl her hair between her fingers when she looked at him. She would wear little blue flowers on her head, and her hair was always braided with ribbons when she came to watch him work.
He ignored her at first. That was easy, for she was a silly thing. Just a muggle.
But as the month went on he felt something stir within him. His beast couldn't be sated with the forest's animals anymore. He would look at Palla and see something more in her. He felt a hunger for her, felt that he would like to see her opened, like to feel her insides or see her naked spread out in the moonlight.
The headman must have seen his looks at the girl and he came to chastise him one day. Longshanks just ignored Joram. He enjoyed the woodcutting, it gave him time to think, to organise his thoughts.
Each day he grew in knowledge, but each day he remembered more about himself. He remembered war, or so he'd call it, he remembered screams and battle, remembered great fires and acts of evil. He remembered castles, or so the villagers called Winterfell, the nearest such structure. He remembered the giants of old Valla's stories late at night when he crept into the village hall to listen in. It was strange, strange indeed to know such things, but he would find himself experiencing flashes of emotion or thought when he worked.
One day a bear broke into the village larder and killed a young couple who'd chosen to frolic there. Longshanks hadn't been invited to the funeral, but he knew they'd be ceremonially drained of their blood to feed the Heart tree, and a feast after to celebrate the lives of the dead. He heard the merriment in the village and he hated it. He felt a darkness slip into his soul, a sorrow and a need.
The hunger grew and Longshanks looked up, longing for the moon.
Storm gathered heavy in the sky, the stars turned away, for none could see what Longshanks would do that night.
He stalked the bear to it's den. He hissed and roared as it scored his flesh with it's claws, he drained the creature's life with his teeth and screamed his own victory to the moon. His magic stirred again, and in the morning the villagers stood in wonder around Longshank's hut, starring fearfully at the wound-bearing body of the bear outside.
Joram came, cap in hand and sorrowful to his door the next day. Longshanks heard his apology and his words and said nothing. The headman fled soon after. Palla came next though with a knotted string. Her hands worked over him taking measurements as Valla, her grandmother, tended his wounds. They both marvelled at his strength and fortitude, but it was all Longshanks could do to keep still, for his urges were getting stronger.
He could smell her. Her hair was down for she was unmarried, and it smelt of woodsmoke from tending her fire to mix her grandmother's poultices. Her skin was salty as Longhsanks tasted the air, longed to taste her, longed to step forward and pin her to the wall, to take her in his arms and to rip at her flesh.
Two weeks later the village held a great ceremony. They wassailed the orchards around the settlement, calling for new life and prosperity as summer went on. Longshanks was invited this time, though he said little. He wore a fine new cloak, cut from the hide of the bear he'd slain, it's hood decorated with the teeth and claws of the beast. The villagers look at him with respect and admiration, though their fear had stayed too.
Longshanks drank from the cups of spiced ale, he ate of the cheeses and fruits in the feast, he even danced nimbly enough with the women of the village, though Palla's ruddy face was never far from his gaze.
Her father was Alyn and the man invited Longshanks to dine with them to discuss matters.
"You must have a better house." Alyn said, "You are a man of worth, and though you've not been with us long, that much is clear. There is a life here for you, Longshanks, should you want it, and none shall turn you away."
Longshanks said little to that. His eyes were dark as he looked over the great fire in the village square.
The moon.
He felt it, prickling on the back of his neck. The clouds parted, and for a moment lunar luminescence bathed the village.
Longshanks clutched at his heart.
It was on fire! It burned!
He cried out, falling back from his bench, knocking over a tankard which sprayed everywhere.
"Longshanks!" Alyn shouted, rushing to his side.
The fire pulsed and Longshanks screamed, he roared. The moon! The moon!
The world went white as he looked up and saw it, blood vessels in his eyes burst and his pupils narrowed as Alyn fell back with an oath, dodging Longshank's flailing limbs.
His heart burned, his heart would explode out of his chest and he ripped at his clothes, tearing them apart with suddenly jagged nails. He could feel his bones breaking and he screamed again, screamed ang screamed and screamed.
He felt energy, he felt aggression, the world became suddenly clear as he ripped his skin away, fur sprouting in its place. His beast urged him to run, to slay, to kill!
He stood, throwing back the men who held him down.
Longshanks smiled. This was familiar, this was good. He had not known who he was, not known whether he was a man or a beast in its shape, but this was who he was!
"Warg! Warg!" screamed the villagers, and they fled his sight. Three men ran forward bearing staves and knives, but Longshanks stepped forward, towering over them as he grew. Seven feet, eight, ten feet tall and his claws sharp.
One strike opened a throat and warm , rich blood spewed forth, coating his dark fur.
Another swipe broke Alyn's back as you leapt over him into a knot of terrified villagers.
The beast set about him with claws and fang, slaying and killing, biting and laughing in his wolfish growl.
A dozen died there among the trestle tables and he fallen foods. Longshanks hunted more through the orchards, ripping into them and scattering limbs as he leapt through the branches.
He remembered this. He remembered more with each life taken, and that drove him on. He broke through the doors of the village hall and killed all within, piling their bodies high, gobbling down the tender flesh of the young with glee.
He remembered the hunt, remembered chasing screaming muggles through the cities and the countryside.
He broke through the doors of the village huts. He killed and killed, he drank of their blood and screams. He knew he shouldn't do this, his memories told him it was wrong, was foolish, but he couldn't stop himself. The beast called him to kill and kill he did.
Night's shroud flew on and Longshanks stalked through the woods now, seeking those who'd fled the village. A trio of archers struck him with deft shafts which sank into his flesh, but his form was stronger than theirs and the regeneration of his blessing just pushed the arrowheads out, even as he snapped the shafts away in anger. Those three he killed slowly, clawing their bellies open and breaking their limbs, then leaving them to die slowly in the woods.
He caught a familiar scent then. Woodsmoke and flowers and terrified sweat.
His Palla had fled to the heart tree and knelt sobbing before it. She shook, her eyes were blind with tears and terror. He heard his approach, heard the claws on his feet tear the earth as he stalked forward.
Her grandmother lay dead beside her, her face claws away and lying as a flap of flesh almost peeled away from the skull. She had crawled, or been carried here, Longshanks knew, and the blood on Palla's clothes told who had borne the old woman there.
Longshanks approached slowly. This was a place of power, a place of magic, a place of rightness. Yes… he remembered this, the feeling of that power and might. The feeling of superiority and glory.
He lay his claws over Palla shoulders, his mouth descended to her throat, his rough tongue darted out to taste her neck as she sobbed.
Longshanks shivered in anticipation, his claws tightened, their sharp points piercing the girl's breasts and shoulders.
He howled and it shook the weirwood's boughs. The fetishes and sacrifices shivered and danced as Longshanks bellowed. He remembered! He remembered who he was!
He bent to kiss at Palla's neck, his claws tightened again in desire and her breath whistled through pierced lungs.
His teeth closed in need. He tasted her flesh, hot and wonderous.
Longshanks woke hours later among the abused corpses. He was naked and bloody. The heart tree watched him, accepting his offering. Ravens laughed in the trees as he walked through the dead village. He went to the well, and this time he called the water forth to bathe him, heating it easily with his magic. He was in bliss, and even wordless and wandless his will was done.
It had been foolish, but what could he have known? Absent his memories he couldn't have predicted what had happened.
The stranger, for he was a stranger again now all those who knew him were dead, walked through the village. From the smith he took a knife and axe, from the headman's house he took silver and jewellery.
He retrieved his bearskin cloak, then, smelling it and taking in the scent of the stitches he retraced his steps, going back toward the heart tree.
He stooped over Palla's corpse, using one jagged nail, now as long again as it should be to cut a lock of the girl's hair. He sat on the roots of the tree, braiding the strands together and tying it around his wrist. Something to remember her by…
There were no horses in the village, none who he'd not already killed or who'd gone mad in the murder of the previous night, so the stranger set out down the trail on foot. Jorum's clothes fit him, or they did after the stranger had used his magic on them.
He knew this feeling wouldn't last. He'd need to feed again, he'd need a lot of things, and soon enough the period of bliss after the full moon would fade.
But he knew who he was now! That was enough. It didn't matter that he had no wand, no way of knowing how he'd come here, he knew who he was, and what he was.
The stranger walked down the trail for three days, passing through two more villages on each night. They'd not heard about the slaughter yet for they welcomed him and his stolen silver. He even spotted a few people he could recognise in the settlements who vouched for him.
The stranger left the villages unmolested. He was going to Winterfell.
One day riders thundered down the road. He had smelt them and their horses for hours before he saw them. He had nothing to fear from muggles though. The power of the transformation was fading, but he knew he'd still be able to call on the beast if he needed it.
"You there! Stand fast!" roared the sergeant, his grey whiskers bobbing and his chest blowing as he panted, calling his horse to stop in front of the stranger.
He stepped down from the stirrup, the grey wolf on his surcoat stained with blood and sweat.
The stranger just regarded him.
"Aye, it's you alright." the sergeant said, "You come from Immerstead don't you? You know what happened there?"
"What happened there?" the stranger replied in mock confusion. "I left days ago."
"By the Gods!" swore the sergeant, "You're a lucky one. I heard how you took a bear and now you escaped that… horror!"
"Horror?" the stranger asked, "I know Jorum was to have a feast, but I was busy hunting." and he laughed genuinely, it wasn't even a lie after all.
The sergeant shook his head, a paleness slipping into his complexion at the memory of the massacre. The stranger quickly averted his eyes as he felt the connection of the Mental Arts slip into place, an unwanted connection, for now.
They explained quickly. Bloody bodies, dead villagers, corpses gnawed and partially eaten, three men tortured to death and cruel fates for the children.
The stranger was horrified, truly, for what man wouldn't be?
"You must come with me, I must report to Lord Stark. You were lucky indeed to escape it, there must be hundreds of wildlings in the Wolfswood, savages, savages the lot of them!"
The other soldiers of the sergeant's band spat and growled their own oaths.
"Lord Stark will see to them." said one, "He'll call the banners!"
"Aye and he'll have words with the Glovers and all!" bit back the sergeant, "Hundreds of them it must have been, Lord Cerwyn is bringing in all the villages to his keep but they must have been lurking there for weeks to have pulled this off." the sergeant quickly mounted his horse, gesturing for the stranger to mount behind one of his subordinates, but the man in question took one look at the stranger's side and dismounted, giving his horse up instead.
"We must be away to Winterfell." the sergeant continued, "What do we call you, I heard tell of you from a few of the villagers between here and Immerstead, they said you couldn't talk? That you didn't remember who you were."
"I have now." the stranger replied, and he knew his eyes made the sergeant uneasy.
"Oh? Then how're you known?"
The stranger smiled. He had wondered that for a month.
"Fenrir Greyback."
He woke.
What was waking but life? The rush of senses, the smells the sounds the tastes.
That tyrant that sat in the sky was blinding and he threw an arm over his eyes.
He had arms, he had eyes. That much was clear. But little else besides that…
By degrees, the world came back to him.
Slowly, the man lowered his arm, slowly light filled the world.
He was surrounded by large brown pillars, and atop them, little green things.
Trees, he realised, they were trees.
The man stood. He was a man, yes this was true too…
Many trees were a forest, and the little daggers beneath his feet was a carpet of grass.
He was a man, this was a forest, but what was a carpet?
Slowly the world came back to him. The man looked around himself, looked around the forest.
The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odour of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant cooking fires. He caught a glimpse of a black squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak, and paused to study the silvery web of an spider.
Where was he?
Who was he?
The trees around him were tall, they stood like sentinels, grey-black bark hoary with moss and dew in the sunlight. Around their roots stretched the grass and small plants and upon the leaves crawled little things, things of life and purpose.
But what was his purpose?
It was peaceful, he was untroubled in the nakedness of his mind and body as he stepped, simply existing in the forest.
But it wasn't enough. Hunger grew in him as he wandered, nails brushing through the ferns as he walked among the trees. His limbs were strong, his body well formed. His gait steady with confidence. His feet took him toward the smell of fire and blood.
It was the scent of civilisation and it drew the man onward. The fire-smell grew stronger and the man inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he took it in. It reminded him of something, of struggle and of battle, of burning and killing and death. Mixed with the scent were other smells though, smells of a different sort of struggle, a desperate stench of sweat, a finality and a hunger-suffering.
The man heard muttering. The wolves called and the birds sang, but this was conscious speech.
Strong hands brushed aside the branches that tugged at his skin and he stepped forward, into a clearing.
Here was shelter and food, the man needed these things, he knew.
But there was another in the glade, bent over examining a broken stave, no, a broken bow, for it had the remnants of a leather grip. He was a hunter, his face thin and weary. His eyes sunken and dark, his hair was greasy and unkempt. He had a scraggly beard that covered his chin and neck, but was only dark whisps on his cheeks, and he wore tattered clothes which seemed too big for him, even the patched cloak about his shoulders. He wore no hat or gloves, and his shoes were bark-bound slippers.
There was a misery in those eyes, the stranger knew. A misery of inevitability, of a failed struggle.
The hunter was unaware of him, still examining his bow in hopes of salvaging it. The stranger, for truly he was a stranger to this place, looked at him closely, his steps having brought him within only a few feet of the hunter now without the other perceiving him.
Something must have caught the hunter's eye and he looked up, "Seven hells!" he shouted, voice cracking as he fell back, grasping for a knife at his belt.
The stranger just regarded him as he began to babble. The hunter's words were unintelligible, but it didn't matter anyway.
"Please, I don't have anything!"
The stranger stepped past him to an unmade fire. The wood was too wet, the stranger saw, for even in small nuggets of bark and birch-sap wood, the hunter had not been able to make a fire and draw warmth.
The stranger strode to the firepit, over the frozen ground and reached out.
The wood burst into flame.
His will had called the fire, his command.
And to the stranger, that was the first thing that day that had not seemed strange.
"Old Gods help me." The hunter babbled in fear behind him and the sound of the hunter's knife cut across the glen as the weapon fell uselessly to the ground.
The stranger sat. The fire burned merrily away, as if flint and steel had set it hours ago. The world was strange, this place was strange, but the power that lit the fire? That was not so strange.
The stranger inhaled again. The scent was not of woodsmoke, the fire burned too purely for that, no it was the scent of heat itself almost and a searing clarity. Then the stranger turned toward the hunter's dwelling, scenting the meat drying on a rack.
The temptation was there, to leap up, to devour the meat in that moment, to gorge himself till fresh blood ran down his chin, to sup and bite and rip and gnaw until…
Where had that come from?
The stranger frowned. He looked back to the hunter, then to the meat.
"What'd you want?" the hunter asked quietly, half crouched across the glen. "I told ya, I've nothing, not enough to survive the week with my bow broken… The meat's all I have!"
The stranger just looked at him. He held the hunter's gaze till the later looked away meekly.
"Alright, just don't, do'n hurt me, please, I do'n have much."
The stranger watched, absorbing the heat of the fire as the hunter prepared the meat. He set it upon spits, he bound it with a thin cord of bark, then set it over a frame of wood above the fire. The fat sizzled at is fell and the meat darkened.
The stranger longer to taste it, but he waited, a man could wait, a beast could not, but he kept his eyes on it as it turned, the rich scent filling his nostrils and his mouth as he tasted the air.
"The name's Torren." the hunter said. "Can you even hear me, wizard? I never thought I'd see the day… Listen, do you want a cloak? I don't have much, just some furs, look, here…"
The stranger looked, and in the hunter's hands were untreated furs. The stranger nodded, clothes, these were familiar too and he draped the fur around shoulders.
"Not even your smallclothes." The hunter murmured. "Where've you come from then, eh?"
The stranger ignored him. If the hunter would babble to himself there was no point trying to listen. What were his words? The stranger didn't know. He remembered speech, he thought, he remembered talking to other people, shouting, calling curses and laughing. When had that been? Not here certainly.
The hunter took the meat off the spit when it was done. He served it up on a rude wooden plate without any accompaniment, only the dripping seared flesh.
It was juicy, tender but slightly burnt in some places which gave it a ashy taste. The taste was of blood, of copper and iron, the texture stringy and tough. No matter. It was good, thought the stranger, and he ate. He ate some more, then looked to the hunter again.
The hunter stared at him unblinking. "By the Gods…" he whispered, but his vision fled the stranger's in terror, looking back down at his own plate.
Under the stranger's gaze, the hunter set more meat above the fire, dripping and sizzling. Next to the fire, the hunter had placed a large rock, where he had laid his bow and a flask of grease. He used a piece of cloth to wipe and oil his bow, making sure it was in good condition for his next hunt, or rather it would have been, save for the fact that it was broken in two.
The stranger looked at him still, not breaking the gaze till the hunter delivered up another platter of meat.
The hunter's hands shook as he took up his cloth again, nervously running the rag over the bow's wood, as if maintaining the tool would somehow maintain his calm.
The rest of the equipment was hardly better. There was but one bow, one axe and one knife. Only a few arrows lay in a cloth quiver hanging from the tree under which the hunter had set his shelter, and that item like all the others was patched and darned till it was more patchwork than the original material, whatever it had been. There was no cheese, no bread, no wine and no more furs or horns. Only a small pile of bones and the fur the stranger now wore were to show the hunter's employment, meek that it was. Nor were there any companions to his existence, no horse or dog. He was alone and poor, living from day to day in the wild.
"Torren." the hunter said, drawing the stranger's attention. He pointed to his chest, enunciating the word, "I'm Torren."
"Torren." the stranger replied. His voice was rough and he coughed, licking his lips.
The hunter grinned for a moment, then hastened to hand over his skin of water.
The mountain stream wet the stranger's lips in a refreshing coolness as he looked again at the hunter.
"Damn those eyes." Torren whispered. Then he seemed to marshal himself. "And who're you?"
The stranger just looked at him. He still didn't understand the words, and the longer he sat here the more he began to remember.
"Longshanks, it'll have to be." Torren murmured. "Alright, Longshanks, we've no meat and I've no bow. I hope you can use that magic of yours to muster up a meal."
The stranger said nothing.
Day turned to night, and Torren pulled his ragged cloak around him and curled up under a cocoon of bark. It would be little respite from the biting cold, but the stranger, no, 'Longshanks', simply commanded the fire to burn anew.
After his command it burned with a blue flame, and Torren shut his eyes tight as he whispered fearfully to himself.
Morning came soon. Longshanks hadn't slept. Or had he? He had a name now, and names had power. He stood, the fur falling from his naked form, stepping out into the forest.
The sun was high in the sky. He had slept long, he released. Night was his ally, but he'd hunted in the day too before. Longshanks followed his nose, followed the scent of blood. Not more than a mile away he knew. Loping through the trees he ran toward it, stomach demanding the rewards of victory. Under the canopy of leaves, over rough roots and the soft damp forest floor. Brothers howled around him, birds took flight as his passing and branches cracked beneath his tread. There was peace in the forest yes, but there was struggle too.
The wolf stood before him, muzzle dripping viscera from the preybeast under it. It stepped over the aurochs, paws on the creature's broad back, growling, teeth bright in the sunlight. It was as tall as a man at the shoulder, a long snout and legs, a lean, gaunt aspect but a terrible sight to find in the forest.
Longshanks held the wolf's gaze. He pierced it's mind. He felt the rush of the chase, felt the broken rib where the aurochs had crashed it's horn into his side. He felt himself, the wolf, felt himself rush and run, felt himself scent the wind.
He saw through the wolf's eyes. He saw colours and blurs that only made sense to its keen senses. He felt his urge to hunt to run to kill. He felt the rush of victory and the certainty of food. He felt desire and wrath. He was the wolf, the aurochs died beneath his bite, struggling as blood flowed into his mouth and the prey's lifeair bubbled out from the wound in spurts and sprays.
He felt himself struggle with the man, felt himself clawing and scratching as invisible blades cut into his own flesh. He felt the wolf die and hear the man roaring as he ripped into his neck.
Longshanks awoke, covered in blood. He was standing in the camp again. The aurochs and the wolf's corpses were floating behind him as he stepped into the clearing, Torren shaking in fear as he sat beneath the everburn flame.
Torren prepared the kills under Longshank's gaze. The man shivered, casting wary glances back toward the man every now and then. He would speak on occasion, to Longshanks and to himself, but Longshanks couldn't understand him anyway.
His beast's hunger sated, Longshanks was content to follow him when he started to break down the camp. They walked, walked a long distance through the forest as Longshanks commanded the dressed carcasses to float behind them. Torren had been moving too slowly, carrying the goods on a sort of sled before Longshanks had put forth his will, but it seemed like the hunter might have preferred that he not interfere, even if it slowed them. Whenever Torren would look back at the proceeds of Longshank's hunt he would quail in fear and swear an oath, finger an amulet of dark wood at his neck and look away.
Muggle.
The word was strange.
Each time he looked at Torren he felt hatred. Hatred of weakness, of ignorance. He felt superiority, but he didn't know what the word meant.
They walked further, joining a packed earth trail where the trees had been cut back to let wagons through. Then the forest opened out completely. Torren bade him frantically to give him back the hunting materials, to curtail his will, which he did. Torren quickly set them back on the sled and took up the rope, dragging the aurochs and wolf together. He didn't get far, he was weak.
But Longshanks was strong. He seized the wolf, setting it over his shoulder, then striding forward across the earth toward the village across frost-rime fields. Torren babbled behind him and he heard the sled grind over the earth.
The villagers came out to meet them. The muggles started talking to each other excitedly, gesticulating toward him. But he just strode forward. He could sense a power there, in the centre of the village a tree with bloody leaves.
He ignored those before him. Any who got in his way saw the fire in his eyes and stepped back swiftly, the children cried out as they saw him and Torren ran behind him calling calming words.
It was older than any tree he'd seen in the forest. Old and furious. Old and broken. Old and forgotten.
Blood ran down the roots and offers were weighing in the branches and around the trunk.
The tree wept. Longshanks saw a face carved into it, his mind flew within and he touched something ancient and terrible. He saw himself, reflected through the crimson sap.
The branches spread over him like a temple, bones and entrails hung from the boughs and Longshanks could smell the stench of death and decay. It was heady. Foul, nauseating. It was maggots and crawling things, suppurating poisons and malignant fungi growing amidst the world's roots. It was the fragility of life and the inevitability of death.
Then Longshanks stepped back, Torren was tugging at his side and before him was an old woman with a painted face, speaking to him in an ancient tongue.
He just looked back at her blankly, for it was no more intelligible to him than had been Torren's speech.
"I told you, I think he's simple." Torren explained to the others, though Longshanks could see that the fear never left his eyes, and he stank of deception.
"He may stay." a broad, fat man said, the headman of the village. "I'm satisfied he's no Wildling, no matter how strange he is, and he keeps the Old Gods."
The old woman reached up and fastened an amulet like Torren's around Longshank's neck. He looked down, fascinated by it.
"Come away, Longshanks, let's get you some food." Torren said, gently tugging at his elbow again.
The village became his home in time. Each day he rose, ate and drank, he would go to the stream near the village and command the water to warm to bathe him, though Torren had begged him not to.
He began to learn the language, though when he spoke it was rough and rude. Torren helped, as did the old woman, Valla.
Joram was the headman and when Longshanks had command enough over the community's language he question Longshanks thoroughly. There was little to be said though, for Longshanks remembered little, and Joram released him with a frown.
Longshanks went back to the woodpile. He chopped and chopped each day with an old axe he'd been given and the old charcoal burner living in the village would give him food and lodging. Sometimes he'd go into the woods with his axe. The burner had tried to stop him once, but when he'd returned bloody with a shadowcat's carcass over his shoulder the burner said nothing else.
Many looked to him with fear. They would not meet his eyes. They would avoid the Weirwood at the heart of the village when he was there, and would speak nothing in his presence when they could help it.
Some though were different.
Palla, the laughing one.
"Longshanks!" she cried one day when he asked her where he could find dragons (for they featured importantly in his mind for some reason), "You say the strangest things!"
Palla would twirl her hair between her fingers when she looked at him. She would wear little blue flowers on her head, and her hair was always braided with ribbons when she came to watch him work.
He ignored her at first. That was easy, for she was a silly thing. Just a muggle.
But as the month went on he felt something stir within him. His beast couldn't be sated with the forest's animals anymore. He would look at Palla and see something more in her. He felt a hunger for her, felt that he would like to see her opened, like to feel her insides or see her naked spread out in the moonlight.
The headman must have seen his looks at the girl and he came to chastise him one day. Longshanks just ignored Joram. He enjoyed the woodcutting, it gave him time to think, to organise his thoughts.
Each day he grew in knowledge, but each day he remembered more about himself. He remembered war, or so he'd call it, he remembered screams and battle, remembered great fires and acts of evil. He remembered castles, or so the villagers called Winterfell, the nearest such structure. He remembered the giants of old Valla's stories late at night when he crept into the village hall to listen in. It was strange, strange indeed to know such things, but he would find himself experiencing flashes of emotion or thought when he worked.
One day a bear broke into the village larder and killed a young couple who'd chosen to frolic there. Longshanks hadn't been invited to the funeral, but he knew they'd be ceremonially drained of their blood to feed the Heart tree, and a feast after to celebrate the lives of the dead. He heard the merriment in the village and he hated it. He felt a darkness slip into his soul, a sorrow and a need.
The hunger grew and Longshanks looked up, longing for the moon.
Storm gathered heavy in the sky, the stars turned away, for none could see what Longshanks would do that night.
He stalked the bear to it's den. He hissed and roared as it scored his flesh with it's claws, he drained the creature's life with his teeth and screamed his own victory to the moon. His magic stirred again, and in the morning the villagers stood in wonder around Longshank's hut, starring fearfully at the wound-bearing body of the bear outside.
Joram came, cap in hand and sorrowful to his door the next day. Longshanks heard his apology and his words and said nothing. The headman fled soon after. Palla came next though with a knotted string. Her hands worked over him taking measurements as Valla, her grandmother, tended his wounds. They both marvelled at his strength and fortitude, but it was all Longshanks could do to keep still, for his urges were getting stronger.
He could smell her. Her hair was down for she was unmarried, and it smelt of woodsmoke from tending her fire to mix her grandmother's poultices. Her skin was salty as Longhsanks tasted the air, longed to taste her, longed to step forward and pin her to the wall, to take her in his arms and to rip at her flesh.
Two weeks later the village held a great ceremony. They wassailed the orchards around the settlement, calling for new life and prosperity as summer went on. Longshanks was invited this time, though he said little. He wore a fine new cloak, cut from the hide of the bear he'd slain, it's hood decorated with the teeth and claws of the beast. The villagers look at him with respect and admiration, though their fear had stayed too.
Longshanks drank from the cups of spiced ale, he ate of the cheeses and fruits in the feast, he even danced nimbly enough with the women of the village, though Palla's ruddy face was never far from his gaze.
Her father was Alyn and the man invited Longshanks to dine with them to discuss matters.
"You must have a better house." Alyn said, "You are a man of worth, and though you've not been with us long, that much is clear. There is a life here for you, Longshanks, should you want it, and none shall turn you away."
Longshanks said little to that. His eyes were dark as he looked over the great fire in the village square.
The moon.
He felt it, prickling on the back of his neck. The clouds parted, and for a moment lunar luminescence bathed the village.
Longshanks clutched at his heart.
It was on fire! It burned!
He cried out, falling back from his bench, knocking over a tankard which sprayed everywhere.
"Longshanks!" Alyn shouted, rushing to his side.
The fire pulsed and Longshanks screamed, he roared. The moon! The moon!
The world went white as he looked up and saw it, blood vessels in his eyes burst and his pupils narrowed as Alyn fell back with an oath, dodging Longshank's flailing limbs.
His heart burned, his heart would explode out of his chest and he ripped at his clothes, tearing them apart with suddenly jagged nails. He could feel his bones breaking and he screamed again, screamed ang screamed and screamed.
He felt energy, he felt aggression, the world became suddenly clear as he ripped his skin away, fur sprouting in its place. His beast urged him to run, to slay, to kill!
He stood, throwing back the men who held him down.
Longshanks smiled. This was familiar, this was good. He had not known who he was, not known whether he was a man or a beast in its shape, but this was who he was!
"Warg! Warg!" screamed the villagers, and they fled his sight. Three men ran forward bearing staves and knives, but Longshanks stepped forward, towering over them as he grew. Seven feet, eight, ten feet tall and his claws sharp.
One strike opened a throat and warm , rich blood spewed forth, coating his dark fur.
Another swipe broke Alyn's back as you leapt over him into a knot of terrified villagers.
The beast set about him with claws and fang, slaying and killing, biting and laughing in his wolfish growl.
A dozen died there among the trestle tables and he fallen foods. Longshanks hunted more through the orchards, ripping into them and scattering limbs as he leapt through the branches.
He remembered this. He remembered more with each life taken, and that drove him on. He broke through the doors of the village hall and killed all within, piling their bodies high, gobbling down the tender flesh of the young with glee.
He remembered the hunt, remembered chasing screaming muggles through the cities and the countryside.
He broke through the doors of the village huts. He killed and killed, he drank of their blood and screams. He knew he shouldn't do this, his memories told him it was wrong, was foolish, but he couldn't stop himself. The beast called him to kill and kill he did.
Night's shroud flew on and Longshanks stalked through the woods now, seeking those who'd fled the village. A trio of archers struck him with deft shafts which sank into his flesh, but his form was stronger than theirs and the regeneration of his blessing just pushed the arrowheads out, even as he snapped the shafts away in anger. Those three he killed slowly, clawing their bellies open and breaking their limbs, then leaving them to die slowly in the woods.
He caught a familiar scent then. Woodsmoke and flowers and terrified sweat.
His Palla had fled to the heart tree and knelt sobbing before it. She shook, her eyes were blind with tears and terror. He heard his approach, heard the claws on his feet tear the earth as he stalked forward.
Her grandmother lay dead beside her, her face claws away and lying as a flap of flesh almost peeled away from the skull. She had crawled, or been carried here, Longshanks knew, and the blood on Palla's clothes told who had borne the old woman there.
Longshanks approached slowly. This was a place of power, a place of magic, a place of rightness. Yes… he remembered this, the feeling of that power and might. The feeling of superiority and glory.
He lay his claws over Palla shoulders, his mouth descended to her throat, his rough tongue darted out to taste her neck as she sobbed.
Longshanks shivered in anticipation, his claws tightened, their sharp points piercing the girl's breasts and shoulders.
He howled and it shook the weirwood's boughs. The fetishes and sacrifices shivered and danced as Longshanks bellowed. He remembered! He remembered who he was!
He bent to kiss at Palla's neck, his claws tightened again in desire and her breath whistled through pierced lungs.
His teeth closed in need. He tasted her flesh, hot and wonderous.
Longshanks woke hours later among the abused corpses. He was naked and bloody. The heart tree watched him, accepting his offering. Ravens laughed in the trees as he walked through the dead village. He went to the well, and this time he called the water forth to bathe him, heating it easily with his magic. He was in bliss, and even wordless and wandless his will was done.
It had been foolish, but what could he have known? Absent his memories he couldn't have predicted what had happened.
The stranger, for he was a stranger again now all those who knew him were dead, walked through the village. From the smith he took a knife and axe, from the headman's house he took silver and jewellery.
He retrieved his bearskin cloak, then, smelling it and taking in the scent of the stitches he retraced his steps, going back toward the heart tree.
He stooped over Palla's corpse, using one jagged nail, now as long again as it should be to cut a lock of the girl's hair. He sat on the roots of the tree, braiding the strands together and tying it around his wrist. Something to remember her by…
There were no horses in the village, none who he'd not already killed or who'd gone mad in the murder of the previous night, so the stranger set out down the trail on foot. Jorum's clothes fit him, or they did after the stranger had used his magic on them.
He knew this feeling wouldn't last. He'd need to feed again, he'd need a lot of things, and soon enough the period of bliss after the full moon would fade.
But he knew who he was now! That was enough. It didn't matter that he had no wand, no way of knowing how he'd come here, he knew who he was, and what he was.
The stranger walked down the trail for three days, passing through two more villages on each night. They'd not heard about the slaughter yet for they welcomed him and his stolen silver. He even spotted a few people he could recognise in the settlements who vouched for him.
The stranger left the villages unmolested. He was going to Winterfell.
One day riders thundered down the road. He had smelt them and their horses for hours before he saw them. He had nothing to fear from muggles though. The power of the transformation was fading, but he knew he'd still be able to call on the beast if he needed it.
"You there! Stand fast!" roared the sergeant, his grey whiskers bobbing and his chest blowing as he panted, calling his horse to stop in front of the stranger.
He stepped down from the stirrup, the grey wolf on his surcoat stained with blood and sweat.
The stranger just regarded him.
"Aye, it's you alright." the sergeant said, "You come from Immerstead don't you? You know what happened there?"
"What happened there?" the stranger replied in mock confusion. "I left days ago."
"By the Gods!" swore the sergeant, "You're a lucky one. I heard how you took a bear and now you escaped that… horror!"
"Horror?" the stranger asked, "I know Jorum was to have a feast, but I was busy hunting." and he laughed genuinely, it wasn't even a lie after all.
The sergeant shook his head, a paleness slipping into his complexion at the memory of the massacre. The stranger quickly averted his eyes as he felt the connection of the Mental Arts slip into place, an unwanted connection, for now.
They explained quickly. Bloody bodies, dead villagers, corpses gnawed and partially eaten, three men tortured to death and cruel fates for the children.
The stranger was horrified, truly, for what man wouldn't be?
"You must come with me, I must report to Lord Stark. You were lucky indeed to escape it, there must be hundreds of wildlings in the Wolfswood, savages, savages the lot of them!"
The other soldiers of the sergeant's band spat and growled their own oaths.
"Lord Stark will see to them." said one, "He'll call the banners!"
"Aye and he'll have words with the Glovers and all!" bit back the sergeant, "Hundreds of them it must have been, Lord Cerwyn is bringing in all the villages to his keep but they must have been lurking there for weeks to have pulled this off." the sergeant quickly mounted his horse, gesturing for the stranger to mount behind one of his subordinates, but the man in question took one look at the stranger's side and dismounted, giving his horse up instead.
"We must be away to Winterfell." the sergeant continued, "What do we call you, I heard tell of you from a few of the villagers between here and Immerstead, they said you couldn't talk? That you didn't remember who you were."
"I have now." the stranger replied, and he knew his eyes made the sergeant uneasy.
"Oh? Then how're you known?"
The stranger smiled. He had wondered that for a month.
"Fenrir Greyback."
- Location
- United Kingdom
Pleased with the reception of this so far. Amused by some people who seem to not understand what it's about but given the usual sort of HPxASOIAF crossover that's not surprising (and is indeed one of the purposes of this fic, to subvert the usual crossover stuff). No idea whether I'm on track for 50k in November as part of the challenge, but I'm going to give it a good go in any case. This was was posted a few days ago on Patreon and further chapters (including the next one which is there now) will be up there before they're elsewhere. I'm planning on posting the whole fic with 5k each week, which will be therefore over the next 8 weeks. After I finish the 50k I'll poll people to see what they're interested in next.
The dense greenery of the Wolfswood rapidly faded away.
The party rode swiftly, cantering on flat ground, then trotting the horses where the trees grew thicker or the ground less firm.
Fenrir had a harder time of it than the others. For one, he was bigger, he was more than a hand's span taller than the tallest of the party and he'd also not ridden anything in years.
Wizards would of course use a variety of creatures as mounts, gryphons coming to mind for example, but for the most part they rode brooms, and then only recreationally. Floo travel was the most common method of long distance travel, with apparition being another way. The most skilled wizards (a category in which Fenrir did not include himself) could use more esoteric methods like when the Dark Lord turned himself into smoke to fly without external assistance.
These were the thoughts that distracted Fenrir while he rode. He had to have some distraction, for even within a few hours he was saddlesore, his thighs chafed and his head so shaken about by the pace of the ride that he could only grit his teeth in frustration as they passed through the trees.
The ride took them past villages and little stone towers, past houses half built into the earth with turf roofs which stank of earthy safety. Once they passed a larger wooden castle, whitewashed by Muggles outside with buckets of caustic lime. Fenrir had to breathe through his mouth while the sergeant spoke with the knight of the structure to get the latest news.
"Lord Stark rallies to Castle Cerwyn, we'll report to Captain Mollen there!" the sergeant called. From the castle came grooms and servants and they ate a quick meal, only half an hour at table at most before they left again.
Greyback had heard of 'the Stark of Winterfell'. He had some understanding of the terrain around him, knowledge enough to know the rough geography of the Wolfswood, of the territory of Lord Glover, the supposed steward of that forest, as well as the orientation of the Kingsroad which ran north past Castle Cerwyn to Winterfell, the capital of the region. He knew enough to know that Westeros, the continent he found himself on, was ruled by a single king, yet divided into several regions.
This told him nothing at all of how he'd found himself naked and alone in a forest on what seemed to be another world.
But Fenrir Greyback was a practical man. He always had been, it was almost a requirement as a werewolf. In truth, he was looking forward to it. Here was a whole new world, and one absent the cursed Ministry of Magic, absent the nonsense of the blood purists.
His world. If he willed it…
If he could only think for a moment, instead of concentrating on trying to keep his seat on this ridiculous horse!
On through a barrowland, on past three companies of men wearing black axes on grey for their sigils, on past farms and mills. On past the musky odour of cattle, the scent of leather and horsesweat his constant companion. On past smoke and blood at the cookfires and hunting spots of villagers, on to the gloriously sweet and clear scent of the rivers they passed. On past ale and bread in the inns and the salt of a quarry.
"You don't ride well, if I might say so, friend." the sergeant said to him one night when the troop had bedded down.
Fenrir slept within the confines of his bearskin cloak. It was a rich garment indeed and he'd had more than one envious glance at it. Any who looked more than once got a glimpse of his eyes though and hurriedly looked away.
He kept his gaze averted, pretending to fiddle with his boots while he thought on his reply.
Torren, that foolish muggle back in the village, had been terrified of his eyes. For a month before he'd regained his memories he'd just thought the man a coward. Greyback knew he was a large and intimidating man after all, his years of lycanthropic transformations leaving a distinct cast to his features, and not one that inspired friendliness. This was different though. Fenrir had realised it when he'd caught a glimpse of the sergeant's memories.
The prime requirements for the Mental Arts was clarity of thought and strength of will. Some would call it a technical skill, one of secret knowledge and training, but Greyback knew better. He had been a werewolf for decades and over time he'd managed to control the transformation somewhat, to be able to almost induce it, to call upon its strength. The Department of Mysteries would have liked to get their hands on him for their experiments but he'd never been foolish enough to let that happen.
But now after his amnesic episode in the village, he found his focus sundered. Whenever he met the gaze of the muggles he could feel himself clawing his way into their eyes, into their minds.
The Mental Arts could be dangerous on the user as well though, and he'd resolved to try to avoid looking people in the eyes till he was in more control.
The bliss of the transformation was still affecting him.
While some lycanthropes suffered stresses and premature ageing due to their transformations each month, Greyback welcomed them. He had eaten well, his beast had delighted in the slaughter of the village and it had given him a boon. It sometimes happened after a particularly good hunt, for a few days after he would feel the pangs of joy, a sensation almost like stretching after a long sleep. It was glorious, though hazardous given the distraction that it caused, clouding his focus.
In truth, the massacre had been incredibly foolish. He hadn't let himself go like that in decades. Not since the Ruhr in '62.
He had been silent too long. He was too distracted, and Greyback dug his pointed nails into his palm till they drew fresh copper-blood.
"Not in some time." he replied back to the sergeant.
"Aye, seems not. You remember who you were then? Did you serve? You have that look about you. Was it a blow to the head? I've heard men can lose their memories from it sometimes."
"I remember more each day." Greyback replied. 'Had he served'? What did that mean? He was in dangerous territory. He needed the access the sergeant's rank could give him… "I did serve yes, though I only remember some of it."
"Where was it? In the War?"
Greyback had heard of a war. Alyn had fought in it, but hadn't gone into details. Apparently a war against dragons, or perhaps people who supported dragons in some fashion. "No, not there." he replied.
"Ah, the Disputed Lands then." the sergeant nodded sagely. "I thought you might be a sellsword. Men don't get muscles like yours without battle. Which company were you with? I knew several who served with the Second Sons or the Company of the Rose."
"They were the Death Eaters." Greyback said with a smile.
The sergeant nodded, as if that wasn't an unusual name, "And your commander? I don't know the name but I might know the sigil."
Fenrir knew the sergeant suspected him. He knew how he looked and had used his appearance and reputation for his own benefit many times. But what was the sergeant's plan?
"He called himself 'Lord Voldemort'." Greyback replied slowly. "His sigil was a serpent and a skull on a green field."
"Sounds like a Dornishman… They love snakes." replied the Sergeant. "Well, we'd better sleep, we'll reach Castle Cerwyn tomorrow if we ride hard."
Fenrir grinned a toothy grin as he lay back. The idea of the Dark Lord being dismissed by a muggle was farcical. Oh well, not like he'd be seeing Riddle again.
As he lay there the lycanthrope thought further on his initial question. What was the Sergeant thinking? The questioning had been an interrogation. Likely the man would report Fenrir's words to his commander, and then to the various lords of the North. No doubt in his mind, the Sergeant didn't suspect him of being a werewolf. Apparently magic was a thing of the past in Westeros, confined to story and tale. But a wildling spy? An infiltrator or scout of the force of barbarians who had butchered the village? That might be more probable.
Greyback slept fitfully. He had never slept especially well, for werewolves were often nocturnal, forced into work below their station because of their condition. Well, Greyback had rejected that, rejected the Wizards and their laws. If they named him 'beast', he would act like one, and besides, night was often the best time to strike.
The waking was done quickly. The men dined on cheese, bread, and cold sausage, then swiftly mounted and rode. After another uncomfortable day of riding they sighted the modest keep of the Cerwyns, the banner which flew above the keep was made of silver thread, not merely grey-dyed wool like the surcoats of the soldiers.
Now again Fenrir scented strange smells. Some wizards or muggles lived in rude fashion, especially those of his own kind, but he'd rarely smelt the acrid scent of tubs of urine from a tannery, or the earthy cloying smell of open latrines. It was as if this world was all new to him, it even recalled his first Change, the first time he'd transformed and how the more powerful nose of the werewolf had opened a new world of sensations and senses to him.
Greyback dismounted with a groan. They had to dismount at the pickets beyond the castle, making their way through a copse of tents. It was not that forest of canvas from the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, but it was well-populated all the same. Here were hundreds of unwashed soldiers smelling of greasy, rust and sweat.
He saw more sigils there, the axe of Cerwyn, the mailed fist of Glover, the moose of Hornwood. The Sergeant pointed them all out and muttered to himself and his company as you walked toward the keep. "I'd not like to be Lord Glover now." he said darkly.
As Greyback understood, it was a great embarrassment for the Glovers to have missed what was apparently a sizeable force of wildlings. It would be more embarrassing though to have those 'wildlings' disappear like morning mist before the sun, for Greyback was hardly going to confess.
They passed washerwomen and their babes, beating drying clothes with sticks and scrubbing laundry over boards. Fenrir licked his lips as they passed, sighting one beauty, her dress soaked and sticking to her skin.
No.
He had sated his beast in the village. He didn't need to hunt so soon.
Instead, he brought his wrist to his face, scenting the lock of hair he'd cut from Palla's head while she lay broken and rent in the dawnlight.
There was a tension in the air. Fenrir had been a werewolf for forty years, and his nose was keen. These men were preparing for battle, but they seemed to have no fear. Admirable…
For muggles.
The Sergeant reported to his captain, and that captain to his commander, and that commander led them into the keep to the study of Lord Cerwyn. The space was reasonably large, and comfortably decorated, though not luxuriously so.
Fenrir could smell spices, only a small amount, in a locked chest in an otherwise musty draw. He could smell the private privy through a door, and the oil from the weapons hung on a stand. The room was round, located in one of the towers of the keep, with a large window bordered in well-cut white stone. A river, the White Knife perhaps, wound its way through the countryside beyond, while within a fire burned merrily in a stone fireplace. Lord Cerwyn himself was there, a man of forty or more, with a boy in the House livery attending him. On the table were some signs of wealth such as a silver candlestick, an inkpot of blown glass, imported presumably, a steel razor Fenrir sensed by the smell of the ointment on the blade, and two leatherbound books. Fenrir looked them over and discounted them as soon as he saw them, none had value to him.
"My lord," Ser Kyle Condon, one of Cerwyn's commanders reported, "This man, Fenrir Greyback by name, was staying in the village before the attack. I have knowledge of him from others who have known him over this past month. A hunter found him in the woods wandering naked and the headman took him in. He proved himself over time, killing a blood-mad bear on his own."
Fenrir did not bow. He would sometimes feign subservience to Wizards to fool them, or at least he had in his youth before his appearance changed so radically, but he refused to feign such to a muggle.
Even without his wand he could kill the man before he drew another breath. He almost felt himself move then before he quashed the dark urge, a sudden energy, a strength in his legs, he saw himself leaping over the table, hand drawn back to slash open the man's throat!
"How did you come to be in the Wolfswood in such a state?" Cerwyn asked, and it shocked Greyback out of his fantasy.
"I don't know." he replied easily, "I even couldn't remember how to speak at first."
"I can vouch for this, through my sources, my lord." Condon put in, "It is the reason we did not suspect him. It would take a mummer of surpassing skill to pull off such a ruse, and," Fenrir heard a rustle of metal behind as the man shrugged in his chainmail, "he doesn't look like a mummer."
"No, he does not." Cerwyn said cooly. He regarded Greyback, who quickly averted his eyes. Would the lord take it as subservience? Perhaps, but the werewolf supposed his pride could accept that at least. "Well then, we shall question you." the lord continued, "Where were you on the night of the massacre, we deem it to have happened more than a week ago, from the condition of the bodies…"
Now that was interesting. It seemed his beast's savagery during the transformation had made them think the village had been destroyed several days before it had. Why was that? Fenrir's mind worked as he considered his answer. 'The condition of the bodies', did Cerwyn think the villagers had been killed, then subsequently scavenged by the creatures of the forest?
But no! Greyback had told the Sergeant when they'd met that the villagers were preparing for a feast, and the feast had been laid out in readiness. They'd been halfway through when the moon had risen. Surely the local people would know what day the feast was? They'd even had the wassailing cauldron out. This was potentially dangerous… If they thought the feast had been days earlier than it had been, what would they do? Greyback didn't know enough about the Northerners to consider it properly…
"I was hunting." Fenrir just answered honestly, still thinking. He didn't need to explain exactly what he'd been hunting, namely the villagers, and he was hardly about to correct the lord about the timing. Better to disappear perhaps, before they questioned his story further.
"Was there any sign of a wildling band in your hunts?" Cerwyn leant forward, "Spoor, the remains of camps, unusual smoke or fires?"
What was best to answer there to frustrate them the most?
"To the north, some of the others said there wasn't much prey, that the wolves weren't howling to the north." Greyback answered.
The north of the village was into the most densely forested and least accessible part of the Wolfswood. Hopefully that would lead them on a merry chase, wandering about in the woods for weeks before they realised their mistake.
"See to it, Ser Kyle." Cerwyn ordered and continued his questioning.
Yes, Fenrir had been a hunter, yes he'd lost his memories but was regaining them, yes he'd served in battle under the banner of the Death Eaters, no he didn't know where Voldemort was now, yes it was a small company anyway so maybe that's why Cerwyn hadn't heard of him. Yes he'd killed that bear, yes he now wore it as a cloak, no he'd not heard anything, he'd left before the massacre.
Cerwyn started to grow frustrated before Ser Kyle deflected him. In the end both Fenrir and Kyle were sent away.
"You may have your pride, Sellsword." the knight said to him after they were out of earshot of the lord, "But you'd be wise to remember your courtesies. My lord took offence there, but he's a just man. Others would have had you whipped for your insolence."
"They could try." the werewolf grinned.
The smile seemed to unnerve the knight, and he said nothing more for a while, handing Fenrir off to his subordinate, Mollen.
The werewolf was brought to the inn just outside the castle, given a room and told not to leave. No guard was posted, but Greyback heard the innkeeper speaking softly with Mollen as he shut the door. He would be watched, and informed upon if he tried to escape, no doubt.
Greyback threw himself down on the narrow cot.
Then he got up again immediately, stalking to the door he opened it and bellowed down in the rasping growl that was his voice, "Innkeeper! Food and drink in an hour!"
He smelt the fear off the man immediately and grinned, then he slammed the door shut just to terrify the publican.
Most amusing.
With a grin, the lycanthrope went back to the bed. Off came the bearskin and the jacket he'd stolen from Joram. He lay down in the bed, legs crossed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
There was much to consider, and Greyback went over it in his mind, slowly organising his thoughts. It was essential, both for controlling his urges, and to properly examine his situation. He had not survived fifty years as one of Europe's most infamous criminals by being hasty, even if he let himself go sometimes when his beast was raging.
Firstly, he was on another world. He'd never heard of such a thing, but through magic many things were possible. There could be any number of magical artefacts which might cause such a thing. Or was he in the future? There were plants and animals and people, where had they come from? The muggles had many comical theories about the existence of life on other planets and what form it might take, why then did everything appear so… mundane?
Was he in a different time? Had he been crushed by a comically large time-turner? Experienced some other improbable magical accident? He hadn't studied muggle history since he'd been a boy, and he vaguely remembered the names of some of the kings of Britain, of that one with nine wives or the other one with the crooked foot. He didn't remember anything like this.
Was he in the future? One where humanity had somehow regressed back to a medieval state of technology?
He supposed there would be no way to tell that, and moved on from the thought.
How had he gotten here? He thought again on the ridiculous thought of an enormous time-turner falling slowly toward him, splattering him with it's weight, and he laughed a little to himself. He would die in battle, of that he'd always been sure, never in such a silly way as he'd envisaged.
What was the last thing he remembered?
Greyback cleared his mind. The Dark Lord had returned. Fenrir had thought him dead, killed by the Potter boy years ago, but then his contacts had told him of the return and Fenrir had sought him out. While the werewolf had never been permitted to wear the Dark Mark, such was the blood purist ideology, he had been accepted among the Death Eaters, though never respected. Nevertheless, he would put his pride aside for his people, and serve Voldemort as long as the dark wizard served Fenrir's interests in turn.
He remembered… where had it been? One of the packs in Croatia he thought, he remembered the caves under Papuk, the clan of his people who made it their home. He had been reacquainting himself with the clans in preparation for rallying them into a season of violence on behalf of Voldemort, who had renewed his promise to make Britain a free country for werewolves.
Greyback had never entirely trusted the Dark Lord. Anyone would have been foolish to do so, but Voldemort provided him the means and cover to bite others, increasing the numbers of his people, which in turn translated to military, magical, and political power. That was enough, and Fenrir had used that strategy before…
He was getting off track. He focused his mind again, piercing the veil of his foggy brain.
Voldemort had been agitated, looking for something. Fenrir hadn't been told what, he'd just followed when he was bade to. They had gone on the attack, followed Voldemort into battle.
But where?
Had they attacked some sort of esoteric site? A place of exotic magics or energies? Had the Dark Lord enacted some dread ritual which had gone awry? Had the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore opposed them and the resultant wild enchantment somehow transported him to this world?
Fenrir wracked his brain for ideas. He was no loremaster, but he knew of a few curious magical artefacts. There was the Veil of Death for one, no one knew what happened to those who passed through that. Had he slipped into it? Been tossed in by the Order during a duel?
But why would the Veil of Death function in such a way? The common consensus was that it truly transported those who fell into it into an afterlife, thus giving it it's name. Even so, why would Voldemort have attacked the Department of Mysteries? Had he sought something there to oppose Dumbledore?
Fenrir moved on, that was also irrelevant, ultimately. Perhaps this was all some hallucination. Perhaps he'd taken a bad batch of potion. Or perhaps his mind was just breaking down in the last moments of his life, his blood rushing from a wound as he lay dying in some dark place back on Earth…
It was a morbid thought. Greyback rolled his shoulder uncomfortably, bringing his arms down and laying his clawed hands over his belly.
Once again he came back to his initial thought. None of this really mattered he supposed. He would do as he'd always done. Greyback was a greedy man, he was quite happy to accept that. He had desires, ones he would sate regardless of the prey. He couldn't be satisfied with living as most werewolves did, staying in some isolated cottage away from civilisation and eking out an existence scrabbling for scraps.
No, he wanted more.
And absent the Ministry of Magic, it seemed he could have it.
Not as a single man perhaps, but this was a world ruled by might, and compared with a muggle, Fenrir knew he was strong enough to make something of himself. Back in the solar he'd thought of killing Lord Cerwyn, been confident he'd be able to do it. He could move faster than a human, he was stronger too. Strong enough to defeat three men with ease perhaps, though he'd never fought muggles in steel armour…
He had his own strength and a purse of stolen silver, the world was his…
The first step, Greyback thought as the scent of salt and meat wafted up from the greatroom below, was to secure his magic.
Werewolves were generally required to get along without wands. His people occupied the liminal space between beast and being in the Ministry's classification, and that meant their rights to carry wands were often constrained. Similarly, due to the social stigma of lycanthropy and the dangers of the physical transformation, werewolves could rarely get the education or occupations which might allow them to educate themselves in magic properly. Greyback himself had been expelled from Hogwarts after Headmaster Prewitt had learned of his affliction, though Greyback knew Dumbledore had been more willing to accept lycanthrope students and other half-breeds, that half-giant gamekeeper sprung to mind.
Then there was the physical transformation of course. One could hardly carry around a wand when loping through a forest, and most werewolves found themselves waking naked and covered in blood if they didn't lock themselves up during the full moon.
Greyback scoffed, he had never respected those who did that. They claimed it was a matter of self-control but he knew it was just cowardice.
In any case, he was used to working without a wand. Never for so long though. He would often just steal or take one from a victim, but here he had no wand and no way to get one.
Magic was real though. He could feel it. It was different in some way, perhaps less constrained by the networks of wards, magical transport systems or national enchantments, but he could still feel it if he concentrated. The weirwood, that had been a thing of magic, and Greyback fingered the amulet he'd been given in the village, carved with the face of the Old Gods.
Had the Old Gods been wizards? Or something like it?
There were dragons though and other magical creatures. That was certain and very clear from the villagers. Some, he supposed, might be mundane but it was clear there were magical things in Westeros and that meant reagents and materials.
While Greyback had a broad set of skills from his varied life, wandlore was one thing he'd never investigated. It was useless to do so, for what werewolf would be able to amass the resources, connections and acceptance from the community to start to sell wands or find employment in a wandmakers?
He knew that wands were constructed from various woods, and that they had different cores. Wizards would often remark on wand combinations, but in truth, only those fascinated by divination or of a superstitious temperament actually cared about it.
Greyback's first wand had been alder and unicorn hair, but he'd lost that decades ago. More recently he'd tried to buy from a Bulgarian wandmaker to see if he could find something more useful to him. He'd not really intended to buy, he'd really been scouting the shop with the intention of robbing it later that night, but in any case the Bulgar wizard had been happy to try to match him.
The result had been an affinity for oak and blackthorn, with a core of dragon heartstring, but before he could make the purchase the wandmaker had ordered him out of the shop and called the local aurors. Greyback hadn't been sure why at the time, he'd assumed the man recognised him as a werewolf and feared for his life. He'd been right do so, but Fenrir also supposed that the combination of the wood and core might have had some meaning which scared the wandmaker.
He had already seen oak trees, as well as firs, pines, sycamores and willows. He was inclined to try weirwood as well, though he might take time to do so, till he'd had some practice with the others first.
Then there was the core. If he could find and kill a dragon he might use the heartstrings, but he'd have to look at others if the dragons proved illusive.
Until he had a wand he couldn't cast spells or use most magic. While he didn't know wandlore, magical theory and the ways in which it applied to werewolves had been a great interest of his, and Greyback knew what his limitations would be.
No apparition. Not without a high risk of splinching, and not knowing his destination besides given he was on a new world and hadn't seen many locations. No complex charms, transfigurations or curses. No wards, and any runes he wanted to make he'd have to carve, or get someone else to carve sufficiently proficiently to take the magic. With a wand he could cast Fiendfyre and destroy a city, without one he'd just burn himself to cinders. No precise control over the Mental Arts.
With a thought, he snapped his fingers and called a little bluebell flame. A parlour trick…
Orthodox magical theory, at least that which predominated in Europe and the colonies, stated that magic was the application of will and magical power through mnemonic tools such as incantations or wand movements. It was more complex than that of course given the addition of the inherent power of a wand, but the wizards of Asia or Africa had native magical traditions of long study and significant power, unlike those Greyback had been taught, and even they held true to the basic principles. Whether a Chinese wizard used hand gestures and movements of the limbs to cast a spell, or a British wizard used an incantation, it was much the same at the basic level.
He could use curses wandlessly, he'd always had an inclination toward direct, violent spells like Cutting or Blasting curses, but that would be about it till he acquired a proper wand.
Then there was the sheer convenience of using magic! He'd used magic in the village to shape water or to slightly alter his current clothes, to kill the bear and the other animals. That had been instinctive, the same way children sometimes used accidental magic. Supremely powerful and learned wizards like Dumbledore or the Dark Lord could use magic like that consciously, but Greyback didn't count himself among their number.
There was also the infrastructure of magic and of the Wizarding World. There would be no easy international travel for him, perhaps not ever, for Greyback had no idea how one would go about connecting two fireplaces together or to a wider Floo Network. The Ministry had people for that, or so he assumed. It was just something that happened after all, presumably it was someone's job.
Potions too, would be in short supply, and Greyback doubted he'd have the time or resources to set up a proper workshop. There were some potions which could prove extremely useful to a werewolf and though he was philosophically and morally opposed to the Wolfsbane Potion, he'd used it more than once when the need arose to control his beast, when he couldn't afford to lose a night to it running free.
He would have to seek out an alchemist. Some of the reagents might be the same, but while he knew how to brew the Wolfsbane Potion by heart, as well as a few others, he'd never completed his formal education in that particular art.
Fenrir had been lying in bed for an hour or more by now. He stirred himself, sitting up, stretching and cracking his joints. The transformation created new bones and muscles and it was always slightly uncomfortable to be back in human form afterward, but he'd gotten used to it over time. It was just like breaking in a new pair of boots really.
The smell of a meaty stew made him salivate. He would eat well tonight he decided, for despite his dining on the villagers he found himself hungry again. This time he'd make do with mundane fare. He was looking forward to it even as he concentrated on the rich scent wafting from the innkeeper's cookpot.
His first step must be to seek places of magical power, and places where he might acquire reagents for future experimentation. That would take months no doubt, and if he seeded the starts of a few clans of werewolves while he was doing it, even better.
Reagents meant cities though. Merchants and herbalists who might already have such items, learned men like scholars and historians who might point him in the right direction.
Gaining such knowledge would require funds both to pay the people, and to bribe anyone who might question Greyback about why he wanted to know such things. He knew the permanent effects of his transformations over the decades made his appearance intimidating, and he'd not stoop to wearing a mask, he was proud of his scars and his aspect.
He could turn assassin or brigand, kill for coin, whether on his own initiative or on the orders of another. Those occupations were familiar ones to him. Or he could make a direct approach, scale the walls of a keep by night and steal away with a lord's valuables perhaps…
Ordinarily he could have just robbed and Confounded a muggle, but without a wand he wasn't capable of such a spell.
Someone knocked at his room's door. The hinges squeaked and a young girl, not unlovely, though far from the best he'd seen walked in nervously. She averted her eyes, staring at the floor as she came to bring him his food.
The smell of her and of the meal interrupted Greyback's thoughts. They could wait. For now he would eat.
And who knows, perhaps the innkeeper's daughter might do for afters?
The dense greenery of the Wolfswood rapidly faded away.
The party rode swiftly, cantering on flat ground, then trotting the horses where the trees grew thicker or the ground less firm.
Fenrir had a harder time of it than the others. For one, he was bigger, he was more than a hand's span taller than the tallest of the party and he'd also not ridden anything in years.
Wizards would of course use a variety of creatures as mounts, gryphons coming to mind for example, but for the most part they rode brooms, and then only recreationally. Floo travel was the most common method of long distance travel, with apparition being another way. The most skilled wizards (a category in which Fenrir did not include himself) could use more esoteric methods like when the Dark Lord turned himself into smoke to fly without external assistance.
These were the thoughts that distracted Fenrir while he rode. He had to have some distraction, for even within a few hours he was saddlesore, his thighs chafed and his head so shaken about by the pace of the ride that he could only grit his teeth in frustration as they passed through the trees.
The ride took them past villages and little stone towers, past houses half built into the earth with turf roofs which stank of earthy safety. Once they passed a larger wooden castle, whitewashed by Muggles outside with buckets of caustic lime. Fenrir had to breathe through his mouth while the sergeant spoke with the knight of the structure to get the latest news.
"Lord Stark rallies to Castle Cerwyn, we'll report to Captain Mollen there!" the sergeant called. From the castle came grooms and servants and they ate a quick meal, only half an hour at table at most before they left again.
Greyback had heard of 'the Stark of Winterfell'. He had some understanding of the terrain around him, knowledge enough to know the rough geography of the Wolfswood, of the territory of Lord Glover, the supposed steward of that forest, as well as the orientation of the Kingsroad which ran north past Castle Cerwyn to Winterfell, the capital of the region. He knew enough to know that Westeros, the continent he found himself on, was ruled by a single king, yet divided into several regions.
This told him nothing at all of how he'd found himself naked and alone in a forest on what seemed to be another world.
But Fenrir Greyback was a practical man. He always had been, it was almost a requirement as a werewolf. In truth, he was looking forward to it. Here was a whole new world, and one absent the cursed Ministry of Magic, absent the nonsense of the blood purists.
His world. If he willed it…
If he could only think for a moment, instead of concentrating on trying to keep his seat on this ridiculous horse!
On through a barrowland, on past three companies of men wearing black axes on grey for their sigils, on past farms and mills. On past the musky odour of cattle, the scent of leather and horsesweat his constant companion. On past smoke and blood at the cookfires and hunting spots of villagers, on to the gloriously sweet and clear scent of the rivers they passed. On past ale and bread in the inns and the salt of a quarry.
"You don't ride well, if I might say so, friend." the sergeant said to him one night when the troop had bedded down.
Fenrir slept within the confines of his bearskin cloak. It was a rich garment indeed and he'd had more than one envious glance at it. Any who looked more than once got a glimpse of his eyes though and hurriedly looked away.
He kept his gaze averted, pretending to fiddle with his boots while he thought on his reply.
Torren, that foolish muggle back in the village, had been terrified of his eyes. For a month before he'd regained his memories he'd just thought the man a coward. Greyback knew he was a large and intimidating man after all, his years of lycanthropic transformations leaving a distinct cast to his features, and not one that inspired friendliness. This was different though. Fenrir had realised it when he'd caught a glimpse of the sergeant's memories.
The prime requirements for the Mental Arts was clarity of thought and strength of will. Some would call it a technical skill, one of secret knowledge and training, but Greyback knew better. He had been a werewolf for decades and over time he'd managed to control the transformation somewhat, to be able to almost induce it, to call upon its strength. The Department of Mysteries would have liked to get their hands on him for their experiments but he'd never been foolish enough to let that happen.
But now after his amnesic episode in the village, he found his focus sundered. Whenever he met the gaze of the muggles he could feel himself clawing his way into their eyes, into their minds.
The Mental Arts could be dangerous on the user as well though, and he'd resolved to try to avoid looking people in the eyes till he was in more control.
The bliss of the transformation was still affecting him.
While some lycanthropes suffered stresses and premature ageing due to their transformations each month, Greyback welcomed them. He had eaten well, his beast had delighted in the slaughter of the village and it had given him a boon. It sometimes happened after a particularly good hunt, for a few days after he would feel the pangs of joy, a sensation almost like stretching after a long sleep. It was glorious, though hazardous given the distraction that it caused, clouding his focus.
In truth, the massacre had been incredibly foolish. He hadn't let himself go like that in decades. Not since the Ruhr in '62.
He had been silent too long. He was too distracted, and Greyback dug his pointed nails into his palm till they drew fresh copper-blood.
"Not in some time." he replied back to the sergeant.
"Aye, seems not. You remember who you were then? Did you serve? You have that look about you. Was it a blow to the head? I've heard men can lose their memories from it sometimes."
"I remember more each day." Greyback replied. 'Had he served'? What did that mean? He was in dangerous territory. He needed the access the sergeant's rank could give him… "I did serve yes, though I only remember some of it."
"Where was it? In the War?"
Greyback had heard of a war. Alyn had fought in it, but hadn't gone into details. Apparently a war against dragons, or perhaps people who supported dragons in some fashion. "No, not there." he replied.
"Ah, the Disputed Lands then." the sergeant nodded sagely. "I thought you might be a sellsword. Men don't get muscles like yours without battle. Which company were you with? I knew several who served with the Second Sons or the Company of the Rose."
"They were the Death Eaters." Greyback said with a smile.
The sergeant nodded, as if that wasn't an unusual name, "And your commander? I don't know the name but I might know the sigil."
Fenrir knew the sergeant suspected him. He knew how he looked and had used his appearance and reputation for his own benefit many times. But what was the sergeant's plan?
"He called himself 'Lord Voldemort'." Greyback replied slowly. "His sigil was a serpent and a skull on a green field."
"Sounds like a Dornishman… They love snakes." replied the Sergeant. "Well, we'd better sleep, we'll reach Castle Cerwyn tomorrow if we ride hard."
Fenrir grinned a toothy grin as he lay back. The idea of the Dark Lord being dismissed by a muggle was farcical. Oh well, not like he'd be seeing Riddle again.
As he lay there the lycanthrope thought further on his initial question. What was the Sergeant thinking? The questioning had been an interrogation. Likely the man would report Fenrir's words to his commander, and then to the various lords of the North. No doubt in his mind, the Sergeant didn't suspect him of being a werewolf. Apparently magic was a thing of the past in Westeros, confined to story and tale. But a wildling spy? An infiltrator or scout of the force of barbarians who had butchered the village? That might be more probable.
Greyback slept fitfully. He had never slept especially well, for werewolves were often nocturnal, forced into work below their station because of their condition. Well, Greyback had rejected that, rejected the Wizards and their laws. If they named him 'beast', he would act like one, and besides, night was often the best time to strike.
The waking was done quickly. The men dined on cheese, bread, and cold sausage, then swiftly mounted and rode. After another uncomfortable day of riding they sighted the modest keep of the Cerwyns, the banner which flew above the keep was made of silver thread, not merely grey-dyed wool like the surcoats of the soldiers.
Now again Fenrir scented strange smells. Some wizards or muggles lived in rude fashion, especially those of his own kind, but he'd rarely smelt the acrid scent of tubs of urine from a tannery, or the earthy cloying smell of open latrines. It was as if this world was all new to him, it even recalled his first Change, the first time he'd transformed and how the more powerful nose of the werewolf had opened a new world of sensations and senses to him.
Greyback dismounted with a groan. They had to dismount at the pickets beyond the castle, making their way through a copse of tents. It was not that forest of canvas from the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, but it was well-populated all the same. Here were hundreds of unwashed soldiers smelling of greasy, rust and sweat.
He saw more sigils there, the axe of Cerwyn, the mailed fist of Glover, the moose of Hornwood. The Sergeant pointed them all out and muttered to himself and his company as you walked toward the keep. "I'd not like to be Lord Glover now." he said darkly.
As Greyback understood, it was a great embarrassment for the Glovers to have missed what was apparently a sizeable force of wildlings. It would be more embarrassing though to have those 'wildlings' disappear like morning mist before the sun, for Greyback was hardly going to confess.
They passed washerwomen and their babes, beating drying clothes with sticks and scrubbing laundry over boards. Fenrir licked his lips as they passed, sighting one beauty, her dress soaked and sticking to her skin.
No.
He had sated his beast in the village. He didn't need to hunt so soon.
Instead, he brought his wrist to his face, scenting the lock of hair he'd cut from Palla's head while she lay broken and rent in the dawnlight.
There was a tension in the air. Fenrir had been a werewolf for forty years, and his nose was keen. These men were preparing for battle, but they seemed to have no fear. Admirable…
For muggles.
The Sergeant reported to his captain, and that captain to his commander, and that commander led them into the keep to the study of Lord Cerwyn. The space was reasonably large, and comfortably decorated, though not luxuriously so.
Fenrir could smell spices, only a small amount, in a locked chest in an otherwise musty draw. He could smell the private privy through a door, and the oil from the weapons hung on a stand. The room was round, located in one of the towers of the keep, with a large window bordered in well-cut white stone. A river, the White Knife perhaps, wound its way through the countryside beyond, while within a fire burned merrily in a stone fireplace. Lord Cerwyn himself was there, a man of forty or more, with a boy in the House livery attending him. On the table were some signs of wealth such as a silver candlestick, an inkpot of blown glass, imported presumably, a steel razor Fenrir sensed by the smell of the ointment on the blade, and two leatherbound books. Fenrir looked them over and discounted them as soon as he saw them, none had value to him.
"My lord," Ser Kyle Condon, one of Cerwyn's commanders reported, "This man, Fenrir Greyback by name, was staying in the village before the attack. I have knowledge of him from others who have known him over this past month. A hunter found him in the woods wandering naked and the headman took him in. He proved himself over time, killing a blood-mad bear on his own."
Fenrir did not bow. He would sometimes feign subservience to Wizards to fool them, or at least he had in his youth before his appearance changed so radically, but he refused to feign such to a muggle.
Even without his wand he could kill the man before he drew another breath. He almost felt himself move then before he quashed the dark urge, a sudden energy, a strength in his legs, he saw himself leaping over the table, hand drawn back to slash open the man's throat!
"How did you come to be in the Wolfswood in such a state?" Cerwyn asked, and it shocked Greyback out of his fantasy.
"I don't know." he replied easily, "I even couldn't remember how to speak at first."
"I can vouch for this, through my sources, my lord." Condon put in, "It is the reason we did not suspect him. It would take a mummer of surpassing skill to pull off such a ruse, and," Fenrir heard a rustle of metal behind as the man shrugged in his chainmail, "he doesn't look like a mummer."
"No, he does not." Cerwyn said cooly. He regarded Greyback, who quickly averted his eyes. Would the lord take it as subservience? Perhaps, but the werewolf supposed his pride could accept that at least. "Well then, we shall question you." the lord continued, "Where were you on the night of the massacre, we deem it to have happened more than a week ago, from the condition of the bodies…"
Now that was interesting. It seemed his beast's savagery during the transformation had made them think the village had been destroyed several days before it had. Why was that? Fenrir's mind worked as he considered his answer. 'The condition of the bodies', did Cerwyn think the villagers had been killed, then subsequently scavenged by the creatures of the forest?
But no! Greyback had told the Sergeant when they'd met that the villagers were preparing for a feast, and the feast had been laid out in readiness. They'd been halfway through when the moon had risen. Surely the local people would know what day the feast was? They'd even had the wassailing cauldron out. This was potentially dangerous… If they thought the feast had been days earlier than it had been, what would they do? Greyback didn't know enough about the Northerners to consider it properly…
"I was hunting." Fenrir just answered honestly, still thinking. He didn't need to explain exactly what he'd been hunting, namely the villagers, and he was hardly about to correct the lord about the timing. Better to disappear perhaps, before they questioned his story further.
"Was there any sign of a wildling band in your hunts?" Cerwyn leant forward, "Spoor, the remains of camps, unusual smoke or fires?"
What was best to answer there to frustrate them the most?
"To the north, some of the others said there wasn't much prey, that the wolves weren't howling to the north." Greyback answered.
The north of the village was into the most densely forested and least accessible part of the Wolfswood. Hopefully that would lead them on a merry chase, wandering about in the woods for weeks before they realised their mistake.
"See to it, Ser Kyle." Cerwyn ordered and continued his questioning.
Yes, Fenrir had been a hunter, yes he'd lost his memories but was regaining them, yes he'd served in battle under the banner of the Death Eaters, no he didn't know where Voldemort was now, yes it was a small company anyway so maybe that's why Cerwyn hadn't heard of him. Yes he'd killed that bear, yes he now wore it as a cloak, no he'd not heard anything, he'd left before the massacre.
Cerwyn started to grow frustrated before Ser Kyle deflected him. In the end both Fenrir and Kyle were sent away.
"You may have your pride, Sellsword." the knight said to him after they were out of earshot of the lord, "But you'd be wise to remember your courtesies. My lord took offence there, but he's a just man. Others would have had you whipped for your insolence."
"They could try." the werewolf grinned.
The smile seemed to unnerve the knight, and he said nothing more for a while, handing Fenrir off to his subordinate, Mollen.
The werewolf was brought to the inn just outside the castle, given a room and told not to leave. No guard was posted, but Greyback heard the innkeeper speaking softly with Mollen as he shut the door. He would be watched, and informed upon if he tried to escape, no doubt.
Greyback threw himself down on the narrow cot.
Then he got up again immediately, stalking to the door he opened it and bellowed down in the rasping growl that was his voice, "Innkeeper! Food and drink in an hour!"
He smelt the fear off the man immediately and grinned, then he slammed the door shut just to terrify the publican.
Most amusing.
With a grin, the lycanthrope went back to the bed. Off came the bearskin and the jacket he'd stolen from Joram. He lay down in the bed, legs crossed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
There was much to consider, and Greyback went over it in his mind, slowly organising his thoughts. It was essential, both for controlling his urges, and to properly examine his situation. He had not survived fifty years as one of Europe's most infamous criminals by being hasty, even if he let himself go sometimes when his beast was raging.
Firstly, he was on another world. He'd never heard of such a thing, but through magic many things were possible. There could be any number of magical artefacts which might cause such a thing. Or was he in the future? There were plants and animals and people, where had they come from? The muggles had many comical theories about the existence of life on other planets and what form it might take, why then did everything appear so… mundane?
Was he in a different time? Had he been crushed by a comically large time-turner? Experienced some other improbable magical accident? He hadn't studied muggle history since he'd been a boy, and he vaguely remembered the names of some of the kings of Britain, of that one with nine wives or the other one with the crooked foot. He didn't remember anything like this.
Was he in the future? One where humanity had somehow regressed back to a medieval state of technology?
He supposed there would be no way to tell that, and moved on from the thought.
How had he gotten here? He thought again on the ridiculous thought of an enormous time-turner falling slowly toward him, splattering him with it's weight, and he laughed a little to himself. He would die in battle, of that he'd always been sure, never in such a silly way as he'd envisaged.
What was the last thing he remembered?
Greyback cleared his mind. The Dark Lord had returned. Fenrir had thought him dead, killed by the Potter boy years ago, but then his contacts had told him of the return and Fenrir had sought him out. While the werewolf had never been permitted to wear the Dark Mark, such was the blood purist ideology, he had been accepted among the Death Eaters, though never respected. Nevertheless, he would put his pride aside for his people, and serve Voldemort as long as the dark wizard served Fenrir's interests in turn.
He remembered… where had it been? One of the packs in Croatia he thought, he remembered the caves under Papuk, the clan of his people who made it their home. He had been reacquainting himself with the clans in preparation for rallying them into a season of violence on behalf of Voldemort, who had renewed his promise to make Britain a free country for werewolves.
Greyback had never entirely trusted the Dark Lord. Anyone would have been foolish to do so, but Voldemort provided him the means and cover to bite others, increasing the numbers of his people, which in turn translated to military, magical, and political power. That was enough, and Fenrir had used that strategy before…
He was getting off track. He focused his mind again, piercing the veil of his foggy brain.
Voldemort had been agitated, looking for something. Fenrir hadn't been told what, he'd just followed when he was bade to. They had gone on the attack, followed Voldemort into battle.
But where?
Had they attacked some sort of esoteric site? A place of exotic magics or energies? Had the Dark Lord enacted some dread ritual which had gone awry? Had the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore opposed them and the resultant wild enchantment somehow transported him to this world?
Fenrir wracked his brain for ideas. He was no loremaster, but he knew of a few curious magical artefacts. There was the Veil of Death for one, no one knew what happened to those who passed through that. Had he slipped into it? Been tossed in by the Order during a duel?
But why would the Veil of Death function in such a way? The common consensus was that it truly transported those who fell into it into an afterlife, thus giving it it's name. Even so, why would Voldemort have attacked the Department of Mysteries? Had he sought something there to oppose Dumbledore?
Fenrir moved on, that was also irrelevant, ultimately. Perhaps this was all some hallucination. Perhaps he'd taken a bad batch of potion. Or perhaps his mind was just breaking down in the last moments of his life, his blood rushing from a wound as he lay dying in some dark place back on Earth…
It was a morbid thought. Greyback rolled his shoulder uncomfortably, bringing his arms down and laying his clawed hands over his belly.
Once again he came back to his initial thought. None of this really mattered he supposed. He would do as he'd always done. Greyback was a greedy man, he was quite happy to accept that. He had desires, ones he would sate regardless of the prey. He couldn't be satisfied with living as most werewolves did, staying in some isolated cottage away from civilisation and eking out an existence scrabbling for scraps.
No, he wanted more.
And absent the Ministry of Magic, it seemed he could have it.
Not as a single man perhaps, but this was a world ruled by might, and compared with a muggle, Fenrir knew he was strong enough to make something of himself. Back in the solar he'd thought of killing Lord Cerwyn, been confident he'd be able to do it. He could move faster than a human, he was stronger too. Strong enough to defeat three men with ease perhaps, though he'd never fought muggles in steel armour…
He had his own strength and a purse of stolen silver, the world was his…
The first step, Greyback thought as the scent of salt and meat wafted up from the greatroom below, was to secure his magic.
Werewolves were generally required to get along without wands. His people occupied the liminal space between beast and being in the Ministry's classification, and that meant their rights to carry wands were often constrained. Similarly, due to the social stigma of lycanthropy and the dangers of the physical transformation, werewolves could rarely get the education or occupations which might allow them to educate themselves in magic properly. Greyback himself had been expelled from Hogwarts after Headmaster Prewitt had learned of his affliction, though Greyback knew Dumbledore had been more willing to accept lycanthrope students and other half-breeds, that half-giant gamekeeper sprung to mind.
Then there was the physical transformation of course. One could hardly carry around a wand when loping through a forest, and most werewolves found themselves waking naked and covered in blood if they didn't lock themselves up during the full moon.
Greyback scoffed, he had never respected those who did that. They claimed it was a matter of self-control but he knew it was just cowardice.
In any case, he was used to working without a wand. Never for so long though. He would often just steal or take one from a victim, but here he had no wand and no way to get one.
Magic was real though. He could feel it. It was different in some way, perhaps less constrained by the networks of wards, magical transport systems or national enchantments, but he could still feel it if he concentrated. The weirwood, that had been a thing of magic, and Greyback fingered the amulet he'd been given in the village, carved with the face of the Old Gods.
Had the Old Gods been wizards? Or something like it?
There were dragons though and other magical creatures. That was certain and very clear from the villagers. Some, he supposed, might be mundane but it was clear there were magical things in Westeros and that meant reagents and materials.
While Greyback had a broad set of skills from his varied life, wandlore was one thing he'd never investigated. It was useless to do so, for what werewolf would be able to amass the resources, connections and acceptance from the community to start to sell wands or find employment in a wandmakers?
He knew that wands were constructed from various woods, and that they had different cores. Wizards would often remark on wand combinations, but in truth, only those fascinated by divination or of a superstitious temperament actually cared about it.
Greyback's first wand had been alder and unicorn hair, but he'd lost that decades ago. More recently he'd tried to buy from a Bulgarian wandmaker to see if he could find something more useful to him. He'd not really intended to buy, he'd really been scouting the shop with the intention of robbing it later that night, but in any case the Bulgar wizard had been happy to try to match him.
The result had been an affinity for oak and blackthorn, with a core of dragon heartstring, but before he could make the purchase the wandmaker had ordered him out of the shop and called the local aurors. Greyback hadn't been sure why at the time, he'd assumed the man recognised him as a werewolf and feared for his life. He'd been right do so, but Fenrir also supposed that the combination of the wood and core might have had some meaning which scared the wandmaker.
He had already seen oak trees, as well as firs, pines, sycamores and willows. He was inclined to try weirwood as well, though he might take time to do so, till he'd had some practice with the others first.
Then there was the core. If he could find and kill a dragon he might use the heartstrings, but he'd have to look at others if the dragons proved illusive.
Until he had a wand he couldn't cast spells or use most magic. While he didn't know wandlore, magical theory and the ways in which it applied to werewolves had been a great interest of his, and Greyback knew what his limitations would be.
No apparition. Not without a high risk of splinching, and not knowing his destination besides given he was on a new world and hadn't seen many locations. No complex charms, transfigurations or curses. No wards, and any runes he wanted to make he'd have to carve, or get someone else to carve sufficiently proficiently to take the magic. With a wand he could cast Fiendfyre and destroy a city, without one he'd just burn himself to cinders. No precise control over the Mental Arts.
With a thought, he snapped his fingers and called a little bluebell flame. A parlour trick…
Orthodox magical theory, at least that which predominated in Europe and the colonies, stated that magic was the application of will and magical power through mnemonic tools such as incantations or wand movements. It was more complex than that of course given the addition of the inherent power of a wand, but the wizards of Asia or Africa had native magical traditions of long study and significant power, unlike those Greyback had been taught, and even they held true to the basic principles. Whether a Chinese wizard used hand gestures and movements of the limbs to cast a spell, or a British wizard used an incantation, it was much the same at the basic level.
He could use curses wandlessly, he'd always had an inclination toward direct, violent spells like Cutting or Blasting curses, but that would be about it till he acquired a proper wand.
Then there was the sheer convenience of using magic! He'd used magic in the village to shape water or to slightly alter his current clothes, to kill the bear and the other animals. That had been instinctive, the same way children sometimes used accidental magic. Supremely powerful and learned wizards like Dumbledore or the Dark Lord could use magic like that consciously, but Greyback didn't count himself among their number.
There was also the infrastructure of magic and of the Wizarding World. There would be no easy international travel for him, perhaps not ever, for Greyback had no idea how one would go about connecting two fireplaces together or to a wider Floo Network. The Ministry had people for that, or so he assumed. It was just something that happened after all, presumably it was someone's job.
Potions too, would be in short supply, and Greyback doubted he'd have the time or resources to set up a proper workshop. There were some potions which could prove extremely useful to a werewolf and though he was philosophically and morally opposed to the Wolfsbane Potion, he'd used it more than once when the need arose to control his beast, when he couldn't afford to lose a night to it running free.
He would have to seek out an alchemist. Some of the reagents might be the same, but while he knew how to brew the Wolfsbane Potion by heart, as well as a few others, he'd never completed his formal education in that particular art.
Fenrir had been lying in bed for an hour or more by now. He stirred himself, sitting up, stretching and cracking his joints. The transformation created new bones and muscles and it was always slightly uncomfortable to be back in human form afterward, but he'd gotten used to it over time. It was just like breaking in a new pair of boots really.
The smell of a meaty stew made him salivate. He would eat well tonight he decided, for despite his dining on the villagers he found himself hungry again. This time he'd make do with mundane fare. He was looking forward to it even as he concentrated on the rich scent wafting from the innkeeper's cookpot.
His first step must be to seek places of magical power, and places where he might acquire reagents for future experimentation. That would take months no doubt, and if he seeded the starts of a few clans of werewolves while he was doing it, even better.
Reagents meant cities though. Merchants and herbalists who might already have such items, learned men like scholars and historians who might point him in the right direction.
Gaining such knowledge would require funds both to pay the people, and to bribe anyone who might question Greyback about why he wanted to know such things. He knew the permanent effects of his transformations over the decades made his appearance intimidating, and he'd not stoop to wearing a mask, he was proud of his scars and his aspect.
He could turn assassin or brigand, kill for coin, whether on his own initiative or on the orders of another. Those occupations were familiar ones to him. Or he could make a direct approach, scale the walls of a keep by night and steal away with a lord's valuables perhaps…
Ordinarily he could have just robbed and Confounded a muggle, but without a wand he wasn't capable of such a spell.
Someone knocked at his room's door. The hinges squeaked and a young girl, not unlovely, though far from the best he'd seen walked in nervously. She averted her eyes, staring at the floor as she came to bring him his food.
The smell of her and of the meal interrupted Greyback's thoughts. They could wait. For now he would eat.
And who knows, perhaps the innkeeper's daughter might do for afters?
- Location
- United Kingdom
We've now breached the 25k mark with a rather large 7.5k chapter I've written up yesterday and today. I very much enjoyed writing that one, and am indeed enjoying this fic in general so far. It's quite novel to force myself to write in a particular style, and also to remember to integrate particular things. For example, Greyback as a werewolf has a good sense of smell, so I have to imagine what he's smelling when he goes somewhere new. I also have to imagine how depraved he is, as that's another part of his character which has been interesting to write about. In any case, feedback is most welcome as I'd like to see what people think of this in general, whether the prose or the characters or the plot so far. The 7.5k chapter has some fairly significant stuff in it, and will be posted in a couple of weeks as per the posting schedule. 2 more advanced chapters up currently, will probably do more over the next couple of days as I still want to try and reach 50k in November.
Fenrir woke to fire and smoke.
Yet, aside from the raids and bloody reprisals at Voldemort's order or to sate his own bloodlust over the years, he'd rarely woken to these scents.
Fire and smoke. Yet there was a peace there too.
Greyback lay in his cot and breathed the air. Scents came to him as he lay still, closing his eyes, losing himself as he walked the world through the sensations.
His blanket and the straw of his mattress were musty and a little damp. There were the cooling embers of a fire in the grate of his room, but no servant had come to light it again during the morning, no doubt fearing his response.
The bearskin cloak stank of grease and lye from the tanning and cleaning process. It was warm though, and besides it was a rich garment made from his own victory.
The crumbs of the honeycake he'd devoured last night, as well as the fading smell of the stew were there too. There was rye in the hard black bread, there was the cream of herbs and butter combined. There was the spices and the heady meat of the meal.
There was the oil of his dagger and the scent of iron and war.
There was the harsh burn of silver, for even the coins in his stolen purse would rub together and shed minute particles of dust which would burn his nostrils. Lycanthropes could handle silver, but only the highest purities would actually cause injury rather than irritation.
Further, Greyback loped. He scented beyond his room, down upon the air currents to the kitchen where another day's soup bubbled and the innkeeper carried the contents of chamber pots to the latrine beyond the inn's door. He smelt the fresh dew on the grass, the frost melting away under the sun's assault. He smelt the earthy scent of manure, from men and horses both, from the gathering army.
It was beautiful.
But the werewolf had work to do. He stood swiftly, leaping from his bed, setting his boots on his feet and his cloak swirling behind him, down the stairs and out the door before the innkeeper could draw breath to call him back.
Up to Castle Cerwyn Greyback went. More men had come during the night, it seemed, and Fenrir remembered the scent of horses and of the troop, as if in a dream he'd detected them as they rode in at midnight.
Ser Kyle was with Mollin, the captain of Lord Cerwyn's guards, but neither were difficult to find. They were looking over maps and records in an office and one glare at a man-at-arms had brought him to the commanders.
"It is Lord Cerwyn's order that you remain here." Ser Kyle said cooly.
Greyback hadn't meant to confront the man, but the knight had spoken even before the werewolf was able to decide what to say.
"I told you to stay at the inn. That way we know where you are, should Lord Cerwyn need to speak with you again." the knight continued. "I think he means for you to speak with Lord Stark, but Lord Stark is rallying his banners at Winterfell and coordinating the search of the Wolfswood from there. I've heard it said the Lord of Winterfell will move south to meet us here, but Lord Cerwyn would know more."
"What am I to do then?" Greyback asked.
"You are to wait patiently for Lord Cerwyn to call for you. Memory you may have lost, but if there's one thing you must learn again it's courtesy." then Kyle made a dismissive gesture with his hand and called another man over to escort Greyback out.
The werewolf walked surly from the chamber, then out into the yard. There were men training all about him and Captain Mollin turned to him.
"I'd listen to him, if I were you. Lords have their expectations, and no matter how you look, you're a man, not a wolf or a beast."
That made Greyback smile, "There are no wolves like me."
The remark put a distasteful frown on Mollin's face, but Fenrir hadn't been able to help himself. He knew the Starks had a wolf for their sigil, perhaps it was fate that'd brought him to the North.
Unlike other werewolves who tended to lose themselves in their beasts, living a crude and primitive existence on the edges of civilisation to conceal their savagery, Greyback had always revelled in his own curse. Yet, he'd never let it overcome his reason. He indulged himself yes, for there was little sweeter in the world than meat fresh of a young girl's thigh, but he was a leader among his people. Many looked to him for guidance, and unlike the weak dogs who played along with the Wizards, Greyback had actually made progress in his association with the Death Eaters. He wasn't respected, but he was valued at least for his skills. They took him seriously, didn't treat him like some animal…
"Listen." Mollin said after they'd stood looking out at the yard for a time, "If you conduct yourself well you might gain a good position. You've the look of a wanderer. Do you want that to continue like some vagabond? You know how to fight, that's clear, you could get a position in Lord Cerwyn's guards, or even Lord Stark's if you impress him. If you'd desire it, if you'd give your word of honour to obey Ser Kyle in battle and follow the banner I could get you weapons, put you somewhere you could see battle against these wildlings bastards! These lordly lords love courtesy yes, but they like men who can kill too…"
Leaving aside the fact that there were no wildlings and all this activity was for naught as soon as Greyback slipped their sight, the werewolf regarded the captain with something akin to admiration. It was a kindness, an unexpected one.
"I'll think on it." he just said.
"Aye, you do that."
Greyback left the castle swiftly. He had holes in his story and would rather not be questioned further on it. Mollin's remarks had been interesting, but as Fenrir went among the vendors of the small village outside the castle gate, he saw the advantages.
Ultimately, he was a stranger. No one would trust him, not without a reputation, not without familiarity and trust. Each merchant, from the tailor to the smith to the grocer, all looked at him with suspicion and distaste. He was a wanderer, without kin or community, and it showed.
Greyback supposed that this is what it must have been like in the past, on Earth that is. If you turned up somewhere without papers or means to communicate, or without knowing the customs of the area you'd be seen as a threat. That had how it'd been for him when he was younger, trying to meet other werewolves or join packs, most of them out in the Balkans or Eastern Europe. More recently, he could walk into any pack and all there would know him, such was his reputation among his own kind.
But he had scars to show when it had been different.
On Westeros though he had no such community, not even the shared curse of lycanthropy to bind him to others.
The solution, he supposed, was to acquire a reputation. Acquire fame, a sigil, and the means to ensure people knew him. The means also though to shed that sigil like a lizard sheds its skin when he needed to, to fade back into obscurity.
He brought hat, gloves, hatchet, and a pack of travelling supplies in the town outside Castle Cerwyn. He didn't really actually need them, he was used to the cold and the kiss of the elements on his face. But, he thought, it would look strange to be without such things on the road. Additionally, he wasn't used to travelling for so long by Muggle means and he supposed eventually he'd want such clothing.
He might have to cut the fingers off the gloves though, he wasn't trimming his nails, they were too useful in combat and they'd grow back again in a week anyway.
Of course, acquiring a reputation and recognition would have it's challenges. The land was at peace, apparently, for the moment and there would be no battles for him to partake in. If he wounded anyone they might have the secondary effects of a werewolf attack, and that might expose him further. It would be useless to seek a reputation he could be respected with, then to lose it all when people realised he was a monster.
But then, that had worked fairly well before. Even since he'd started biting children, or threatening to, Wizards had feared him. As far as he knew he was the only lycanthrope to make such threats and that gave him a formidable reputation, one he'd used to apply political pressure before.
What to do? What to do?
He wandered back down the main road toward the castle. He'd heard tell of a scholar there before and that might be a route to more information.
Greyback walked slowly, unhurried in his pace.
When he was younger and less visibly altered by his beast he'd been able to rely on ignorance and kindness. He'd been a young man, to be able to fool aurors into letting their guard down before he opened their throats hadn't been especially difficult. He'd even been captured by the Ministry once and the Aurors had been fooled by an act that he was just a Muggle tramp. In his dirty clothes and without a wand it had been easy to fool them, and Fenrir remembered the day fondly.
Now though he was in his fifties. Any look of innocence and kindness was long since gone from his face, and his frame and bulk had swelled as his beast's influence waxed in his flesh.
Once, a Romanian witch had called him 'beautiful'. They'd rutted under the moon and she'd borne him a litter of half-wolf children, each with his piercing eyes who'd grown up to look like small versions of him.
He wasn't sure if he'd go that far though, vanity had never been a failing of his. Men called him a monster and they were probably right. The problem now though was that it was so clear. He was no play actor, he could deceive when he needed to, but his very aspect would arouse suspicion.
He'd somewhat sabotaged himself in this way. He'd trained himself to smile with his mouth open for years and it was habit by now. His fangs were intimidating he knew and it gave him a fearsome appearance. Now though he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself doing it if he wanted to.
The maester of Castle Cerwyn was a middle-aged man with a thin chain around his neck. He was unremarkable, beneath Fenrir's notice in truth. The werewolf shouldered his way into the maester's turret, past bookshelves and cages of those strange ravens.
The birds flapped their wings and cawed at him as he came into the room. He growled a low rumble from his chest and they fluttered back in their cages, pressing themselves against the bars as far away from him as they could.
Fenrir turned to the maester. The man was looking at him in alarm, a piece of paper scrunched in his hand.
Greyback couldn't actually read. He was literate in English, German, Latin, Greek and many of the
Cyrillic languages, but on Westeros he'd yet to learn to read. That would hold him back he knew, especially in his studies of magic. Nevertheless, he would find a way around it. He looked at the scholar with hunger…
"I have come to learn, maester." he told the man.
The room was cramped with books and papers, with boxers of dried herbs and with the cages of ravens. Each enclosure was marked with words, no doubt the places the ravens would fly to and bear messages, and Greyback had seen several birds heading out of the tower over the last few days as the maester or Lord Cerwyn communicated with others to coordinate the campaign against the wildlings.
The room smelt of ink and wax at that moment. The Maester had been writing and Fenrir saw an unfinished letter on the table next to a stamp with a battleaxe and a little pot of wax next to a strange device to hold a measure of the substance over a flame to melt it before the scholar would seal the letter.
Under that scent there was herb and oil from the tinctures and medical supplies in the closets. They were packaged, but either the maester was messy, or his packaging wasn't robust enough to stop the substances escaping.
The scholar seemed to rally himself, standing up straighter, jutting his weak chin forward and assuming a haughty look, "You are this simpleton from the forest. What could you want to learn?"
"About the world and it's man opportunities." Fenrir replied easily. He could smell the man's fear.
"Be gone with you, or I'll call the guards!"
That just made Fenrir smile more. "What use would calling them be if you'd be dead by the time they arrive? But then, I am only a simpleton from the forest, so perhaps I don't understand."
The conversation was most informative.
Greyback had already more or less decided to flee Castle Cerwyn that night. He ordered the maester to tell him what he knew about the world, about the different polities and political tensions among the lords of Westeros, about the wildlings. He claimed he'd heard of a warg having caused the destruction at the village and that he wanted to know about magic, but the maester had only scoffed and told him they didn't exist.
The information was useful, both what it covered and what it didn't. Greyback learned of the tribes of the Mountains of the Moon, of the Wildling raiders and of the Ironborn. He learned of the wars in the Dornish Marches and of the pirates of the Stepstones. In any conflict he could find employment he knew, but more than that he needed to pursue the resources to make his wand.
From the maester he learned all manner of trivia, for once he got going the maester forgot his fear and seemed to actually quite enjoy himself. The man wore a chain of iron, bronze, silver and bronze links, these were marks of his knowledge of astronomy, warcraft, alchemy, astronomy and healing. Apparently it did not denote great knowledge, for some maesters would forge several of the same link if they were truly knowledgeable in their subject. In any case, magic, denoted by a link of Valyrian steel, was not present on the man.
The maester told Greyback many things. He told of the Dragonhold of Valyria, of the Children of the Forest and the wargs of the Old North (neither of which the maester regarded as actually existing), as well as of the runes of the Old Tongue and the pyromancy of the Alchemist's Guild or the Red Priests of Essos.
If Greyback had a notebook he'd have been scrawling in it. The maester of Cerwyn wasn't an unusually knowledgeable man, he merely came from a scholarly tradition. What more could a true loremaster teach the werewolf?
Strangely, the maester let Greyback go without confronting him after their conversation was over. Greyback left with a grin on his face. Perhaps the man simply yearned to actually talk to someone. Perhaps the werewolf's pursuit of arcane subjects (which the maester regarded as of no practical use to a spy or enemy) had set the man at ease.
It didn't matter.
Greyback waited till nightfall in his room at the inn and ate well again. He prepared, fooling the innkeeper into beliving that he'd gone to sleep, then leaping from the window, gaining purchase on the beams of the neighbouring building and going swiftly across the rooftops of the small town toward the corrals of the gathering army's forces.
It was easy enough to steal a horse. Greyback could see well in the dark and he stalked around till the sentries were tired enough to slip past them, into the corral itself. His scent, the smell of a bloody wolf and the growl he let out terrified the horses. A wolf was among them, and Greyback leapt atop one grey stallion, keeping low to it's back as the horse bucked and screamed. He set his heels to the beast's sides, his physical strength more than his skill in horsemanship keeping him in his seat as the creature ran terrified, leaping over the corral's fence, darting past the army's sentries into the night.
Greyback let the beast run. It was twenty miles or more to Winterfell and he could afford to let the horse tire before he needed to rest it. He was unfamiliar with horses, he had to admit, but he was relatively sure they had to be rested.
They ran on through the night. Greyback could see well, even if the horse couldn't, and he directed it around potholes and divots in the road. On and on they went and all the while he thought.
The Order of Maesters, from what Fenrir understood, were hostile to magic. Why so? Was it a practical aversion or a philosophical one? The maester of Castle Cerwyn didn't seem to believe in magic, seemed to think that yes, perhaps it had existed once, but no longer. That it was in the past was clear, that dragons had once flown and strange things once happened, that the Long Night, an apocalyptic time had once reigned and that strange creatures had stalked about, doing whatever it is they did, But more than that was unclear .There was clearly no organised teaching of magic, not anything like Hogwarts of the Ministry. There were no magical authorities., no Aurors or Hit Wizards. No codification or organisation of magical creatures either, or so the maester explained.
A Septon Barth, apparently a famous priest, had investigated Dragons and categorised them in a book, and some maesters had travelled in Essos, another continent near Westeros to examine the traditions o the religions in those areas, but it seemed to Greyback that there was simply not the same sort of popularity of magic that had so overwhelmingly populated his own world.
Again, why had this been? Or rather, why was it now?
Greyback wasn't an Unspeakable. He didn't know the higher mysteries of magic. He had no training in understanding such things or examining them closely. He was a practical man, a trained man in certain things, a killer and a bandit, a political leader and an agitator, a warrior and a hunter. He had knowledge yes, especially regarding lycanthropy and the various related studies such as potions or the Care of Magical Beasts, as well as some skill in curse breaking, but he'd never had the chance to take up a scholarly pursuit.
Unless he could learn to read especially fast, he'd need attendants and acolytes. People to read for him and present him with information. That would take some time, and be risky, but it was a thought for another time...
Returning to the previous idea as he let the horse rest by a stream for a time, Fenrir sat on a rock in thought. How did one destroy magic? How could one reduce it, bring it down, remove it from the world?
The destruction of magical artefacts, of magical infrastructure, the systematic elimination of magical teaching and education… These would all reduce the amount of magical things in the world, but wasn't magic more than that?
They were a thousand different explanations on where magic actually came from. As a rule though, the Wizarding World had no love for philosophy. It was enough that Wizards could alter reality with a whim, there was no need to deeply consider matters. For his own part, Greyback had never done so. He had wondered, idly over the years, where lycanthropy came from, whether it was (as people said sometimes) a curse or whether it was just a magical disease.
He knew the 'Being' directorate of the Ministry of Magic had their own views on it, indeed Greyback had distributed polemic notes directly against material disagreement with many of the material which had been released by them and the Werewolf Capture Unit, but really no one knew or had a proper idea on the matter.
Had magic declined like the tides? Simply went away over time due to some external influence or astrological phenomena?
Magic had never declined on Earth. Wizards had simply decided to separate themselves. Some, especially Purebloods, thought it was weakness and that Wizards should rule over Muggles. But what was the point? It would be like ruling over animals, there wasn't anything that Muggle slaves could provide that Wizards couldn't just magic up. It had always been a strange political debate within Wizarding society and anyway in most countries the various Ministries of Magic would ignore crimes against Muggles.
On Westeros though obviously that hadn't happened. Had Wizards, or whoever could use magic, for certainly they weren't the same sort of Wizards Greyback was familiar with, simply declined in general? Greyback almost refused to admit it, it grated against his pride, this time as a Wizard rather than just as a werewolf.
Had the Valyrians been Wizards? Had the Doom of Valyria destroyed some large magical network, possibly a warding or a enchantment gone awry? Had that created some sort of magical backlash and destroyed that kingdom?
But no, it couldn't be that either, Fenrir thought, throwing little pebbles into the bubbling brook his horse was drinking from.
There were alternative magical traditions on the planet, both in Westeros and Essos. There were at least a dozen which the maester had spoken of, if not more unspoken or which the maester didn't know about.
And, it seemed at least, that magic was still present. Either the magical destruction of Lalyrua had destroyed magic's influence, or it had not.
Clearly it had not.
Greyback rode on through the night. Over the hills and between barrows he rode, through the woods and the cries of creatures all around. The horse was tiring, this journey might kill it he knew, but he didn't care. It wasn't his horse after all.
Just over the next hill Fenrir found a camp. He'd not smelt t, for the wind blew north and harshly at that. Soon enough though he was drawing closer and could see campfires, tents and pavilions in the centre. This must be Lord Stark's force. Evidently the lord had decided to bestir himself and move south to combine with Cerwyn's troops.
In truth it mattered little to Fenrir. It just meant there would be fewer armed men in Winterfell to make his life difficult.
He sat on his horse for a time before he went on. Was there any opportunity here or should he just move on? There were sentries he saw, and though he'd evaded them against the men of Cerwyn, he had no particular desire to chance a confrontation.
He led his horse in a long circle around the camp instead. The wind changed as he went on, blowing to the west instead and it brought him the scents of the camps.
Again he took in the smell of the campfire. The smell of charred wood and burnt up meats when the men had tossed the bones of their meals into the fire after finishing. He smelt the sweat of the infantry, the oilskins on the archers' weapons. Further on he smelled silk and spice.
Why was there spice? Why pepper and cardamon, why the scent of saffron? It was bizarre. Why would you bring spices to a battle? Were they planning on doing some cooking instead of fighting?
Greyback supposed that wars must be longer here. A wizard could turn and think, and apparate instantly to a battlefield. Even crossing a country of hundreds of miles was only a few hours by broom, even an old broom rather than one of the ones you'd use if you were intending to attack something. Greyback favoured the Floo Network himself, it was convenient to travel to public places, and he had any number of haunts like old pubs that catered to the more unusual clientele that he could use to get close to his victims.
He put it out of his mind. He needed care here, it wouldn't do him any good to arouse the whole camp as he slipped by, that might cause this Lord Stark to send back men to Winterfell, and he wanted time to assess the place before he made his next move. If nothing else, the settlement was bigger and would be well supplied with all that he might need than the Castle Cerwyn was, and that meant he would want to be more careful than he'd been previously perhaps.
There was a sentry in front of him.
Greyback's stolen hose whinnied softly and he struck it om the ear harshly to silence it.
The sentry looked up. Peering into the dark toward Greyback.
Could Fenrir escape?
Did he want to?
His heart beat faster as he smelt the man's fear, prickling out in the night's cold on his skin.
Fenrir grinned, his muscles tensed as he made to stand in the saddle.
The man's eyes widened in realisation, then further in fear as he perceived the werewolf.
Greyback leapt!
A startled scream ripped its way from the man's throat before Greyback tackled him to the forest floor. He rolled over and over with the man before grasping him by his surcoat and swinging him up and into a tree, knocking the wind from him. The werewolf drew back his hand to slash at the man's throat with his clawed nails.
And then slowly lowered his hand instead. Relaxed his arm in a conscious effort, felt the tension draining away…
Then with a swift flurry he drew his dagger. Fenrir stabbed the man half a dozen times in the chest, savouring the scent as the sentry died, drowning as his lungs filled with blood. He had to die by mundane means, not look like a wolf had savaged him.
Greyback was back on his horse swiftly, then off through the woods. He galloped down the road, putting as much distance between himself and the camp as possible.
He had almost lost himself there, his beast had roared in triumph when the sentry's throat beneath his hand.
But no, he would kill when he willed it. 'Beast' the Wizards called him, but he was a man underneath.
On Greyback went, his horse dying undeath him as he rode. The creature stumbled, it puffed and blew, begging for respite. Greyback abandoned it at the side of the road and walked the last mile or so. He could see Winterfell from here, see a dozen turreted, snow-capped towers.
To another, it might have been a great fortress, something of power and strength, a wonder of the world.
But Greyback was tired after his ride. He wanted to eat, and to sleep.
He could take the world.
But he'd do it after a nap.
Fenrir woke to fire and smoke.
Yet, aside from the raids and bloody reprisals at Voldemort's order or to sate his own bloodlust over the years, he'd rarely woken to these scents.
Fire and smoke. Yet there was a peace there too.
Greyback lay in his cot and breathed the air. Scents came to him as he lay still, closing his eyes, losing himself as he walked the world through the sensations.
His blanket and the straw of his mattress were musty and a little damp. There were the cooling embers of a fire in the grate of his room, but no servant had come to light it again during the morning, no doubt fearing his response.
The bearskin cloak stank of grease and lye from the tanning and cleaning process. It was warm though, and besides it was a rich garment made from his own victory.
The crumbs of the honeycake he'd devoured last night, as well as the fading smell of the stew were there too. There was rye in the hard black bread, there was the cream of herbs and butter combined. There was the spices and the heady meat of the meal.
There was the oil of his dagger and the scent of iron and war.
There was the harsh burn of silver, for even the coins in his stolen purse would rub together and shed minute particles of dust which would burn his nostrils. Lycanthropes could handle silver, but only the highest purities would actually cause injury rather than irritation.
Further, Greyback loped. He scented beyond his room, down upon the air currents to the kitchen where another day's soup bubbled and the innkeeper carried the contents of chamber pots to the latrine beyond the inn's door. He smelt the fresh dew on the grass, the frost melting away under the sun's assault. He smelt the earthy scent of manure, from men and horses both, from the gathering army.
It was beautiful.
But the werewolf had work to do. He stood swiftly, leaping from his bed, setting his boots on his feet and his cloak swirling behind him, down the stairs and out the door before the innkeeper could draw breath to call him back.
Up to Castle Cerwyn Greyback went. More men had come during the night, it seemed, and Fenrir remembered the scent of horses and of the troop, as if in a dream he'd detected them as they rode in at midnight.
Ser Kyle was with Mollin, the captain of Lord Cerwyn's guards, but neither were difficult to find. They were looking over maps and records in an office and one glare at a man-at-arms had brought him to the commanders.
"It is Lord Cerwyn's order that you remain here." Ser Kyle said cooly.
Greyback hadn't meant to confront the man, but the knight had spoken even before the werewolf was able to decide what to say.
"I told you to stay at the inn. That way we know where you are, should Lord Cerwyn need to speak with you again." the knight continued. "I think he means for you to speak with Lord Stark, but Lord Stark is rallying his banners at Winterfell and coordinating the search of the Wolfswood from there. I've heard it said the Lord of Winterfell will move south to meet us here, but Lord Cerwyn would know more."
"What am I to do then?" Greyback asked.
"You are to wait patiently for Lord Cerwyn to call for you. Memory you may have lost, but if there's one thing you must learn again it's courtesy." then Kyle made a dismissive gesture with his hand and called another man over to escort Greyback out.
The werewolf walked surly from the chamber, then out into the yard. There were men training all about him and Captain Mollin turned to him.
"I'd listen to him, if I were you. Lords have their expectations, and no matter how you look, you're a man, not a wolf or a beast."
That made Greyback smile, "There are no wolves like me."
The remark put a distasteful frown on Mollin's face, but Fenrir hadn't been able to help himself. He knew the Starks had a wolf for their sigil, perhaps it was fate that'd brought him to the North.
Unlike other werewolves who tended to lose themselves in their beasts, living a crude and primitive existence on the edges of civilisation to conceal their savagery, Greyback had always revelled in his own curse. Yet, he'd never let it overcome his reason. He indulged himself yes, for there was little sweeter in the world than meat fresh of a young girl's thigh, but he was a leader among his people. Many looked to him for guidance, and unlike the weak dogs who played along with the Wizards, Greyback had actually made progress in his association with the Death Eaters. He wasn't respected, but he was valued at least for his skills. They took him seriously, didn't treat him like some animal…
"Listen." Mollin said after they'd stood looking out at the yard for a time, "If you conduct yourself well you might gain a good position. You've the look of a wanderer. Do you want that to continue like some vagabond? You know how to fight, that's clear, you could get a position in Lord Cerwyn's guards, or even Lord Stark's if you impress him. If you'd desire it, if you'd give your word of honour to obey Ser Kyle in battle and follow the banner I could get you weapons, put you somewhere you could see battle against these wildlings bastards! These lordly lords love courtesy yes, but they like men who can kill too…"
Leaving aside the fact that there were no wildlings and all this activity was for naught as soon as Greyback slipped their sight, the werewolf regarded the captain with something akin to admiration. It was a kindness, an unexpected one.
"I'll think on it." he just said.
"Aye, you do that."
Greyback left the castle swiftly. He had holes in his story and would rather not be questioned further on it. Mollin's remarks had been interesting, but as Fenrir went among the vendors of the small village outside the castle gate, he saw the advantages.
Ultimately, he was a stranger. No one would trust him, not without a reputation, not without familiarity and trust. Each merchant, from the tailor to the smith to the grocer, all looked at him with suspicion and distaste. He was a wanderer, without kin or community, and it showed.
Greyback supposed that this is what it must have been like in the past, on Earth that is. If you turned up somewhere without papers or means to communicate, or without knowing the customs of the area you'd be seen as a threat. That had how it'd been for him when he was younger, trying to meet other werewolves or join packs, most of them out in the Balkans or Eastern Europe. More recently, he could walk into any pack and all there would know him, such was his reputation among his own kind.
But he had scars to show when it had been different.
On Westeros though he had no such community, not even the shared curse of lycanthropy to bind him to others.
The solution, he supposed, was to acquire a reputation. Acquire fame, a sigil, and the means to ensure people knew him. The means also though to shed that sigil like a lizard sheds its skin when he needed to, to fade back into obscurity.
He brought hat, gloves, hatchet, and a pack of travelling supplies in the town outside Castle Cerwyn. He didn't really actually need them, he was used to the cold and the kiss of the elements on his face. But, he thought, it would look strange to be without such things on the road. Additionally, he wasn't used to travelling for so long by Muggle means and he supposed eventually he'd want such clothing.
He might have to cut the fingers off the gloves though, he wasn't trimming his nails, they were too useful in combat and they'd grow back again in a week anyway.
Of course, acquiring a reputation and recognition would have it's challenges. The land was at peace, apparently, for the moment and there would be no battles for him to partake in. If he wounded anyone they might have the secondary effects of a werewolf attack, and that might expose him further. It would be useless to seek a reputation he could be respected with, then to lose it all when people realised he was a monster.
But then, that had worked fairly well before. Even since he'd started biting children, or threatening to, Wizards had feared him. As far as he knew he was the only lycanthrope to make such threats and that gave him a formidable reputation, one he'd used to apply political pressure before.
What to do? What to do?
He wandered back down the main road toward the castle. He'd heard tell of a scholar there before and that might be a route to more information.
Greyback walked slowly, unhurried in his pace.
When he was younger and less visibly altered by his beast he'd been able to rely on ignorance and kindness. He'd been a young man, to be able to fool aurors into letting their guard down before he opened their throats hadn't been especially difficult. He'd even been captured by the Ministry once and the Aurors had been fooled by an act that he was just a Muggle tramp. In his dirty clothes and without a wand it had been easy to fool them, and Fenrir remembered the day fondly.
Now though he was in his fifties. Any look of innocence and kindness was long since gone from his face, and his frame and bulk had swelled as his beast's influence waxed in his flesh.
Once, a Romanian witch had called him 'beautiful'. They'd rutted under the moon and she'd borne him a litter of half-wolf children, each with his piercing eyes who'd grown up to look like small versions of him.
He wasn't sure if he'd go that far though, vanity had never been a failing of his. Men called him a monster and they were probably right. The problem now though was that it was so clear. He was no play actor, he could deceive when he needed to, but his very aspect would arouse suspicion.
He'd somewhat sabotaged himself in this way. He'd trained himself to smile with his mouth open for years and it was habit by now. His fangs were intimidating he knew and it gave him a fearsome appearance. Now though he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself doing it if he wanted to.
The maester of Castle Cerwyn was a middle-aged man with a thin chain around his neck. He was unremarkable, beneath Fenrir's notice in truth. The werewolf shouldered his way into the maester's turret, past bookshelves and cages of those strange ravens.
The birds flapped their wings and cawed at him as he came into the room. He growled a low rumble from his chest and they fluttered back in their cages, pressing themselves against the bars as far away from him as they could.
Fenrir turned to the maester. The man was looking at him in alarm, a piece of paper scrunched in his hand.
Greyback couldn't actually read. He was literate in English, German, Latin, Greek and many of the
Cyrillic languages, but on Westeros he'd yet to learn to read. That would hold him back he knew, especially in his studies of magic. Nevertheless, he would find a way around it. He looked at the scholar with hunger…
"I have come to learn, maester." he told the man.
The room was cramped with books and papers, with boxers of dried herbs and with the cages of ravens. Each enclosure was marked with words, no doubt the places the ravens would fly to and bear messages, and Greyback had seen several birds heading out of the tower over the last few days as the maester or Lord Cerwyn communicated with others to coordinate the campaign against the wildlings.
The room smelt of ink and wax at that moment. The Maester had been writing and Fenrir saw an unfinished letter on the table next to a stamp with a battleaxe and a little pot of wax next to a strange device to hold a measure of the substance over a flame to melt it before the scholar would seal the letter.
Under that scent there was herb and oil from the tinctures and medical supplies in the closets. They were packaged, but either the maester was messy, or his packaging wasn't robust enough to stop the substances escaping.
The scholar seemed to rally himself, standing up straighter, jutting his weak chin forward and assuming a haughty look, "You are this simpleton from the forest. What could you want to learn?"
"About the world and it's man opportunities." Fenrir replied easily. He could smell the man's fear.
"Be gone with you, or I'll call the guards!"
That just made Fenrir smile more. "What use would calling them be if you'd be dead by the time they arrive? But then, I am only a simpleton from the forest, so perhaps I don't understand."
The conversation was most informative.
Greyback had already more or less decided to flee Castle Cerwyn that night. He ordered the maester to tell him what he knew about the world, about the different polities and political tensions among the lords of Westeros, about the wildlings. He claimed he'd heard of a warg having caused the destruction at the village and that he wanted to know about magic, but the maester had only scoffed and told him they didn't exist.
The information was useful, both what it covered and what it didn't. Greyback learned of the tribes of the Mountains of the Moon, of the Wildling raiders and of the Ironborn. He learned of the wars in the Dornish Marches and of the pirates of the Stepstones. In any conflict he could find employment he knew, but more than that he needed to pursue the resources to make his wand.
From the maester he learned all manner of trivia, for once he got going the maester forgot his fear and seemed to actually quite enjoy himself. The man wore a chain of iron, bronze, silver and bronze links, these were marks of his knowledge of astronomy, warcraft, alchemy, astronomy and healing. Apparently it did not denote great knowledge, for some maesters would forge several of the same link if they were truly knowledgeable in their subject. In any case, magic, denoted by a link of Valyrian steel, was not present on the man.
The maester told Greyback many things. He told of the Dragonhold of Valyria, of the Children of the Forest and the wargs of the Old North (neither of which the maester regarded as actually existing), as well as of the runes of the Old Tongue and the pyromancy of the Alchemist's Guild or the Red Priests of Essos.
If Greyback had a notebook he'd have been scrawling in it. The maester of Cerwyn wasn't an unusually knowledgeable man, he merely came from a scholarly tradition. What more could a true loremaster teach the werewolf?
Strangely, the maester let Greyback go without confronting him after their conversation was over. Greyback left with a grin on his face. Perhaps the man simply yearned to actually talk to someone. Perhaps the werewolf's pursuit of arcane subjects (which the maester regarded as of no practical use to a spy or enemy) had set the man at ease.
It didn't matter.
Greyback waited till nightfall in his room at the inn and ate well again. He prepared, fooling the innkeeper into beliving that he'd gone to sleep, then leaping from the window, gaining purchase on the beams of the neighbouring building and going swiftly across the rooftops of the small town toward the corrals of the gathering army's forces.
It was easy enough to steal a horse. Greyback could see well in the dark and he stalked around till the sentries were tired enough to slip past them, into the corral itself. His scent, the smell of a bloody wolf and the growl he let out terrified the horses. A wolf was among them, and Greyback leapt atop one grey stallion, keeping low to it's back as the horse bucked and screamed. He set his heels to the beast's sides, his physical strength more than his skill in horsemanship keeping him in his seat as the creature ran terrified, leaping over the corral's fence, darting past the army's sentries into the night.
Greyback let the beast run. It was twenty miles or more to Winterfell and he could afford to let the horse tire before he needed to rest it. He was unfamiliar with horses, he had to admit, but he was relatively sure they had to be rested.
They ran on through the night. Greyback could see well, even if the horse couldn't, and he directed it around potholes and divots in the road. On and on they went and all the while he thought.
The Order of Maesters, from what Fenrir understood, were hostile to magic. Why so? Was it a practical aversion or a philosophical one? The maester of Castle Cerwyn didn't seem to believe in magic, seemed to think that yes, perhaps it had existed once, but no longer. That it was in the past was clear, that dragons had once flown and strange things once happened, that the Long Night, an apocalyptic time had once reigned and that strange creatures had stalked about, doing whatever it is they did, But more than that was unclear .There was clearly no organised teaching of magic, not anything like Hogwarts of the Ministry. There were no magical authorities., no Aurors or Hit Wizards. No codification or organisation of magical creatures either, or so the maester explained.
A Septon Barth, apparently a famous priest, had investigated Dragons and categorised them in a book, and some maesters had travelled in Essos, another continent near Westeros to examine the traditions o the religions in those areas, but it seemed to Greyback that there was simply not the same sort of popularity of magic that had so overwhelmingly populated his own world.
Again, why had this been? Or rather, why was it now?
Greyback wasn't an Unspeakable. He didn't know the higher mysteries of magic. He had no training in understanding such things or examining them closely. He was a practical man, a trained man in certain things, a killer and a bandit, a political leader and an agitator, a warrior and a hunter. He had knowledge yes, especially regarding lycanthropy and the various related studies such as potions or the Care of Magical Beasts, as well as some skill in curse breaking, but he'd never had the chance to take up a scholarly pursuit.
Unless he could learn to read especially fast, he'd need attendants and acolytes. People to read for him and present him with information. That would take some time, and be risky, but it was a thought for another time...
Returning to the previous idea as he let the horse rest by a stream for a time, Fenrir sat on a rock in thought. How did one destroy magic? How could one reduce it, bring it down, remove it from the world?
The destruction of magical artefacts, of magical infrastructure, the systematic elimination of magical teaching and education… These would all reduce the amount of magical things in the world, but wasn't magic more than that?
They were a thousand different explanations on where magic actually came from. As a rule though, the Wizarding World had no love for philosophy. It was enough that Wizards could alter reality with a whim, there was no need to deeply consider matters. For his own part, Greyback had never done so. He had wondered, idly over the years, where lycanthropy came from, whether it was (as people said sometimes) a curse or whether it was just a magical disease.
He knew the 'Being' directorate of the Ministry of Magic had their own views on it, indeed Greyback had distributed polemic notes directly against material disagreement with many of the material which had been released by them and the Werewolf Capture Unit, but really no one knew or had a proper idea on the matter.
Had magic declined like the tides? Simply went away over time due to some external influence or astrological phenomena?
Magic had never declined on Earth. Wizards had simply decided to separate themselves. Some, especially Purebloods, thought it was weakness and that Wizards should rule over Muggles. But what was the point? It would be like ruling over animals, there wasn't anything that Muggle slaves could provide that Wizards couldn't just magic up. It had always been a strange political debate within Wizarding society and anyway in most countries the various Ministries of Magic would ignore crimes against Muggles.
On Westeros though obviously that hadn't happened. Had Wizards, or whoever could use magic, for certainly they weren't the same sort of Wizards Greyback was familiar with, simply declined in general? Greyback almost refused to admit it, it grated against his pride, this time as a Wizard rather than just as a werewolf.
Had the Valyrians been Wizards? Had the Doom of Valyria destroyed some large magical network, possibly a warding or a enchantment gone awry? Had that created some sort of magical backlash and destroyed that kingdom?
But no, it couldn't be that either, Fenrir thought, throwing little pebbles into the bubbling brook his horse was drinking from.
There were alternative magical traditions on the planet, both in Westeros and Essos. There were at least a dozen which the maester had spoken of, if not more unspoken or which the maester didn't know about.
And, it seemed at least, that magic was still present. Either the magical destruction of Lalyrua had destroyed magic's influence, or it had not.
Clearly it had not.
Greyback rode on through the night. Over the hills and between barrows he rode, through the woods and the cries of creatures all around. The horse was tiring, this journey might kill it he knew, but he didn't care. It wasn't his horse after all.
Just over the next hill Fenrir found a camp. He'd not smelt t, for the wind blew north and harshly at that. Soon enough though he was drawing closer and could see campfires, tents and pavilions in the centre. This must be Lord Stark's force. Evidently the lord had decided to bestir himself and move south to combine with Cerwyn's troops.
In truth it mattered little to Fenrir. It just meant there would be fewer armed men in Winterfell to make his life difficult.
He sat on his horse for a time before he went on. Was there any opportunity here or should he just move on? There were sentries he saw, and though he'd evaded them against the men of Cerwyn, he had no particular desire to chance a confrontation.
He led his horse in a long circle around the camp instead. The wind changed as he went on, blowing to the west instead and it brought him the scents of the camps.
Again he took in the smell of the campfire. The smell of charred wood and burnt up meats when the men had tossed the bones of their meals into the fire after finishing. He smelt the sweat of the infantry, the oilskins on the archers' weapons. Further on he smelled silk and spice.
Why was there spice? Why pepper and cardamon, why the scent of saffron? It was bizarre. Why would you bring spices to a battle? Were they planning on doing some cooking instead of fighting?
Greyback supposed that wars must be longer here. A wizard could turn and think, and apparate instantly to a battlefield. Even crossing a country of hundreds of miles was only a few hours by broom, even an old broom rather than one of the ones you'd use if you were intending to attack something. Greyback favoured the Floo Network himself, it was convenient to travel to public places, and he had any number of haunts like old pubs that catered to the more unusual clientele that he could use to get close to his victims.
He put it out of his mind. He needed care here, it wouldn't do him any good to arouse the whole camp as he slipped by, that might cause this Lord Stark to send back men to Winterfell, and he wanted time to assess the place before he made his next move. If nothing else, the settlement was bigger and would be well supplied with all that he might need than the Castle Cerwyn was, and that meant he would want to be more careful than he'd been previously perhaps.
There was a sentry in front of him.
Greyback's stolen hose whinnied softly and he struck it om the ear harshly to silence it.
The sentry looked up. Peering into the dark toward Greyback.
Could Fenrir escape?
Did he want to?
His heart beat faster as he smelt the man's fear, prickling out in the night's cold on his skin.
Fenrir grinned, his muscles tensed as he made to stand in the saddle.
The man's eyes widened in realisation, then further in fear as he perceived the werewolf.
Greyback leapt!
A startled scream ripped its way from the man's throat before Greyback tackled him to the forest floor. He rolled over and over with the man before grasping him by his surcoat and swinging him up and into a tree, knocking the wind from him. The werewolf drew back his hand to slash at the man's throat with his clawed nails.
And then slowly lowered his hand instead. Relaxed his arm in a conscious effort, felt the tension draining away…
Then with a swift flurry he drew his dagger. Fenrir stabbed the man half a dozen times in the chest, savouring the scent as the sentry died, drowning as his lungs filled with blood. He had to die by mundane means, not look like a wolf had savaged him.
Greyback was back on his horse swiftly, then off through the woods. He galloped down the road, putting as much distance between himself and the camp as possible.
He had almost lost himself there, his beast had roared in triumph when the sentry's throat beneath his hand.
But no, he would kill when he willed it. 'Beast' the Wizards called him, but he was a man underneath.
On Greyback went, his horse dying undeath him as he rode. The creature stumbled, it puffed and blew, begging for respite. Greyback abandoned it at the side of the road and walked the last mile or so. He could see Winterfell from here, see a dozen turreted, snow-capped towers.
To another, it might have been a great fortress, something of power and strength, a wonder of the world.
But Greyback was tired after his ride. He wanted to eat, and to sleep.
He could take the world.
But he'd do it after a nap.
- Location
- United Kingdom
This chapter was up a couple of weeks ago. I've written 2 chapters ahead so far, which puts us at about 33k words done. I've not in fact acheived the 50k in November target, but I've been sort of busy over the last few days so haven't have the time to write another 17k. I'll give myself another week as I did no planning for this and starting writing in week 2 of November. I've not put the poll up for what I'll be writing after the 50k is done. I've enjoyed writing this so far, but I do have other ideas. Voting is up on Patreon.
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The room was small and cozy, with a low ceiling and a narrow window. The walls were made of rough grey stone with little flecks of shining quartz. On the floor there were fresh rushes, Greyback insisted on it, he couldn't tolerate the smell.
Just because he was a werewolf it didn't mean he wanted to live in filth… Too many of his kind fell into such traps and it made their enhanced senses a torment.
And besides, the peasants of Winterfell were perpetually covered in mud and dung. Or so he though when he got a whiff of them.
Fenrir didn't like cities, generally speaking. He especially didn't like muggle ones, or dense collections of wizards. Where you got density you got industry and artificial things… They stank. He hated Diagon Alley for example, and took great pleasure whenever he'd been order to terrorise it and blow up a few shops.
Greyback spent a lot of time in the wilds. Some of that was deliberate to be sure, some less so and more than once he'd had to crawl into a cave to hide from Aurors after a wound or a transformation that left him too tired to move, but that was relatively rare.
He could deal with cities. Well planned ones, well-ventilated ones… He couldn't deal with muggle pollution or soot clogging his nose, couldn't deal with the horrid smells of potion shops which had never been cleaned properly, or the harsh smell of solvents or caustic chemicals when they were.
Winterfell wasn't so bad, he supposed. The snow froze most of the bad smells, and the gong farmers were relatively efficient in their work. Certainly, he was enjoying being able to pay to have his clothes washed regularly, so that was an advantage.
The fireplace in the corner provided warmth and light, and a pile of logs was stacked nearby. His wooden bed had two mattresses, both thin and of straw. This too Greyback had paid extra for, well as for another blanket, again washed well before the servants had set it on his bed. He had a small chest for his belongings, and his bearskin cloak hung from a peg over a fine new pair of hobnailed boots dripping snow into the rushes.
A small table was on the other side of the room under the closed shutters. A single chair stood by it, he'd ordered the other one taken away, he would not be receiving visitors after all, and currently on the table sat a basin and cloth for washing. A candle, extinguished currently, and a horn cup were the only decorations on the table, while a simple tapestry of geometric design hung from the wall.
Upon the door sat a stout bar and a lock for which Greyback had the only key. He'd sneered at the innkeeper when the man had mentioned that, but seen no tell of a lie in the man's eyes. The room cost half a stag for each night he stayed there, and he'd booked it out for a month already, then handed over another five stags for the extra's he'd ordered, including good meat regularly and hearty food and clean linens.
Fenrir wasn't entirely used to be waited upon. Servants had become less common in the muggle world, since before he'd been born really, and while in the Wizarding World especially in the east some families still had them, it was usually work done by charms or house elves.
Werewolves weren't well suited for domestic service either, and among the clans he'd sometimes been attended by lower ranked pack members, none of them would think to wash clothes often, it was rather useless with the smell of a whole pack of werewolves together after all. It seeped into everything, the cloying stench of old blood, the musk of sweat and urine, the oily fur-smell which was somewhat bitter, somewhat sharp…
Greyback lay back and breathed.
The inn itself wasn't that different from the one he'd stayed at a few weeks ago at Castle Cerwyn. The place was cleaner, the furnishings of higher quality, and the servants more capable.
But he wasn't concentrating on that. Instead he tried to sense the castle further away. He could scent the smoke and the heat of the metal. Not feel it, but smell the red iron as the castle's smith pounded away. He could smell the wood and leather of the soldiers and of the armoury itself, which was in constant use these days due to the great activity Lord Stark had ordered to combat the wildlings.
Herbs and flowers wer next, he could smell the plants in the glass gardens, the greenhouses Greyback would call them. Winterfell mainly grew more exotic herbs there, he was led to understand, rather than anything more useful for actual eating.
Then parchment, poured wax and birds touched the air, wafting down toward him in his room. That would be the maester and raven master.
Last there was moss and stony. The godswood of the castle and the standing weirdwoods.
Something was there though. Something hidden, something coming up from the ground. It was sweet and sour, it was bloody like the weirwood's tears, but it seemed to come from the earth…
Greyback shook himself.
He was being lazy.
With a start he threw himself from his bed and swiftly headed out.
He never got up slowly, never gently. He was a man of action, and either he was at rest or at labour. Now was the time for the later and he had his horse saddled and set off into the Wolfswood. He passed through Wintertown, the unplanned village that had grown up around the walls of the great castle, then out onto the road and over snowy plain.
It was several hours ride to the clearing where his workers saw to their duties. He did not speak, nor whistle or sing. He just rode. There was much to do after all and he had no time for frivolities. He needed to be hard with the men, needed them to obey him, and he couldn't go about larking where they could see him.
The clearing was a small patch of land surrounded by tall pine trees and snow-covered bushes. The ground was covered with a thick layer of snow as Greyback rode up. It had snowed during the night in the forest and the drifts had been steadily getting higher and higher as he rode along. While sometimes the frost had been beautiful, a tiny image of nature's beauty in each flake, here the ground was a frozen quagmire, soggy, churned and then frozen again each night.
The place stank of old blood and new blood. The mud was tainted red in spots where the blood and guts of the animals had stained it, while a large fire in the centre and a rickety smoking apparatus strung between two great trees brought on more strange smells, tangy and sour. Around the fire, there were dozens of wooden poles and racks where the skins and furs of the animals were hung to dry, beyond that in rows were crude baskets and woven barrels where strips of meat were packed with snow and ice for storage.
Rodrick and his brothers had been alarmed by Greyback's appearance at first. The three were boys from one of the villages nearby, only a day's ride from Winterfell, and he'd taken them into his employ. While he could have stolen money the largest amounts of it nearby would be in Lord Stark's treasury and Greyback didn't want to draw attention to himself just yet. Instead he made use of his natural talents and went out and killed a bear. It wasn't that difficult, he was stronger than a normal man and fearless besides and the bear was groggy in its wakening, even before he'd sunk a dagger into its spine.
Greyback had then walked to the village he could smell nearby and hired the first person he saw, Rodrick, to come clean the carcass. By the time he'd got the boy back to the bear's cave the carcass was being torn apart by two wolves, but that just meant more work for Rodrick, for as soon as Greyback saw the wolves he'd sprang on them with a howl of rage, incensed that animals would steal from him.
The affair had continued from there. He had brought Rodrick and his brothers out to a clearing in the woods, then brought them back animals to deal with. Greyback could catch and fight wolves on his own. They sensed a challenger in him and did not flee, at least not before he'd speared one. Bears were more difficult, he'd only killed two of them, while the lynxes he'd found would have been almost invisible without his enhanced senses and years of trained hunter's perception.
Boars were plentiful too, he'd taken ten of them, matching the tusked grunters in strength, flipping them over onto spine-bearing backs and breaking their necks. The hides from the boars weren't worth much apparently, but he'd told Rodrick to deal with it and the boy had bartered a few boar carcasses for additional supplies from the villages for the work.
Greyback had sold the first savaged bear fur for ten silver stags. It wasn't an enormous amount, but it had amazed the peasants he'd hired. No matter, it was their pay for the month and he set them to work to a harsh schedule. They would sleep out in the woods next to their tools, they'd work all day and eat as much meat as they wished. Greyback wanted money, and he wanted it as quickly and conveniently as possible.
Rodrick had stood over the furs and hides, picking one up and putting his hand through a bloody rent in the coat, marvelling at the wound. "These won't sell for much. We might get half, at best I think, of what they should be worth. How did you kill them? It's like some monster clawed them…"
Greyback only sneered at the boy. "Get back to work." he'd ordered, "Or maybe that monster will come for you too."
Rodrick flushed but turned back to his work.
Fenrir had known how to prepare kills, but he'd not seen the methods the northerners used, they had different steps and uses for different parts of the animals, and Greyback had studied the methods, even tried a few smaller animals himself to practice the skill.
For smaller animals, Rodrick and his brothers would hand the creatures like squirrels or rabbits and make a cut in one foot, continuing up the leg and then down the other leg. After that, the skin could be peeled off like a sock. For the larger creatures though the carcass first had to be wrestled into position on a flat surface, then a cut made the length of the body, with the skin opened with specialised tools and then stripped off like a jacket, and finally scrapped with further tools.
In any case, Greyback's own efforts hadn't gone well. He'd ruined one wolfskin when he'd carelessly pierced the stomach of the beast and bile burst out everywhere. That had been unpleasant and he'd ignored the boys in favour of seeking a pond to wash off in.
The bears' skins were worth the most, twenty silver stags each if they were intact and prepared. While the set up in the clearing wasn't as complete as that of an actual butcher or tanner, the boys did well enough. Rodrick and his brothers were busy as he rode in and only Rodrick, kneeling in the bloody mud with a skinning knife in his hand and a boar's carcass before him, looked up.
The others were cutting meat with a hatchet or cleaning skins with a strange flat tool like a chisel. They worked in silence generally, and while slower than some perhaps, they were fast enough. They could only process so much meat at once and Greyback had returned to check on their progress.
The smell of the clearing was a mixture of blood, smoke, and salt. The blood of the animals had a metallic and sour odor, which was mixed with the smoke of the fire and some salt for those meats or hides which couldn't be cooled by the snow. Ice wasn't a long term solution, and although Wintertown had an ice cellar with great blocks cut from a lake nearby, they still salted beef and pork by the barrel. The smell was strong, but for once it smelt like the hunt, rather than like the artificial cloying scent of encroaching civilisation. Greyback was no atavist, but he did love the smell of blood and he smiled as he beheld the scene.
The condition of the bearskins hadn't brought in as much as it might have, had Greyback hunted normally rather than setting himself bodily against beasts. One bearskin was worth good silver. A shadowcat was worth half that of a bearskin, and a wolf half again. Boars weren't known for their value in the hide, but rather in the meat, and Greyback had led two horses packed with meat back to the town not two nights ago.
Initially the skinners tried to barter their way into some of the meat and skins for themselves, but Greyback growled low and they shut up. They were his kills, not these scavengers. He was already paying them a fifth of the takings for the three of them.
Greyback would not tolerate thieves…
There was demand for relatively cheap meat in Winterfell at that time to feed the soldiers and lessen the burden on Winterfell's granaries. There were few hunters out in the Wolfswood due to the wildling threat, but that just meant better hunting for Fenrir. The Stark soldiery were still tramping through the Wolfswood searching for the Wildling band who'd slaughtered the villagers. That had been weeks ago and while apparently they'd caught a few random bandits, the supposed hundreds of savages had yet to appear. The hides and furs saw various uses, some to be cleaned and sold in Winterfell or transformed further there, while others would be shipped south or even to White Harbour, the main port of the North, to be traded further afield.
Two weeks hunting had earned him three gold dragons. Or rather, it would have, had anyone in the area actually dealt in dragons. In total though he'd gotten a half a hundred silver stags, almost half of which immediately went on various consumables, as well as converting it into labour. He brought goods mostly, but he'd also retained the services of the local herbalist to teach him the local plants, as well as retaining a poor merchant's son to teach him to read.
Life here was expensive. Or rather, the normalities of his previous life were incredible luxuries in Winterfell. Perhaps prices would be lesser in a more cosmopolitan place but that was irrelevant for now he supposed.
The lodging was half a dragon, a two new suits of clothes, another half dragon from a decent tailor. Tools he might need himself for carving runes, making potions, or other such magical enquiries were a whole dragon for twenty or more tools in a good leather case. Even a small chest of spices couldn't be found for more than a whole dragon, which Greyback couldn't justify to himself really. Nor the purchase of a horse which might be three dragons or more. Instead he rented where he could, or brought fractions of what he might like to. Instead of a full set of weapons such as battle axe, knives, spear, bow or crossbow, as well as armour to give him the look of the sellsword he pretended to be, Greyback suited himself with a broad, long knife which he wore at his side. It was an ugly thing, but it was meant for ugly deeds.
Books were the worst. You could pick up parchment from any stationers in Diagon Alley for a decent price, or just rob a muggle shop for their thinner paper, but here there was no bookbinder in Winterfell or any such establishment where he might find paper or books to buy. The master of the keep had a library apparently, which Greyback would very much like access to, but that was it. After enquiring with some of the merchants as to the price of books, he found they'd be almost the same cost as horses and turned away in disgust, while he'd found the same when he asked about glass instruments. Apparently there was very little manufacture of such things in the North, or indeed in Westeros.
That may say something about trade he supposed, for the Myrish were known for their glassblowing, or the Tyroshi for their dyes. Greyback did not need every luxury, but he would need some items for his magical experiments when he eventually got somewhere to do them. For that he could do with a patron, but in turn that would need trust, and he knew his looks made him hard to trust in that way.
It all went back to his initial planning, thought Fenrir. He had set it aside for the moment. There could be much he might do, but it needed more resources than he'd have now. He needed money and more money, position or rank, the patronage and protection of a powerful lord, but also the secrecy necessary to avoid inciting unrest which might endanger him. While he might lope through the world killing and biting and eating as he would, eventually someone would bring him to a poor end. As a young man he'd longed for battle and loved the chase, but now having spent decades in struggle and in his fifth decade, Greyback knew the value of stability.
After looming over Rodrick and his brothers a little more for his own amusement, Greyback rode out, following his nose into the forest. Quite soon though he caught a smell he'd not smelt recently.
Iron and oil wafted through the forest, and Fenrir's ears pricked as he heard the rasping sound of someone sharpening a sword. It piqued his curiosity and the werewolf rode on toward it, smelling a camp more distinctly with the scent of fire and the soldiers around it.
The patrol was camped in a small clearing, surrounded by tall pine trees that cast long shadows in the fading light. The men had pitched their tents in a rough circle, leaving a space in the centre for a fire. The fire was low and smoky, barely enough to keep them warm in the chilly autumn air, but they couldn't have found many dry branches with the snows being what they had been.
Greyback pitied them, in a way. They'd likely been tramping round the Wolfswood for weeks in the snow and mud, searching for Wildlings that didn't exist.
The men had gathered around the fire, some sitting on logs or rocks, others lying on their cloaks or blankets. They looked weary and bored, their faces grimy and stubbled, their eyes dull and tired. They wore leather jerkins and mail shirts over woollen tunics, and had helmets, shields, and swords at their sides. Some carried spears or axes, and their sergeant, a portly but broad man with a coat of rivetted plates, was sharpening his sword.
Their clothes and armour were stained with mud and their boots were in poor repair. They were Stark men-at-arms, professional soldiers from Winterfell or the surrounding areas the Starks held directly. Hard bread and dried meat would have been their fare, but Fenrir could smell more food stashed away in their packs. They spoke in low voices which Fenrir couldn't quite hear, but they seemed in decent spirits for all their toil.
The werewolf stepped forward into the light, leaving his horse to graze and snuffle at a bush that'd shed most of the snow from the night before.
The sergeant stood swiftly, his oilcloth in his hand and the whetstone on his lap falling to the floor as he took a stance with his longsword. Greyback just stood there though as the others jumped up as well.
"Wait, I know this one, I've seen him in Wintertown." said one of the soldiers, lowering his blade somewhat.
"I sell furs there." Greyback confirmed, stepping forward into the light more.
"You're the one with the bearskins." continued the soldier, then stepped forward himself, peering through the gloom at Greyback. "Yes, I can see your cloak."
The soldiers calmed down after that and the sergeant invited him to share the fire. Greyback would be there for long he knew, but it was the first time he'd seen them in this section of the woods.
The Wolfswood was massive. It was large and dense, covering more than 300 miles north and west of Winterfell, off toward the mountains. There were a dozen types of tree and animal, and even with villages dotted through it you could walk for a week without seeing another human. There were hills, lakes, caves and rivers through it, and it could probably sustain a reasonable troop of wildlings.
"How do you mean to find them, these raiders?" he asked the sergeant as the men settled down.
"Lord Stark thinks, so I've been told anyway, that there cannot be so many wildlings as were previously thought. We don't know why they struck the village and butchered the people there, but they must have crossed the Wall a few months ago…"
The Wall was an enormous structure of ice and stone which separated the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros from the Lands Beyond, the untamed wilderness of the far north. Supposedly the Wall, like Winterfell itself, had been raised by Brandon the Builder, an ancient king reputed to have used magic and allied with giants to raise his structures.
Greyback intended to visit at some point, but he had other matters to attend to first.
"There's fifty or more companies like mine out in the woods." the sergeant continued, "The Wildlings have been very quiet, but I suppose they let their base nature get the better of them. Or, maybe, the villagers discovered them and the savages wanted to silence them. Some of our bands have dogs, but not enough by my mind to search out the wildlings in these woods. I know Lord Talhart has argued that we should set fires and burn the wildlings out but it wouldn't work with this snow. Maybe we were still in the height of summer."
"A stupid plan." Greyback murmured.
"Aye, well so thought Lord Stark evidently. If you ask me, they're long gone by now. This was no raid, you mark my words, but what they intended I've no idea."
The wildlings of the north would sometimes cross the Wall, apparently simply climbing over it, to abduct women from the northmost districts of the North. Apparently this was something done to prove a warrior's valour, though Greyback had also heard that sometimes more militaristic wildling chieftains would raid specifically to gather supplies they did not have, notably steel tools, arms and armour.
That gave him an idea.
The rest of the evening passed easily. No one was in the mood for extensive conversation, but Greyback passed a few comments on the nature of hunting in these parts, while the soldiers told of how they'd initially had larger companies ride out to search deeper into the Wolfswood, but finding nothing they'd been split into smaller groups and were now searching the outskirts of Winterfell's direct domain.
The sergeant invited him to rest the night by the fire, and Fenrir accepted. He tied his horse to a branch and set himself down near the boundary. He didn't sleep though, he just lay awake watching the stars. The full moon would be soon and he meant to use it to his advantage.
For now though, he would act as a man. He heard the sentry still awake fidgeting and sat up slowly, as if groggy. Greyback made an affected stagger toward his horse, retrieving a waterskin and drinking a draft.
"Can't sleep, friend?" asked the sentry, wandering over. The man abandoned his place quick enough. That was interesting.
"I needed water." Greyback shrugged quietly, "The food was dry enough."
"Aye, the jerky was shit wasn't it?" the sentry agreed, but he quickly continued, drawing closer to Greyback in conspiratorial whispering. "Listen, could you take my watch for a few moments? I need to go piss but the sergeant will skin me alive if he finds out I've left the camp unguarded."
"Of course." Greyback agreed easily, watching the man retreat.
The werewolf looked down at the sleeping guards. Then he brought out his long knife, freeing it with a half-draw before deciding on another action. Instead he came up behind the sentry as the man was fiddling with the strings of his trousers, reaching up and around, then snapping the man's neck with a savage rip up and to the side.
Greyback caught the body as it fell, then grasped it up and hurled the sentry bodily away from the camp. No reason to have anyone else stumble on him before Greyback was ready.
He stepped back into the light. The fire was dying now, but he could still see well enough to do what was necessary.
Which one first?
The furthest from the fire, Greyback supposed. He stepped stealthily over, drawing his long knife. Then he struck!
The man-at-arms woke in blood, struggling half to his feet before Greyback left him, moving onto the next. He drew a hatchet, bearing it in his left hand while his murderous blade was in his right, already dripping with purpose.
Two more men died, but when he struck with the axe the blade bit at the man's mail byrnie. Greyback felt the blade turn, and struck at the man again, this time burying the axe in his skull. He pulled at it, but it was stuck fast and the failure had awoken the others. The sergeant was on his feet, bellowing in rage, drawing his sword and shouting for the others.
Greyback was among them in a heartbeat. He beat aside the rising blade of one man, reaching out with clawed hand and ripping the man's throat out. Then he struck at the others, one of them fumbling with a bow as the sergeant shouted for him to take up a spear instead.
By a hair's breadth the fumbler managed to dodge Greyback's stroke, but in doing so he exposed himself and the werewolf leapt upon him, tackling him to the forest floor and tasting hot blood as he bit at the man's face.
Fenrir rose, the mutilated man struggling on the ground. He would be dead soon enough, there was no need to go further.
He spat out a portion of the man's cheek, the bristles of the soldier's stubble irritating his lips.
"Monster!" the sergeant gasped. "You'll die here! Winterfell!"
Six men were dead, there was only sergeant and one other left.
Greyback met their charge with a road that made his horse scream. He charged forward fast, too fast for the men and bowled them over, striking them at their waists. His knife was gone, he'd dropped it somewhere but he raged against them in the mud, teeth and claws and might against their steel.
His claws scratched across one man's eyes, then he sank his teeth into a throat. That was one of them, and there was only the sergeant. Greyback regained his feet, and the sergeant hauled himself up too. There was resolve in the man's eyes as he looked at his dead men.
Brave, thought Greyback.
With a final, wordless scream the northman charged forward. His sword was bright in the night, a graceful pillar against the night.
Fenrir stepped forward quickly, catching his wrist and squeezing, bringing the man to a halt.
The sergeant breathed hard through grey whiskers, straining against Greyback's iron grip. It was the man's strength against his, and easily Greyback turned the sword. Instead he set the tip toward the man's breast, slowly pushing forward.
The sergeant screamed as Greyback pierced his flesh. Armour and cloth and skin and muscled parted as the sergeant screamed, his hands grippingly the blade, the edges of his own weapon cutting his palms to ribbons as Fenrir thrust into him. The man coughed blood, his hands weakly battering at Greyback's face as the werewolf laughed.
The sergeant died.
When the clearing grew quiet there was only the wolf. The man Greyback had wounded lay dying and the werewolf turned away. The sergeant's dead eyes seemed to follow him as he stepped, the beast settling again within his soul till it slumbered once more. He reached down to where the sergeant had slept, digging through the man's pack till it found it. Red wine, sour and bad, as wines went, but good enough to wash down the taste of men's flesh.
Fenrir sat down on a rock, raising the skin in tribute. They'd fought well, and bravely. He drank as they died, slowly watching as their hearts stilled and any men who still lived slowly faded.
It would be well to make sure Lord Stark kept the idea of wildlings in his mind, Greyback thought. The werewolf could only benefit from the continued agitation of the area, and while he didn't quite know what benefit he might draw from it, it was sure that he would think of something. In the meantime he would put pressure on Stark and the northerners, and that meant he needed to create terror…
With that in mind, Greyback took his knife and set to work. He first went to the body of the sentry, further away from the camp where he'd tossed the man. As he grasped him by the hair the man's neck crunched and splintered, but Greyback thought he could hear breathing. Was the sentry still alive?
He looked down in the light cast by the fire. Yes, there was life in those eyes. There was fear, there was hatred, there was anger, but there was life.
The sentry's breath hissed out as he lay awkwardly, his spine broken and ruined.
Greyback's knife flashed in the firelight. He smiled down at the man and wiped a tear off his cheek. "It won't be the sergeant who'll be skinning you, 'friend'."
-
The room was small and cozy, with a low ceiling and a narrow window. The walls were made of rough grey stone with little flecks of shining quartz. On the floor there were fresh rushes, Greyback insisted on it, he couldn't tolerate the smell.
Just because he was a werewolf it didn't mean he wanted to live in filth… Too many of his kind fell into such traps and it made their enhanced senses a torment.
And besides, the peasants of Winterfell were perpetually covered in mud and dung. Or so he though when he got a whiff of them.
Fenrir didn't like cities, generally speaking. He especially didn't like muggle ones, or dense collections of wizards. Where you got density you got industry and artificial things… They stank. He hated Diagon Alley for example, and took great pleasure whenever he'd been order to terrorise it and blow up a few shops.
Greyback spent a lot of time in the wilds. Some of that was deliberate to be sure, some less so and more than once he'd had to crawl into a cave to hide from Aurors after a wound or a transformation that left him too tired to move, but that was relatively rare.
He could deal with cities. Well planned ones, well-ventilated ones… He couldn't deal with muggle pollution or soot clogging his nose, couldn't deal with the horrid smells of potion shops which had never been cleaned properly, or the harsh smell of solvents or caustic chemicals when they were.
Winterfell wasn't so bad, he supposed. The snow froze most of the bad smells, and the gong farmers were relatively efficient in their work. Certainly, he was enjoying being able to pay to have his clothes washed regularly, so that was an advantage.
The fireplace in the corner provided warmth and light, and a pile of logs was stacked nearby. His wooden bed had two mattresses, both thin and of straw. This too Greyback had paid extra for, well as for another blanket, again washed well before the servants had set it on his bed. He had a small chest for his belongings, and his bearskin cloak hung from a peg over a fine new pair of hobnailed boots dripping snow into the rushes.
A small table was on the other side of the room under the closed shutters. A single chair stood by it, he'd ordered the other one taken away, he would not be receiving visitors after all, and currently on the table sat a basin and cloth for washing. A candle, extinguished currently, and a horn cup were the only decorations on the table, while a simple tapestry of geometric design hung from the wall.
Upon the door sat a stout bar and a lock for which Greyback had the only key. He'd sneered at the innkeeper when the man had mentioned that, but seen no tell of a lie in the man's eyes. The room cost half a stag for each night he stayed there, and he'd booked it out for a month already, then handed over another five stags for the extra's he'd ordered, including good meat regularly and hearty food and clean linens.
Fenrir wasn't entirely used to be waited upon. Servants had become less common in the muggle world, since before he'd been born really, and while in the Wizarding World especially in the east some families still had them, it was usually work done by charms or house elves.
Werewolves weren't well suited for domestic service either, and among the clans he'd sometimes been attended by lower ranked pack members, none of them would think to wash clothes often, it was rather useless with the smell of a whole pack of werewolves together after all. It seeped into everything, the cloying stench of old blood, the musk of sweat and urine, the oily fur-smell which was somewhat bitter, somewhat sharp…
Greyback lay back and breathed.
The inn itself wasn't that different from the one he'd stayed at a few weeks ago at Castle Cerwyn. The place was cleaner, the furnishings of higher quality, and the servants more capable.
But he wasn't concentrating on that. Instead he tried to sense the castle further away. He could scent the smoke and the heat of the metal. Not feel it, but smell the red iron as the castle's smith pounded away. He could smell the wood and leather of the soldiers and of the armoury itself, which was in constant use these days due to the great activity Lord Stark had ordered to combat the wildlings.
Herbs and flowers wer next, he could smell the plants in the glass gardens, the greenhouses Greyback would call them. Winterfell mainly grew more exotic herbs there, he was led to understand, rather than anything more useful for actual eating.
Then parchment, poured wax and birds touched the air, wafting down toward him in his room. That would be the maester and raven master.
Last there was moss and stony. The godswood of the castle and the standing weirdwoods.
Something was there though. Something hidden, something coming up from the ground. It was sweet and sour, it was bloody like the weirwood's tears, but it seemed to come from the earth…
Greyback shook himself.
He was being lazy.
With a start he threw himself from his bed and swiftly headed out.
He never got up slowly, never gently. He was a man of action, and either he was at rest or at labour. Now was the time for the later and he had his horse saddled and set off into the Wolfswood. He passed through Wintertown, the unplanned village that had grown up around the walls of the great castle, then out onto the road and over snowy plain.
It was several hours ride to the clearing where his workers saw to their duties. He did not speak, nor whistle or sing. He just rode. There was much to do after all and he had no time for frivolities. He needed to be hard with the men, needed them to obey him, and he couldn't go about larking where they could see him.
The clearing was a small patch of land surrounded by tall pine trees and snow-covered bushes. The ground was covered with a thick layer of snow as Greyback rode up. It had snowed during the night in the forest and the drifts had been steadily getting higher and higher as he rode along. While sometimes the frost had been beautiful, a tiny image of nature's beauty in each flake, here the ground was a frozen quagmire, soggy, churned and then frozen again each night.
The place stank of old blood and new blood. The mud was tainted red in spots where the blood and guts of the animals had stained it, while a large fire in the centre and a rickety smoking apparatus strung between two great trees brought on more strange smells, tangy and sour. Around the fire, there were dozens of wooden poles and racks where the skins and furs of the animals were hung to dry, beyond that in rows were crude baskets and woven barrels where strips of meat were packed with snow and ice for storage.
Rodrick and his brothers had been alarmed by Greyback's appearance at first. The three were boys from one of the villages nearby, only a day's ride from Winterfell, and he'd taken them into his employ. While he could have stolen money the largest amounts of it nearby would be in Lord Stark's treasury and Greyback didn't want to draw attention to himself just yet. Instead he made use of his natural talents and went out and killed a bear. It wasn't that difficult, he was stronger than a normal man and fearless besides and the bear was groggy in its wakening, even before he'd sunk a dagger into its spine.
Greyback had then walked to the village he could smell nearby and hired the first person he saw, Rodrick, to come clean the carcass. By the time he'd got the boy back to the bear's cave the carcass was being torn apart by two wolves, but that just meant more work for Rodrick, for as soon as Greyback saw the wolves he'd sprang on them with a howl of rage, incensed that animals would steal from him.
The affair had continued from there. He had brought Rodrick and his brothers out to a clearing in the woods, then brought them back animals to deal with. Greyback could catch and fight wolves on his own. They sensed a challenger in him and did not flee, at least not before he'd speared one. Bears were more difficult, he'd only killed two of them, while the lynxes he'd found would have been almost invisible without his enhanced senses and years of trained hunter's perception.
Boars were plentiful too, he'd taken ten of them, matching the tusked grunters in strength, flipping them over onto spine-bearing backs and breaking their necks. The hides from the boars weren't worth much apparently, but he'd told Rodrick to deal with it and the boy had bartered a few boar carcasses for additional supplies from the villages for the work.
Greyback had sold the first savaged bear fur for ten silver stags. It wasn't an enormous amount, but it had amazed the peasants he'd hired. No matter, it was their pay for the month and he set them to work to a harsh schedule. They would sleep out in the woods next to their tools, they'd work all day and eat as much meat as they wished. Greyback wanted money, and he wanted it as quickly and conveniently as possible.
Rodrick had stood over the furs and hides, picking one up and putting his hand through a bloody rent in the coat, marvelling at the wound. "These won't sell for much. We might get half, at best I think, of what they should be worth. How did you kill them? It's like some monster clawed them…"
Greyback only sneered at the boy. "Get back to work." he'd ordered, "Or maybe that monster will come for you too."
Rodrick flushed but turned back to his work.
Fenrir had known how to prepare kills, but he'd not seen the methods the northerners used, they had different steps and uses for different parts of the animals, and Greyback had studied the methods, even tried a few smaller animals himself to practice the skill.
For smaller animals, Rodrick and his brothers would hand the creatures like squirrels or rabbits and make a cut in one foot, continuing up the leg and then down the other leg. After that, the skin could be peeled off like a sock. For the larger creatures though the carcass first had to be wrestled into position on a flat surface, then a cut made the length of the body, with the skin opened with specialised tools and then stripped off like a jacket, and finally scrapped with further tools.
In any case, Greyback's own efforts hadn't gone well. He'd ruined one wolfskin when he'd carelessly pierced the stomach of the beast and bile burst out everywhere. That had been unpleasant and he'd ignored the boys in favour of seeking a pond to wash off in.
The bears' skins were worth the most, twenty silver stags each if they were intact and prepared. While the set up in the clearing wasn't as complete as that of an actual butcher or tanner, the boys did well enough. Rodrick and his brothers were busy as he rode in and only Rodrick, kneeling in the bloody mud with a skinning knife in his hand and a boar's carcass before him, looked up.
The others were cutting meat with a hatchet or cleaning skins with a strange flat tool like a chisel. They worked in silence generally, and while slower than some perhaps, they were fast enough. They could only process so much meat at once and Greyback had returned to check on their progress.
The smell of the clearing was a mixture of blood, smoke, and salt. The blood of the animals had a metallic and sour odor, which was mixed with the smoke of the fire and some salt for those meats or hides which couldn't be cooled by the snow. Ice wasn't a long term solution, and although Wintertown had an ice cellar with great blocks cut from a lake nearby, they still salted beef and pork by the barrel. The smell was strong, but for once it smelt like the hunt, rather than like the artificial cloying scent of encroaching civilisation. Greyback was no atavist, but he did love the smell of blood and he smiled as he beheld the scene.
The condition of the bearskins hadn't brought in as much as it might have, had Greyback hunted normally rather than setting himself bodily against beasts. One bearskin was worth good silver. A shadowcat was worth half that of a bearskin, and a wolf half again. Boars weren't known for their value in the hide, but rather in the meat, and Greyback had led two horses packed with meat back to the town not two nights ago.
Initially the skinners tried to barter their way into some of the meat and skins for themselves, but Greyback growled low and they shut up. They were his kills, not these scavengers. He was already paying them a fifth of the takings for the three of them.
Greyback would not tolerate thieves…
There was demand for relatively cheap meat in Winterfell at that time to feed the soldiers and lessen the burden on Winterfell's granaries. There were few hunters out in the Wolfswood due to the wildling threat, but that just meant better hunting for Fenrir. The Stark soldiery were still tramping through the Wolfswood searching for the Wildling band who'd slaughtered the villagers. That had been weeks ago and while apparently they'd caught a few random bandits, the supposed hundreds of savages had yet to appear. The hides and furs saw various uses, some to be cleaned and sold in Winterfell or transformed further there, while others would be shipped south or even to White Harbour, the main port of the North, to be traded further afield.
Two weeks hunting had earned him three gold dragons. Or rather, it would have, had anyone in the area actually dealt in dragons. In total though he'd gotten a half a hundred silver stags, almost half of which immediately went on various consumables, as well as converting it into labour. He brought goods mostly, but he'd also retained the services of the local herbalist to teach him the local plants, as well as retaining a poor merchant's son to teach him to read.
Life here was expensive. Or rather, the normalities of his previous life were incredible luxuries in Winterfell. Perhaps prices would be lesser in a more cosmopolitan place but that was irrelevant for now he supposed.
The lodging was half a dragon, a two new suits of clothes, another half dragon from a decent tailor. Tools he might need himself for carving runes, making potions, or other such magical enquiries were a whole dragon for twenty or more tools in a good leather case. Even a small chest of spices couldn't be found for more than a whole dragon, which Greyback couldn't justify to himself really. Nor the purchase of a horse which might be three dragons or more. Instead he rented where he could, or brought fractions of what he might like to. Instead of a full set of weapons such as battle axe, knives, spear, bow or crossbow, as well as armour to give him the look of the sellsword he pretended to be, Greyback suited himself with a broad, long knife which he wore at his side. It was an ugly thing, but it was meant for ugly deeds.
Books were the worst. You could pick up parchment from any stationers in Diagon Alley for a decent price, or just rob a muggle shop for their thinner paper, but here there was no bookbinder in Winterfell or any such establishment where he might find paper or books to buy. The master of the keep had a library apparently, which Greyback would very much like access to, but that was it. After enquiring with some of the merchants as to the price of books, he found they'd be almost the same cost as horses and turned away in disgust, while he'd found the same when he asked about glass instruments. Apparently there was very little manufacture of such things in the North, or indeed in Westeros.
That may say something about trade he supposed, for the Myrish were known for their glassblowing, or the Tyroshi for their dyes. Greyback did not need every luxury, but he would need some items for his magical experiments when he eventually got somewhere to do them. For that he could do with a patron, but in turn that would need trust, and he knew his looks made him hard to trust in that way.
It all went back to his initial planning, thought Fenrir. He had set it aside for the moment. There could be much he might do, but it needed more resources than he'd have now. He needed money and more money, position or rank, the patronage and protection of a powerful lord, but also the secrecy necessary to avoid inciting unrest which might endanger him. While he might lope through the world killing and biting and eating as he would, eventually someone would bring him to a poor end. As a young man he'd longed for battle and loved the chase, but now having spent decades in struggle and in his fifth decade, Greyback knew the value of stability.
After looming over Rodrick and his brothers a little more for his own amusement, Greyback rode out, following his nose into the forest. Quite soon though he caught a smell he'd not smelt recently.
Iron and oil wafted through the forest, and Fenrir's ears pricked as he heard the rasping sound of someone sharpening a sword. It piqued his curiosity and the werewolf rode on toward it, smelling a camp more distinctly with the scent of fire and the soldiers around it.
The patrol was camped in a small clearing, surrounded by tall pine trees that cast long shadows in the fading light. The men had pitched their tents in a rough circle, leaving a space in the centre for a fire. The fire was low and smoky, barely enough to keep them warm in the chilly autumn air, but they couldn't have found many dry branches with the snows being what they had been.
Greyback pitied them, in a way. They'd likely been tramping round the Wolfswood for weeks in the snow and mud, searching for Wildlings that didn't exist.
The men had gathered around the fire, some sitting on logs or rocks, others lying on their cloaks or blankets. They looked weary and bored, their faces grimy and stubbled, their eyes dull and tired. They wore leather jerkins and mail shirts over woollen tunics, and had helmets, shields, and swords at their sides. Some carried spears or axes, and their sergeant, a portly but broad man with a coat of rivetted plates, was sharpening his sword.
Their clothes and armour were stained with mud and their boots were in poor repair. They were Stark men-at-arms, professional soldiers from Winterfell or the surrounding areas the Starks held directly. Hard bread and dried meat would have been their fare, but Fenrir could smell more food stashed away in their packs. They spoke in low voices which Fenrir couldn't quite hear, but they seemed in decent spirits for all their toil.
The werewolf stepped forward into the light, leaving his horse to graze and snuffle at a bush that'd shed most of the snow from the night before.
The sergeant stood swiftly, his oilcloth in his hand and the whetstone on his lap falling to the floor as he took a stance with his longsword. Greyback just stood there though as the others jumped up as well.
"Wait, I know this one, I've seen him in Wintertown." said one of the soldiers, lowering his blade somewhat.
"I sell furs there." Greyback confirmed, stepping forward into the light more.
"You're the one with the bearskins." continued the soldier, then stepped forward himself, peering through the gloom at Greyback. "Yes, I can see your cloak."
The soldiers calmed down after that and the sergeant invited him to share the fire. Greyback would be there for long he knew, but it was the first time he'd seen them in this section of the woods.
The Wolfswood was massive. It was large and dense, covering more than 300 miles north and west of Winterfell, off toward the mountains. There were a dozen types of tree and animal, and even with villages dotted through it you could walk for a week without seeing another human. There were hills, lakes, caves and rivers through it, and it could probably sustain a reasonable troop of wildlings.
"How do you mean to find them, these raiders?" he asked the sergeant as the men settled down.
"Lord Stark thinks, so I've been told anyway, that there cannot be so many wildlings as were previously thought. We don't know why they struck the village and butchered the people there, but they must have crossed the Wall a few months ago…"
The Wall was an enormous structure of ice and stone which separated the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros from the Lands Beyond, the untamed wilderness of the far north. Supposedly the Wall, like Winterfell itself, had been raised by Brandon the Builder, an ancient king reputed to have used magic and allied with giants to raise his structures.
Greyback intended to visit at some point, but he had other matters to attend to first.
"There's fifty or more companies like mine out in the woods." the sergeant continued, "The Wildlings have been very quiet, but I suppose they let their base nature get the better of them. Or, maybe, the villagers discovered them and the savages wanted to silence them. Some of our bands have dogs, but not enough by my mind to search out the wildlings in these woods. I know Lord Talhart has argued that we should set fires and burn the wildlings out but it wouldn't work with this snow. Maybe we were still in the height of summer."
"A stupid plan." Greyback murmured.
"Aye, well so thought Lord Stark evidently. If you ask me, they're long gone by now. This was no raid, you mark my words, but what they intended I've no idea."
The wildlings of the north would sometimes cross the Wall, apparently simply climbing over it, to abduct women from the northmost districts of the North. Apparently this was something done to prove a warrior's valour, though Greyback had also heard that sometimes more militaristic wildling chieftains would raid specifically to gather supplies they did not have, notably steel tools, arms and armour.
That gave him an idea.
The rest of the evening passed easily. No one was in the mood for extensive conversation, but Greyback passed a few comments on the nature of hunting in these parts, while the soldiers told of how they'd initially had larger companies ride out to search deeper into the Wolfswood, but finding nothing they'd been split into smaller groups and were now searching the outskirts of Winterfell's direct domain.
The sergeant invited him to rest the night by the fire, and Fenrir accepted. He tied his horse to a branch and set himself down near the boundary. He didn't sleep though, he just lay awake watching the stars. The full moon would be soon and he meant to use it to his advantage.
For now though, he would act as a man. He heard the sentry still awake fidgeting and sat up slowly, as if groggy. Greyback made an affected stagger toward his horse, retrieving a waterskin and drinking a draft.
"Can't sleep, friend?" asked the sentry, wandering over. The man abandoned his place quick enough. That was interesting.
"I needed water." Greyback shrugged quietly, "The food was dry enough."
"Aye, the jerky was shit wasn't it?" the sentry agreed, but he quickly continued, drawing closer to Greyback in conspiratorial whispering. "Listen, could you take my watch for a few moments? I need to go piss but the sergeant will skin me alive if he finds out I've left the camp unguarded."
"Of course." Greyback agreed easily, watching the man retreat.
The werewolf looked down at the sleeping guards. Then he brought out his long knife, freeing it with a half-draw before deciding on another action. Instead he came up behind the sentry as the man was fiddling with the strings of his trousers, reaching up and around, then snapping the man's neck with a savage rip up and to the side.
Greyback caught the body as it fell, then grasped it up and hurled the sentry bodily away from the camp. No reason to have anyone else stumble on him before Greyback was ready.
He stepped back into the light. The fire was dying now, but he could still see well enough to do what was necessary.
Which one first?
The furthest from the fire, Greyback supposed. He stepped stealthily over, drawing his long knife. Then he struck!
The man-at-arms woke in blood, struggling half to his feet before Greyback left him, moving onto the next. He drew a hatchet, bearing it in his left hand while his murderous blade was in his right, already dripping with purpose.
Two more men died, but when he struck with the axe the blade bit at the man's mail byrnie. Greyback felt the blade turn, and struck at the man again, this time burying the axe in his skull. He pulled at it, but it was stuck fast and the failure had awoken the others. The sergeant was on his feet, bellowing in rage, drawing his sword and shouting for the others.
Greyback was among them in a heartbeat. He beat aside the rising blade of one man, reaching out with clawed hand and ripping the man's throat out. Then he struck at the others, one of them fumbling with a bow as the sergeant shouted for him to take up a spear instead.
By a hair's breadth the fumbler managed to dodge Greyback's stroke, but in doing so he exposed himself and the werewolf leapt upon him, tackling him to the forest floor and tasting hot blood as he bit at the man's face.
Fenrir rose, the mutilated man struggling on the ground. He would be dead soon enough, there was no need to go further.
He spat out a portion of the man's cheek, the bristles of the soldier's stubble irritating his lips.
"Monster!" the sergeant gasped. "You'll die here! Winterfell!"
Six men were dead, there was only sergeant and one other left.
Greyback met their charge with a road that made his horse scream. He charged forward fast, too fast for the men and bowled them over, striking them at their waists. His knife was gone, he'd dropped it somewhere but he raged against them in the mud, teeth and claws and might against their steel.
His claws scratched across one man's eyes, then he sank his teeth into a throat. That was one of them, and there was only the sergeant. Greyback regained his feet, and the sergeant hauled himself up too. There was resolve in the man's eyes as he looked at his dead men.
Brave, thought Greyback.
With a final, wordless scream the northman charged forward. His sword was bright in the night, a graceful pillar against the night.
Fenrir stepped forward quickly, catching his wrist and squeezing, bringing the man to a halt.
The sergeant breathed hard through grey whiskers, straining against Greyback's iron grip. It was the man's strength against his, and easily Greyback turned the sword. Instead he set the tip toward the man's breast, slowly pushing forward.
The sergeant screamed as Greyback pierced his flesh. Armour and cloth and skin and muscled parted as the sergeant screamed, his hands grippingly the blade, the edges of his own weapon cutting his palms to ribbons as Fenrir thrust into him. The man coughed blood, his hands weakly battering at Greyback's face as the werewolf laughed.
The sergeant died.
When the clearing grew quiet there was only the wolf. The man Greyback had wounded lay dying and the werewolf turned away. The sergeant's dead eyes seemed to follow him as he stepped, the beast settling again within his soul till it slumbered once more. He reached down to where the sergeant had slept, digging through the man's pack till it found it. Red wine, sour and bad, as wines went, but good enough to wash down the taste of men's flesh.
Fenrir sat down on a rock, raising the skin in tribute. They'd fought well, and bravely. He drank as they died, slowly watching as their hearts stilled and any men who still lived slowly faded.
It would be well to make sure Lord Stark kept the idea of wildlings in his mind, Greyback thought. The werewolf could only benefit from the continued agitation of the area, and while he didn't quite know what benefit he might draw from it, it was sure that he would think of something. In the meantime he would put pressure on Stark and the northerners, and that meant he needed to create terror…
With that in mind, Greyback took his knife and set to work. He first went to the body of the sentry, further away from the camp where he'd tossed the man. As he grasped him by the hair the man's neck crunched and splintered, but Greyback thought he could hear breathing. Was the sentry still alive?
He looked down in the light cast by the fire. Yes, there was life in those eyes. There was fear, there was hatred, there was anger, but there was life.
The sentry's breath hissed out as he lay awkwardly, his spine broken and ruined.
Greyback's knife flashed in the firelight. He smiled down at the man and wiped a tear off his cheek. "It won't be the sergeant who'll be skinning you, 'friend'."
- Location
- United Kingdom
This one's a pretty big chapter at 7.5k. However, I've written a bigger chapter which went to 10k just now so that's been interesting. I find it a lot different writing 2k vs 5k vs 10k etc, but I don't think I'd ever do a chapter of 20k or more, as some authors do, I just find it too disjointed. Anwyay, this was up a couple of weeks ago I've written 2 chapters ahead so far for another 15k or so words. This puts me at 45k, so I'm fairly content I've met the challenge even if I am slightly out of the actual goal. It's been an interesting experience and I'll be doing 1 more 1k chapter I think before consider what to do with the fic. The poll and the advance chapters are already up you know where, so if you're interested in either that's the place.
Additionally, I am putting rather more work into this fic that I sometimes have for others, as I'm trying to practive a bit as a writer. As such, comment or feedback on plot, characterisation, theme, description or worldbuilding are all welcome.
-
It was ten days till the next full moon, and each night Greyback went out killing.
By day he would scent beasts and carry their carcasses back to his skinning camp, whether on the back of his horse if they were small enough, or dragged behind on a sled. Three more bears he took, a pack of wolves, a dozen boars and six deer.
The later were quick, and he'd not managed to kill many before the rest of them had run off. Predators would fight him, usually anyway, while the boars usually tried to charge him.
It gave Rodrick and his brothers something to do, and Greyback drove them hard. The full moon was approaching, and with it he could feel himself waxing in power as the transformation neared.
By night he went out killing too. This time he hunted men. He left the camp each day after bringing in game and rode out to a high hill where he tied his horse and set down his bearskin cloak with most of the rest of his possessions. Then he sat, as if in meditation, breathing deep of the night air.
By this method he tracked the patrols of the Stark soldiers. He would travel far each night, killing patrols as they slept or murdering those he came across who were still awake during the night.
He had killed eight men first, and that had given him the idea. Then he struck another patrol, and another. He slew several knights riding their warhorses, sending the beasts into flight as he thrust his knife through the weak points of the mail.
There was a larger patrol, some lord with his retinue bearing a sigil of green trees upon a brown field. Their leader was a large boy, his chin bare but heavily built with a thick neck. Greyback shot him with a crossbow, then ran off through the trees, circling back around faster than his pursuers could match him, finishing the young lord off, killing his attendants and leaving their corpses for the others to find.
The night was his. Fenrir ruled it as a wolf and man both. He denied himself the flesh of the dead, he had work to do and had no time to savour it. Instead he busied himself till the early hours of the morning, running merry chases, slaying as many as he could without them seeing him.
There were many advantages to it. Firstly, he had to further confuse the situation regarding his arrival and the destruction of the village. He'd not meant to kill so many, he'd not remembered who he was, but nevertheless, now it was up to him to conceal his involvement, and if he could pin the massacre on the Wildlings, all the better. Secondly, the chaos he was sowing in the Wolfswood would put the Starks and their lords off, it would disturb and concern them and they would be concentrate on these matters and not think to further examine Greyback or his story. The werewolf didn't know exactly how he might use such chaos yet but there were always opportunities. Thirdly of course, he simply enjoyed it, he was a simple man and he liked the rush of battle, and felt it right to indulge his beast if he had the opportunity and reason to.
Greyback had wielded reputation as much has wand or claws in the Wizarding World. He'd built himself up in the eyes of the Wizarding public as a man to be feared and respected. He had no such reputation here, and currently didn't want one. Better that the lords of Westeros didn't know too much about him or his abilities. That would be why he was going to such efforts to trick the North into believing the tale of wildling raiders in the Wolfswood.
He stole horses, weapons, supplies and other gear, and what he could not take he tried to destroy. He wanted to make it seem that there were more of him than there were, and he knew he'd been successful from the brief interrogations he'd made against soldiers he'd dragged off sometimes.
One day though he returned to the skinning camp and found Rodrick and his brothers kneeling before a familiar face.
"To arms! Seize him, men!" Ser Kyle Condon called, surprised by Greyback as he rode easily into the camp. He'd smelled the men, but knew they must be northern soldiers, and had no fear of them. His face brought Ser Kyle up swiftly in surprise, "It's you!" he exclaimed, and ordered his men to stand down.
"Aye." Greyback replied, stepping down off his horse, "It is. Rodrick see to this."
The boy looked uneasily between the werewolf and the Cerwyn knight.
Greyback felt his anger rise. He stalked toward the boy, past the Cerwyn swords and took him roughly by the shoulder, thrusting him toward the bear's carcass on the sled behind his mount.
"And see to the horse too!" he snarled.
They were parasites. Rodrick had brought up higher payment again and Greyback didn't want to hear about it. He already let them keep as much meat as they wanted, and he knew they'd sent some of it back to their village. These were his kills, and he'd already given them a month's wages for the work they did.
The idea of someone trying to take what was his enraged Greyback. He didn't entirely know why, but he wasn't inclined to sit and think about it when there was killing to be done. Not more than a week ago one of the merchants he transacted with had brought up the issue of taxes. Greyback would pay no such thing, he'd assured the merchant, but the man had only shaken his head and said he'd have to take it up with Winterfell's steward if he had such an attitude.
The werewolf was still angry about that.
Ser Kyle gestured for his men to disperse and Greyback looked around the camp more carefully. Several of the poles which would hold skins had been toppled, and some of the stores rifled through. "Is this your doing?" he asked, gesturing to the uproar.
It was clear that the Cerwyn party had come upon the camp and made to search it. They wouldn't have found anything. Greyback had stashed his ill-gotten gains in the hollow stump of a tree he'd found. He had acquired much that might be useful to him, and he now had all the accoutrements of a mercenary including a selection of weapons, a good brigandine, a helm and a shield he'd need to strip the Stark sigil off, or have repainted. He didn't entirely need such things, but it was a uniform that would make people less suspicious of him, he thought.
It was a shame he'd not be able to keep much of the other things he'd taken. Certainly, if dozens of Stark men had been killed in the woods and he turned up the next day to try and sell their armour, he'd be arrested and executed as a murderer or at least a looter. However, stealing the equipment was still important as it was what the northerners thought the Wildlings would do. They wouldn't ever find the stuff though, he'd been throwing weapons and similar in ponds and rivers.
"It is, aye." Ser Kyle replied. The tension in the scene had almost left and now the Cerwyn men were milling about waiting for their knight to finish his enquires.
"And will you compensate me for it?" Greyback asked, "Your men have ruined that hide, look at it!" and he pointed to one skin now on the ground, marred by mud and dirty snow from where the men had trodden over it.
He was moderately angry with the idea of the Cerwyn men interfering with his camp, but in truth Greyback was also playing a part. Who would suspect a man of murders when he appeared so interested in the state of furs?
Ser Kyle regarded the fur, then Greyback. "I will not." he said evenly. "I have pursued reports of camps in the woods and done so in a manner I feel is fair and just. You may speak to Lord Cerwyn about it, if you find my conduct questionable."
That was actually a decent answer, and Fenrir grunted in response. He remembered that Kyle had been polite before as well, a worthy enough man, it seemed given he'd not risen to Fenrir's bait.
"This is good work by them, you know." Ser Kyle said lightly.
"Not good enough for the coin I pay for it." Fenrir growled back.
"All the kills are yours, I assume? I was suspicious at first, especially given the way you fled Castle Cerwyn." Ser Kyle continued.
"I fled nowhere. Your lord gave me no respect, so I had no reason to give him any." Greyback shrugged.
"You may see it as that. I would advise you though that although I don't consider it credible, some have wondered whether you might be a Wildling spy. It seems incredible that a single man might so successfully track and kill so many beasts. How'd you do it?"
Fenrir just tapped the broad knife at his belt and Kyle raised an eyebrow.
"Well, in any case, I'll see that you're left alone. Strictly speaking, some lords might have a problem with this, especially the deer. This is Lord Stark's land, only he has the rights to hunt deer on it." Kyle said, "Wolves, bears, these hogs would all be fine and I know Lord Stark has greater things on his mind at the moment. In any case, be careful. Lord Cerwyn heard of a skinning camp and that naturally that concentrated his attention."
Greyback looked at him in confusion, or at least, his best attempt at confusion. "Why?" he asked.
The werewolf knew exactly why.
"More than fifty men have been killed over the past two weeks." Ser Kyle said. "Some the wolves got to before we did, but others more recently. How much do you know about the wildlings in the woods at the moment?"
"Little enough." Fenrir replied easily, "I've been out in the deep woods hunting, I spend most of my nights out there, I've not been back to Winterfell in a few days. I've come across the patrols, tramping about."
Ser Kyle made a humming noise, drawing slightly closer, "In brief then, as I said many men have been killed. There is talk of running skirmishes across the woods. First it was thought there were hundreds of wildlings, then only fifty, but fearsome and savage ones no doubt, but now Lord Cerwyn says there are hundreds again. We've found none of their dead, but we think they'd carried them off instead of leaving them for us. One of the Tallart sons was killed and Torren's Square's banners are all out in the southern reaches of the Wolfswood seeking vengeance."
"And?" asked Fenrir. He could deceive skilfully sometimes, but it was beyond his abilities to pretend at compassion in that instance. Not when he'd enjoyed his own work so much.
"Many of the dead were scalped." Kyle said, and Greyback saw him suppress a shiver.
The North could be a savage place. But these knights and lords weren't used to it.
Greyback said nothing, he had no desire to reveal himself, but he couldn't deny that he savoured the man's fear.
That night he donned his new cloak. It was best to separate Fenrir Greyback, hunter and mercenary, from the wildlings who were killing the northerners. The werewolf set aside the bearskin given to him as thanks by the villagers and instead set a grizzly trophy on his shoulders.
In his youth, Fenrir had stayed in Britain. He'd walked the ancient woodlands as a wolf, hidden in the slums to evade the Werewolf Capture Unit, he'd fought the Aurors and the Ministry. Later though, when he'd already spoken with the small communities of werewolves in Wales or the hills of England he'd decided to look further afield. Through Massif Central and the sons of Gévaudan to the caves of the bauks in Serbia, further on to single city of werewolves he knew of deep in the Siberian wastes. There was one community though from which Greyback had drawn the greatest inspiration.
The cloak of dead mens' hair flapped behind him as he slew that night.
The Wildesheer were the most violent werewolves in Europe, perhaps the world. They used potions and rituals in an attempt to induce the transformation of the werewolf. Greyback had been sceptical at first when he'd watched them, he'd known that lycanthrope was only affected by a single night each month upon the full moon but then Greyback had watched, amazed, as he saw their teeth lengthen, their muscles bulge, their nails grow and their hair grow into great manes. They scalped their enemies, only the worthy from the ranks of the finest warriors they encountered, showing no distinction between Muggle and Wizard. They would fight trolls and vampires, they'd fought Grindenwald and the Knights of Walpurgis in the old war, only for the world to forget about them. Their ideology was blood and struggle, and a longing for a death in battle. He had hunted with them for three years, learning their ways till he'd departed. He disagreed with their philosophy, for they'd only turn those they considered worthy, and those who had already killed another of the Wildesheer. They were a dying breed, Greyback knew, but they'd curse the sun before they faded away completely.
Greyback had sewn himself a cloak like the Wildesheer used. They claimed it gave them powers of invincibility, and when he'd been with them Greyback hadn't know enough of rune and enchantment to know differently, though he suspected the cloaks did have some sort of power. Of the scalps of twenty men, the ones he'd had enough time to properly skin, he'd sewn the rough garment. He wore it now, luxuriating in the trophy and the dark power it gave him.
There was ancient magic, he knew. Magic the likes of which most modern Wizards had forgotten. Magic of blood and sacrifice. He wielded it now, darting amidst the patrols untiringly, slaying as he went and laughing all the while. Upon his face was a mask of bone-white weirwood, painted now with the blood of the northmen.
He let them see him this time, he wanted it. He wanted their rage and their eagerness.
A dozen men cowered around a weirwood. He stepped inside the sacred grove, long knife in one hand, axe in another. He killed them there, under the eyes of the Old Gods, their blood seeping into the roots of the tree, strengthening it.
He didn't understand the magic of the heart trees yet, but he would in time. Till then he could feel the holy weight around them and made his own sacrifice.
He left the last man alive, cowering among his dead comrades.
"I am Hati of the Ironwoods. I am Moon-Brother, Skin-Walker." Greyback told the man, drawing close with his carved mask. "Tell your lord I and my brothers wait for him in the caves to the north. I will mark the way."
As soon as the man made it back to his camp, Greyback saw movement. Hundreds of northerners were streaming back into the main camp on the outskirts of the Wolfswood. Would Tallhart, full of vengeance, sounded horn and trumpet to rally their men-at-arms, while Cerwyn's troops and Stark followed on.
They followed the body parts. Fenrir had nailed hands to trees to show them the route. There were no theatrics, no feasting, just fel-handed, dour men readying for battle.
If there were counsellors who advised against rushing in, Fenrir saw no sign of them. Tallhart had sworn bloody oaths to hunt down the wildlings, supposedly, and Fenrir would oblige him.
He could feel the change, tugging inside his skin, he could feel his beast, that hungry creature inside his heart.
The moon was coming.
Fenrir killed more men on the march, throwing spears or shooting at horses as the northerners made their way forward. This only enraged them more though and he mocked them as he dodged away from their responses.
"Come and meet your son, Tallhart!" he called merrily, then threw back his head and howled long and loud.
It spooked the northerners, but Fenrir delighted in it.
Energy was surging through him as the moon drew near, just behind the clouds. He could sense its pull, its promise.
Wolves howled on the wind around the army and Fenrir howled with them. His scalp-cloak flew in the carnage as he swung a great axe to and fro. He had no true skill in weapons, and more than once the soldiers cut and stabbed at him. It was enough though to laugh and slay, his healing, his speed, his strength would see him through.
He bled freely, limping back to the cave with a crossbow bolt in the meat of his thigh. He turned, a screaming northerner leaping from his horse with a dagger, sinking it between Greyback's ribs before the werewolf opened the man's throat.
No matter, he could smell the change coming.
Fenrir had scouted the cave weeks ago, not finding a use for it then, but pursuing the old scent of a bear which had made its den there. The smell was of earth and dust and cloying dampness. It was old and dead, the rubbings of fur and droppings mixed with the smell of little birds or bats.
Greyback crawled inside, he knew the layout well enough and he could see, even as his eyesight faded as he lost blood.
This was the edge of death, the tension and the glory the Wildesheer preached. Here was the time of greatest life, when death was closest.
The cave's floor was rough and uneven and Greyback stumbled as he fled. He lay in the quiet, too weak to move.
The weight of the cave bore him down. The weight of the rock above him, Fenrir crawled further, into the guts of the earth, into ancient tunnels where men sheltered from the cold long ago.
A man died at the entrance of the last great chamber. A man throws aside his cloak, his mask. A man rips off his clothing and rips out the dagger stuck in his side, the bolt in his leg. A man crawls, retreats from the jeering soldiers, flees into the darkness.
Eyes watched the man in the darkness, gimlet glimmerings amidst the roots of the world.
A lord in green and brown plate mail strode forward with burning brand. He looked down, then turned to his attendants, "Search them out, there must be more."
He bent to the corpse on the floor, the tip of his dagger forward to inspect the foeman's face.
A wolf snarled. Eyes wide, pupils narrowed to slits, heart burning as it brought the man crashing down, teeth lengthening as his jaw cracked, his skin split.
Fur lengthened as he ate the man's heart. Claws sharpened, piercing the mail and crushing the sinews.
Fenrir Greyback rose again, wounds healed, muzzle dripping with viscera and blood. He was great and hideous in the flickering torchlight, beautiful and terrible he stalked forward, a swipe of his claws sending the head of another Tallhart man flying.
He bounded forward on all fours, crashing against the men. He leapt from one to another, slashing with his claws, leaping to crush men under his bulk or gnawing and gnashing with his teeth.
The werewolf howled again, shattering the ancient solemnity of the cave. The beast strode forth, slaying in all the chambers of the structure, going from cave to cave, springing out of the earth and killing those above on the surface, then clawing his way back into the earth, dragging screaming men with him.
The soldiers bore steel against him, and several knots of Stark men-at-arms banded together at their banner, their commander had a soft look, there was too much fat on him but he wore his mail well and held a longsword as he rallied his warriors.
Fenrir sprang upon him, bringing captain and banner down amidst flailing claws spraying blood and guts in a wide arc. Greyback bit clean through his neck and felt the spurting blood wash over his chest, even while he felt bolts and spears pierce his sides. He rose, howled once more and killed again.
For a time Greyback lost himself amidst the slaughter. He tried to keep hold of his beast, to control himself, but he raced and killed and became more a wolf than man, and in the morning he found himself far from the charnel pit he'd made in the caves.
There was a glorious soreness all over his body and he'd woken naked as he always did the day after full moon.
The werewolf lay there on the floor for a time. The heat from his body had melted the snow around him over night and he looked up into wonderous blue sky. His senses were always more powerful for a few days after the change, he simply felt more, felt greater than a normal man. He breathed, tasting the battle more than a league away, if he judged it right.
Fenrir made his way up to the high hill to see what there was to see, and to dress himself. He returned to the skinning camp to show his face to the boys and see to their work, telling them his hunt that day had been unsuccessful. He heard from them about groups of men passing through the forest the day before.
Greyback followed them. The trail was not hard to find and the detritus of the march toward the caves was easy to see, there were discarded items, some lost on the march, some thrown away when they fulfilled their function like a broken spear.
Had he broken that spear? Probably, he didn't remember, it might have been last night, or it could have been days ago.
He rode on till he heard the screams, bursting through the forest into a wide clearing as the trees thinned on the hillside toward the caves above.
Once again, he found Ser Kyle, the knight's face bloody, his tabard torn in several places, though Greyback noticed they were cuts, not rips.
"Greyback!" Kyle called in surprise, "How do you come to be here?"
Fenrir dismounted, coming swiftly to the man's side, "My boys told me of soldiers in the woods, and I thought I heard horn calls last night. What happened, did you find the wildlings?"
Ser Kyle's face was drawn and tired. There were deep bags under his eyes and he'd seen horrors.
The snow in the clearing was strewn with blood. The remaining soldiers had rallied to here, it seemed to Greyback, and even now some of them stood guard while others rolled on the floor, screaming as they died.
"We found something…" Kyle said darkly, "I didn't arrive till almost dawn, Lord Cerwyn gave me his sternguard to command. He is dead I think, or lost, for no man can say where he is. I find myself in command, but we haven't enough supplies for all these wounds."
"What happened?" Greyback asked again, hiding his glee.
Even here, there were the remnants of battle. The smell of death, of blood and guts, of men who'd emptied their bowels before they'd died, was everywhere. Ser Kyle commanded his hundred and had drawn up wagons in a crude wall while a few women and servants tried to tend to the injured. Greyback regarded them, his claws had clipped a few of them, or perhaps his teeth had been turned by armour and not bitten deep enough to kill.
One man was clutching a bunch of amulets at his throat and praying in a fast, low tongue, while another stared blankly, his hands slick with blood loosely holding a spear.
The camp was a testament to the power and savagery of Greyback's true self, and he looked upon it with pride. Now was time to capitalise on it though.
"I can't get much of sense out of them. The wildling chieftain showed himself, 'Moon-Brother', he called himself. Lord Stark ordered caution for it was clear it was a trap, but Lord Tallhart pushed forward in fury for Moon-Brother had killed his son and Lord Cerwyn didn't want to be left exposed without Tallhart's support, so he went forward too. I was to bring up the rear, but once I got here the battle was already over." Kyle said rapidly, speaking low still to not scare the men. "Moon-Brother, or his folk, the reports are unclear, struck at them on the march and left mocking trophies, men nailed to trees and the like. Apparently Moon-Brother was killed several times, for more than one man swears they saw him stuck with spears or arrows. I think it was many of them, dressed the same perhaps. The messenger he sent to us, one of ours he'd spared, spoke of a bone mask and a cloak of scalps, it would be easy enough to make several of those I suppose but either way, Lord Tallhart apparently wounded him and pursued him, or someone dressed like him, into the caves."
Kyle shuddered, drawing a hand across his face to wipe away the blood, but only managed to smear it across his face more instead. Greyback tasted the air, Kyle was scared, but not actually injured, it wasn't his blood. There was steel in him and resolve.
"After that, it's not clear what happened. Moon-Brother and his wildlings made their ambush, that much is clear. The men speak of monsters surging out of the caves, or from out of the ground. I inspected the ground up there a bit, there's holes down into the cave I guess where the wildlings were hiding, they must have prepared this weeks ago." Kyle said, shaking his head, "Tallhart is dead, a monster ate him apparently, no one knows what happened to Lord Cerwyn. Rodrick Cassel, who led the Stark forces, is also dead. The men speak of monsters, great beasts like a bear or a wolf tearing at them. The battle happened at night, the wildlings wore fur cloaks and fought savagely. Maybe they even had hounds, for I've heard they do keep beasts sometimes."
It was an admirable conclusions, Greyback thought. He'd known no one would believe tales of beasts, or that the tales would be exaggerated in passing. If Ser Kyle gave such a report to Lord Stark, Greyback would have little to fear. The man had his respect, Greyback was realising. He was courteous enough, honourable and capable.
"What can I do?" Greyback asked.
Kyle looked at him in surprise. "I had thought to ask you what you might do, but I hadn't hoped you'd agree."
"There are more important things than furs." Fenrir answered.
Kyle smiled a little at that. "Very well, in the name of the Old Gods and the New, go into the cave and see what there is to be seen there. Find Lord Cerwyn if you can, or bring back news of the dead if not. If the wildlings are there I must know if it, I doubt we could repel another force, the men are terrified."
"And then?"
"If you can find some token of the wildlings all the better. Then I'd ask you ride hard for Winterfell. Lord Stark must know of this. I'll write you a note, and seal it with Cerwyn's sigil. I don't trust any of the men here to ride back, they're scared and many have already deserted. I tried to persuade them, to stay here, told them it was safer, but they didn't listen and I fear they're already being hunted down by the wildlings. You know the woods, you'll be able to get though."
Greyback nodded going up into the cave. He picked his way through the bodies, marvelling at the way blood had sprayed up the walls during his slaughter.
He quickly stepped over the dead, and thrust down with his blade whenever he sensed someone still living. The greater the obfuscation of his doings, the better. He retrieved his mask and cloak, tying it into a bundle with a belt and heading back to Ser Kyle without bothering to check for Cerwyn.
"There were some living in there, on the verge of death, I gave them peace." he explained, handing over the bundle.
Kyle's hand shot up, gripping his arm, "You killed them? They lived and you killed them?"
"I did. One man's face was half open, you don't have a dozen maesters here, you've got camp followers. To even get them down here would have killed them, would you rather then suffer?"
Kyle closed his eyes for a moment and muttered a prayer, "Mother's mercy be theirs… What else?"
"Bodies and more bodies. I couldn't tell much, but I did find these." Greyback explained, motioning to the items he'd retrieved. Though for one of the Wildesheer they'd rather death than be parted from their skin-cloaks, to Greyback they had much less meaning.
Ser Kyle was inspecting the cloak, puzzling over the stitching, lifting a flap and finding bloody skin beneath he froze, slowly lowering the section and swallowing. "Bear this to Lord Stark. Here, my report. By the Gods beg him for aid, we need it sorely."
Greyback promised he would and leapt into his saddle. He spurred the horse on, down the forest roads and through deer trails he knew well. He had done a good night's work here, and with luck he would soon see whether or not the muggles here could survive his bite. If they could, this would be the start of lycanthropy's spread on Westeros.
"Let me pass!" he called up to Winterfell's gates as he rode up. He had more or less killed his horse, but it was only rented anyway. "Tallhart, Cerwyn and Cassel are dead, I have a message from Ser Kyle to Lord Stark!"
The gates opened quickly.
This was the first time he'd been in the true castle of Winterfell. The gates had been closely guarded since the wildling threat had been known, but Greyback didn't have time to appreciate the might fortress. A dozen guards came up quickly, seeing the bloody bundle in his arms. One man in blue-grey plate and a thin cloak demanded the report and Greyback handed it over.
The knight shivered and made to inspect the bundle. He did not take it, only peered at it, then steeled himself.
"Follow me, Lord Stark must hear of this. Hob, Mallin, send for the maester and Steward Poole."
They went on through the castle. Greyback tried to pay attention to the layout, but one disadvantage of the days following the transformation was the sensitivity to stimuli, and he tried to dampen it by concentrating on the floor in front of him and the sounds of footsteps.
The guard captain took him up stairs and down corridors. Greyback tried not to sense the smells around him, they were incredibly strong after the sensations of the previous night. Then they came to a large door, which the captain knocked on, then opened swiftly without waiting for an answer.
A man and a woman were waiting within in close conference. They were both in their thirties and richly dressed, their faces lined with stress, though both were handsome enough.
This was the solar, or parlour of Lord Stark. Greyback was used to them, plenty of the older families in Malfoy's circle had them. It was a place to relax and to receive guests, and Greyback supposed it might have been seen as rude for him to just have dumped a skin-cloak down on Stark's desk. It was a spacious enough room, comfortable in it's furnishings and with many more expensive items than Lord Cerwyn's. He didn't know why there was a bed in the corner, did Stark sleep here sometimes? Strange but he'd slept in some strange places himself too. Other than that a brief glance around met with the table, a high seat carved with wolves, a bookshelf full of tomes, chests and wardrobes, a heart burning gently and a number of impressive tapestaries. On the mantle there was a single blue rose in a pot with a tree on it.
"Lord Stark, Lady Stark, this man bears a dire message from Ser Kyle and the forces in the woods. Lord Tallhart is slain, Lord Cerwyn too… and Ser Rodrick." said the captain.
Was the man related to the knight? Greyback saw some family resemblance, if he looked closely, but he didn't know the folk of Winterfell well enough to tell. Certainly it seemed the guard captain felt more strongly about Cassel's death than the others.
Lord Stark nodded stiffly. He was man grave of face and form with a silvering beard and solemn eyes. "We will avenge him, if it is so, Jory." he said in a strong voice.
Just then another man came in, and two more after him. The first was a maester from his grey robes and chain, a small man with a woollen hood over a balding pate, while the second was more richly dressed, the steward, Poole, Greyback guessed. He did not know the third man, another solemn looking fellow all dressed in black.
Lord Stark motioned for them to join him, handing the message he'd been give to the man in black, "Read it, Ben." he ordered.
The other man cleared his throat, drawing the message out flat on the table.
"Lord Stark," the man, 'Ben', began, "I regret to inform you that we have suffered a heavy loss at the hands of the wildlings. They lured us into a trap by raiding our camps and then fleeing into the caves. Lord Tallhart and Lord Cerwyn led a force of two hundred men to pursue them, but they were ambushed in the dark by a larger number of savages. I brought up the rear and arrived after the battle. Both lords were slain, along with most of their men, as well as Ser Rodrick."
The steward, Poole, swore under his breath and cursed the wildlings to the Seven Hells.
Ben continued, "I have rallied the survivors but many are wounded and in need of care. Through the account of my messenger, the wildlings have quit the caves, or retreated further within to some secret place. I have no way of knowing their numbers or their plans. They have shown no mercy or honour in their attacks, and we fear they will strike again soon. We are outnumbered and outmatched, and we cannot hold this position for long. I pray you only move with a strong force. The wildlings fought savagely and with great guile, digging pits and attacking by night, imitating beasts with howls and fur cloaks. I urgently request your aid, my lord. We need reinforcements, supplies, and medical assistance. We remain loyal and faithful to you and your house, and we hope to see you soon. This messenger can give further account."
The man in black set the message down and the maester swiftly seized it up, going to the window to read it better in the light.
"It is signed by Ser Kyle Codon, a knight of Lord Cerwyn's household." Lord Stark said, "He is a steady man, by Cerwyn's account, I do not believe him prone to exaggeration."
"This is grave news indeed, my lord." Lady Stark said, "The wildlings must have prepared this ambush for some time, if Ser Kyle reports them digging pits."
"The hills in the north are full of caves and passages. It's possible they scouted it some time ago, then made their own excavations to take advantage of the terrain." Poole said, "The Mountain Clans would know more, but we've had no word of them about large bands of wildlings lately."
"There are cave-dwelling clans in the Frostfangs." Ben said, "We've not seen them much, they tend to keep to themselves. We had no news of this Moon-Brother though, only Mance Rayder. I think perhaps Moon-Brother is one of the chiefs from further north, past the Skirling Pass."
"What is this evil thing?" Lady Stark asked in a high voice, nodding at the bundle of the skin-cloak.
"It is as the survivor said a few days ago, Moon-Brother wears a cloak of scalps. This must be it, or something like it." Lord Stark said.
"It is an evil thing!" Lady Stark repeated, "Take it away, let the Septon pray over it for the men's souls, then burn it."
Lord Stark nodded and one of the guards removed the bundle, leaving only the bloody weirwood mask. Then Stark took it and tossed it in the hearth.
Fenrir suppressed a smile as he stared at the blackening wood.
"You are Fenrir Greyback." Stark said to the werewolf, "You have been killing bears in the forest and selling their fur. You lost your memory and were wandering in the woods a month ago. How did you come to receive Ser Kyle message? Did you accompany his force?"
It did not surprise Greyback that Stark recognised him, he had a distinctive face after all and he'd been in Wintertown a bit. Cerwyn would have reported to Stark about him, and he'd hardly been hiding. Greyback explained himself briefly and waited for more questions.
How many did Ser Kyle retain? What was their condition?
What had he seen inside the cave?
Had he heard or seen more of the wildlings in his hunts?
Greyback answered each carefully, and Lord Stark asked for suggestions from his council.
"We must quickly draw back the smallfolk in the Wolfswood." said Lady Stark, "If Moon-Brother and his savages come upon them they will surely be killed."
"No." Ben said, "The first village was the lure. You might draw them back, Ned, but the wildlings wanted to draw out real soldiers. Moon-Brother is clever in his barbarism, he drew in our forces and Ser Cassel. Furthermore, he has clearly prepared for longer than many wildlings if he's garbed his warriors in similar clothing and used tactics like these to disguise his numbers."
"Should we send men in to the caves?" Stark asked.
"I wouldn't. Or, if you did, do it carefully. Call the Mountain Clans to press into the caves from the north, they'll have more experience than any of ours."
Stark nodded and gave orders. The man in black would ride out with hundreds more men and supplied to relieve Ser Kyle while the guard captain rode for the Mountain Clans to warn them. Apparently they had no ravens.
Greyback thought it was all going rather well.
Stark sat after a time, leaning back and staring out the window. "I will call the banners. I will not have wildlings murdering my folk."
"You are Warden of the North, husband. Should you write to the King?" his wife asked.
Stark considered. "I will write him, but any aid he'd send will take months to arrive. No, I will call the banners of Barrowtown, the Rills, and send for men from White Harbour. If this is the start of a great invasion of Wildlings we must be ready, if it is only an enterprising chieftain, I will take him and his head for his crimes."
"If Moon-Brother managed to get a strong enough force past the Wall, the Mountain Clans, and through the Wolfswood without discovery it may be that he can do it again going north. If he is a chieftain of such skill and command that he can retain the obedience of his fellows, even over such a march, and now if he has steel weapons and armour from the force defeated in the woods then Moon-Brother may contest Mance Rayder as King-Beyond-the-Wall." the maester said.
Now wasn't that a thought, Fenrir Greyback; king!
"I must advise strong action here, my lord." the maester continued. "The deaths of two masterly lords and of your castellan reflect poorly on you, regardless of your actions. The succession of House Tallhart will be in dispute. I advise you to bring Lady Eddara here to foster, for she has the legal right to the house after her brother and father's deaths. Leobald Tallhart may cause trouble, but if named as castellan and regent for Lady Eddara, he may be sated. Meanwhile, I would advise you to bring Lord Cley here swiftly, given your friendship with his father."
"I am minded to, though I am grieved indeed at Medger's death." Lord Stark replied.
The maester bowed and left, no doubt doing to send the messages.
Lord Stark looked at Greyback. "You are an unusual man, and perhaps the Gods have sent you here at this time. It is strange indeed, that you would be found at the first village to be destroyed, and subsequently to be on hand to assist Ser Kyle. Explain your movements of the last few days." he ordered.
Greyback just said that he had been hunting. He had been careful to let Rodrick and the boys see him each day, and to visit there early this morning too before visiting the battle site.
Stark only grunted, no doubt he'd be checking up on the story in due course.
"You are not to leave the castle grounds." Stark ordered. "You are a man of unusual abilities and talents, to fight bears with only a long knife. I would have use for a man of such worth. I will give you a purse of silver to stay here, and I will order my guards to be wary of letting you leave. From Lord Cerwyn's and Ser Kyle's previous reports, you may have just been in the wrong place at the right time, but it still seems strange to me, and I know not what to think of it. I know you are no wildling spy, you are too unsubtle for it, and besides I think any man of your cast would be easily recognised."
Stark paused, meeting Greyback's eyes. The werewolf didn't back down.
"There are other men who can fight like you. Greatjon Umber in the North, Strongboar or the Mountain-that-Rides in the south, and Benjen tells me of a wildling calling himself 'Husband to Bears' of surpassing strength. There are bad reports about you, that you have a savage demeanour, that you fled the keep of Cerwyn against the lord's orders, or that you have little care for the taxes and duties of the Realm. I believe a spy would want to seem more friendly… and I think a blackguard would seem fairer. You are a contradiction, but one I cannot attend to now. Will you agree to remain within the walls, to settle your affairs beyond and to come when I have need of you?" Stark asked.
This suited Greyback just fine. He had planned to gain access to Winterfell. At first he'd though to try and sell a wolf pelt to Lord Stark, but he'd not known whether the man (who's sigil was a direwolf) would interpret that as an insult or not, and besides he's not seen any wolves with pelts magnificent enough for the lord of a Great House.
"I agree to your terms." the werewolf said plainly. There would be some negotiation no doubt, but that could come in time.
"Good. Let us-" Stark began, but the door banged open behind Greyback.
"Father!" a young girl's voice rang out as a vision swept past the werewolf. "The servants are saying Ser Rodrick is dead, that the wildlings are marching on Winterfell!"
Lady Stark leapt to her feet, "Sansa! The door is closed, your father is in council! Away girl, back to your Septa!"
Lord and Lady Stark attended to their daughter but Fenrir was struck dumb.
His fingers twitched.
Her hair, it looked so soft.
His claws winked in the firelight as he longed to grasp the girl.
He could see her heartbeat as she stood not a foot from him from where she'd burst into the room. He could see her blood rushing through her neck.
Fenrir felt his mouth water.
Sweat beaded under the girl's ear, he could smell her…
The girl, Sansa, turned. She perceived Greyback as if in slow motion, her deep blue eyes, deep like the sea, widened in fear as she beheld his form. The werewolf could not stop himself from smiling, from licking his lips at the sight of her, tongue running wetly over pointed teeth.
He could smell her nectar, it filled him, heady and powerful. She was roses and frost in the dawn.
Fenrir knew she'd be tender. Knew if he but reached out, he skin would be soft.
He loved soft skin.
Greyback didn't hear the rest of what was said. He recognised a dismissal from Lord Stark as the Warden and his wife harangued their daughter for her impetuousness.
He would remain in Winterfell, he decided.
And when he left, he would take Sansa Stark away with him. The girl would be his, and the werewolf grinned at the thought.
Additionally, I am putting rather more work into this fic that I sometimes have for others, as I'm trying to practive a bit as a writer. As such, comment or feedback on plot, characterisation, theme, description or worldbuilding are all welcome.
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It was ten days till the next full moon, and each night Greyback went out killing.
By day he would scent beasts and carry their carcasses back to his skinning camp, whether on the back of his horse if they were small enough, or dragged behind on a sled. Three more bears he took, a pack of wolves, a dozen boars and six deer.
The later were quick, and he'd not managed to kill many before the rest of them had run off. Predators would fight him, usually anyway, while the boars usually tried to charge him.
It gave Rodrick and his brothers something to do, and Greyback drove them hard. The full moon was approaching, and with it he could feel himself waxing in power as the transformation neared.
By night he went out killing too. This time he hunted men. He left the camp each day after bringing in game and rode out to a high hill where he tied his horse and set down his bearskin cloak with most of the rest of his possessions. Then he sat, as if in meditation, breathing deep of the night air.
By this method he tracked the patrols of the Stark soldiers. He would travel far each night, killing patrols as they slept or murdering those he came across who were still awake during the night.
He had killed eight men first, and that had given him the idea. Then he struck another patrol, and another. He slew several knights riding their warhorses, sending the beasts into flight as he thrust his knife through the weak points of the mail.
There was a larger patrol, some lord with his retinue bearing a sigil of green trees upon a brown field. Their leader was a large boy, his chin bare but heavily built with a thick neck. Greyback shot him with a crossbow, then ran off through the trees, circling back around faster than his pursuers could match him, finishing the young lord off, killing his attendants and leaving their corpses for the others to find.
The night was his. Fenrir ruled it as a wolf and man both. He denied himself the flesh of the dead, he had work to do and had no time to savour it. Instead he busied himself till the early hours of the morning, running merry chases, slaying as many as he could without them seeing him.
There were many advantages to it. Firstly, he had to further confuse the situation regarding his arrival and the destruction of the village. He'd not meant to kill so many, he'd not remembered who he was, but nevertheless, now it was up to him to conceal his involvement, and if he could pin the massacre on the Wildlings, all the better. Secondly, the chaos he was sowing in the Wolfswood would put the Starks and their lords off, it would disturb and concern them and they would be concentrate on these matters and not think to further examine Greyback or his story. The werewolf didn't know exactly how he might use such chaos yet but there were always opportunities. Thirdly of course, he simply enjoyed it, he was a simple man and he liked the rush of battle, and felt it right to indulge his beast if he had the opportunity and reason to.
Greyback had wielded reputation as much has wand or claws in the Wizarding World. He'd built himself up in the eyes of the Wizarding public as a man to be feared and respected. He had no such reputation here, and currently didn't want one. Better that the lords of Westeros didn't know too much about him or his abilities. That would be why he was going to such efforts to trick the North into believing the tale of wildling raiders in the Wolfswood.
He stole horses, weapons, supplies and other gear, and what he could not take he tried to destroy. He wanted to make it seem that there were more of him than there were, and he knew he'd been successful from the brief interrogations he'd made against soldiers he'd dragged off sometimes.
One day though he returned to the skinning camp and found Rodrick and his brothers kneeling before a familiar face.
"To arms! Seize him, men!" Ser Kyle Condon called, surprised by Greyback as he rode easily into the camp. He'd smelled the men, but knew they must be northern soldiers, and had no fear of them. His face brought Ser Kyle up swiftly in surprise, "It's you!" he exclaimed, and ordered his men to stand down.
"Aye." Greyback replied, stepping down off his horse, "It is. Rodrick see to this."
The boy looked uneasily between the werewolf and the Cerwyn knight.
Greyback felt his anger rise. He stalked toward the boy, past the Cerwyn swords and took him roughly by the shoulder, thrusting him toward the bear's carcass on the sled behind his mount.
"And see to the horse too!" he snarled.
They were parasites. Rodrick had brought up higher payment again and Greyback didn't want to hear about it. He already let them keep as much meat as they wanted, and he knew they'd sent some of it back to their village. These were his kills, and he'd already given them a month's wages for the work they did.
The idea of someone trying to take what was his enraged Greyback. He didn't entirely know why, but he wasn't inclined to sit and think about it when there was killing to be done. Not more than a week ago one of the merchants he transacted with had brought up the issue of taxes. Greyback would pay no such thing, he'd assured the merchant, but the man had only shaken his head and said he'd have to take it up with Winterfell's steward if he had such an attitude.
The werewolf was still angry about that.
Ser Kyle gestured for his men to disperse and Greyback looked around the camp more carefully. Several of the poles which would hold skins had been toppled, and some of the stores rifled through. "Is this your doing?" he asked, gesturing to the uproar.
It was clear that the Cerwyn party had come upon the camp and made to search it. They wouldn't have found anything. Greyback had stashed his ill-gotten gains in the hollow stump of a tree he'd found. He had acquired much that might be useful to him, and he now had all the accoutrements of a mercenary including a selection of weapons, a good brigandine, a helm and a shield he'd need to strip the Stark sigil off, or have repainted. He didn't entirely need such things, but it was a uniform that would make people less suspicious of him, he thought.
It was a shame he'd not be able to keep much of the other things he'd taken. Certainly, if dozens of Stark men had been killed in the woods and he turned up the next day to try and sell their armour, he'd be arrested and executed as a murderer or at least a looter. However, stealing the equipment was still important as it was what the northerners thought the Wildlings would do. They wouldn't ever find the stuff though, he'd been throwing weapons and similar in ponds and rivers.
"It is, aye." Ser Kyle replied. The tension in the scene had almost left and now the Cerwyn men were milling about waiting for their knight to finish his enquires.
"And will you compensate me for it?" Greyback asked, "Your men have ruined that hide, look at it!" and he pointed to one skin now on the ground, marred by mud and dirty snow from where the men had trodden over it.
He was moderately angry with the idea of the Cerwyn men interfering with his camp, but in truth Greyback was also playing a part. Who would suspect a man of murders when he appeared so interested in the state of furs?
Ser Kyle regarded the fur, then Greyback. "I will not." he said evenly. "I have pursued reports of camps in the woods and done so in a manner I feel is fair and just. You may speak to Lord Cerwyn about it, if you find my conduct questionable."
That was actually a decent answer, and Fenrir grunted in response. He remembered that Kyle had been polite before as well, a worthy enough man, it seemed given he'd not risen to Fenrir's bait.
"This is good work by them, you know." Ser Kyle said lightly.
"Not good enough for the coin I pay for it." Fenrir growled back.
"All the kills are yours, I assume? I was suspicious at first, especially given the way you fled Castle Cerwyn." Ser Kyle continued.
"I fled nowhere. Your lord gave me no respect, so I had no reason to give him any." Greyback shrugged.
"You may see it as that. I would advise you though that although I don't consider it credible, some have wondered whether you might be a Wildling spy. It seems incredible that a single man might so successfully track and kill so many beasts. How'd you do it?"
Fenrir just tapped the broad knife at his belt and Kyle raised an eyebrow.
"Well, in any case, I'll see that you're left alone. Strictly speaking, some lords might have a problem with this, especially the deer. This is Lord Stark's land, only he has the rights to hunt deer on it." Kyle said, "Wolves, bears, these hogs would all be fine and I know Lord Stark has greater things on his mind at the moment. In any case, be careful. Lord Cerwyn heard of a skinning camp and that naturally that concentrated his attention."
Greyback looked at him in confusion, or at least, his best attempt at confusion. "Why?" he asked.
The werewolf knew exactly why.
"More than fifty men have been killed over the past two weeks." Ser Kyle said. "Some the wolves got to before we did, but others more recently. How much do you know about the wildlings in the woods at the moment?"
"Little enough." Fenrir replied easily, "I've been out in the deep woods hunting, I spend most of my nights out there, I've not been back to Winterfell in a few days. I've come across the patrols, tramping about."
Ser Kyle made a humming noise, drawing slightly closer, "In brief then, as I said many men have been killed. There is talk of running skirmishes across the woods. First it was thought there were hundreds of wildlings, then only fifty, but fearsome and savage ones no doubt, but now Lord Cerwyn says there are hundreds again. We've found none of their dead, but we think they'd carried them off instead of leaving them for us. One of the Tallart sons was killed and Torren's Square's banners are all out in the southern reaches of the Wolfswood seeking vengeance."
"And?" asked Fenrir. He could deceive skilfully sometimes, but it was beyond his abilities to pretend at compassion in that instance. Not when he'd enjoyed his own work so much.
"Many of the dead were scalped." Kyle said, and Greyback saw him suppress a shiver.
The North could be a savage place. But these knights and lords weren't used to it.
Greyback said nothing, he had no desire to reveal himself, but he couldn't deny that he savoured the man's fear.
That night he donned his new cloak. It was best to separate Fenrir Greyback, hunter and mercenary, from the wildlings who were killing the northerners. The werewolf set aside the bearskin given to him as thanks by the villagers and instead set a grizzly trophy on his shoulders.
In his youth, Fenrir had stayed in Britain. He'd walked the ancient woodlands as a wolf, hidden in the slums to evade the Werewolf Capture Unit, he'd fought the Aurors and the Ministry. Later though, when he'd already spoken with the small communities of werewolves in Wales or the hills of England he'd decided to look further afield. Through Massif Central and the sons of Gévaudan to the caves of the bauks in Serbia, further on to single city of werewolves he knew of deep in the Siberian wastes. There was one community though from which Greyback had drawn the greatest inspiration.
The cloak of dead mens' hair flapped behind him as he slew that night.
The Wildesheer were the most violent werewolves in Europe, perhaps the world. They used potions and rituals in an attempt to induce the transformation of the werewolf. Greyback had been sceptical at first when he'd watched them, he'd known that lycanthrope was only affected by a single night each month upon the full moon but then Greyback had watched, amazed, as he saw their teeth lengthen, their muscles bulge, their nails grow and their hair grow into great manes. They scalped their enemies, only the worthy from the ranks of the finest warriors they encountered, showing no distinction between Muggle and Wizard. They would fight trolls and vampires, they'd fought Grindenwald and the Knights of Walpurgis in the old war, only for the world to forget about them. Their ideology was blood and struggle, and a longing for a death in battle. He had hunted with them for three years, learning their ways till he'd departed. He disagreed with their philosophy, for they'd only turn those they considered worthy, and those who had already killed another of the Wildesheer. They were a dying breed, Greyback knew, but they'd curse the sun before they faded away completely.
Greyback had sewn himself a cloak like the Wildesheer used. They claimed it gave them powers of invincibility, and when he'd been with them Greyback hadn't know enough of rune and enchantment to know differently, though he suspected the cloaks did have some sort of power. Of the scalps of twenty men, the ones he'd had enough time to properly skin, he'd sewn the rough garment. He wore it now, luxuriating in the trophy and the dark power it gave him.
There was ancient magic, he knew. Magic the likes of which most modern Wizards had forgotten. Magic of blood and sacrifice. He wielded it now, darting amidst the patrols untiringly, slaying as he went and laughing all the while. Upon his face was a mask of bone-white weirwood, painted now with the blood of the northmen.
He let them see him this time, he wanted it. He wanted their rage and their eagerness.
A dozen men cowered around a weirwood. He stepped inside the sacred grove, long knife in one hand, axe in another. He killed them there, under the eyes of the Old Gods, their blood seeping into the roots of the tree, strengthening it.
He didn't understand the magic of the heart trees yet, but he would in time. Till then he could feel the holy weight around them and made his own sacrifice.
He left the last man alive, cowering among his dead comrades.
"I am Hati of the Ironwoods. I am Moon-Brother, Skin-Walker." Greyback told the man, drawing close with his carved mask. "Tell your lord I and my brothers wait for him in the caves to the north. I will mark the way."
As soon as the man made it back to his camp, Greyback saw movement. Hundreds of northerners were streaming back into the main camp on the outskirts of the Wolfswood. Would Tallhart, full of vengeance, sounded horn and trumpet to rally their men-at-arms, while Cerwyn's troops and Stark followed on.
They followed the body parts. Fenrir had nailed hands to trees to show them the route. There were no theatrics, no feasting, just fel-handed, dour men readying for battle.
If there were counsellors who advised against rushing in, Fenrir saw no sign of them. Tallhart had sworn bloody oaths to hunt down the wildlings, supposedly, and Fenrir would oblige him.
He could feel the change, tugging inside his skin, he could feel his beast, that hungry creature inside his heart.
The moon was coming.
Fenrir killed more men on the march, throwing spears or shooting at horses as the northerners made their way forward. This only enraged them more though and he mocked them as he dodged away from their responses.
"Come and meet your son, Tallhart!" he called merrily, then threw back his head and howled long and loud.
It spooked the northerners, but Fenrir delighted in it.
Energy was surging through him as the moon drew near, just behind the clouds. He could sense its pull, its promise.
Wolves howled on the wind around the army and Fenrir howled with them. His scalp-cloak flew in the carnage as he swung a great axe to and fro. He had no true skill in weapons, and more than once the soldiers cut and stabbed at him. It was enough though to laugh and slay, his healing, his speed, his strength would see him through.
He bled freely, limping back to the cave with a crossbow bolt in the meat of his thigh. He turned, a screaming northerner leaping from his horse with a dagger, sinking it between Greyback's ribs before the werewolf opened the man's throat.
No matter, he could smell the change coming.
Fenrir had scouted the cave weeks ago, not finding a use for it then, but pursuing the old scent of a bear which had made its den there. The smell was of earth and dust and cloying dampness. It was old and dead, the rubbings of fur and droppings mixed with the smell of little birds or bats.
Greyback crawled inside, he knew the layout well enough and he could see, even as his eyesight faded as he lost blood.
This was the edge of death, the tension and the glory the Wildesheer preached. Here was the time of greatest life, when death was closest.
The cave's floor was rough and uneven and Greyback stumbled as he fled. He lay in the quiet, too weak to move.
The weight of the cave bore him down. The weight of the rock above him, Fenrir crawled further, into the guts of the earth, into ancient tunnels where men sheltered from the cold long ago.
A man died at the entrance of the last great chamber. A man throws aside his cloak, his mask. A man rips off his clothing and rips out the dagger stuck in his side, the bolt in his leg. A man crawls, retreats from the jeering soldiers, flees into the darkness.
Eyes watched the man in the darkness, gimlet glimmerings amidst the roots of the world.
A lord in green and brown plate mail strode forward with burning brand. He looked down, then turned to his attendants, "Search them out, there must be more."
He bent to the corpse on the floor, the tip of his dagger forward to inspect the foeman's face.
A wolf snarled. Eyes wide, pupils narrowed to slits, heart burning as it brought the man crashing down, teeth lengthening as his jaw cracked, his skin split.
Fur lengthened as he ate the man's heart. Claws sharpened, piercing the mail and crushing the sinews.
Fenrir Greyback rose again, wounds healed, muzzle dripping with viscera and blood. He was great and hideous in the flickering torchlight, beautiful and terrible he stalked forward, a swipe of his claws sending the head of another Tallhart man flying.
He bounded forward on all fours, crashing against the men. He leapt from one to another, slashing with his claws, leaping to crush men under his bulk or gnawing and gnashing with his teeth.
The werewolf howled again, shattering the ancient solemnity of the cave. The beast strode forth, slaying in all the chambers of the structure, going from cave to cave, springing out of the earth and killing those above on the surface, then clawing his way back into the earth, dragging screaming men with him.
The soldiers bore steel against him, and several knots of Stark men-at-arms banded together at their banner, their commander had a soft look, there was too much fat on him but he wore his mail well and held a longsword as he rallied his warriors.
Fenrir sprang upon him, bringing captain and banner down amidst flailing claws spraying blood and guts in a wide arc. Greyback bit clean through his neck and felt the spurting blood wash over his chest, even while he felt bolts and spears pierce his sides. He rose, howled once more and killed again.
For a time Greyback lost himself amidst the slaughter. He tried to keep hold of his beast, to control himself, but he raced and killed and became more a wolf than man, and in the morning he found himself far from the charnel pit he'd made in the caves.
There was a glorious soreness all over his body and he'd woken naked as he always did the day after full moon.
The werewolf lay there on the floor for a time. The heat from his body had melted the snow around him over night and he looked up into wonderous blue sky. His senses were always more powerful for a few days after the change, he simply felt more, felt greater than a normal man. He breathed, tasting the battle more than a league away, if he judged it right.
Fenrir made his way up to the high hill to see what there was to see, and to dress himself. He returned to the skinning camp to show his face to the boys and see to their work, telling them his hunt that day had been unsuccessful. He heard from them about groups of men passing through the forest the day before.
Greyback followed them. The trail was not hard to find and the detritus of the march toward the caves was easy to see, there were discarded items, some lost on the march, some thrown away when they fulfilled their function like a broken spear.
Had he broken that spear? Probably, he didn't remember, it might have been last night, or it could have been days ago.
He rode on till he heard the screams, bursting through the forest into a wide clearing as the trees thinned on the hillside toward the caves above.
Once again, he found Ser Kyle, the knight's face bloody, his tabard torn in several places, though Greyback noticed they were cuts, not rips.
"Greyback!" Kyle called in surprise, "How do you come to be here?"
Fenrir dismounted, coming swiftly to the man's side, "My boys told me of soldiers in the woods, and I thought I heard horn calls last night. What happened, did you find the wildlings?"
Ser Kyle's face was drawn and tired. There were deep bags under his eyes and he'd seen horrors.
The snow in the clearing was strewn with blood. The remaining soldiers had rallied to here, it seemed to Greyback, and even now some of them stood guard while others rolled on the floor, screaming as they died.
"We found something…" Kyle said darkly, "I didn't arrive till almost dawn, Lord Cerwyn gave me his sternguard to command. He is dead I think, or lost, for no man can say where he is. I find myself in command, but we haven't enough supplies for all these wounds."
"What happened?" Greyback asked again, hiding his glee.
Even here, there were the remnants of battle. The smell of death, of blood and guts, of men who'd emptied their bowels before they'd died, was everywhere. Ser Kyle commanded his hundred and had drawn up wagons in a crude wall while a few women and servants tried to tend to the injured. Greyback regarded them, his claws had clipped a few of them, or perhaps his teeth had been turned by armour and not bitten deep enough to kill.
One man was clutching a bunch of amulets at his throat and praying in a fast, low tongue, while another stared blankly, his hands slick with blood loosely holding a spear.
The camp was a testament to the power and savagery of Greyback's true self, and he looked upon it with pride. Now was time to capitalise on it though.
"I can't get much of sense out of them. The wildling chieftain showed himself, 'Moon-Brother', he called himself. Lord Stark ordered caution for it was clear it was a trap, but Lord Tallhart pushed forward in fury for Moon-Brother had killed his son and Lord Cerwyn didn't want to be left exposed without Tallhart's support, so he went forward too. I was to bring up the rear, but once I got here the battle was already over." Kyle said rapidly, speaking low still to not scare the men. "Moon-Brother, or his folk, the reports are unclear, struck at them on the march and left mocking trophies, men nailed to trees and the like. Apparently Moon-Brother was killed several times, for more than one man swears they saw him stuck with spears or arrows. I think it was many of them, dressed the same perhaps. The messenger he sent to us, one of ours he'd spared, spoke of a bone mask and a cloak of scalps, it would be easy enough to make several of those I suppose but either way, Lord Tallhart apparently wounded him and pursued him, or someone dressed like him, into the caves."
Kyle shuddered, drawing a hand across his face to wipe away the blood, but only managed to smear it across his face more instead. Greyback tasted the air, Kyle was scared, but not actually injured, it wasn't his blood. There was steel in him and resolve.
"After that, it's not clear what happened. Moon-Brother and his wildlings made their ambush, that much is clear. The men speak of monsters surging out of the caves, or from out of the ground. I inspected the ground up there a bit, there's holes down into the cave I guess where the wildlings were hiding, they must have prepared this weeks ago." Kyle said, shaking his head, "Tallhart is dead, a monster ate him apparently, no one knows what happened to Lord Cerwyn. Rodrick Cassel, who led the Stark forces, is also dead. The men speak of monsters, great beasts like a bear or a wolf tearing at them. The battle happened at night, the wildlings wore fur cloaks and fought savagely. Maybe they even had hounds, for I've heard they do keep beasts sometimes."
It was an admirable conclusions, Greyback thought. He'd known no one would believe tales of beasts, or that the tales would be exaggerated in passing. If Ser Kyle gave such a report to Lord Stark, Greyback would have little to fear. The man had his respect, Greyback was realising. He was courteous enough, honourable and capable.
"What can I do?" Greyback asked.
Kyle looked at him in surprise. "I had thought to ask you what you might do, but I hadn't hoped you'd agree."
"There are more important things than furs." Fenrir answered.
Kyle smiled a little at that. "Very well, in the name of the Old Gods and the New, go into the cave and see what there is to be seen there. Find Lord Cerwyn if you can, or bring back news of the dead if not. If the wildlings are there I must know if it, I doubt we could repel another force, the men are terrified."
"And then?"
"If you can find some token of the wildlings all the better. Then I'd ask you ride hard for Winterfell. Lord Stark must know of this. I'll write you a note, and seal it with Cerwyn's sigil. I don't trust any of the men here to ride back, they're scared and many have already deserted. I tried to persuade them, to stay here, told them it was safer, but they didn't listen and I fear they're already being hunted down by the wildlings. You know the woods, you'll be able to get though."
Greyback nodded going up into the cave. He picked his way through the bodies, marvelling at the way blood had sprayed up the walls during his slaughter.
He quickly stepped over the dead, and thrust down with his blade whenever he sensed someone still living. The greater the obfuscation of his doings, the better. He retrieved his mask and cloak, tying it into a bundle with a belt and heading back to Ser Kyle without bothering to check for Cerwyn.
"There were some living in there, on the verge of death, I gave them peace." he explained, handing over the bundle.
Kyle's hand shot up, gripping his arm, "You killed them? They lived and you killed them?"
"I did. One man's face was half open, you don't have a dozen maesters here, you've got camp followers. To even get them down here would have killed them, would you rather then suffer?"
Kyle closed his eyes for a moment and muttered a prayer, "Mother's mercy be theirs… What else?"
"Bodies and more bodies. I couldn't tell much, but I did find these." Greyback explained, motioning to the items he'd retrieved. Though for one of the Wildesheer they'd rather death than be parted from their skin-cloaks, to Greyback they had much less meaning.
Ser Kyle was inspecting the cloak, puzzling over the stitching, lifting a flap and finding bloody skin beneath he froze, slowly lowering the section and swallowing. "Bear this to Lord Stark. Here, my report. By the Gods beg him for aid, we need it sorely."
Greyback promised he would and leapt into his saddle. He spurred the horse on, down the forest roads and through deer trails he knew well. He had done a good night's work here, and with luck he would soon see whether or not the muggles here could survive his bite. If they could, this would be the start of lycanthropy's spread on Westeros.
"Let me pass!" he called up to Winterfell's gates as he rode up. He had more or less killed his horse, but it was only rented anyway. "Tallhart, Cerwyn and Cassel are dead, I have a message from Ser Kyle to Lord Stark!"
The gates opened quickly.
This was the first time he'd been in the true castle of Winterfell. The gates had been closely guarded since the wildling threat had been known, but Greyback didn't have time to appreciate the might fortress. A dozen guards came up quickly, seeing the bloody bundle in his arms. One man in blue-grey plate and a thin cloak demanded the report and Greyback handed it over.
The knight shivered and made to inspect the bundle. He did not take it, only peered at it, then steeled himself.
"Follow me, Lord Stark must hear of this. Hob, Mallin, send for the maester and Steward Poole."
They went on through the castle. Greyback tried to pay attention to the layout, but one disadvantage of the days following the transformation was the sensitivity to stimuli, and he tried to dampen it by concentrating on the floor in front of him and the sounds of footsteps.
The guard captain took him up stairs and down corridors. Greyback tried not to sense the smells around him, they were incredibly strong after the sensations of the previous night. Then they came to a large door, which the captain knocked on, then opened swiftly without waiting for an answer.
A man and a woman were waiting within in close conference. They were both in their thirties and richly dressed, their faces lined with stress, though both were handsome enough.
This was the solar, or parlour of Lord Stark. Greyback was used to them, plenty of the older families in Malfoy's circle had them. It was a place to relax and to receive guests, and Greyback supposed it might have been seen as rude for him to just have dumped a skin-cloak down on Stark's desk. It was a spacious enough room, comfortable in it's furnishings and with many more expensive items than Lord Cerwyn's. He didn't know why there was a bed in the corner, did Stark sleep here sometimes? Strange but he'd slept in some strange places himself too. Other than that a brief glance around met with the table, a high seat carved with wolves, a bookshelf full of tomes, chests and wardrobes, a heart burning gently and a number of impressive tapestaries. On the mantle there was a single blue rose in a pot with a tree on it.
"Lord Stark, Lady Stark, this man bears a dire message from Ser Kyle and the forces in the woods. Lord Tallhart is slain, Lord Cerwyn too… and Ser Rodrick." said the captain.
Was the man related to the knight? Greyback saw some family resemblance, if he looked closely, but he didn't know the folk of Winterfell well enough to tell. Certainly it seemed the guard captain felt more strongly about Cassel's death than the others.
Lord Stark nodded stiffly. He was man grave of face and form with a silvering beard and solemn eyes. "We will avenge him, if it is so, Jory." he said in a strong voice.
Just then another man came in, and two more after him. The first was a maester from his grey robes and chain, a small man with a woollen hood over a balding pate, while the second was more richly dressed, the steward, Poole, Greyback guessed. He did not know the third man, another solemn looking fellow all dressed in black.
Lord Stark motioned for them to join him, handing the message he'd been give to the man in black, "Read it, Ben." he ordered.
The other man cleared his throat, drawing the message out flat on the table.
"Lord Stark," the man, 'Ben', began, "I regret to inform you that we have suffered a heavy loss at the hands of the wildlings. They lured us into a trap by raiding our camps and then fleeing into the caves. Lord Tallhart and Lord Cerwyn led a force of two hundred men to pursue them, but they were ambushed in the dark by a larger number of savages. I brought up the rear and arrived after the battle. Both lords were slain, along with most of their men, as well as Ser Rodrick."
The steward, Poole, swore under his breath and cursed the wildlings to the Seven Hells.
Ben continued, "I have rallied the survivors but many are wounded and in need of care. Through the account of my messenger, the wildlings have quit the caves, or retreated further within to some secret place. I have no way of knowing their numbers or their plans. They have shown no mercy or honour in their attacks, and we fear they will strike again soon. We are outnumbered and outmatched, and we cannot hold this position for long. I pray you only move with a strong force. The wildlings fought savagely and with great guile, digging pits and attacking by night, imitating beasts with howls and fur cloaks. I urgently request your aid, my lord. We need reinforcements, supplies, and medical assistance. We remain loyal and faithful to you and your house, and we hope to see you soon. This messenger can give further account."
The man in black set the message down and the maester swiftly seized it up, going to the window to read it better in the light.
"It is signed by Ser Kyle Codon, a knight of Lord Cerwyn's household." Lord Stark said, "He is a steady man, by Cerwyn's account, I do not believe him prone to exaggeration."
"This is grave news indeed, my lord." Lady Stark said, "The wildlings must have prepared this ambush for some time, if Ser Kyle reports them digging pits."
"The hills in the north are full of caves and passages. It's possible they scouted it some time ago, then made their own excavations to take advantage of the terrain." Poole said, "The Mountain Clans would know more, but we've had no word of them about large bands of wildlings lately."
"There are cave-dwelling clans in the Frostfangs." Ben said, "We've not seen them much, they tend to keep to themselves. We had no news of this Moon-Brother though, only Mance Rayder. I think perhaps Moon-Brother is one of the chiefs from further north, past the Skirling Pass."
"What is this evil thing?" Lady Stark asked in a high voice, nodding at the bundle of the skin-cloak.
"It is as the survivor said a few days ago, Moon-Brother wears a cloak of scalps. This must be it, or something like it." Lord Stark said.
"It is an evil thing!" Lady Stark repeated, "Take it away, let the Septon pray over it for the men's souls, then burn it."
Lord Stark nodded and one of the guards removed the bundle, leaving only the bloody weirwood mask. Then Stark took it and tossed it in the hearth.
Fenrir suppressed a smile as he stared at the blackening wood.
"You are Fenrir Greyback." Stark said to the werewolf, "You have been killing bears in the forest and selling their fur. You lost your memory and were wandering in the woods a month ago. How did you come to receive Ser Kyle message? Did you accompany his force?"
It did not surprise Greyback that Stark recognised him, he had a distinctive face after all and he'd been in Wintertown a bit. Cerwyn would have reported to Stark about him, and he'd hardly been hiding. Greyback explained himself briefly and waited for more questions.
How many did Ser Kyle retain? What was their condition?
What had he seen inside the cave?
Had he heard or seen more of the wildlings in his hunts?
Greyback answered each carefully, and Lord Stark asked for suggestions from his council.
"We must quickly draw back the smallfolk in the Wolfswood." said Lady Stark, "If Moon-Brother and his savages come upon them they will surely be killed."
"No." Ben said, "The first village was the lure. You might draw them back, Ned, but the wildlings wanted to draw out real soldiers. Moon-Brother is clever in his barbarism, he drew in our forces and Ser Cassel. Furthermore, he has clearly prepared for longer than many wildlings if he's garbed his warriors in similar clothing and used tactics like these to disguise his numbers."
"Should we send men in to the caves?" Stark asked.
"I wouldn't. Or, if you did, do it carefully. Call the Mountain Clans to press into the caves from the north, they'll have more experience than any of ours."
Stark nodded and gave orders. The man in black would ride out with hundreds more men and supplied to relieve Ser Kyle while the guard captain rode for the Mountain Clans to warn them. Apparently they had no ravens.
Greyback thought it was all going rather well.
Stark sat after a time, leaning back and staring out the window. "I will call the banners. I will not have wildlings murdering my folk."
"You are Warden of the North, husband. Should you write to the King?" his wife asked.
Stark considered. "I will write him, but any aid he'd send will take months to arrive. No, I will call the banners of Barrowtown, the Rills, and send for men from White Harbour. If this is the start of a great invasion of Wildlings we must be ready, if it is only an enterprising chieftain, I will take him and his head for his crimes."
"If Moon-Brother managed to get a strong enough force past the Wall, the Mountain Clans, and through the Wolfswood without discovery it may be that he can do it again going north. If he is a chieftain of such skill and command that he can retain the obedience of his fellows, even over such a march, and now if he has steel weapons and armour from the force defeated in the woods then Moon-Brother may contest Mance Rayder as King-Beyond-the-Wall." the maester said.
Now wasn't that a thought, Fenrir Greyback; king!
"I must advise strong action here, my lord." the maester continued. "The deaths of two masterly lords and of your castellan reflect poorly on you, regardless of your actions. The succession of House Tallhart will be in dispute. I advise you to bring Lady Eddara here to foster, for she has the legal right to the house after her brother and father's deaths. Leobald Tallhart may cause trouble, but if named as castellan and regent for Lady Eddara, he may be sated. Meanwhile, I would advise you to bring Lord Cley here swiftly, given your friendship with his father."
"I am minded to, though I am grieved indeed at Medger's death." Lord Stark replied.
The maester bowed and left, no doubt doing to send the messages.
Lord Stark looked at Greyback. "You are an unusual man, and perhaps the Gods have sent you here at this time. It is strange indeed, that you would be found at the first village to be destroyed, and subsequently to be on hand to assist Ser Kyle. Explain your movements of the last few days." he ordered.
Greyback just said that he had been hunting. He had been careful to let Rodrick and the boys see him each day, and to visit there early this morning too before visiting the battle site.
Stark only grunted, no doubt he'd be checking up on the story in due course.
"You are not to leave the castle grounds." Stark ordered. "You are a man of unusual abilities and talents, to fight bears with only a long knife. I would have use for a man of such worth. I will give you a purse of silver to stay here, and I will order my guards to be wary of letting you leave. From Lord Cerwyn's and Ser Kyle's previous reports, you may have just been in the wrong place at the right time, but it still seems strange to me, and I know not what to think of it. I know you are no wildling spy, you are too unsubtle for it, and besides I think any man of your cast would be easily recognised."
Stark paused, meeting Greyback's eyes. The werewolf didn't back down.
"There are other men who can fight like you. Greatjon Umber in the North, Strongboar or the Mountain-that-Rides in the south, and Benjen tells me of a wildling calling himself 'Husband to Bears' of surpassing strength. There are bad reports about you, that you have a savage demeanour, that you fled the keep of Cerwyn against the lord's orders, or that you have little care for the taxes and duties of the Realm. I believe a spy would want to seem more friendly… and I think a blackguard would seem fairer. You are a contradiction, but one I cannot attend to now. Will you agree to remain within the walls, to settle your affairs beyond and to come when I have need of you?" Stark asked.
This suited Greyback just fine. He had planned to gain access to Winterfell. At first he'd though to try and sell a wolf pelt to Lord Stark, but he'd not known whether the man (who's sigil was a direwolf) would interpret that as an insult or not, and besides he's not seen any wolves with pelts magnificent enough for the lord of a Great House.
"I agree to your terms." the werewolf said plainly. There would be some negotiation no doubt, but that could come in time.
"Good. Let us-" Stark began, but the door banged open behind Greyback.
"Father!" a young girl's voice rang out as a vision swept past the werewolf. "The servants are saying Ser Rodrick is dead, that the wildlings are marching on Winterfell!"
Lady Stark leapt to her feet, "Sansa! The door is closed, your father is in council! Away girl, back to your Septa!"
Lord and Lady Stark attended to their daughter but Fenrir was struck dumb.
His fingers twitched.
Her hair, it looked so soft.
His claws winked in the firelight as he longed to grasp the girl.
He could see her heartbeat as she stood not a foot from him from where she'd burst into the room. He could see her blood rushing through her neck.
Fenrir felt his mouth water.
Sweat beaded under the girl's ear, he could smell her…
The girl, Sansa, turned. She perceived Greyback as if in slow motion, her deep blue eyes, deep like the sea, widened in fear as she beheld his form. The werewolf could not stop himself from smiling, from licking his lips at the sight of her, tongue running wetly over pointed teeth.
He could smell her nectar, it filled him, heady and powerful. She was roses and frost in the dawn.
Fenrir knew she'd be tender. Knew if he but reached out, he skin would be soft.
He loved soft skin.
Greyback didn't hear the rest of what was said. He recognised a dismissal from Lord Stark as the Warden and his wife harangued their daughter for her impetuousness.
He would remain in Winterfell, he decided.
And when he left, he would take Sansa Stark away with him. The girl would be his, and the werewolf grinned at the thought.
- Location
- United Kingdom
I've just written a rather shorter advance chapter given the length of the other ones, but this chapter here is about 5k I think as usual, and additionally as usual was up a couple of weeks ago as an advanced chapter. The penultimate advance chapter of the story has just been posted, and I'll be writing a last council scene to end up the fic for now. I'm pretty happy with it in general given the writing challenge as mentioned previously, but feedback is of course always welcome.
Also I might make a longer post about this somewhere but I really do find the lack of media literacy by some people very strange. I'm sure most people are perfectly find but I'm getting consistent reviews on FFnet from people who clearly do not understand how stories work. I don't even agree with things like 'dont like dont read', and I'll leave negative reviews on things sometimes, but I just find it odd that people find it so difficult to understand subtext, themes and so on. In any case, on with the story I suppose.
-l-
The godswood of Wintefell was a magnificent place.
Three acres wide it occupied a good quarter of Winterfell's footprint over a wide hill. It was ancient, there were stumps and old dead trees there, as well as a sort of dark primal earthiness as Greyback walked through the trees.
It was magical.
Fenrir had felt the sensation back at the village before his transformation. It was a tingling, a sort of prickling on the back of the neck or a pleasant itching at the tips of his fingers. It was the glorious feeling of a stretch after a long sleep, and the sense of familiarity.
He'd rarely felt such feelings. In Britain, there were few places which still preserved the ancient magic, cultivated by worshippers rather than artificially constrained through wardings or magical networks.
He'd felt the wards of Winterfell of course. Once his arousal after the last full moon's transformation faded, he could feel it.
Deep beneath the world it rose up like geothermic heat. Greyback was no curse-breaker or runemaster, but he'd still studied both arts occasionally, picking up this and that in his travels. Werewolves, like most magical creatures, were naturally sensitive to magic. In the ancient days of the druids and their rituals, these sorts of places would have been holy. In the modern Wizarding World there were only a few strange folk who still kept to such customs though, scattered about int eh wild, far palaces of the natural world.
Some of his own kind were such atavisms. Greyback didn't count himself among them, but he'd walked with the packs in the sacred groves in the depths of Siberia or in the old growth forests of Europe, what remained of them anyway.
The godswood was the most powerfully magical place he'd encountered, and he spent a great deal of time in it when he wasn't busy with other matters. He would bring books here to read by the black, still pools of the woods. He'd soak and bathe in the hot springs by the wall, or just walk through the woods admiring the trees.
There were sentinel pines, mighty oaks, stout ironwoods as well as sacred ash, broad chestnut, spreading elm and gnarled hawthorn. Besides these were many bushes, the haunts of little birds and creatures which scurried this way and that.
In the centre there were the black pools. Greyback had stood before them at first, falling into the darkness that led down to the core of the world. The weirwood's bloody tear tracked faces stared into his soul. The air had been thick with moss and earth and as if stepping into the Feylands, Fenrir had felt the presence of ancient secrets and history.
He'd torn himself away at first, uncomfortable with the feeling. He rejected the mystical, having no care for the superstitions or faith of the Northerners. There was something in the weirdwoods, that much was plain, but Greyback hadn't trusted it at first.
Steadily though he'd been drawn back. He'd made sacrifices to the Old Gods when he'd killed over the last few weeks. He'd not necessarily expected anything to happen, more than he'd wanted to convey and impression, but perhaps he'd caught their attention.
Of course, the godswood wasn't open to him at all times. Lord Stark's guards would empty it whenever their Lord wanted to pray. Greyback had snarled at that. The world was not Stark's! The trees didn't belong to him!
The werewolf had ignored the commands, thrusting a soldier into the hot spring and stalking off through the woods.
They'd come for him eventually. It was Stark himself who found Greyback sitting on a rock in front of the heart tree. He came alone, but for a few attendants, demanding an explanation for the assault on his serving man.
"Once men lived in the wilds. Every tree was sacred, every stone the haunt of a spirit. We lived amidst the great world, and it was good. The trees stretched across the land and the fish were abundant in the streams. No man owned the land, no man claimed rights over another." Greyback had said, "That is why I denied your man's command."
"Would you tear down the stones of this keep?" Stark had asked, face cold, "See that time come again?"
Greyback laughed, "No! Animals and men are different, and there are many advantages of being a man, rather than a beast. Coin, shelter, fire, warm clothes and warmer women with ribbons in their hair and sweet smiles in the night. No, I'd not see it come again, but that doesn't mean it's not important to remember it."
Stark had stayed silent a long time after that. A tension had grown in the air as the weight of the godswood pressed down on them both. Then the man had nodded slowly.
"You may have your solace, I will instruct my guards not to trouble you, if you do not trouble them." the Lord of Winterfell had said, "But while you say the woods are not mine, nor are they yours. Keep your silence, let me pray and you'll have no trouble." and the Stark had knelt quietly before the tree in worship.
Ancient magic coursed through Winterfell. Too deep, too old for Fenrir to sense anything of it other than it's presence. He would return he, he knew, return to wake it again perhaps, or to capture it.
But for now he had matters to attend to.
Greyback trudged up the outer stair of the Library Tower. For whatever reason, the tower's stair had been set around the structure of the building, rather than within. It was perilous in the frost and he was careful in his step but Greyback didn't have access to the covered walkway which led to the main keep, that was just one of the areas guarded to prevent intruders.
Most of Winterfell's people lived in the town outside. The inside of the castle's walls were a series of rings of exclusivity and access. The first was for Lord Stark, his family, his immediate servants and his household. The next was for guards and for more remote servants, while the next was for visitors and tradespeople, with the outside of the walls being for the people of Wintertown.
While a merchant, emissary, minor noble or person of similar rank might visit to pay Lord Stark homage, or to barter with the castle's steward, it was rare for strangers to be permitted within the main keep. Greyback had only been there twice when Lord Stark called to consult him, and the werewolf wasn't allowed in without an escort.
Twice his meaty fist pounded into the external door of the library. It was freezing, and even with his bearskin cloak he could feel the cold seeping into him.
Despite the controlled access of the fortress, there were a number of liminal spaces where people could theoretically get in, but who would cause alarum and cry if they did. The library had a walkway into the keep, the guards' barracks connected to the armoury which connected to the keep, and there was a lesser keep for the higher ranked servants such as the steward and guard captain.
Fenrir shivered. He was at the midpoint of the month, the time when he was furthest from his beast, furthest from the bliss of the moon-change. Furthest from the wolf he felt almost…
Human.
The lycanthrope sneered as he heard the shuffling footsteps of the maester.
He would never be human. Never be weak…
"You took your time." Fenrir growled as the slight man opened the door. Luwin only looked at him, unimpressed and turned away back to his study.
The werewolf set aside his anger, swiftly coming up the steps behind the maester and taking his seat. He breathed hot breaths into his hands to warm them, then shook his inkpot over a candle to warm that too.
Luwin cleared his throat, settling his robes and chain.
The maester was far more learned and wise than the one of Castle Cerwyn. While that maester had only had a few links in his chain, Luwin had more than twenty, all of different metals. Greyback was mostly interested in the rarest link though, that grey smoky metal that was Valyrian steel. There was power in that metal and Greyback desired it greatly…
"We shall deal today with the Greenwardens, their significance and position in the Reach, and their subsequent expansion into the Riverlands. Following this, I shall detail their interactions within the Riverlords' conflicts, as well as their alleged magical powers and the use of the 'Greenwarden's Staff'." Luwin began his lecture, tapping a series of locations on the map of Westeros in his study. The map was taller than the maester, and to avoid having to stand he used a long stick to poke at it.
Luwin was the most knowledgeable and scholarly person in Winterfell, probably the North, and Greyback wanted that knowledge. He'd learned from the merchant's son in the town, but he needed a better teacher for more advanced studies. He'd offered the maester a gold dragon for a month's tutoring and the man had accepted. He taught Greyback the histories of the noble houses of Westeros, gave a brief account of the histories of other places and matters like the wars of Essos, as well as teaching in herblore and matters concerning potions. There were an assortment of more esoteric subjects which only the maester knew, and if he could Greyback would have retained the man for longer.
Unfortunately, Luwin had other duties. He had significant responsibilities in Winterfell and couldn't spend more time with the werewolf, having instead elected to design an accelerated teaching schedule, seemingly for the novelty of it, and for the discussions they had about the magic of Westeros.
Greyback was no scholar. Never was, never would be.
But he knew the value of learning. The maesters were called the 'knights of the mind', so Luwin said when he was feeling pompous, and Greyback knew the use of the mind as a weapon too. Greyback might have an international reputation as the most savage werewolf alive, but he didn't let his beast dominate him. Even when in the midst of the transformation he prided himself on retaining control… usually anyway…
In Westeros, he needed that savagery and strength, but he needed knowledge and understanding too.
In any case, many a night they'd spent in discussion over a spiced wine from Luwin's own store.
Fenrir was no scholar, no, that was true. But he was experienced. He had never studied societies or histories formally, but he'd still experienced them. From one end of Europe to the other he'd gone to and fro, searching out packs of werewolves. He'd taken part in strange rituals in Baltic forests, sat with shaman on the shores of the Arctic Sea or danced under the moon till his spirit howled through the mountains of Persia. Greyback had done and seen much in the Wizarding and Muggle worlds both, and he could exposit on that for the amusement of Luwin. The werewolf actually found himself enjoying it. Luwin was an intelligent and well-educated man and though sceptical of many of Greyback's stories he listened with interest and respect. The maester was suspicious, but they swapped facts and stories back and forth even after the formal lessons were complete, subject to Luwin's other duties attending the Starks and their children.
"Thus," Luwin concluded, "we may observe that the steady encroachment of the organisation of the Faith and the more militant policies of Septon Barnath created a more hostile environment for the Greenwardens. Their staffs were confiscated from their groves, and the groves cut down. The remaining families following the Old Gods or the Riverlands schismatic septs were destroyed or reduced in the case of the Blackwoods and ultimately only the carved faces of the Green Men are left, depicted on some of the older septrys in the Riverlands and the eastern Reach."
Somewhere outside a bell tolled.
Greyback made a final note, the quill scratching across the parchment in a shaky, unskilled hand.
He was concealing the fact that he could write from the maester, forcing himself to write only in the script of the Westerosi. It wasn't too difficult, he found, not like writing Cyrillic, something he cordially despised. The pretended ignorance helped to sell the image of a philosophical wildman Greyback had adopted to the people of Winterfell, and he was amply supplied with paper and ink by the Maester and his own coinpurse.
"I must go." he remarked aloud, grabbing up a satchel from the floor and turning for the door.
Luwin's slender wand tapped the table in annoyance.
"Greyback." he said sternly, "The pursuit of knowledge is a worthy one indeed, especially for a man in your position, but I again advise you, there are things that are not worth knowing."
"So you've said." grinned the werewolf as he left.
Luwin was putting away the book heraldry and he had been teaching and sighed. The maester said nothing as the door shut, but Greyback could sense his simmering frustration.
While Luwin had the wisdom of scholarship, like so many other scholars Greyback had met over the years, he had little appreciated for that which couldn't be contained within his books. Instead, Greyback sought out another source for his learning.
"And so they say, 'A king may rule the land, but a lord may rule the hearts.'" concluded the crone after a few more hours.
Old Nan was an ancient matron, apparently the oldest in the castle, and she was a wealth of information. She was quite mad of course, barely knew who she was speaking to, and entirely blind.
That only made her more valuable in Greyback's mind though, for without her sight and only knitting needles to keep her company she got bored easily. Additionally, she had no idea what he looked like and so couldn't be intimidated by his appearance.
After asking around in the castle and Wintertown he'd been sent her way, told she was a repository of stories. The promise of a penny for each story wasn't even needed, for the old woman had been quite happy to ramble at him for as long as he could stand it, or till she fell asleep.
He hadn't been trusted at first of course, the guards had sought to protect their grandmother, perhaps great-grandmother from the fearsome stranger. They were still there, this time it was Hull, a portly middle-aged man who's watch was later in the day and who liked to sit by the fire to ease the pain in his knee from a wound he'd taken at Pyke. Hull was half asleep as Old Nan concluded her story and Greyback saw no need to wake him, slipping out with a murmur of thanks to the woman.
Luwin disapproved because while Luwin would teach Greyback about magic from the academic point of view, a cold summary of facts and reports that Luwin did not fully credit, Old Nan would tell stories of magic and monsters. Luwin thought the Children of the Forests had never existed, or if they did were just another clan of people who had strange customs. Old Nan though was entirely convinced of their alien nature, and of their continued existence, even swearing that she'd seen one once when she'd been picking mushrooms in the Wolfswood. Not only that, while Luwin did not repeat anything he did not credit with some element of evidence and truth, Old Nan was perfectly happy to reel off any story she'd heard.
Yes, there was magic in the world. It just took some digging to get at it.
Even now Greyback had accumulated a small notebook full of locations, people and items that he wanted to find out more about. Luwin spoke of the Tragedy at Summerhall, where the Targaryens had tried to wake dragons from stone. Luwin claimed it was yet more Targaryen madness, but he said some thought it sorcery. That was exactly the remarks Greyback knew he had to look into.
Oh, dragons were real alright, just dead.
Greyback had been rather disappointed at that. There would be no heartstrings for poor Fenrir's wand, he thought with a mock mourning in his smile. No, he would have to look for a different core for his wand.
Unicorns too, could be found in Westeros upon the isle of Skagos. Greyback had been excited again, despite his doubt that a reagent from a creature of noted goodness would be useful to a savage like himself. As it turned out though, once Greyback acquired the horn of such a creature in the market, that the things were just strange looking horses. The horn itself was gnarled and crooked with a large splintered crack down one side and Greyback had tossed it in the midden is disgust. There had been as much magic in that stick as he'd find in a latrine.
There were more promising ideas though. There was a witch in the Riverlands who once advised kings, there were strange oily stones impervious to harm under the Hightower, there were the melted black stone of Storm's End and Dragonstone, built by ancient magicians or so it was said. There was blood magic, necromancers and alchemists, there was diviners and greenseers, there were the dragon dreams of Daenys Targaryen and the green men of the Isle of Faces. There was the Valyrian steel of the lost Freehold and the Hammer of the Waters which shattered the Arm of Dorne.
"The mind must be honed as a knight hones a sword." Luwin was wont to say. "Many a maester has gone mad staring fruitlessly into glass candles or playing with sticks or river stones to peer into the future. Nothing is to be found there, magic is gone from the world. To pursue it thus is to blunt that sword that is your mind, Greyback."
But Fenrir knew better…
He had yet to truly begin his magical experiments, but Lord Stark's patronage and forbearance had given him some authority among the servants. He could call for small things, like a flagon of blood from the kitchens, and with it he'd set up a little studio in the room he'd been given in the guesthouse. The room was finer than he'd had in the inn outside Winterfell, and better he didn't to pay for it. He instead ordered small quantities of what he needed for the experiments from silver, gold and blood, to tokens or staff of wood.
The steward, Poole, had enquired what he was up to, and apparently taken it to Maester Luwin. The old man had frowned at Greyback during the next lesson, telling him about the tests maesters had to go through to earn the link in their chains symbolising the 'Higher Mysteries'. It was a clever test, the prospective maester would sit for a night with a glass candle, a divinatory tool apparently. Inevitably the student would be unable to make the thing work and would conclude that magic was gone from the world.
Of course, Greyback knew better.
He ordered a score of staves from the poleturner, and plates and cubes of stone from the castle's mason.
He botched the first lot of course. He was entirely out of practice in inscribing runes and it took some time to achieve the level of stillness and dexterity to even set the runes down. He sketched diagrams in charcoal on the floor, the walls. He pushed the furniture into the corners to make more room and forbade the servants from coming into the room.
Jory Cassel, the captain of the guards, came to see him, bursting open the door. Greyback had been kneeling on the floor, daubing blood on a numerological diagram.
The werewolf had never taken numerology, but as with much else, he'd picked up a lot over the years. This was just something he'd seen in a discarded textbook, a sort of way to check the flow of magical energy in a warding field. He was using it to test magic and he looked up, hand bloody, eyes like dark gems in the darkness of the room.
"Yes?" Fenrir had grinned, "Can I help you?"
He was in a mood for jokes, and grinned toothily.
"What are you doing?" Cassel asked, unaware he was speaking with the man who'd murdered his uncle. "There are rumours you practice blood magic and Lord Stark's commanded me to check."
"Oh I do." Greyback grinned, greatly enjoying the way Jory's face blanched and other guards made signs of warding from where they were peering in, "Or at least I'm trying to. There's power in blood. Why do you think the Kings of Winter would make sacrifices to weirwoods? They still do that in the deep woods, you know."
"Where did you get the blood?"
"Gage." Greyback had said, the cook used blood in his work, but seldom, most of it was just drained he assumed. "You can ask him."
"I must tell Lord Stark of this." Cassel shivered as he looked around the room, the strange sights unnerving him.
"You must do what you must do." Fenrir said, his smile growing wider as he enjoyed the man's discomfort. "Go ask the maester about it, you shouldn't be concerned after all, magic is gone form the world, so he said."
Nothing came of it in the end. Luwin had chastised him again, not bothering to even ask him what he was doing, only scolding the werewolf for scaring the guards.
Apparently Cassel had run from the guesthouse into the keep and up the library stairs, falling on the icy steps and breaking his arm in his haste. The accident had made him a figure of mockery in the garrison and Lord Stark had spoken harshly to him, telling him to concentrate on training more guards to hunt the wildlings, not get lost chasing children's stories.
Greyback in turn had acquired a reputation as a fearsome, pious, eccentric figure. He didn't partake in many of the communal activities, but kept himself to himself, seeing to his studies or experiments.
While the former proceeded well, the later went nowhere. He carved wands, set them with gold dusts suspended in inks or writ them with blood. He carved runic arrays and focused his magic into them in the manner he understood such things were done.
Nothing happened.
But the werewolf wasn't disheartened. He had plenty of time for such experiments in future, and besides, through all of it his ardour hadn't died as he worked during the weeks.
He caught her.
He scent.
Her smell.
Her essence.
The honeywine of her blood and sweat, the flowers in her hair, the lemony sweetness when she and her sister crept down into the kitchens to steal cakes.
Greyback was a man of needs, but he'd rarely been so captivated. It was an effort to restrain himself but he knew he must, if he was to acquire his prize.
Yet still, he found himself clinging to a wall in the dead of night, claws piercing the mortar as his muscles strained. The night was freezing, but he wanted a look at her, wanted to drink her in. She was always cooped up in the main keep and Fenrir had decided to climb up in the hour of the wolf to see her.
It was difficult, climbing in the dark and the wind, but it was worth it.
He could see her.
Not much, admittedly, the girl was bundled up in her bed with a companion, the Steward's daughter, he thought, but he could see the glorious auburn of her hair, taste her scent as his tongue darted out.
Old Nan was there too, quieting the girl after a nightmare.
Sansa Stark would have reason to have nightmares soon enough…
"Beyond the gates the monsters live, and the giants and the ghouls, but they cannot pass so long as the Wall stands strong. So go to sleep, my little Sansa, my dear. You needn't fear." Old Nan was saying quietly.
Greyback did not interrupt her. She would be away soon enough, and he had no reason to correct her.
"There are no monsters here." Old Nan finished quietly, planting a kiss on Sansa's forehead.
Fenrir grinned.
The next morning he began making his plans in earnest.
The main keep of Winterfell was surrounded by three sets of enormous walls. Unusually, the outer was the largest, rising almost eighty feet tall, by Greyback's reckoning. That was only for the defences, for once an attacker gained the wall they'd be exposed to bowshot and crossbow bolt from the second wall, which had been built around an uneaven hill which most of Winterfell sat on. The defenders meanwhile could fall back across collapsible bridges over a moat, taking up station on the second wall and leaving the castle no worse defended than it had been by the first wall.
Within the second wall sat the town of Winterfell. In Greyback's estimation it could not be called a city, for while there were hundreds of people there they served the Starks ultimately, rather than pursuing their own ends. Within the walls lay numerous larger stone buildings such as an old round keep fallen into disuse over the centuries and a broken tower connected to it, the barracks of the Stark soldiery and a lesser keep for servants. There also sat many smaller buildings of wood and shingles such as a brewery, granaries, a market and tavern, and a dozen or so woodpiles for the heating of Winterfell.
Further still, beyond the guesthouse for the rich merchants and minor lords who couldn't wrangle lodging within the main keep there was the godswood. Greyback had walked there many a time, wandered between the trees and felt the living earth. It was a strange place, a magic place he did not doubt, and the trees watched him carefully, that would not do as an escape route, he knew.
Lastly though, the centre of his desire and indeed his ire, was the main keep. Within a final layer of walls the main keep of Winterfell was enormous. It was a vast sprawling conglomeration of angled towers and turrets, of dark stone and covered walkways. The rooves were buttressed with stone and seemed to stab the sky, their harsh angles required by the excessive snow which could cover the fortress over a single night.
It would be hell for an army to take. Even if a company could gain one section of the wall and take it, they'd have to fight their way through towers and turrets all the while under attack and fire from the other section of the castle.
But Greyback wasn't an army.
Out the keep, across the yard and through the gate or over the wall. He could stash a rope somewhere, get the girl down that, then out into the outer bailey?
Greyback looked out over the yard, seeing the many guards on the turrets and patrolling the walls. There were hundreds of them, at least four hundred in the daytime and perhaps only a hundred at night, and that was just the outside. That didn't account for all the servants or the houndmaster's dogs.
He couldn't go anywhere near the stables or the kennels, animals feared werewolves when they caught his unusual smell…
Out the keep yes, but the same defences which prevented enemies from getting in would prevent him from getting out. Even if he tricked his way past one turret, he'd be exposed on the walls and all the doors around the towers would be barred to him. He didn't fancy chancing his strength against six inches of oak, and as soon as someone saw him with the girl over his shoulder or if she cried out, he'd be discovered and horns blown.
Even if he got through the doors and down to the second wall, maybe even across one of the collapsible bridges over the moat, he'd back to get down the eighty foot drop. If there was a snowdrift there he could make it, but then to fight his way out of the drift, the girl on his back, and then what?
Presumably away into Wintertown… He could leave orders for horses to be prepared, two or three probably, but the innkeeper would be suspicious of such orders. He couldn't saddle them himself, and no doubt the innkeeper would know that once horns were blown something was amiss, and would likely take the horses back within the stable, lest some ruffian (like Greyback) escape on them.
Fenrir had to make his move soon. It would be two more weeks till full moon, and he should use that. He didn't have time to set another ambush and rush about in the woods after the Northerners. He knew they were frustrated and tempers were flaring. Stark had ridden out several times, and his knights and commanders were coming in with reports, the Lord himself pouring over maps and parchments. Greyback had only been summoned once to repeat his fabrication, but it seemed that Lord Stark assumed the wildlings had slipped away to the north, through caves and woods into the mountains, and were now making back toward the Wall and their Lands Beyond the Wall.
Greyback could use that, he knew. He intended to go south. There was a strong wildling tradition of 'stealing' women from the south, and he intended to make it look like he'd done that, having already fashioned another weirwood mask from a fallen branch. He was going to leave it on Sansa Stark's bed when he took her, and the thought of it already brought a smile to his face.
The werewolf looked over his own diagrams a final time. He'd built himself a little model of Winterfell, map of sorts with string and blocks and labels. He examined it closely, checking his route a final time, then Greyback made ready. He put away his inscription kit, away the stimulants, tranquilisers and herbs he planned to use in the abduction, he set up his gear so he could make a swift exit.
Fenrir slipped from a high window of the guesthouse, padding across the courtyard, into the godswood. He went through the trees across the moss-covered, half buried flagstones and then up into a tree. He climbed, being carefully to put his considerable weight only on the stoutest branches, gripping the bark with his claws and the iron sinews of his hands.
Then he leapt, sailing for a second out into the freezing night air, landing heavily on the godswood's wall.
Secrecy was his greatest defence here. While a man might visit the godswood by night for a nocturnal liaison, or for more pious purposes, Greyback knew that a man going up the library tower, which stood next to the godswood, would be suspicious. The only people who might want to access the library so late was the maester and he would travel over the covered walkway from the keep. It was this walkway Fenrir planned to take now, and he climbed the wall of the library tower carefully. It was only six feet till the steps which sat toward the godswood wall, hiding him from view. He ran at the wall, putting a boot against it and jumping up, grasping the step and hauling himself swiftly upwards.
He could now make his way half way around the tower before he was exposed from view, gaining another six feet or so of height. That put him just about near enough to the covered walkway for the next step.
Uncurling a stout rope from his shoulder, Greyback checked the knot on the grappling hook, before tossing it toward the walkway. The hook struck firm and he pulled the rope, finding fast resistance. It was stuck well, and now Greyback swung out, climbing rapidly hand over hand, hauling himself up till he could grasp the walkway with his claws, then flipping himself over the balcony.
He took to his feet quickly, recurling the rope, lest some passing guard find it dangling, then he went quietly, bent low through the covered walkway between the library tower and the keep. It was the hour of the wolf, his hour, the blackest time of night.
The door to the keep was not barred. He had observed the walkway secretly over the last few weeks, as well as watching Luwin on occasion as the maester went to his library for the lessons. Naturally, there was no need to bar it, for the library door itself was barred. Having bypassed that door though, Greyback now stealthily opened the door into the keep, slipping inside into the warmth.
He waited a moment to warm his bones, taking in the smell of the place.
There was old fires, built up by servants as night fell, then left to burn int eh darkness. There was the musk of furs that lined the walls and floors of the rooms, there was the acrid stench of urine from someone's privy, and the aroma of bread from the kitchens deep below.
The air was warm, blowing softly through the passageways as Greyback crouched as he breathed, trying to sense…
Her.
His lips peeled back as the werewolf grinned. There was the scent. He had her now!
He ran down the corridors, swiftly yet silently in soft slippers. He could smell guards coming before they got to him, and twice had to divert away from patrols. He heard the snoring of guards, the distance hoot of a snowy owl outside.
The walls throbbed with ardent power as Greyback slipped past the Starks' defences. The night was his, and he finally came to the door.
A shadow slipped into the room. A shadow of evil, with bright eyes and a hungry grin.
Sansa stirred from a dream, something bringing her to wakefulness.
No, it was only a dream, shadow wasn't there.
Greyback drew out the tranquilising potion he'd procured from the herbalist.
Sansa woke suddenly as the hairy hand went over her mouth, as the claws scratched her throat.
"Quiet girl!" came Greyback's hoarse growl. "You don't mean to wake the keep do you?"
He smiled a cruel smile down at her, "Don't you worry, we'll be away from here soon enough, and I'll show you things you never thought to see."
The child tried to scream into his hand, tried to struggle, but Greyback kept firm, watching her as she passed into unconsciousness.
Also I might make a longer post about this somewhere but I really do find the lack of media literacy by some people very strange. I'm sure most people are perfectly find but I'm getting consistent reviews on FFnet from people who clearly do not understand how stories work. I don't even agree with things like 'dont like dont read', and I'll leave negative reviews on things sometimes, but I just find it odd that people find it so difficult to understand subtext, themes and so on. In any case, on with the story I suppose.
-l-
The godswood of Wintefell was a magnificent place.
Three acres wide it occupied a good quarter of Winterfell's footprint over a wide hill. It was ancient, there were stumps and old dead trees there, as well as a sort of dark primal earthiness as Greyback walked through the trees.
It was magical.
Fenrir had felt the sensation back at the village before his transformation. It was a tingling, a sort of prickling on the back of the neck or a pleasant itching at the tips of his fingers. It was the glorious feeling of a stretch after a long sleep, and the sense of familiarity.
He'd rarely felt such feelings. In Britain, there were few places which still preserved the ancient magic, cultivated by worshippers rather than artificially constrained through wardings or magical networks.
He'd felt the wards of Winterfell of course. Once his arousal after the last full moon's transformation faded, he could feel it.
Deep beneath the world it rose up like geothermic heat. Greyback was no curse-breaker or runemaster, but he'd still studied both arts occasionally, picking up this and that in his travels. Werewolves, like most magical creatures, were naturally sensitive to magic. In the ancient days of the druids and their rituals, these sorts of places would have been holy. In the modern Wizarding World there were only a few strange folk who still kept to such customs though, scattered about int eh wild, far palaces of the natural world.
Some of his own kind were such atavisms. Greyback didn't count himself among them, but he'd walked with the packs in the sacred groves in the depths of Siberia or in the old growth forests of Europe, what remained of them anyway.
The godswood was the most powerfully magical place he'd encountered, and he spent a great deal of time in it when he wasn't busy with other matters. He would bring books here to read by the black, still pools of the woods. He'd soak and bathe in the hot springs by the wall, or just walk through the woods admiring the trees.
There were sentinel pines, mighty oaks, stout ironwoods as well as sacred ash, broad chestnut, spreading elm and gnarled hawthorn. Besides these were many bushes, the haunts of little birds and creatures which scurried this way and that.
In the centre there were the black pools. Greyback had stood before them at first, falling into the darkness that led down to the core of the world. The weirwood's bloody tear tracked faces stared into his soul. The air had been thick with moss and earth and as if stepping into the Feylands, Fenrir had felt the presence of ancient secrets and history.
He'd torn himself away at first, uncomfortable with the feeling. He rejected the mystical, having no care for the superstitions or faith of the Northerners. There was something in the weirdwoods, that much was plain, but Greyback hadn't trusted it at first.
Steadily though he'd been drawn back. He'd made sacrifices to the Old Gods when he'd killed over the last few weeks. He'd not necessarily expected anything to happen, more than he'd wanted to convey and impression, but perhaps he'd caught their attention.
Of course, the godswood wasn't open to him at all times. Lord Stark's guards would empty it whenever their Lord wanted to pray. Greyback had snarled at that. The world was not Stark's! The trees didn't belong to him!
The werewolf had ignored the commands, thrusting a soldier into the hot spring and stalking off through the woods.
They'd come for him eventually. It was Stark himself who found Greyback sitting on a rock in front of the heart tree. He came alone, but for a few attendants, demanding an explanation for the assault on his serving man.
"Once men lived in the wilds. Every tree was sacred, every stone the haunt of a spirit. We lived amidst the great world, and it was good. The trees stretched across the land and the fish were abundant in the streams. No man owned the land, no man claimed rights over another." Greyback had said, "That is why I denied your man's command."
"Would you tear down the stones of this keep?" Stark had asked, face cold, "See that time come again?"
Greyback laughed, "No! Animals and men are different, and there are many advantages of being a man, rather than a beast. Coin, shelter, fire, warm clothes and warmer women with ribbons in their hair and sweet smiles in the night. No, I'd not see it come again, but that doesn't mean it's not important to remember it."
Stark had stayed silent a long time after that. A tension had grown in the air as the weight of the godswood pressed down on them both. Then the man had nodded slowly.
"You may have your solace, I will instruct my guards not to trouble you, if you do not trouble them." the Lord of Winterfell had said, "But while you say the woods are not mine, nor are they yours. Keep your silence, let me pray and you'll have no trouble." and the Stark had knelt quietly before the tree in worship.
Ancient magic coursed through Winterfell. Too deep, too old for Fenrir to sense anything of it other than it's presence. He would return he, he knew, return to wake it again perhaps, or to capture it.
But for now he had matters to attend to.
Greyback trudged up the outer stair of the Library Tower. For whatever reason, the tower's stair had been set around the structure of the building, rather than within. It was perilous in the frost and he was careful in his step but Greyback didn't have access to the covered walkway which led to the main keep, that was just one of the areas guarded to prevent intruders.
Most of Winterfell's people lived in the town outside. The inside of the castle's walls were a series of rings of exclusivity and access. The first was for Lord Stark, his family, his immediate servants and his household. The next was for guards and for more remote servants, while the next was for visitors and tradespeople, with the outside of the walls being for the people of Wintertown.
While a merchant, emissary, minor noble or person of similar rank might visit to pay Lord Stark homage, or to barter with the castle's steward, it was rare for strangers to be permitted within the main keep. Greyback had only been there twice when Lord Stark called to consult him, and the werewolf wasn't allowed in without an escort.
Twice his meaty fist pounded into the external door of the library. It was freezing, and even with his bearskin cloak he could feel the cold seeping into him.
Despite the controlled access of the fortress, there were a number of liminal spaces where people could theoretically get in, but who would cause alarum and cry if they did. The library had a walkway into the keep, the guards' barracks connected to the armoury which connected to the keep, and there was a lesser keep for the higher ranked servants such as the steward and guard captain.
Fenrir shivered. He was at the midpoint of the month, the time when he was furthest from his beast, furthest from the bliss of the moon-change. Furthest from the wolf he felt almost…
Human.
The lycanthrope sneered as he heard the shuffling footsteps of the maester.
He would never be human. Never be weak…
"You took your time." Fenrir growled as the slight man opened the door. Luwin only looked at him, unimpressed and turned away back to his study.
The werewolf set aside his anger, swiftly coming up the steps behind the maester and taking his seat. He breathed hot breaths into his hands to warm them, then shook his inkpot over a candle to warm that too.
Luwin cleared his throat, settling his robes and chain.
The maester was far more learned and wise than the one of Castle Cerwyn. While that maester had only had a few links in his chain, Luwin had more than twenty, all of different metals. Greyback was mostly interested in the rarest link though, that grey smoky metal that was Valyrian steel. There was power in that metal and Greyback desired it greatly…
"We shall deal today with the Greenwardens, their significance and position in the Reach, and their subsequent expansion into the Riverlands. Following this, I shall detail their interactions within the Riverlords' conflicts, as well as their alleged magical powers and the use of the 'Greenwarden's Staff'." Luwin began his lecture, tapping a series of locations on the map of Westeros in his study. The map was taller than the maester, and to avoid having to stand he used a long stick to poke at it.
Luwin was the most knowledgeable and scholarly person in Winterfell, probably the North, and Greyback wanted that knowledge. He'd learned from the merchant's son in the town, but he needed a better teacher for more advanced studies. He'd offered the maester a gold dragon for a month's tutoring and the man had accepted. He taught Greyback the histories of the noble houses of Westeros, gave a brief account of the histories of other places and matters like the wars of Essos, as well as teaching in herblore and matters concerning potions. There were an assortment of more esoteric subjects which only the maester knew, and if he could Greyback would have retained the man for longer.
Unfortunately, Luwin had other duties. He had significant responsibilities in Winterfell and couldn't spend more time with the werewolf, having instead elected to design an accelerated teaching schedule, seemingly for the novelty of it, and for the discussions they had about the magic of Westeros.
Greyback was no scholar. Never was, never would be.
But he knew the value of learning. The maesters were called the 'knights of the mind', so Luwin said when he was feeling pompous, and Greyback knew the use of the mind as a weapon too. Greyback might have an international reputation as the most savage werewolf alive, but he didn't let his beast dominate him. Even when in the midst of the transformation he prided himself on retaining control… usually anyway…
In Westeros, he needed that savagery and strength, but he needed knowledge and understanding too.
In any case, many a night they'd spent in discussion over a spiced wine from Luwin's own store.
Fenrir was no scholar, no, that was true. But he was experienced. He had never studied societies or histories formally, but he'd still experienced them. From one end of Europe to the other he'd gone to and fro, searching out packs of werewolves. He'd taken part in strange rituals in Baltic forests, sat with shaman on the shores of the Arctic Sea or danced under the moon till his spirit howled through the mountains of Persia. Greyback had done and seen much in the Wizarding and Muggle worlds both, and he could exposit on that for the amusement of Luwin. The werewolf actually found himself enjoying it. Luwin was an intelligent and well-educated man and though sceptical of many of Greyback's stories he listened with interest and respect. The maester was suspicious, but they swapped facts and stories back and forth even after the formal lessons were complete, subject to Luwin's other duties attending the Starks and their children.
"Thus," Luwin concluded, "we may observe that the steady encroachment of the organisation of the Faith and the more militant policies of Septon Barnath created a more hostile environment for the Greenwardens. Their staffs were confiscated from their groves, and the groves cut down. The remaining families following the Old Gods or the Riverlands schismatic septs were destroyed or reduced in the case of the Blackwoods and ultimately only the carved faces of the Green Men are left, depicted on some of the older septrys in the Riverlands and the eastern Reach."
Somewhere outside a bell tolled.
Greyback made a final note, the quill scratching across the parchment in a shaky, unskilled hand.
He was concealing the fact that he could write from the maester, forcing himself to write only in the script of the Westerosi. It wasn't too difficult, he found, not like writing Cyrillic, something he cordially despised. The pretended ignorance helped to sell the image of a philosophical wildman Greyback had adopted to the people of Winterfell, and he was amply supplied with paper and ink by the Maester and his own coinpurse.
"I must go." he remarked aloud, grabbing up a satchel from the floor and turning for the door.
Luwin's slender wand tapped the table in annoyance.
"Greyback." he said sternly, "The pursuit of knowledge is a worthy one indeed, especially for a man in your position, but I again advise you, there are things that are not worth knowing."
"So you've said." grinned the werewolf as he left.
Luwin was putting away the book heraldry and he had been teaching and sighed. The maester said nothing as the door shut, but Greyback could sense his simmering frustration.
While Luwin had the wisdom of scholarship, like so many other scholars Greyback had met over the years, he had little appreciated for that which couldn't be contained within his books. Instead, Greyback sought out another source for his learning.
"And so they say, 'A king may rule the land, but a lord may rule the hearts.'" concluded the crone after a few more hours.
Old Nan was an ancient matron, apparently the oldest in the castle, and she was a wealth of information. She was quite mad of course, barely knew who she was speaking to, and entirely blind.
That only made her more valuable in Greyback's mind though, for without her sight and only knitting needles to keep her company she got bored easily. Additionally, she had no idea what he looked like and so couldn't be intimidated by his appearance.
After asking around in the castle and Wintertown he'd been sent her way, told she was a repository of stories. The promise of a penny for each story wasn't even needed, for the old woman had been quite happy to ramble at him for as long as he could stand it, or till she fell asleep.
He hadn't been trusted at first of course, the guards had sought to protect their grandmother, perhaps great-grandmother from the fearsome stranger. They were still there, this time it was Hull, a portly middle-aged man who's watch was later in the day and who liked to sit by the fire to ease the pain in his knee from a wound he'd taken at Pyke. Hull was half asleep as Old Nan concluded her story and Greyback saw no need to wake him, slipping out with a murmur of thanks to the woman.
Luwin disapproved because while Luwin would teach Greyback about magic from the academic point of view, a cold summary of facts and reports that Luwin did not fully credit, Old Nan would tell stories of magic and monsters. Luwin thought the Children of the Forests had never existed, or if they did were just another clan of people who had strange customs. Old Nan though was entirely convinced of their alien nature, and of their continued existence, even swearing that she'd seen one once when she'd been picking mushrooms in the Wolfswood. Not only that, while Luwin did not repeat anything he did not credit with some element of evidence and truth, Old Nan was perfectly happy to reel off any story she'd heard.
Yes, there was magic in the world. It just took some digging to get at it.
Even now Greyback had accumulated a small notebook full of locations, people and items that he wanted to find out more about. Luwin spoke of the Tragedy at Summerhall, where the Targaryens had tried to wake dragons from stone. Luwin claimed it was yet more Targaryen madness, but he said some thought it sorcery. That was exactly the remarks Greyback knew he had to look into.
Oh, dragons were real alright, just dead.
Greyback had been rather disappointed at that. There would be no heartstrings for poor Fenrir's wand, he thought with a mock mourning in his smile. No, he would have to look for a different core for his wand.
Unicorns too, could be found in Westeros upon the isle of Skagos. Greyback had been excited again, despite his doubt that a reagent from a creature of noted goodness would be useful to a savage like himself. As it turned out though, once Greyback acquired the horn of such a creature in the market, that the things were just strange looking horses. The horn itself was gnarled and crooked with a large splintered crack down one side and Greyback had tossed it in the midden is disgust. There had been as much magic in that stick as he'd find in a latrine.
There were more promising ideas though. There was a witch in the Riverlands who once advised kings, there were strange oily stones impervious to harm under the Hightower, there were the melted black stone of Storm's End and Dragonstone, built by ancient magicians or so it was said. There was blood magic, necromancers and alchemists, there was diviners and greenseers, there were the dragon dreams of Daenys Targaryen and the green men of the Isle of Faces. There was the Valyrian steel of the lost Freehold and the Hammer of the Waters which shattered the Arm of Dorne.
"The mind must be honed as a knight hones a sword." Luwin was wont to say. "Many a maester has gone mad staring fruitlessly into glass candles or playing with sticks or river stones to peer into the future. Nothing is to be found there, magic is gone from the world. To pursue it thus is to blunt that sword that is your mind, Greyback."
But Fenrir knew better…
He had yet to truly begin his magical experiments, but Lord Stark's patronage and forbearance had given him some authority among the servants. He could call for small things, like a flagon of blood from the kitchens, and with it he'd set up a little studio in the room he'd been given in the guesthouse. The room was finer than he'd had in the inn outside Winterfell, and better he didn't to pay for it. He instead ordered small quantities of what he needed for the experiments from silver, gold and blood, to tokens or staff of wood.
The steward, Poole, had enquired what he was up to, and apparently taken it to Maester Luwin. The old man had frowned at Greyback during the next lesson, telling him about the tests maesters had to go through to earn the link in their chains symbolising the 'Higher Mysteries'. It was a clever test, the prospective maester would sit for a night with a glass candle, a divinatory tool apparently. Inevitably the student would be unable to make the thing work and would conclude that magic was gone from the world.
Of course, Greyback knew better.
He ordered a score of staves from the poleturner, and plates and cubes of stone from the castle's mason.
He botched the first lot of course. He was entirely out of practice in inscribing runes and it took some time to achieve the level of stillness and dexterity to even set the runes down. He sketched diagrams in charcoal on the floor, the walls. He pushed the furniture into the corners to make more room and forbade the servants from coming into the room.
Jory Cassel, the captain of the guards, came to see him, bursting open the door. Greyback had been kneeling on the floor, daubing blood on a numerological diagram.
The werewolf had never taken numerology, but as with much else, he'd picked up a lot over the years. This was just something he'd seen in a discarded textbook, a sort of way to check the flow of magical energy in a warding field. He was using it to test magic and he looked up, hand bloody, eyes like dark gems in the darkness of the room.
"Yes?" Fenrir had grinned, "Can I help you?"
He was in a mood for jokes, and grinned toothily.
"What are you doing?" Cassel asked, unaware he was speaking with the man who'd murdered his uncle. "There are rumours you practice blood magic and Lord Stark's commanded me to check."
"Oh I do." Greyback grinned, greatly enjoying the way Jory's face blanched and other guards made signs of warding from where they were peering in, "Or at least I'm trying to. There's power in blood. Why do you think the Kings of Winter would make sacrifices to weirwoods? They still do that in the deep woods, you know."
"Where did you get the blood?"
"Gage." Greyback had said, the cook used blood in his work, but seldom, most of it was just drained he assumed. "You can ask him."
"I must tell Lord Stark of this." Cassel shivered as he looked around the room, the strange sights unnerving him.
"You must do what you must do." Fenrir said, his smile growing wider as he enjoyed the man's discomfort. "Go ask the maester about it, you shouldn't be concerned after all, magic is gone form the world, so he said."
Nothing came of it in the end. Luwin had chastised him again, not bothering to even ask him what he was doing, only scolding the werewolf for scaring the guards.
Apparently Cassel had run from the guesthouse into the keep and up the library stairs, falling on the icy steps and breaking his arm in his haste. The accident had made him a figure of mockery in the garrison and Lord Stark had spoken harshly to him, telling him to concentrate on training more guards to hunt the wildlings, not get lost chasing children's stories.
Greyback in turn had acquired a reputation as a fearsome, pious, eccentric figure. He didn't partake in many of the communal activities, but kept himself to himself, seeing to his studies or experiments.
While the former proceeded well, the later went nowhere. He carved wands, set them with gold dusts suspended in inks or writ them with blood. He carved runic arrays and focused his magic into them in the manner he understood such things were done.
Nothing happened.
But the werewolf wasn't disheartened. He had plenty of time for such experiments in future, and besides, through all of it his ardour hadn't died as he worked during the weeks.
He caught her.
He scent.
Her smell.
Her essence.
The honeywine of her blood and sweat, the flowers in her hair, the lemony sweetness when she and her sister crept down into the kitchens to steal cakes.
Greyback was a man of needs, but he'd rarely been so captivated. It was an effort to restrain himself but he knew he must, if he was to acquire his prize.
Yet still, he found himself clinging to a wall in the dead of night, claws piercing the mortar as his muscles strained. The night was freezing, but he wanted a look at her, wanted to drink her in. She was always cooped up in the main keep and Fenrir had decided to climb up in the hour of the wolf to see her.
It was difficult, climbing in the dark and the wind, but it was worth it.
He could see her.
Not much, admittedly, the girl was bundled up in her bed with a companion, the Steward's daughter, he thought, but he could see the glorious auburn of her hair, taste her scent as his tongue darted out.
Old Nan was there too, quieting the girl after a nightmare.
Sansa Stark would have reason to have nightmares soon enough…
"Beyond the gates the monsters live, and the giants and the ghouls, but they cannot pass so long as the Wall stands strong. So go to sleep, my little Sansa, my dear. You needn't fear." Old Nan was saying quietly.
Greyback did not interrupt her. She would be away soon enough, and he had no reason to correct her.
"There are no monsters here." Old Nan finished quietly, planting a kiss on Sansa's forehead.
Fenrir grinned.
The next morning he began making his plans in earnest.
The main keep of Winterfell was surrounded by three sets of enormous walls. Unusually, the outer was the largest, rising almost eighty feet tall, by Greyback's reckoning. That was only for the defences, for once an attacker gained the wall they'd be exposed to bowshot and crossbow bolt from the second wall, which had been built around an uneaven hill which most of Winterfell sat on. The defenders meanwhile could fall back across collapsible bridges over a moat, taking up station on the second wall and leaving the castle no worse defended than it had been by the first wall.
Within the second wall sat the town of Winterfell. In Greyback's estimation it could not be called a city, for while there were hundreds of people there they served the Starks ultimately, rather than pursuing their own ends. Within the walls lay numerous larger stone buildings such as an old round keep fallen into disuse over the centuries and a broken tower connected to it, the barracks of the Stark soldiery and a lesser keep for servants. There also sat many smaller buildings of wood and shingles such as a brewery, granaries, a market and tavern, and a dozen or so woodpiles for the heating of Winterfell.
Further still, beyond the guesthouse for the rich merchants and minor lords who couldn't wrangle lodging within the main keep there was the godswood. Greyback had walked there many a time, wandered between the trees and felt the living earth. It was a strange place, a magic place he did not doubt, and the trees watched him carefully, that would not do as an escape route, he knew.
Lastly though, the centre of his desire and indeed his ire, was the main keep. Within a final layer of walls the main keep of Winterfell was enormous. It was a vast sprawling conglomeration of angled towers and turrets, of dark stone and covered walkways. The rooves were buttressed with stone and seemed to stab the sky, their harsh angles required by the excessive snow which could cover the fortress over a single night.
It would be hell for an army to take. Even if a company could gain one section of the wall and take it, they'd have to fight their way through towers and turrets all the while under attack and fire from the other section of the castle.
But Greyback wasn't an army.
Out the keep, across the yard and through the gate or over the wall. He could stash a rope somewhere, get the girl down that, then out into the outer bailey?
Greyback looked out over the yard, seeing the many guards on the turrets and patrolling the walls. There were hundreds of them, at least four hundred in the daytime and perhaps only a hundred at night, and that was just the outside. That didn't account for all the servants or the houndmaster's dogs.
He couldn't go anywhere near the stables or the kennels, animals feared werewolves when they caught his unusual smell…
Out the keep yes, but the same defences which prevented enemies from getting in would prevent him from getting out. Even if he tricked his way past one turret, he'd be exposed on the walls and all the doors around the towers would be barred to him. He didn't fancy chancing his strength against six inches of oak, and as soon as someone saw him with the girl over his shoulder or if she cried out, he'd be discovered and horns blown.
Even if he got through the doors and down to the second wall, maybe even across one of the collapsible bridges over the moat, he'd back to get down the eighty foot drop. If there was a snowdrift there he could make it, but then to fight his way out of the drift, the girl on his back, and then what?
Presumably away into Wintertown… He could leave orders for horses to be prepared, two or three probably, but the innkeeper would be suspicious of such orders. He couldn't saddle them himself, and no doubt the innkeeper would know that once horns were blown something was amiss, and would likely take the horses back within the stable, lest some ruffian (like Greyback) escape on them.
Fenrir had to make his move soon. It would be two more weeks till full moon, and he should use that. He didn't have time to set another ambush and rush about in the woods after the Northerners. He knew they were frustrated and tempers were flaring. Stark had ridden out several times, and his knights and commanders were coming in with reports, the Lord himself pouring over maps and parchments. Greyback had only been summoned once to repeat his fabrication, but it seemed that Lord Stark assumed the wildlings had slipped away to the north, through caves and woods into the mountains, and were now making back toward the Wall and their Lands Beyond the Wall.
Greyback could use that, he knew. He intended to go south. There was a strong wildling tradition of 'stealing' women from the south, and he intended to make it look like he'd done that, having already fashioned another weirwood mask from a fallen branch. He was going to leave it on Sansa Stark's bed when he took her, and the thought of it already brought a smile to his face.
The werewolf looked over his own diagrams a final time. He'd built himself a little model of Winterfell, map of sorts with string and blocks and labels. He examined it closely, checking his route a final time, then Greyback made ready. He put away his inscription kit, away the stimulants, tranquilisers and herbs he planned to use in the abduction, he set up his gear so he could make a swift exit.
Fenrir slipped from a high window of the guesthouse, padding across the courtyard, into the godswood. He went through the trees across the moss-covered, half buried flagstones and then up into a tree. He climbed, being carefully to put his considerable weight only on the stoutest branches, gripping the bark with his claws and the iron sinews of his hands.
Then he leapt, sailing for a second out into the freezing night air, landing heavily on the godswood's wall.
Secrecy was his greatest defence here. While a man might visit the godswood by night for a nocturnal liaison, or for more pious purposes, Greyback knew that a man going up the library tower, which stood next to the godswood, would be suspicious. The only people who might want to access the library so late was the maester and he would travel over the covered walkway from the keep. It was this walkway Fenrir planned to take now, and he climbed the wall of the library tower carefully. It was only six feet till the steps which sat toward the godswood wall, hiding him from view. He ran at the wall, putting a boot against it and jumping up, grasping the step and hauling himself swiftly upwards.
He could now make his way half way around the tower before he was exposed from view, gaining another six feet or so of height. That put him just about near enough to the covered walkway for the next step.
Uncurling a stout rope from his shoulder, Greyback checked the knot on the grappling hook, before tossing it toward the walkway. The hook struck firm and he pulled the rope, finding fast resistance. It was stuck well, and now Greyback swung out, climbing rapidly hand over hand, hauling himself up till he could grasp the walkway with his claws, then flipping himself over the balcony.
He took to his feet quickly, recurling the rope, lest some passing guard find it dangling, then he went quietly, bent low through the covered walkway between the library tower and the keep. It was the hour of the wolf, his hour, the blackest time of night.
The door to the keep was not barred. He had observed the walkway secretly over the last few weeks, as well as watching Luwin on occasion as the maester went to his library for the lessons. Naturally, there was no need to bar it, for the library door itself was barred. Having bypassed that door though, Greyback now stealthily opened the door into the keep, slipping inside into the warmth.
He waited a moment to warm his bones, taking in the smell of the place.
There was old fires, built up by servants as night fell, then left to burn int eh darkness. There was the musk of furs that lined the walls and floors of the rooms, there was the acrid stench of urine from someone's privy, and the aroma of bread from the kitchens deep below.
The air was warm, blowing softly through the passageways as Greyback crouched as he breathed, trying to sense…
Her.
His lips peeled back as the werewolf grinned. There was the scent. He had her now!
He ran down the corridors, swiftly yet silently in soft slippers. He could smell guards coming before they got to him, and twice had to divert away from patrols. He heard the snoring of guards, the distance hoot of a snowy owl outside.
The walls throbbed with ardent power as Greyback slipped past the Starks' defences. The night was his, and he finally came to the door.
A shadow slipped into the room. A shadow of evil, with bright eyes and a hungry grin.
Sansa stirred from a dream, something bringing her to wakefulness.
No, it was only a dream, shadow wasn't there.
Greyback drew out the tranquilising potion he'd procured from the herbalist.
Sansa woke suddenly as the hairy hand went over her mouth, as the claws scratched her throat.
"Quiet girl!" came Greyback's hoarse growl. "You don't mean to wake the keep do you?"
He smiled a cruel smile down at her, "Don't you worry, we'll be away from here soon enough, and I'll show you things you never thought to see."
The child tried to scream into his hand, tried to struggle, but Greyback kept firm, watching her as she passed into unconsciousness.
- Location
- United Kingdom
This is the larger 10k chapter I'd discussed. As such, I won't be updating next week as this 10k will serve as the2x5k for the week. I've now finished this story for now and have the poll up (see links previously) for which story I'll be working on next month. There's 2 more advanced chapters up currently.
This is the first perspective change we've had in the story, so I'd welcome feedback on how that went. I had a reread of some of the Sansa chapters in the books and she's not as tiresome a character as one might imagine, there's some interesting stuff there but it can be frustrating to read about a character who's just confused and sad all the time and has little agency and really just gets passed about between various plotting factions.
-v-
Sansa had woken up in a cabin, somewhere in the Wolfswood. She'd been groggy at first, confused and dazed as she shook off sleep.
The first day had been confusing. She was still in her smallclothes, so she tried to dress but only found a few random items of clothing from whoever lived at the cabin.
She didn't know how she'd come to be here, and she wanted to be home.
The howling of wolves in the woods made her stay in the cabin though. At least it was safe there.
Then Greyback had come.
She'd been terrified at first, then heartened at little at the Stark sigil on his shield and the mail on his breast.
"I am Fenrir Greyback, one of your father's men, girl." he'd told her. She'd thought that rude at the time, for him not to address her as she should be as the daughter of his lord, but she was so glad he was there that she was willing to look past it.
Greyback got her up on a horse and she noticed his nails for the first time.
A man couldn't have nails like that. Nails that would belong more on the paw of a beast of the forest, rather than a man.
It wasn't possible, so she ignored it, hunching low over her bridle as Greyback led her horse on.
She didn't question why he held a rope connected to her own horse, but he told her it was to stop the hose being spooked and her falling and hurting herself. She even thanked him for the care.
Sansa didn't like to look at Greyback's face, it was a fearsome on, his teeth were sharp, as if he'd filed them to make himself look more like a beast, while his brow was heavy and the whiskers on his cheeks and his dark hair gave him the look of a savage who'd wandered out the woods.
He wore the mail of her father's guards with the Stark direwolf on his surcoat and bore hatchet, dagger and crossbow. He wore a great bearskin as his cloak, and when he put the hood up over his head he looked like a beast himself.
She knew a lady should be brave, and should treat the smallfolk with respect, and so she tried to do so for Greyback.
The man was leading her south, she realised, and that didn't cause suspicion at first. Sansa didn't know much of the geography of the North, not enough to question a man-at-arms in any case.
"How much further is it, Ser?" she asked. Sansa knew Greyback wasn't a knight, and his name was queer, but it was polite in any case, "I know my family will be glad to see me, and will surely reward you."
Greyback just laughed at that. "Only a little further, girl."
She asked how she'd come to be in the cabin, how Greyback had come to find her.
"You were kidnapped." Greyback said casually.
Sansa was shocked.
Bael the Bard had kidnapped a daughter of House Stark ages and ages ago, and they called the father 'Brandon the Daughterless' afterward. Had the Wildlings crept into her chamber and taken her? How had she not woken up? She asked Greyback.
"Your abductor used a potion, brought from a herbalist, which causes people to sleep a long time and very deeply." Greyback explained. "Now, enough talk, girl, we have a long way to go tomorrow and we must get you back to your father soon."
Sansa hadn't known there to be suspicious. Greyback's words seemed logical and after all, poor Ser Rodrick had been killed by Wildlings, hadn't he?
The first time he pulled her off the horse and pulled the horses down quickly to lie in the ditch beside the road, Sansa had obeyed without question. There were Wildlings about after all, it was only safe.
The second time she obey as well.
But by the third she started to feel a pain in her stomach, a strange ache like she'd swallowed a heavy stone.
When they rose from the hiding, Sansa saw a caravan of wains trekking across the flatlands, off west toward the Kingsroad. Why had they hidden from them? Did the Wildlings use wagons?
Why was Greyback going south? These were the lands around Torrhen's Square, she's seen as such on a sign. But soon enough they passed back into the Wolfswood, keeping to the edge of the forest so they could swiftly hide when they needed to.
The Kingsroad ran north-south through Winterfell, she knew, but Sansa couldn't work out where they were going.
"Can't we stop, ask for help at the nearest holdfast? We passed one earlier and I'm sure the Wildlings wouldn't be able to take it, not without men coming from Torrhen's Square or Castle Cerwyn." she said.
"No!" Greyback growled, and she shrank back in the saddle. Then he seemed to realise he'd scared her. "No, girl." he said again, this time softer, "We must avoid anyone, it's not safe."
Sansa meekly agreed at the time, but the heavy stone in her belly just grew and grew.
That night, she questioned Greyback, tested him. She would talk of small things, of the layout of Winterfell or of the doings of her father. She would mention names which any of Lord Stark's guards would know, and also mix in false names.
And she proved it. Greyback wasn't one of her father's guards at all.
The stone dropped from her stomach, it weighed her down like a great boulder.
Greyback was a Wildling. He must be…
The next day she would prove it for true.
"We should follow the road." she said, gesturing to the wider concourse heading away to the east, "That way must be Winterfell."
Greyback shook his head.
"I order you, Fenrir Greyback." Sansa managed to muster the courage to say, "I order you, if you be true, take me to my father."
The savage just laughed, he threw back his head and let out great rasping barks like a dog.
Her captor came forward and bound her hands to the bridle of her horse. He must have stolen that too, she thought, but she could do nothing as they wound their way through the countryside.
How could she have been so stupid? She should have run the moment she woke up, not waited while Greyback led her through the woods, too far that she'd never know where she was. They must be on the other side of the Wolfswood now, she thought, but there was nothing she could do about it. Where could she run? Greyback kept a firm hand on the rope which restrained her horse and herself, and he kept her bound most of the time, except sometimes at night.
But Sansa was a lady of House Stark, she was the Blood of Winter, she was brave enough to bare it.
"My father will hunt you down and chop off your head." she said one day.
Greyback just laughed again, "If he tries, I'll eat his heart!"
That scared Sansa so much she hid beneath the cloak Greyback had given her. The Wildlings were cannibals, she knew the stories. Was that why Greyback's teeth were so sharp?
She realised she hated the Wildlings. She hated the tribes of the woods, the folk on the Frozen Shore, or those who lived in Hardholme, the only settlement Beyond-the-Wall she'd heard of.
The hatred made her strong, she sat fuming each hour, thinking about Lord Stark riding down on them and slaying all the savages north of the Wall!
She hated the Wildlings, but she hated the Night's Watch too for their inattention. Uncle Benjen had come down weeks ago to advise her lord father about the Wildlings in the Wolfswood. It seemed to Sansa that the black brothers must have let a whole army of them through, for all the trouble they were giving her father's vassals.
She wanted them all to die, the Wildlings, the Watch, just all of them to stop existing as if the Father himself came down from the heavens and smote them with his rod, if the Warrior came with and stabbed them with his sword, if the Stranger (and she made the sign of the Seven at the thought) would come and beckon them away from his world.
But they didn't. The Seven didn't descend to destroy the Wildlings, nor did Stark men ride up and kill Greyback.
Instead they rode on, and the man would look at her in a way that made her feel like she had no clothes on.
"Why did you kidnap me?" she asked. "If it's ransom you're looking for, there's no lord in the North wealthier than the Stark of Winterfell."
"It wasn't for wealth." Greyback replied easily, "You have something that others don't, magic. I want your blood, girl."
Sansa didn't know what to say to that. The thought terrified her. She just looked back at Greyback in amazement.
His eyes were a deep blue, and seemed only to grow more blue as the days went on, as he looked at her more and more. There was pride in those eyes, a sense of dignity and power but also a distain. Greyback was scornful, he looked about the world as if he was above it, he sneered and growled, dismissed that which did not concern him.
Sansa hid from those eyes. She pulled the hood of her cloak low and tried to avoid Greyback's gaze, at least till they turned in to sleep at night.
That was merciful at least. Riding was tiring enough as it was, but the pace Greyback pushed them through was bruising as they picked their way through the outskirts of the Wolfswood. Sansa was often too tired to speak, too tired to even contemplate escape. Whenever Greyback would let her she would sleep, and more than once the horrible man would force her to eat before permitting her rest, shoving dense biscuits of fruit and dried meat and flour and other foulness toward her.
One night Sansa dreamt of a prince on a throne, with herself seated beside him in a gown of woven gold. She had a crown on her head, and everyone she had ever known came before her, to bend the knee and say their courtesies.
But in the morning the prince and the throne and the gown were all gone. The woods were around them, the stink of unwashed horseflesh.
"Get up, girl." The rasping voice stabbed at her ears. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the dawnlight, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing and smell the blood on his breath.
By day as they rode Sansa felt those eyes on her again. She couldn't imagine how Greyback could lie, not with eyes like those. It was like they wrenched a way into her soul, made her feel like a small, stupid thing under the smile of a wolf. While occasionally they'd pass woodsmen or travellers and Greyback would smile and hail a greeting before swiftly marching their horses on, she knew the others could see it.
He had the bearing of a lord, the confidence and presence of one, but the soul of a monster. There was a hunger within him, a terrible lust, and Sansa didn't like to think about what would happen when Greyback had time to turn his gaze to her properly, rather than just the hideous glances he would give.
One night they sat by the campfire, Greyback having offered her a fine pie and che
"Tell me of stories, girl."
"My name is Sansa." she told him, as firmly as she could.
Greyback grinned, his sharp teeth bright in the firelight. "Girls like you love stories are tales don't you? You like to live in fantasies, to think much of yourselves, of how you'll live or who you'll marry? My own daughters did."
While Sansa was a little ashamed to realise that it was true, she did love stories, she was more shocked to learn that Greyback had children, that anyone would marry him or look at him fondly.
She looked at him more closely. He was old, his face weathered and scarred, and the cast and aspect of it was fearsome indeed. He was a strong man, tall, broad and powerful, but there was no hint of softness to him, nothing like in the songs.
"You have daughters?" she asked.
"Certainly, too many for one man, I should say!" the savage laughed, and there was a strange merriment in his answer, like the cry of one of those queer bright birds a merchant had once shown her father.
"How old are they?" she asked instead, too interested in this new side of her captor to let her fear get in the way. "Do they like each other?"
Sansa had always warred with Arya. Her lordly father said it was the Wolfblood, but it was just his way of saying that Arya was wilful. The stupid girl would row and throw things, not just when she was younger but even as she grew into her maidenhood. Sansa hated her sister sometimes, she'd once prayed that somehow the Gods would switch places between Arya and Beth Cassel, or Jeyne Poole, or any other girl who could be a true confident to Sansa, not a thorn in her foot eternally.
"Well, Anyanka, my eldest, she's expecting her own grandchildren by now I'd expect, for my grandson took a wife a few years ago. My youngest is Nasrin is only five, though I've not seen her recently." Greyback explained.
Sansa knew the Wildlings took many wives sometimes, she'd heard Jon and Theon speaking of it, saying what a better system it might be to have more than one woman for each man, at least until her lady mother had got wind of it and sent them to the septon to recite the Book of the Mother.
How many wives must Greyback have had, to have borne him daughters so varied through the years?
"As for whether they get along, my kin are a fractious lot, you could say. The Clans fight among themselves sometimes, but I travel between them about my business. My daughters want strong families, and my sons want to make their father proud. Six of them I've buried, sons and grandsons, over the years. But sixty more stand in their place, and they carry battle in my name against the Wizards." Greyback continued.
It was incredible. Sansa didn't know whether to even believe it. Did the Wildlings fight wizards and sorcerers beyond the Wall? Could a man sire sixty sons? She didn't know which was more far-fetched!
"They all loved stories though, when they were young." Greyback continued, and a warmth grew in his rough voice. "Romulus and Remus was always popular, so was the Iron Wolf of Gediminas, or Hyrrokin and her serpent-bridle. Would you like to hear one?"
Sansa said nothing. She would ask nothing of her captor. A lady should remain upright and steadfast at all times, and the offer took her aback, made her remember where she was.
But she couldn't help herself. Where before she'd only had harshness and scorn from Greyback, now he offered a kind word.
With a gulp she nodded.
The Wild Lord grinned his toothy grin again. "Let me tell you then of the knight, Milan of Toplica. Great was he, the most skilled archer in the army of his Prince. His doublet was as blue as the waters of Perucac and his bow was of bound horn…"
Sansa listened, and by the end of the tale she was crying. She heard of Milan, of his lady love and of his mighty prince, Lazar of Kosovo. Of their battles against the nefarious Turk king, and of the deaths of Milan and his band of twelve who went by night to slay their enemies. But it was the woman's fate she found saddest. Knights were meant to die in tales, they were meant to fight valiantly and perish valiantly. They were meant to bleed and kill and die…
But Milan's lover wandered the Blackbird's Field, checking each of the dead to find her betrothed. Her hairnet was of silver and her cloak was rich. But as Greyback told it, the maiden only found blood and death. She cared for the dying, she prayed that she might find her love, but only found one of his sworn brothers, even him dying, to tell her of Milan's death.
Sansa didn't sleep well that night. She imagined herself on such a field. She saw the faces of her father and her brothers, lying upon bloodied snow. She heard the laughter of wolves and the screaming of horses before a blizzard covered the whole world.
The next day, they left the forest. Beyond were the Barrowlands and Sansa could already see the low hills of the burial places. Closer though she found stone bridges over little rivers, as well as inns and farmsteads and all the signs of civilisation as they neared the next settlement.
They passed tall watchtowers on their stony summits, and Greyback grew more agitated with each one. The ground was flat, farms and pastures stretching as far as she could see around holdfasts walled in wood and stone. The road was well trafficked, but Greyback had her sit low on the horse with her hood up and her hair bound, and promised dark things if she tried to raise an alarm.
Torrhen's Square was a large town, at least by the standards of the North. Set on the banks of an artificial lake, the town served to bring lumber out of the Wolfswood, down small rivers and along the roads, then to the town's lake for dressing an construction, or all manner of trade purposes. Lumber was the main export of the settlement, Sansa knew from the lessons she'd had with her lady mother, and with Maester Luwin. It was part of the history of House Stark, and it was a fitting subject for a lady to know of.
Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, had built the town, expanding a smaller holdfast and seeing the value northern lumber might bring in trade to the South, following the unification of the Seven Kingdoms under Aegon the Conqueror. The king had built a dam across a wide valley, flooding the 'square' and giving Torrhen's Square its name.
Sansa knew the Wolfswood was the largest forest in Westeros. There were lesser forests, whether the Rainwood of the Stormlands or the Kingswood of the Crownlands, but the great forest of the North was more ancient and untamed.
The girl had always feared it. You could see it, from the tallest turrets of Winterfell on a clear day, and many a time she's looked out in fear, knowing the beasts and wildlings that hid in it might one day surge out toward Winterfell.
There'd even been a time when she'd refused to leave her room. Sansa had hidden there, too fearful of the forests and the beasts to come out. Her brothers had come to see her and her mother too. Each had told her that the Wolfswood was well named, indeed that it held beasts, and Theon, cruel boy that he was, had even said wildlings would indeed come through there sometimes. That had just terrified her more.
Then her lordly father came. He'd sat on her bed as she hid under the coverlets and furs. Eddard Stark had read from an ancient history book, leafing through the tome to recount every time the knights of House Stark had rode out in splendour to vanquish enemies.
Sansa had always loved stories, but now it seemed she lived one.
How she wished that her father would come! Come to calm her, to read again how her house had ruled the North for thousands of years, how they'd rule in strength for a thousand more. How the riders and warriors would swing their bright swords and throw down the Warg Lord or the Flayed King or the Black Men of Ibben.
There was nothing to fear in those stories, her the Warden of the North had assured her. Good would triumph, brave men would fight against evil-doers.
Her father would have reassured her, she knew. He would have rode out, sword flashing in the sun and Greyback would have quailed before him.
But Eddard Stark wasn't here. In his place stood a different wolf, leering at her.
"Come, girl." the monster said, "We have a lot of ground to cover."
Sansa thought he'd lead her into Torrhen's Square itself. She'd never visited the dam, nor the river which led down between the Barrowlands and the Rills toward the Saltspear, then out into Blazewater Bay, those waters which were said to burn gold in sunset.
While Sansa preferred the stories of chivalry of the south, of Aemon the Dragonknight or Florian the Fool, she also knew those of the North well enough. She knew of the struggles of the Barrowknights, who were said to have dead kings join them in the vanguard of battles or how the steeds of the Rills and the Dustins were the finest to be found.
How did they get lumber south?
She idly wondered it as Greyback pushed them on toward the town. It was a silly question, it didn't matter, she knew… But Sansa needed to distract herself. Whenever she looked at Greyback on the horse before her she shivered, knowing what sort of a man he was.
Greyback didn't seem to be making for Torrhen's Square after all, she noticed as the towers of the wall finally came into sight. Instead he skirted south, along the steep banks of the lake, through little villages. He took her bodily from the horse, his rough hands around her waist clamping her like a smith's vice and his hideous finger-claws biting into her flesh, even through the thick cloak she wore.
"I'm going to tie you." he said simply, and he did, binding her wrists over and over around a young tree, barely a handspan wide. "Don't think to escape, I can track your scent as easily as a hound might, and it won't go well for you if you do run."
Then the man disappeared, setting off on his own horse, leaving her there with hers grazing away and her wrists smarting from the rough thongs of leather.
Sansa struggled against it for more than an hour. She tried simply pulling her hands out, seeing whether the knot was strong.
It was.
She tried lifting the knot further up, but after she looked up for more than a moment she knew that would be useless too, she wasn't Bran, she couldn't climb like a squirrel.
In the end she just slumped to the ground and wept.
Sansa was hungry, she was tired, she was terrified. She hadn't eaten or slept properly in three days and one night in two had been in the saddle. They'd ridden as much as Greyback had been willing to push the horses, and more than was good for them, she knew.
Sansa hated horses. She hated their smell, their mess, the low folk who manned the stables of Winterfell and how her sister, Arya, would make friends so easily with them. When the guards had called her 'Arya Horseface' Sansa had cruelly said that it was because Arya was half horse from all the time she'd spent with them, but once her lady mother caught wind of it she'd chastised Sansa sternly for such insults.
How Sansa missed that now. Even a stern look from her mother or her Septa, or even Arya's stupid jibes were better than the looks Greyback would give her.
That night it took a long time for Greyback to get back. The wind whistled through the boughs of the trees around her, but she could still see the lights of Torrhen's Square, way out across the water. Was it the town, in truth? Or was it just some other village? She didn't know, she couldn't remember.
Sansa shivered in the cold. She had her cloak, but she'd had nothing hot to eat all that day, such was the pace Greyback had pushed them at.
Eventually, mercifully, the man did return, bloody meat hanging over his shoulder.
He set about making a fire, eventually deigning to release Sansa.
She'd thought he might have some salve or poultice for her wrists, for she'd rubbed them bloody in her desperation. But she'd forgotten. Fenrir Greyback wasn't her lady mother, nor Maester Luwin. He was a wildling savage, come to carry her off.
"Do you know how to make a fire, girl?" the wildling asked.
Sansa shook her head, too cold to be defiant.
"Well then you'd best learn. There's a lot you need to know, and little time to teach you." replied Greyback.
"I don't need to learn anything. A lady doesn't set fires." Sansa managed, hope growing at the prospect of a fire's warmth.
"Oh?" remarked Greyback, "We don't need a fire then I suppose. You're right, it's best not to be seen, and we can just eat the meat raw."
Sansa couldn't restrain herself, "Raw!?"
Greyback picked one morsel up from the meat he'd brought back. She couldn't make it out properly, she could smell it though, a fresh kill, bloody and red. He slowly placed it on his tongue and chewed, licking his clawed fingers clean between motions.
"Would you prefer it cooked?" the man asked.
Sansa glared at him. Then she nodded.
"Ask me nicely." Greyback ordered, leaning back against the tree, licking a drip of the meat's blood from his lips.
The defiance of the man! The insolence! If only her father could see them, he'd ride right down on him and take off his head with Ice!
But Sansa was cold, and Sansa was hungry.
"Please, teach me how to make a fire and cook the meat." she finally said.
Greyback just smiled again.
The next morning they set out over the Barrowlands. Greyback led her away from the river, away from civilisation, into the wilds with their horses tramping over a crisp frosty landscape. The rising sun sent fingers of light through the pale white mists of dawn. A wide plain spread out beneath them, bare and brown, its flatness here and there relieved by long, low hummocks.
Here was a land of the dead. Here were the barrows of the First Men, the Kings of the North and of the barrows both. Here they would ride forth by night with their cavalry across the sky to torment smallfolk in their huts, or to steal away great men to join their vanguard.
Off far away, to the west Sansa supposed, the flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fourth day they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders. When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.
During the nights they huddled together, for there was no wood to be found for a campfire. Greyback was like a furnace though and he curled around her, one hand spread over her possessively, her bindings on her wrists again to stop her escaping during sleep.
He would tell her stories then, speaking poetry in languages she did not know, telling of kings and heroes.
By day she would force more of the horrid meat cakes down her throat, and drink sparingly of the waterskin Greyback gave her. It was little and less, and her head began to pound. She felt dizzy and her mouth was dry, and Greyback opened the vein of his horse, bidding her drink the hot, salty lifeblood of the animal.
The blood revived her a little, but it was still a terrible existence. Sansa dreaded each day, and the only comfort she could find, perverse as it was, were the stories Greyback would tell as they lay together at night.
How she longed to bathe, to have a moment to herself, to have servants tend to her or to hear her mother's signing as they shared an embrace. Not to have a savage bind her up like a pig to the slaughter, or to watch her constantly, even when she had to make water or use the flat Barrowland ground as a privy.
Her horse died on the third day, but Greyback swiftly moved her over to his own, pushing the beast all the harder. It seemed there was method to this though, for soon enough the hellish experience of the Barrowlands was behind her, and Barrowtown to the fore.
They didn't approach the town. Just like with Torrhen's Square, Greyback feared it, feared discovery. Soon though they came to a large stable, out on the edge of the town's surroundings, probably a day's ride away.
The stolen horse they both sat astride was weaving and blowing, and Sansa didn't think it would last any longer than her own horse had.
"We'll stop here." Greyback said.
The prospect of a roof over their heads at night instead of another fitful, shivering slumber with Greyback's breath in her ear warmed her a little.
It was a large farm, with a large farmhouse, three stories tall and with several outbuildings. The walls were handsome, whitewashed and shining in the sunlight, while there was glass in some of the windows, the bottom of the panes were thicker from where the glass had run down.
That made Sansa sad. She remembered asking Maester Luwin why glass did that, remembered the glass in the sept her father had built for her mother.
She remembered home.
A sandy-haired young man had seen them, and was making his way toward them. Greyback carried Sansa off the horse, stepping down himself after to speak with the man.
Sansa noticed Greyback had dismounted on one side of the horse, toward the farmhand, while he'd put her on the other side. It wasn't as if the man would recognise her but it was clever anyway. It made her feel stupid and small again.
"We've ridden far." Greyback was saying, and his words brought Sansa back to the world. "Do you have oats and feed for my horse? I have silver."
"We do at that." the farmer said. Sansa drew around the stolen horse to look at him from under her hood. He was young, his face freckled and tanned from working in the sun all summer. She couldn't place his age, but he couldn't be more than twenty. "Come over to the stables and I'll see to it myself. You can discuss payment with my father. Where've you come from? From your approach it looked like you came from the Kingsroad."
Greyback ignored the question, pushing on. "And my daughter here, do you have women on the farm? I'd have her taken care of, do you have a well, somewhere to draw bathing water?" he demanded of the farmhand.
"Aye, my sister can see to that, up at the house, send her on ahead and she'll see to it." the man said.
"How many of you are there here?" Greyback asked, looking hungrily toward the building.
"Oh, there's me and two brothers, Jerek is off at Barrowtown as a 'prentice, but my sister and my brother's wife too are here, and my father of course, though he's out in the far pasture beyond the river." concluded the man, continuing to unsaddle their horse. "This is good horseflesh." he mused, "You should really take care of her better!"
Greyback had come up behind him quietly, drawing his knife, "That won't matter soon enough…"
The savage looked at her before he struck. He fixed her to the spot with his terrible eyes.
The young man died in front of her. Greyback stashed his body in the stable, pitching the corpse into a haystack that lay behind a partition. Sansa could still see it, but no one would be able to outside the stable.
"Stay here, girl." Greyback ordered, and stalked away, bloody knife concealed behind his back.
Sansa knew she should say something. Knew she should run for the house, run to warn the family there of the deadly predator which was coming.
But she didn't.
She was more scared for herself than she was for the farmers.
The realisation struck Sansa like a bucket of icy water thrown over her.
Did it make her a bad person? An evil person just as bad as Greyback? Did it make her cruel and uncaring like him?
She'd said nothing, and now the farmers would surely all die.
But she couldn't help it! Greyback had looked at her and those eyes, those terrible eyes had frozen her to the spot, unable to utter even a sound as Greyback killed the first farmer.
Instead she just sat on the rushes on the floor of the stable. She didn't cry, she wasn't even sad. She just watched, hands folded in her lap, with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for herself before. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young farmhand in the roughspun tunic was nothing to her, some stranger from the Barrowlands who's name she'd never known, and in any case would have forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad.
Greyback found here there, sitting on the floor, looking at the dead man. He ignored the horse, briefly inspecting others in the stable before turning to her. He spoke to her, she heard a wolf's snarls and growls. Then he caught her up and put her over his shoulder. Her face was pressed into the brindled fur of the bearskin he wore as a cloak and he stalked toward the farmhouse.
Greyback almost threw her into a chair before the fireplace, he spoke again, but again she heard nothing. Then he slapped her, hard with the back of his hand and she tasted blood.
"Wake up, girl!" he shouted. "I'm going into Barrowtown. It's a day's ride and I'm leaving you here. Don't think to escape, you know you can't… If you think to try it, look at the bodies outside again and think better. There's one of the women alive still, but she won't be once I'm done with her, that'll be a good lesson for you I think."
The monster drew closer, grasping her chin between his terrible claws, "Get yourself clean and get some food. You'll be alone here for a few days, depending on how long it takes me."
She sat there for an hour or more after Greyback left. She just stared into the fire. She couldn't hear the screams outside.
Then she felt hungry, so she got up to look around.
Sansa picked through the house. She avoided the bloody train in one room where someone had been killed, and after opening one door and finding a corpse inside she shut it tight and looked away.
The pantry had a hanging slab of bacon, and the buttery had milk and cheeses. Sansa took a knife and a heavy iron skillet she had to use two hands to hold, settling it over the fire. She poked at the wood till she had it better spread out, then managed to manoeuvre the skillet onto the heat. She put butter in and it sizzled away. Then she cut strips of bacon from the slab, carrying them on a wooden plate and dumping them in with the butter.
It wouldn't be enough, she knew, so she went back into the pantry. She found a few wheels of cheese in varying states of maturity but each was a pleasant creamy colour. Then she found bread, brown which meant made of barley and rye, but with a dusting of white flour.
Sansa knew the smallfolk ate brown bread, but she was a noble and her lady mother had always inspected the bread Gage the Cook sent to table carefully, for her standards were very high.
She took half a loaf of bread and cut a chunk of the wheel of cheese she deemed the best, then she found a pot and brought that out too, and grabbed a bunch of thyme on the way out.
Sansa didn't really know how to cook, but she knew herbs were had with meat, but other than seeing the cooks at work when she and Jeyne snuck down to the kitchens to steal cakes, she'd never learnt to cook, it wasn't ladylike.
The bacon sizzled away in the butter, and Sansa tossed the herbs in. She stirred the pot with a stick hanging over the fireplace, and tore off chunks of bread for the cheese.
She was hungry, but she wouldn't demean herself and her House by eating just like that.
After half an hour she deemed the bacon done, for it'd changed colour and wasn't sizzling as much anymore. She brought it all to the stout table in the centre of the greatroom, setting the food out, wiping her face with a cloth and setting her hands over it to pray.
"We ask the Father to judge us with mercy, accepting our human frailty. We ask the Mother to bless the crops, so that we may feed ourselves and all who come to our door. We ask the Warrior to give us courage, in days of strife and turmoil. We ask the Maiden to protect virtue, to keep us from the clutches of depravity. We ask the Smith to strengthen our hands and our backs so we may finish the work required of us. We ask the Crone to guide us on our journey from darkness to darkness." she finished, unable to stop herself speaking faster as she looked at the food in hunger.
She picked up the knife and made to stab at a chunk of black bacon.
Who was 'we'? Who was she praying with? The souls of the farmers? Sansa realised she had repeated prayer her mother would say often over food.
She refused to be sad again. She thrust the knife into the bacon, imagining it was Greyback.
The bacon was burnt, she decided. She'd obviously cooked it for far too long, but that was alright, she could cook more.
She instead used the bread to mop up some of the juices, which were better. Then she took cheese and ate that too. That was good, and inside the little earthenware container she found potted fish, probably salmon.
Sansa spent the next few days by herself. She ate well, cooking better and better each time till on the last day the bacon came out almost as good as Gage's. She found a pot and peas, and made a potted dish, like that which the Starks would sometimes have at table. That was alright, though the herbs were unpleasant to eat. Perhaps she'd used the wrong ones.
At night she would stoke the fire, carrying wood from the woodpile outside. She had to walk past a corpse to do so, and on the second day she threw a blanket over it, for she didn't want to see it anymore.
She was almost happy there. She slept the best she'd slept in a long time, snuggled in the furs and covers of the largest bed in the house, probably the farmers.
One time she thought of saddling a horse, but knew she wouldn't be able to lift the heavy saddles. Then she thought to just sling a blanket over one of the mounts and ride and ride and ride.
But Greyback had warned her about such thoughts. He claimed he could track like a hound, and Sansa believed him.
She went outside, followed the trail of blood leading from one of the doors. She saw a little thing in the dirt and looked more closely.
It was a bloody nail. Ripped from a grasping hand cutting furrows in the earth as the person was dragged somewhere.
Sansa went on, following the signs of a struggle. She didn't have to walk far.
The woman was a bloody mess. She was naked, her clothes scattered around her, her breasts and thighs and female parts were mauled and ruined, and her face was pale, her lips turned blue in death.
Sansa did not try to escape.
Greyback returned on the third day, riding back in with a smile on his face.
"Girl!" he called her, for Sansa had gone out to meet him, hoping he would be kinder to her if she did. "I've brought you something!"
"Thank you, my lord." she replied.
That took Greyback aback, he cocked his head to the side and smiled. "You're in a good mood today."
Sansa didn't answer that. She didn't want to end up like the ruined woman beyond the door. "I made food. Meat and bread and a pottage." she said.
"A good mood indeed!" Greyback laughed.
Greyback ate well, Sansa had prepared everything, knowing he'd be back eventually. She had bathed, brushed her hair and put on one of the dresses she'd found, though it was a little shorter than she thought proper. Her fingers had felt thick and clumsy as she struggled with the brass fastenings without the benefit of servants.
Once he'd finished, eating enough food for three men all on his own, Greyback brought out three wrapped items. The first he gave her immediately and she unwrapped it, thanking the man courteously.
It was the Seven Pointed Star. Sansa did not see the blood on the corner of it, she did not consider how Greyback might have acquired it.
"Thank you, my lord." repeated, nodding in genuine happiness toward the man. She knew the book well, her lady mother had often taught from it and she knew all the hymns and homilies.
"Look here too." Greyback replied.
She took the other wrapping, unfolding it.
It was a fine cloak. It was warm, soft fur on the inside and lining the hood, while it had an oliy sheen to the outside to keep out the rain.
"Thank you again." she said.
The final package Greyback brought were strawberries. They were freshly picked, still hard from whatever garden he'd taken them. They sat in a little woven basket with a pretty lid and Sansa ate them with pleasure, it was the sweetest thing she'd tasted in a while and she loved such things.
Greyback watched her eat. His blue eyes followed each move of her fingers, her lips, her tongue. It made her feel like something dead was slithering over her flesh.
"We'll sleep early tonight." Greyback dictated, "Then tomorrow we'll find a boat and head down river. I mean to ride the horses well, and then after that we'll see what there is to be seen."
He stayed away from her that day, instead busying himself with ransacking the house. He dug by the posts in the walls, and for a moment Sansa didn't know what he was doing, but after the second excavation he pulled out a small chest, full of silver.
Greyback didn't even come to her bed to check on her, he sprawled out in a chair in front of the fire, dozing away in the evening, leaving Sansa to clear up.
When he woke he was full of energy. He ate half a loaf of bread and a large chunk of cheese as he looked over a map, charting the movements of the river that ran from Barrowtown to the Saltspear, and then to the sea. He didn't explain anything to her, but once again, because she made him food he didn't speak any harsh word to her. Sansa's hands ached a little as she packed away food as he instructed, by at least Greyback wasn't at her side, growling and stinking of death.
They departed as he instructed, early enough that the sun wasn't yet fully up. Three horses they took with them, the best in the stable, leaving Greyback's old stolen horse where it was. The third horse was just for their supplies, for Greyback was determined to clear the house out of anything that could be easily transported, whether it be the remaining bacon, some hard bread, one of the cheese wheels they'd not eaten fully, or the chest of silver.
For a moment Sansa let herself think that she was in a story again. That Greyback was not her murderous captor, but merely a knight or a heroic warrior from some far off land. She tried to be pleasant to him, tried to make sure she prepared food in the evening and made the fire. She tried to stop him from looking at her as something to be destroyed, like the woman beyond the door.
But as they travelled, went through villages along the river between the Barrowlands and the Rills, Sansa could feel Greyback's disquiet grow. They must by pursued, she knew that well enough, for by now her lord father would have sent riders to look for her, riders yes and perhaps ravens, to all the keeps and holdfasts in the north.
At lats they came to a stout house by the riverbank and Greyback exchanged the occupant's boat for their horses, packing all their things away and commanding her to lie low under her cloak so she wasn't seen.
The boat ride was not like a story.
Sansa had read of sea knights, the heroic mariners like Gaethalos the Gallant, Admiral of Volantis who fought the Basilisk King in the reign of King Jaeherys the Conciliator, or of Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake.
All the stories would fixate on the great magnificence of life at sea, of the stoutness yet fleetness of the ships, of the exotic locations from Yi Ti to the Summer Isles, or of the great beauty of the princesses there who might be saved. The stories would focus on the character of the captains, their romantic wanderlust which would compete with their duty toward house and home.
The skiff bobbed down the river from Barrowtown, gliding though the clear water. The river was wide enough that Sansa couldn't think to chance jumping out and trying to make it to a bank, but even if she did there was nothing to be seen and nowhere to go. The farmland and pastures around Barrowtown faded away swiftly enough, within a few hours even, and soon there was only a rocky scree of flatlands and low hills. On and on it went, and then it started to rain.
Sansa knew, intellectually, that the Sea Snake had probably dealt with storms and rain, that he would have felt the sting of sleet on his cheeks and combed away the sodden mess his hair had become, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with when it happened to her.
The rain was not a gentle kiss and a reminder of the world's love. The rain was not a silver curtain, hiding the secrets of the night. The rain was not the drumbeat of nature.
The train was her tears, icy and sorrowful.
The boat bobbed along, Greyback making to steer it at times. The rain grey harder, and from her place huddled in the bow, Sansa could see rivulets of water running down Greyback's face, into his dark whiskers.
He had a harsh face. Like before though, she saw the face of a lord in him. Cruel, powerful, yet with a restraint and focus to the savagery. He had killed at least three people, she knew that well, and sheltered the bloodstained book he'd stolen from Barrowtown beneath herself so it didn't get wet in the rain.
"How much further?" she asked weakly. She was chilled to the bone, she could feel it seeping into her chest.
"Not far." Greyback growled. "We must be halfway to the Saltspear by now, we've covered at least fifteen miles, the river is fast enough."
They slept that night under a narrow oilskin. Greyback held her close, one clawed hand over her arm. He bound her again, hand and foot so that by morning after a fitfull night of constrained sleep she was sore and wincing.
"Please, just let me go. You can make it, just let me stay here!" she begged him.
Greyback just laughed, pushing her back into the boat.
At least the rain had stopped, that much was a mercy from the Seven, Sansa thought as they went on down the river.
"Heh." Greyback grunted, and it made Sansa look up, "Look, girl, here's something that'll cheer you up."
She rose, stood in the boat.
The river was lower than the surrounding landscape and the waters were swollen with the rain besides. She could clearly see them!
A dozen riders there were, dashing across the plain. Already they were wheeling, turning toward Sansa and her captor.
She grinned, her heart swelled, she was giddy, she jumped up and down, waving her arms and shouting.
Then Greyback laughed that harsh laugh. A laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. "I won't give you up that easily, girl."
Greyback was calm, shoving her back down he set his oar against the current, driving them toward the opposite bank. Sansa's heart fell, the riders would have to go around, and she didn't know where there might be a ford.
They reached the bank and Greyback made her disembark as he caught up the packs and supplies and hurled them out of the boat. Then he took a hatchet and smashed the boat's planks. Why? Sansa couldn't work it out, but then she heard splashing from the other side of the river, turned quickly and saw the riders had reached their side and dismounted at the edge.
Several cast aside their armour and leapt into the water, making to swim the river!
They were Rysewells, from the sigils on their surcoats, but Sansa couldn't see much more. She couldn't not trust to hope though, not when Greyback unpacked a stout crossbow from his pack, set a quiver at his feet, and began shooting at the swimmers.
Where other men might use a goat's foot lever or a windlass to assist their shots, Greyback hauled manfully on the crossbow's string after each shot. He grinned as he worked, and Sansa was powerless as one by one he picked off the Rills knights. He was not accurate, not in the slightest, but a crossbow was a simple enough weapon and the knights were weighed down in the fast current.
She had grown up to the sound of steel in the yard, and scarcely a day of her life had passed without hearing the clash of sword on sword, yet somehow knowing that the fighting was real made all the difference in the world. Sansa had heard the dull thud of arrows striking a target, Theon was fond of archery after all, but now she heard it as she had never heard it before. Straw had a static sort of sound to it. There was nothing behind it, a thunk and then the arrow would lie still.
Now though the knights struggled in the shallows, trying to claw their way up. Greyback just shot more though, a dozen bolts, choosing his targets as he saw them. The quarrels thudded into the knights, piercing through the coats of mail and leather with a rasp but there were other sounds as well, grunts of pain, angry curses, shouts for help, and the moans of wounded and dying men. In the songs, the knights never screamed nor begged for mercy
Only two made it to shore. Greyback killed one with a single thrust of his long knife as the man struggled onto the rocky shoal, while the other stumbled up, drawing his longsword.
He was a handsome knight. Broad, strong, his sword was bright and it shed water as he flourished it on the shore. His hair was flowing, though sopping wet as he stood firm and an iron horsehead broach was on his chest, a Rysewell knight, from that House that ruled the west in the Rills.
It happened quickly. It was as if Sansa was remembering it, rather than watching the actions unfold before her. She'd been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan's stories come to life. Greyback was the monster and the Rysewell the true hero who would slay him. He even looked a true hero, so strong and beautiful, with the mane of his horsehead sigil burning like the dawn sun, and clear blue eyes, proud in their conviction.
With a rasp, Greyback shot him in the belly. The bolt pierced his guts and the knight made to rip it out, sending gouts of blood flowing down his legs. He stepped forward raising his sword.
Another bolt, this one puncturing the knight's side, sinking into the nose of the horse on his surcoat.
The knight stepped again, then stumbled as another bolt thudded into his shoulder. The Rysewell collapsed and Greyback laughed, stepping forward himself. He knocked the knight's sword aside with a contemptuous blow of his crossbow, then came behind the knight, grasping the man's face in an iron grip, turning him toward Sansa as the man's breath wheezed from his body.
"Have you nothing to say to him, girl?" Greyback demanded.
Sansa looked into the pained blue eyes of the hero.
"You were gallant, Ser." she said, and she was proud her voice didn't waver.
"My lady…" wheezed the knight, and then Greyback's hand tightened around his throat.
With a roar of triumph the wildling tore the Rysewell's throat from his neck, hurling the chuck of flesh into the river and kicking the bleeding corpse forward.
The Rysewell's blood flowed freely out, into the sand. It was scarlet at first, then swiftly the water ebbing at the sand washing it away, first vermillion, then pink and finally just a reddish hue as the river carried his life away.
The remaining horsemen were screaming now, shouting curses and dooms upon Greyback's soul, condemning him to the Seven Hells and tearing at their hair in grief. They took up bows, sending shafts across the river, before Greyback seized Sansa bodily, forcing the knights to hold lest they hit her.
"Can you feel it, girl?" the monster asked, fetid breath in her ear smelling like a mound of corpses. "The yearning? Do you want to be strong, girl? I can give you that…"
"I will take nothing from you, demon!" the girl struggled.
Had she said that? She had not meant to.
Greyback was untiring. He forced her to walk at first, carrying both their packs over his great shoulders. They hiked away from the river swiftly, and when she fell and cried out he grabbed her too, throwing her over his shoulders and going on, his long legs eating up the distance swiftly over the hills, through long grasses that tickled her face and through gnarled, mossy woodland of ancient trees and flat stones.
The terrain was strange, there were low hills which seemed to be made of layers of rock, pitted and worn by millennia of erosion. Vegetation was scarce, with only small scrubs and little purple flowers growing here and there.
The land had great cracks in it, Sansa didn't know why, but when Greyback stopped to rest she wanted to just fall into one of those cracks, fall into the warm embrace of the earth, fall into safety and darkness.
She dreamed of it that night, as Fenrir kept watch from a hight stone and she shivered in her cloak. He had not allowed her a fire, only told her to bundle herself up, and so she did, wedging herself in a crevice away from the wind. She watched the moon rise, almost full but gravid with promise.
Sansa dreamed that the earth opened behind her, that some dark thing drew her in. She dreamed that the roots of the forests of the world were all connected, that blood flowed through them as it did in a body. She could taste it, dark and languid, then living and vital when she drew near. She could feel something there, out in the darkness of the cave behind her.
Then she woke. She could taste blood and she realised she'd bitten her tongue.
Greyback made her walk that day, they picked their way down the stony hill, through a long valley and under the cover of yet more twisting trunks and shadowed boughs.
She tried to remember the dream, but it was like trying to catch rain in her fingers. The dream faded, and Greyback was still there
Over brooks then went, brushing at ferns spread out like grasping hands, over small rivers and skirting a sort of green bog, till they came up to more hills. As Sansa looked back she could see it, a thunderhead of dour cloud, racing across the sky.
Greyback pushed her hard up the hill, he would grasp her arm with his clawed hand, hauling her up over stones where she struggled, or pushing her on ahead when he thought she was going to slowly. Finally though they came to a small, sandy cave and made to shelter from the rain that had started.
The cave was barely big enough for them both and their packs, but Greyback bade her bring out all that they'd need for the night.
She was just taking out a rather battered pie when she heard it.
Throbbing through the stony hills, she heard the calls of horns.
Had she imagined it?
Then the call came again. No, it was real!
And when she stood, coming to the mouth of the cave and shielding her eyes from the rain she could see them, men bearing lanterns and burning brands coming down the valley where they'd been that morning.
"Yes." Drawled Greyback from behind her, his great stature making him bend low, just next to her ear, his breath racing across her neck. "There's more than a hundred of them and they're gaining on us. A fine thing isn't it, to see the chivalry of the North ride out."
"Less of a fine thing for the monster they pursue." she said, thinking of the ruined woman.
"Ha!" barked her monster. "Ha!" and his laugher was horrible and gleeful. "We shall see. Tonight is the full moon. I intend to go out and kill them."
Sansa whirled, looking at him. Was he mad? Why did the moon matter? Or was he moon-touched, like some wretch who didn't know truth from fiction? "A hundred men? How? You may have had help to bear me from Winterfell, but how can you hope to fight them? The Rysewells were undone more by the river than by your accuracy, and I doubt any man can fight well when weighed down by wet clothes. How can you be so pleased? You're going to die!"
"And I'm sure you're glad of it, aren't you, girl?" Greyback laughed again, scraping one claw across her cheek before she twisted her head.
"I will not mourn you." she managed.
Night was falling, and the moon would soon rise through the storm. That would be when their pursuers would discover them, she guessed, that or the next morning.
Greyback though was making to leave. He had his hatchet and his knife in either hand, and he'd removed his bearskin cloak, dressing only in his boots, breeches and a loose shirt. He looked like a pit fighter or similar slave Sansa had read about once.
"Don't leave the cave." Greyback told her. "I'll be fighting tonight, and I'll return for you soon enough. If you leave the cave I might lose myself and get carried away, and you've seen what happens when I get carried away."
His eyes seemed to gleam in the growing darkness.
Sansa pressed herself back into the wall. The ruined woman, the image of the bloody, torn flesh forced its way into her mind.
"I will not leave the cave." she promised, and she meant it.
"Clever girl." Greyback said. He made to turn toward the storm, then came back. She heard something drop to the floor with a clatter of steel on stone, then Greyback came closer.
And closer…
She felt him kiss her, as if it was happening to another person, someone she watched. She tasted his bloody lips, his rough tongue in her mouth. She felt something hard pressing into her belly and couldn't move for fear of it. She shut her eyes tight, praying for it to stop.
And then he was gone.
The rain poured down, making a little river above the cave and a puddle at the entrance. The wind howled.
But she heard other howls. She heard wolves outside the cave, she saw something moving in the moonlight. She heard the screams of horses and of dying men, and the clash of steel.
She concentrated on the cave. The rocks were white and crowned with lichen, like the thick green hair on a sleeping giant.
Men died outside and Sansa's heart thundered.
The moon shone brightly and Sansa prayed a gallant knight would walk through the torrent, step within the cave and sweep her off her feet, bear her swiftly away to her family that she'd never have to worry about Greyback or his evil ever again.
Then she heard a movement.
But what came to the cave's entrance wasn't a knight. First came a claw, scraping at the stone. Then came the foot, bloody water running down the fur.
Then the snout and the head.
It wasn't real.
Sansa could not see it.
It wasn't real.
There would be a knight soon, some brave rider from Barrowtown or the Rills, some young lord to save her.
The beast stepped forward, it's blue eyes transfixed her, she couldn't move, she just stared at it even as she struggled to breathe under the thing's gaze.
In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm.
But there were no knights here.
Sansa knew that now…
This is the first perspective change we've had in the story, so I'd welcome feedback on how that went. I had a reread of some of the Sansa chapters in the books and she's not as tiresome a character as one might imagine, there's some interesting stuff there but it can be frustrating to read about a character who's just confused and sad all the time and has little agency and really just gets passed about between various plotting factions.
-v-
Sansa had woken up in a cabin, somewhere in the Wolfswood. She'd been groggy at first, confused and dazed as she shook off sleep.
The first day had been confusing. She was still in her smallclothes, so she tried to dress but only found a few random items of clothing from whoever lived at the cabin.
She didn't know how she'd come to be here, and she wanted to be home.
The howling of wolves in the woods made her stay in the cabin though. At least it was safe there.
Then Greyback had come.
She'd been terrified at first, then heartened at little at the Stark sigil on his shield and the mail on his breast.
"I am Fenrir Greyback, one of your father's men, girl." he'd told her. She'd thought that rude at the time, for him not to address her as she should be as the daughter of his lord, but she was so glad he was there that she was willing to look past it.
Greyback got her up on a horse and she noticed his nails for the first time.
A man couldn't have nails like that. Nails that would belong more on the paw of a beast of the forest, rather than a man.
It wasn't possible, so she ignored it, hunching low over her bridle as Greyback led her horse on.
She didn't question why he held a rope connected to her own horse, but he told her it was to stop the hose being spooked and her falling and hurting herself. She even thanked him for the care.
Sansa didn't like to look at Greyback's face, it was a fearsome on, his teeth were sharp, as if he'd filed them to make himself look more like a beast, while his brow was heavy and the whiskers on his cheeks and his dark hair gave him the look of a savage who'd wandered out the woods.
He wore the mail of her father's guards with the Stark direwolf on his surcoat and bore hatchet, dagger and crossbow. He wore a great bearskin as his cloak, and when he put the hood up over his head he looked like a beast himself.
She knew a lady should be brave, and should treat the smallfolk with respect, and so she tried to do so for Greyback.
The man was leading her south, she realised, and that didn't cause suspicion at first. Sansa didn't know much of the geography of the North, not enough to question a man-at-arms in any case.
"How much further is it, Ser?" she asked. Sansa knew Greyback wasn't a knight, and his name was queer, but it was polite in any case, "I know my family will be glad to see me, and will surely reward you."
Greyback just laughed at that. "Only a little further, girl."
She asked how she'd come to be in the cabin, how Greyback had come to find her.
"You were kidnapped." Greyback said casually.
Sansa was shocked.
Bael the Bard had kidnapped a daughter of House Stark ages and ages ago, and they called the father 'Brandon the Daughterless' afterward. Had the Wildlings crept into her chamber and taken her? How had she not woken up? She asked Greyback.
"Your abductor used a potion, brought from a herbalist, which causes people to sleep a long time and very deeply." Greyback explained. "Now, enough talk, girl, we have a long way to go tomorrow and we must get you back to your father soon."
Sansa hadn't known there to be suspicious. Greyback's words seemed logical and after all, poor Ser Rodrick had been killed by Wildlings, hadn't he?
The first time he pulled her off the horse and pulled the horses down quickly to lie in the ditch beside the road, Sansa had obeyed without question. There were Wildlings about after all, it was only safe.
The second time she obey as well.
But by the third she started to feel a pain in her stomach, a strange ache like she'd swallowed a heavy stone.
When they rose from the hiding, Sansa saw a caravan of wains trekking across the flatlands, off west toward the Kingsroad. Why had they hidden from them? Did the Wildlings use wagons?
Why was Greyback going south? These were the lands around Torrhen's Square, she's seen as such on a sign. But soon enough they passed back into the Wolfswood, keeping to the edge of the forest so they could swiftly hide when they needed to.
The Kingsroad ran north-south through Winterfell, she knew, but Sansa couldn't work out where they were going.
"Can't we stop, ask for help at the nearest holdfast? We passed one earlier and I'm sure the Wildlings wouldn't be able to take it, not without men coming from Torrhen's Square or Castle Cerwyn." she said.
"No!" Greyback growled, and she shrank back in the saddle. Then he seemed to realise he'd scared her. "No, girl." he said again, this time softer, "We must avoid anyone, it's not safe."
Sansa meekly agreed at the time, but the heavy stone in her belly just grew and grew.
That night, she questioned Greyback, tested him. She would talk of small things, of the layout of Winterfell or of the doings of her father. She would mention names which any of Lord Stark's guards would know, and also mix in false names.
And she proved it. Greyback wasn't one of her father's guards at all.
The stone dropped from her stomach, it weighed her down like a great boulder.
Greyback was a Wildling. He must be…
The next day she would prove it for true.
"We should follow the road." she said, gesturing to the wider concourse heading away to the east, "That way must be Winterfell."
Greyback shook his head.
"I order you, Fenrir Greyback." Sansa managed to muster the courage to say, "I order you, if you be true, take me to my father."
The savage just laughed, he threw back his head and let out great rasping barks like a dog.
Her captor came forward and bound her hands to the bridle of her horse. He must have stolen that too, she thought, but she could do nothing as they wound their way through the countryside.
How could she have been so stupid? She should have run the moment she woke up, not waited while Greyback led her through the woods, too far that she'd never know where she was. They must be on the other side of the Wolfswood now, she thought, but there was nothing she could do about it. Where could she run? Greyback kept a firm hand on the rope which restrained her horse and herself, and he kept her bound most of the time, except sometimes at night.
But Sansa was a lady of House Stark, she was the Blood of Winter, she was brave enough to bare it.
"My father will hunt you down and chop off your head." she said one day.
Greyback just laughed again, "If he tries, I'll eat his heart!"
That scared Sansa so much she hid beneath the cloak Greyback had given her. The Wildlings were cannibals, she knew the stories. Was that why Greyback's teeth were so sharp?
She realised she hated the Wildlings. She hated the tribes of the woods, the folk on the Frozen Shore, or those who lived in Hardholme, the only settlement Beyond-the-Wall she'd heard of.
The hatred made her strong, she sat fuming each hour, thinking about Lord Stark riding down on them and slaying all the savages north of the Wall!
She hated the Wildlings, but she hated the Night's Watch too for their inattention. Uncle Benjen had come down weeks ago to advise her lord father about the Wildlings in the Wolfswood. It seemed to Sansa that the black brothers must have let a whole army of them through, for all the trouble they were giving her father's vassals.
She wanted them all to die, the Wildlings, the Watch, just all of them to stop existing as if the Father himself came down from the heavens and smote them with his rod, if the Warrior came with and stabbed them with his sword, if the Stranger (and she made the sign of the Seven at the thought) would come and beckon them away from his world.
But they didn't. The Seven didn't descend to destroy the Wildlings, nor did Stark men ride up and kill Greyback.
Instead they rode on, and the man would look at her in a way that made her feel like she had no clothes on.
"Why did you kidnap me?" she asked. "If it's ransom you're looking for, there's no lord in the North wealthier than the Stark of Winterfell."
"It wasn't for wealth." Greyback replied easily, "You have something that others don't, magic. I want your blood, girl."
Sansa didn't know what to say to that. The thought terrified her. She just looked back at Greyback in amazement.
His eyes were a deep blue, and seemed only to grow more blue as the days went on, as he looked at her more and more. There was pride in those eyes, a sense of dignity and power but also a distain. Greyback was scornful, he looked about the world as if he was above it, he sneered and growled, dismissed that which did not concern him.
Sansa hid from those eyes. She pulled the hood of her cloak low and tried to avoid Greyback's gaze, at least till they turned in to sleep at night.
That was merciful at least. Riding was tiring enough as it was, but the pace Greyback pushed them through was bruising as they picked their way through the outskirts of the Wolfswood. Sansa was often too tired to speak, too tired to even contemplate escape. Whenever Greyback would let her she would sleep, and more than once the horrible man would force her to eat before permitting her rest, shoving dense biscuits of fruit and dried meat and flour and other foulness toward her.
One night Sansa dreamt of a prince on a throne, with herself seated beside him in a gown of woven gold. She had a crown on her head, and everyone she had ever known came before her, to bend the knee and say their courtesies.
But in the morning the prince and the throne and the gown were all gone. The woods were around them, the stink of unwashed horseflesh.
"Get up, girl." The rasping voice stabbed at her ears. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the dawnlight, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing and smell the blood on his breath.
By day as they rode Sansa felt those eyes on her again. She couldn't imagine how Greyback could lie, not with eyes like those. It was like they wrenched a way into her soul, made her feel like a small, stupid thing under the smile of a wolf. While occasionally they'd pass woodsmen or travellers and Greyback would smile and hail a greeting before swiftly marching their horses on, she knew the others could see it.
He had the bearing of a lord, the confidence and presence of one, but the soul of a monster. There was a hunger within him, a terrible lust, and Sansa didn't like to think about what would happen when Greyback had time to turn his gaze to her properly, rather than just the hideous glances he would give.
One night they sat by the campfire, Greyback having offered her a fine pie and che
"Tell me of stories, girl."
"My name is Sansa." she told him, as firmly as she could.
Greyback grinned, his sharp teeth bright in the firelight. "Girls like you love stories are tales don't you? You like to live in fantasies, to think much of yourselves, of how you'll live or who you'll marry? My own daughters did."
While Sansa was a little ashamed to realise that it was true, she did love stories, she was more shocked to learn that Greyback had children, that anyone would marry him or look at him fondly.
She looked at him more closely. He was old, his face weathered and scarred, and the cast and aspect of it was fearsome indeed. He was a strong man, tall, broad and powerful, but there was no hint of softness to him, nothing like in the songs.
"You have daughters?" she asked.
"Certainly, too many for one man, I should say!" the savage laughed, and there was a strange merriment in his answer, like the cry of one of those queer bright birds a merchant had once shown her father.
"How old are they?" she asked instead, too interested in this new side of her captor to let her fear get in the way. "Do they like each other?"
Sansa had always warred with Arya. Her lordly father said it was the Wolfblood, but it was just his way of saying that Arya was wilful. The stupid girl would row and throw things, not just when she was younger but even as she grew into her maidenhood. Sansa hated her sister sometimes, she'd once prayed that somehow the Gods would switch places between Arya and Beth Cassel, or Jeyne Poole, or any other girl who could be a true confident to Sansa, not a thorn in her foot eternally.
"Well, Anyanka, my eldest, she's expecting her own grandchildren by now I'd expect, for my grandson took a wife a few years ago. My youngest is Nasrin is only five, though I've not seen her recently." Greyback explained.
Sansa knew the Wildlings took many wives sometimes, she'd heard Jon and Theon speaking of it, saying what a better system it might be to have more than one woman for each man, at least until her lady mother had got wind of it and sent them to the septon to recite the Book of the Mother.
How many wives must Greyback have had, to have borne him daughters so varied through the years?
"As for whether they get along, my kin are a fractious lot, you could say. The Clans fight among themselves sometimes, but I travel between them about my business. My daughters want strong families, and my sons want to make their father proud. Six of them I've buried, sons and grandsons, over the years. But sixty more stand in their place, and they carry battle in my name against the Wizards." Greyback continued.
It was incredible. Sansa didn't know whether to even believe it. Did the Wildlings fight wizards and sorcerers beyond the Wall? Could a man sire sixty sons? She didn't know which was more far-fetched!
"They all loved stories though, when they were young." Greyback continued, and a warmth grew in his rough voice. "Romulus and Remus was always popular, so was the Iron Wolf of Gediminas, or Hyrrokin and her serpent-bridle. Would you like to hear one?"
Sansa said nothing. She would ask nothing of her captor. A lady should remain upright and steadfast at all times, and the offer took her aback, made her remember where she was.
But she couldn't help herself. Where before she'd only had harshness and scorn from Greyback, now he offered a kind word.
With a gulp she nodded.
The Wild Lord grinned his toothy grin again. "Let me tell you then of the knight, Milan of Toplica. Great was he, the most skilled archer in the army of his Prince. His doublet was as blue as the waters of Perucac and his bow was of bound horn…"
Sansa listened, and by the end of the tale she was crying. She heard of Milan, of his lady love and of his mighty prince, Lazar of Kosovo. Of their battles against the nefarious Turk king, and of the deaths of Milan and his band of twelve who went by night to slay their enemies. But it was the woman's fate she found saddest. Knights were meant to die in tales, they were meant to fight valiantly and perish valiantly. They were meant to bleed and kill and die…
But Milan's lover wandered the Blackbird's Field, checking each of the dead to find her betrothed. Her hairnet was of silver and her cloak was rich. But as Greyback told it, the maiden only found blood and death. She cared for the dying, she prayed that she might find her love, but only found one of his sworn brothers, even him dying, to tell her of Milan's death.
Sansa didn't sleep well that night. She imagined herself on such a field. She saw the faces of her father and her brothers, lying upon bloodied snow. She heard the laughter of wolves and the screaming of horses before a blizzard covered the whole world.
The next day, they left the forest. Beyond were the Barrowlands and Sansa could already see the low hills of the burial places. Closer though she found stone bridges over little rivers, as well as inns and farmsteads and all the signs of civilisation as they neared the next settlement.
They passed tall watchtowers on their stony summits, and Greyback grew more agitated with each one. The ground was flat, farms and pastures stretching as far as she could see around holdfasts walled in wood and stone. The road was well trafficked, but Greyback had her sit low on the horse with her hood up and her hair bound, and promised dark things if she tried to raise an alarm.
Torrhen's Square was a large town, at least by the standards of the North. Set on the banks of an artificial lake, the town served to bring lumber out of the Wolfswood, down small rivers and along the roads, then to the town's lake for dressing an construction, or all manner of trade purposes. Lumber was the main export of the settlement, Sansa knew from the lessons she'd had with her lady mother, and with Maester Luwin. It was part of the history of House Stark, and it was a fitting subject for a lady to know of.
Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, had built the town, expanding a smaller holdfast and seeing the value northern lumber might bring in trade to the South, following the unification of the Seven Kingdoms under Aegon the Conqueror. The king had built a dam across a wide valley, flooding the 'square' and giving Torrhen's Square its name.
Sansa knew the Wolfswood was the largest forest in Westeros. There were lesser forests, whether the Rainwood of the Stormlands or the Kingswood of the Crownlands, but the great forest of the North was more ancient and untamed.
The girl had always feared it. You could see it, from the tallest turrets of Winterfell on a clear day, and many a time she's looked out in fear, knowing the beasts and wildlings that hid in it might one day surge out toward Winterfell.
There'd even been a time when she'd refused to leave her room. Sansa had hidden there, too fearful of the forests and the beasts to come out. Her brothers had come to see her and her mother too. Each had told her that the Wolfswood was well named, indeed that it held beasts, and Theon, cruel boy that he was, had even said wildlings would indeed come through there sometimes. That had just terrified her more.
Then her lordly father came. He'd sat on her bed as she hid under the coverlets and furs. Eddard Stark had read from an ancient history book, leafing through the tome to recount every time the knights of House Stark had rode out in splendour to vanquish enemies.
Sansa had always loved stories, but now it seemed she lived one.
How she wished that her father would come! Come to calm her, to read again how her house had ruled the North for thousands of years, how they'd rule in strength for a thousand more. How the riders and warriors would swing their bright swords and throw down the Warg Lord or the Flayed King or the Black Men of Ibben.
There was nothing to fear in those stories, her the Warden of the North had assured her. Good would triumph, brave men would fight against evil-doers.
Her father would have reassured her, she knew. He would have rode out, sword flashing in the sun and Greyback would have quailed before him.
But Eddard Stark wasn't here. In his place stood a different wolf, leering at her.
"Come, girl." the monster said, "We have a lot of ground to cover."
Sansa thought he'd lead her into Torrhen's Square itself. She'd never visited the dam, nor the river which led down between the Barrowlands and the Rills toward the Saltspear, then out into Blazewater Bay, those waters which were said to burn gold in sunset.
While Sansa preferred the stories of chivalry of the south, of Aemon the Dragonknight or Florian the Fool, she also knew those of the North well enough. She knew of the struggles of the Barrowknights, who were said to have dead kings join them in the vanguard of battles or how the steeds of the Rills and the Dustins were the finest to be found.
How did they get lumber south?
She idly wondered it as Greyback pushed them on toward the town. It was a silly question, it didn't matter, she knew… But Sansa needed to distract herself. Whenever she looked at Greyback on the horse before her she shivered, knowing what sort of a man he was.
Greyback didn't seem to be making for Torrhen's Square after all, she noticed as the towers of the wall finally came into sight. Instead he skirted south, along the steep banks of the lake, through little villages. He took her bodily from the horse, his rough hands around her waist clamping her like a smith's vice and his hideous finger-claws biting into her flesh, even through the thick cloak she wore.
"I'm going to tie you." he said simply, and he did, binding her wrists over and over around a young tree, barely a handspan wide. "Don't think to escape, I can track your scent as easily as a hound might, and it won't go well for you if you do run."
Then the man disappeared, setting off on his own horse, leaving her there with hers grazing away and her wrists smarting from the rough thongs of leather.
Sansa struggled against it for more than an hour. She tried simply pulling her hands out, seeing whether the knot was strong.
It was.
She tried lifting the knot further up, but after she looked up for more than a moment she knew that would be useless too, she wasn't Bran, she couldn't climb like a squirrel.
In the end she just slumped to the ground and wept.
Sansa was hungry, she was tired, she was terrified. She hadn't eaten or slept properly in three days and one night in two had been in the saddle. They'd ridden as much as Greyback had been willing to push the horses, and more than was good for them, she knew.
Sansa hated horses. She hated their smell, their mess, the low folk who manned the stables of Winterfell and how her sister, Arya, would make friends so easily with them. When the guards had called her 'Arya Horseface' Sansa had cruelly said that it was because Arya was half horse from all the time she'd spent with them, but once her lady mother caught wind of it she'd chastised Sansa sternly for such insults.
How Sansa missed that now. Even a stern look from her mother or her Septa, or even Arya's stupid jibes were better than the looks Greyback would give her.
That night it took a long time for Greyback to get back. The wind whistled through the boughs of the trees around her, but she could still see the lights of Torrhen's Square, way out across the water. Was it the town, in truth? Or was it just some other village? She didn't know, she couldn't remember.
Sansa shivered in the cold. She had her cloak, but she'd had nothing hot to eat all that day, such was the pace Greyback had pushed them at.
Eventually, mercifully, the man did return, bloody meat hanging over his shoulder.
He set about making a fire, eventually deigning to release Sansa.
She'd thought he might have some salve or poultice for her wrists, for she'd rubbed them bloody in her desperation. But she'd forgotten. Fenrir Greyback wasn't her lady mother, nor Maester Luwin. He was a wildling savage, come to carry her off.
"Do you know how to make a fire, girl?" the wildling asked.
Sansa shook her head, too cold to be defiant.
"Well then you'd best learn. There's a lot you need to know, and little time to teach you." replied Greyback.
"I don't need to learn anything. A lady doesn't set fires." Sansa managed, hope growing at the prospect of a fire's warmth.
"Oh?" remarked Greyback, "We don't need a fire then I suppose. You're right, it's best not to be seen, and we can just eat the meat raw."
Sansa couldn't restrain herself, "Raw!?"
Greyback picked one morsel up from the meat he'd brought back. She couldn't make it out properly, she could smell it though, a fresh kill, bloody and red. He slowly placed it on his tongue and chewed, licking his clawed fingers clean between motions.
"Would you prefer it cooked?" the man asked.
Sansa glared at him. Then she nodded.
"Ask me nicely." Greyback ordered, leaning back against the tree, licking a drip of the meat's blood from his lips.
The defiance of the man! The insolence! If only her father could see them, he'd ride right down on him and take off his head with Ice!
But Sansa was cold, and Sansa was hungry.
"Please, teach me how to make a fire and cook the meat." she finally said.
Greyback just smiled again.
The next morning they set out over the Barrowlands. Greyback led her away from the river, away from civilisation, into the wilds with their horses tramping over a crisp frosty landscape. The rising sun sent fingers of light through the pale white mists of dawn. A wide plain spread out beneath them, bare and brown, its flatness here and there relieved by long, low hummocks.
Here was a land of the dead. Here were the barrows of the First Men, the Kings of the North and of the barrows both. Here they would ride forth by night with their cavalry across the sky to torment smallfolk in their huts, or to steal away great men to join their vanguard.
Off far away, to the west Sansa supposed, the flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fourth day they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders. When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.
During the nights they huddled together, for there was no wood to be found for a campfire. Greyback was like a furnace though and he curled around her, one hand spread over her possessively, her bindings on her wrists again to stop her escaping during sleep.
He would tell her stories then, speaking poetry in languages she did not know, telling of kings and heroes.
By day she would force more of the horrid meat cakes down her throat, and drink sparingly of the waterskin Greyback gave her. It was little and less, and her head began to pound. She felt dizzy and her mouth was dry, and Greyback opened the vein of his horse, bidding her drink the hot, salty lifeblood of the animal.
The blood revived her a little, but it was still a terrible existence. Sansa dreaded each day, and the only comfort she could find, perverse as it was, were the stories Greyback would tell as they lay together at night.
How she longed to bathe, to have a moment to herself, to have servants tend to her or to hear her mother's signing as they shared an embrace. Not to have a savage bind her up like a pig to the slaughter, or to watch her constantly, even when she had to make water or use the flat Barrowland ground as a privy.
Her horse died on the third day, but Greyback swiftly moved her over to his own, pushing the beast all the harder. It seemed there was method to this though, for soon enough the hellish experience of the Barrowlands was behind her, and Barrowtown to the fore.
They didn't approach the town. Just like with Torrhen's Square, Greyback feared it, feared discovery. Soon though they came to a large stable, out on the edge of the town's surroundings, probably a day's ride away.
The stolen horse they both sat astride was weaving and blowing, and Sansa didn't think it would last any longer than her own horse had.
"We'll stop here." Greyback said.
The prospect of a roof over their heads at night instead of another fitful, shivering slumber with Greyback's breath in her ear warmed her a little.
It was a large farm, with a large farmhouse, three stories tall and with several outbuildings. The walls were handsome, whitewashed and shining in the sunlight, while there was glass in some of the windows, the bottom of the panes were thicker from where the glass had run down.
That made Sansa sad. She remembered asking Maester Luwin why glass did that, remembered the glass in the sept her father had built for her mother.
She remembered home.
A sandy-haired young man had seen them, and was making his way toward them. Greyback carried Sansa off the horse, stepping down himself after to speak with the man.
Sansa noticed Greyback had dismounted on one side of the horse, toward the farmhand, while he'd put her on the other side. It wasn't as if the man would recognise her but it was clever anyway. It made her feel stupid and small again.
"We've ridden far." Greyback was saying, and his words brought Sansa back to the world. "Do you have oats and feed for my horse? I have silver."
"We do at that." the farmer said. Sansa drew around the stolen horse to look at him from under her hood. He was young, his face freckled and tanned from working in the sun all summer. She couldn't place his age, but he couldn't be more than twenty. "Come over to the stables and I'll see to it myself. You can discuss payment with my father. Where've you come from? From your approach it looked like you came from the Kingsroad."
Greyback ignored the question, pushing on. "And my daughter here, do you have women on the farm? I'd have her taken care of, do you have a well, somewhere to draw bathing water?" he demanded of the farmhand.
"Aye, my sister can see to that, up at the house, send her on ahead and she'll see to it." the man said.
"How many of you are there here?" Greyback asked, looking hungrily toward the building.
"Oh, there's me and two brothers, Jerek is off at Barrowtown as a 'prentice, but my sister and my brother's wife too are here, and my father of course, though he's out in the far pasture beyond the river." concluded the man, continuing to unsaddle their horse. "This is good horseflesh." he mused, "You should really take care of her better!"
Greyback had come up behind him quietly, drawing his knife, "That won't matter soon enough…"
The savage looked at her before he struck. He fixed her to the spot with his terrible eyes.
The young man died in front of her. Greyback stashed his body in the stable, pitching the corpse into a haystack that lay behind a partition. Sansa could still see it, but no one would be able to outside the stable.
"Stay here, girl." Greyback ordered, and stalked away, bloody knife concealed behind his back.
Sansa knew she should say something. Knew she should run for the house, run to warn the family there of the deadly predator which was coming.
But she didn't.
She was more scared for herself than she was for the farmers.
The realisation struck Sansa like a bucket of icy water thrown over her.
Did it make her a bad person? An evil person just as bad as Greyback? Did it make her cruel and uncaring like him?
She'd said nothing, and now the farmers would surely all die.
But she couldn't help it! Greyback had looked at her and those eyes, those terrible eyes had frozen her to the spot, unable to utter even a sound as Greyback killed the first farmer.
Instead she just sat on the rushes on the floor of the stable. She didn't cry, she wasn't even sad. She just watched, hands folded in her lap, with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for herself before. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young farmhand in the roughspun tunic was nothing to her, some stranger from the Barrowlands who's name she'd never known, and in any case would have forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad.
Greyback found here there, sitting on the floor, looking at the dead man. He ignored the horse, briefly inspecting others in the stable before turning to her. He spoke to her, she heard a wolf's snarls and growls. Then he caught her up and put her over his shoulder. Her face was pressed into the brindled fur of the bearskin he wore as a cloak and he stalked toward the farmhouse.
Greyback almost threw her into a chair before the fireplace, he spoke again, but again she heard nothing. Then he slapped her, hard with the back of his hand and she tasted blood.
"Wake up, girl!" he shouted. "I'm going into Barrowtown. It's a day's ride and I'm leaving you here. Don't think to escape, you know you can't… If you think to try it, look at the bodies outside again and think better. There's one of the women alive still, but she won't be once I'm done with her, that'll be a good lesson for you I think."
The monster drew closer, grasping her chin between his terrible claws, "Get yourself clean and get some food. You'll be alone here for a few days, depending on how long it takes me."
She sat there for an hour or more after Greyback left. She just stared into the fire. She couldn't hear the screams outside.
Then she felt hungry, so she got up to look around.
Sansa picked through the house. She avoided the bloody train in one room where someone had been killed, and after opening one door and finding a corpse inside she shut it tight and looked away.
The pantry had a hanging slab of bacon, and the buttery had milk and cheeses. Sansa took a knife and a heavy iron skillet she had to use two hands to hold, settling it over the fire. She poked at the wood till she had it better spread out, then managed to manoeuvre the skillet onto the heat. She put butter in and it sizzled away. Then she cut strips of bacon from the slab, carrying them on a wooden plate and dumping them in with the butter.
It wouldn't be enough, she knew, so she went back into the pantry. She found a few wheels of cheese in varying states of maturity but each was a pleasant creamy colour. Then she found bread, brown which meant made of barley and rye, but with a dusting of white flour.
Sansa knew the smallfolk ate brown bread, but she was a noble and her lady mother had always inspected the bread Gage the Cook sent to table carefully, for her standards were very high.
She took half a loaf of bread and cut a chunk of the wheel of cheese she deemed the best, then she found a pot and brought that out too, and grabbed a bunch of thyme on the way out.
Sansa didn't really know how to cook, but she knew herbs were had with meat, but other than seeing the cooks at work when she and Jeyne snuck down to the kitchens to steal cakes, she'd never learnt to cook, it wasn't ladylike.
The bacon sizzled away in the butter, and Sansa tossed the herbs in. She stirred the pot with a stick hanging over the fireplace, and tore off chunks of bread for the cheese.
She was hungry, but she wouldn't demean herself and her House by eating just like that.
After half an hour she deemed the bacon done, for it'd changed colour and wasn't sizzling as much anymore. She brought it all to the stout table in the centre of the greatroom, setting the food out, wiping her face with a cloth and setting her hands over it to pray.
"We ask the Father to judge us with mercy, accepting our human frailty. We ask the Mother to bless the crops, so that we may feed ourselves and all who come to our door. We ask the Warrior to give us courage, in days of strife and turmoil. We ask the Maiden to protect virtue, to keep us from the clutches of depravity. We ask the Smith to strengthen our hands and our backs so we may finish the work required of us. We ask the Crone to guide us on our journey from darkness to darkness." she finished, unable to stop herself speaking faster as she looked at the food in hunger.
She picked up the knife and made to stab at a chunk of black bacon.
Who was 'we'? Who was she praying with? The souls of the farmers? Sansa realised she had repeated prayer her mother would say often over food.
She refused to be sad again. She thrust the knife into the bacon, imagining it was Greyback.
The bacon was burnt, she decided. She'd obviously cooked it for far too long, but that was alright, she could cook more.
She instead used the bread to mop up some of the juices, which were better. Then she took cheese and ate that too. That was good, and inside the little earthenware container she found potted fish, probably salmon.
Sansa spent the next few days by herself. She ate well, cooking better and better each time till on the last day the bacon came out almost as good as Gage's. She found a pot and peas, and made a potted dish, like that which the Starks would sometimes have at table. That was alright, though the herbs were unpleasant to eat. Perhaps she'd used the wrong ones.
At night she would stoke the fire, carrying wood from the woodpile outside. She had to walk past a corpse to do so, and on the second day she threw a blanket over it, for she didn't want to see it anymore.
She was almost happy there. She slept the best she'd slept in a long time, snuggled in the furs and covers of the largest bed in the house, probably the farmers.
One time she thought of saddling a horse, but knew she wouldn't be able to lift the heavy saddles. Then she thought to just sling a blanket over one of the mounts and ride and ride and ride.
But Greyback had warned her about such thoughts. He claimed he could track like a hound, and Sansa believed him.
She went outside, followed the trail of blood leading from one of the doors. She saw a little thing in the dirt and looked more closely.
It was a bloody nail. Ripped from a grasping hand cutting furrows in the earth as the person was dragged somewhere.
Sansa went on, following the signs of a struggle. She didn't have to walk far.
The woman was a bloody mess. She was naked, her clothes scattered around her, her breasts and thighs and female parts were mauled and ruined, and her face was pale, her lips turned blue in death.
Sansa did not try to escape.
Greyback returned on the third day, riding back in with a smile on his face.
"Girl!" he called her, for Sansa had gone out to meet him, hoping he would be kinder to her if she did. "I've brought you something!"
"Thank you, my lord." she replied.
That took Greyback aback, he cocked his head to the side and smiled. "You're in a good mood today."
Sansa didn't answer that. She didn't want to end up like the ruined woman beyond the door. "I made food. Meat and bread and a pottage." she said.
"A good mood indeed!" Greyback laughed.
Greyback ate well, Sansa had prepared everything, knowing he'd be back eventually. She had bathed, brushed her hair and put on one of the dresses she'd found, though it was a little shorter than she thought proper. Her fingers had felt thick and clumsy as she struggled with the brass fastenings without the benefit of servants.
Once he'd finished, eating enough food for three men all on his own, Greyback brought out three wrapped items. The first he gave her immediately and she unwrapped it, thanking the man courteously.
It was the Seven Pointed Star. Sansa did not see the blood on the corner of it, she did not consider how Greyback might have acquired it.
"Thank you, my lord." repeated, nodding in genuine happiness toward the man. She knew the book well, her lady mother had often taught from it and she knew all the hymns and homilies.
"Look here too." Greyback replied.
She took the other wrapping, unfolding it.
It was a fine cloak. It was warm, soft fur on the inside and lining the hood, while it had an oliy sheen to the outside to keep out the rain.
"Thank you again." she said.
The final package Greyback brought were strawberries. They were freshly picked, still hard from whatever garden he'd taken them. They sat in a little woven basket with a pretty lid and Sansa ate them with pleasure, it was the sweetest thing she'd tasted in a while and she loved such things.
Greyback watched her eat. His blue eyes followed each move of her fingers, her lips, her tongue. It made her feel like something dead was slithering over her flesh.
"We'll sleep early tonight." Greyback dictated, "Then tomorrow we'll find a boat and head down river. I mean to ride the horses well, and then after that we'll see what there is to be seen."
He stayed away from her that day, instead busying himself with ransacking the house. He dug by the posts in the walls, and for a moment Sansa didn't know what he was doing, but after the second excavation he pulled out a small chest, full of silver.
Greyback didn't even come to her bed to check on her, he sprawled out in a chair in front of the fire, dozing away in the evening, leaving Sansa to clear up.
When he woke he was full of energy. He ate half a loaf of bread and a large chunk of cheese as he looked over a map, charting the movements of the river that ran from Barrowtown to the Saltspear, and then to the sea. He didn't explain anything to her, but once again, because she made him food he didn't speak any harsh word to her. Sansa's hands ached a little as she packed away food as he instructed, by at least Greyback wasn't at her side, growling and stinking of death.
They departed as he instructed, early enough that the sun wasn't yet fully up. Three horses they took with them, the best in the stable, leaving Greyback's old stolen horse where it was. The third horse was just for their supplies, for Greyback was determined to clear the house out of anything that could be easily transported, whether it be the remaining bacon, some hard bread, one of the cheese wheels they'd not eaten fully, or the chest of silver.
For a moment Sansa let herself think that she was in a story again. That Greyback was not her murderous captor, but merely a knight or a heroic warrior from some far off land. She tried to be pleasant to him, tried to make sure she prepared food in the evening and made the fire. She tried to stop him from looking at her as something to be destroyed, like the woman beyond the door.
But as they travelled, went through villages along the river between the Barrowlands and the Rills, Sansa could feel Greyback's disquiet grow. They must by pursued, she knew that well enough, for by now her lord father would have sent riders to look for her, riders yes and perhaps ravens, to all the keeps and holdfasts in the north.
At lats they came to a stout house by the riverbank and Greyback exchanged the occupant's boat for their horses, packing all their things away and commanding her to lie low under her cloak so she wasn't seen.
The boat ride was not like a story.
Sansa had read of sea knights, the heroic mariners like Gaethalos the Gallant, Admiral of Volantis who fought the Basilisk King in the reign of King Jaeherys the Conciliator, or of Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake.
All the stories would fixate on the great magnificence of life at sea, of the stoutness yet fleetness of the ships, of the exotic locations from Yi Ti to the Summer Isles, or of the great beauty of the princesses there who might be saved. The stories would focus on the character of the captains, their romantic wanderlust which would compete with their duty toward house and home.
The skiff bobbed down the river from Barrowtown, gliding though the clear water. The river was wide enough that Sansa couldn't think to chance jumping out and trying to make it to a bank, but even if she did there was nothing to be seen and nowhere to go. The farmland and pastures around Barrowtown faded away swiftly enough, within a few hours even, and soon there was only a rocky scree of flatlands and low hills. On and on it went, and then it started to rain.
Sansa knew, intellectually, that the Sea Snake had probably dealt with storms and rain, that he would have felt the sting of sleet on his cheeks and combed away the sodden mess his hair had become, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with when it happened to her.
The rain was not a gentle kiss and a reminder of the world's love. The rain was not a silver curtain, hiding the secrets of the night. The rain was not the drumbeat of nature.
The train was her tears, icy and sorrowful.
The boat bobbed along, Greyback making to steer it at times. The rain grey harder, and from her place huddled in the bow, Sansa could see rivulets of water running down Greyback's face, into his dark whiskers.
He had a harsh face. Like before though, she saw the face of a lord in him. Cruel, powerful, yet with a restraint and focus to the savagery. He had killed at least three people, she knew that well, and sheltered the bloodstained book he'd stolen from Barrowtown beneath herself so it didn't get wet in the rain.
"How much further?" she asked weakly. She was chilled to the bone, she could feel it seeping into her chest.
"Not far." Greyback growled. "We must be halfway to the Saltspear by now, we've covered at least fifteen miles, the river is fast enough."
They slept that night under a narrow oilskin. Greyback held her close, one clawed hand over her arm. He bound her again, hand and foot so that by morning after a fitfull night of constrained sleep she was sore and wincing.
"Please, just let me go. You can make it, just let me stay here!" she begged him.
Greyback just laughed, pushing her back into the boat.
At least the rain had stopped, that much was a mercy from the Seven, Sansa thought as they went on down the river.
"Heh." Greyback grunted, and it made Sansa look up, "Look, girl, here's something that'll cheer you up."
She rose, stood in the boat.
The river was lower than the surrounding landscape and the waters were swollen with the rain besides. She could clearly see them!
A dozen riders there were, dashing across the plain. Already they were wheeling, turning toward Sansa and her captor.
She grinned, her heart swelled, she was giddy, she jumped up and down, waving her arms and shouting.
Then Greyback laughed that harsh laugh. A laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. "I won't give you up that easily, girl."
Greyback was calm, shoving her back down he set his oar against the current, driving them toward the opposite bank. Sansa's heart fell, the riders would have to go around, and she didn't know where there might be a ford.
They reached the bank and Greyback made her disembark as he caught up the packs and supplies and hurled them out of the boat. Then he took a hatchet and smashed the boat's planks. Why? Sansa couldn't work it out, but then she heard splashing from the other side of the river, turned quickly and saw the riders had reached their side and dismounted at the edge.
Several cast aside their armour and leapt into the water, making to swim the river!
They were Rysewells, from the sigils on their surcoats, but Sansa couldn't see much more. She couldn't not trust to hope though, not when Greyback unpacked a stout crossbow from his pack, set a quiver at his feet, and began shooting at the swimmers.
Where other men might use a goat's foot lever or a windlass to assist their shots, Greyback hauled manfully on the crossbow's string after each shot. He grinned as he worked, and Sansa was powerless as one by one he picked off the Rills knights. He was not accurate, not in the slightest, but a crossbow was a simple enough weapon and the knights were weighed down in the fast current.
She had grown up to the sound of steel in the yard, and scarcely a day of her life had passed without hearing the clash of sword on sword, yet somehow knowing that the fighting was real made all the difference in the world. Sansa had heard the dull thud of arrows striking a target, Theon was fond of archery after all, but now she heard it as she had never heard it before. Straw had a static sort of sound to it. There was nothing behind it, a thunk and then the arrow would lie still.
Now though the knights struggled in the shallows, trying to claw their way up. Greyback just shot more though, a dozen bolts, choosing his targets as he saw them. The quarrels thudded into the knights, piercing through the coats of mail and leather with a rasp but there were other sounds as well, grunts of pain, angry curses, shouts for help, and the moans of wounded and dying men. In the songs, the knights never screamed nor begged for mercy
Only two made it to shore. Greyback killed one with a single thrust of his long knife as the man struggled onto the rocky shoal, while the other stumbled up, drawing his longsword.
He was a handsome knight. Broad, strong, his sword was bright and it shed water as he flourished it on the shore. His hair was flowing, though sopping wet as he stood firm and an iron horsehead broach was on his chest, a Rysewell knight, from that House that ruled the west in the Rills.
It happened quickly. It was as if Sansa was remembering it, rather than watching the actions unfold before her. She'd been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan's stories come to life. Greyback was the monster and the Rysewell the true hero who would slay him. He even looked a true hero, so strong and beautiful, with the mane of his horsehead sigil burning like the dawn sun, and clear blue eyes, proud in their conviction.
With a rasp, Greyback shot him in the belly. The bolt pierced his guts and the knight made to rip it out, sending gouts of blood flowing down his legs. He stepped forward raising his sword.
Another bolt, this one puncturing the knight's side, sinking into the nose of the horse on his surcoat.
The knight stepped again, then stumbled as another bolt thudded into his shoulder. The Rysewell collapsed and Greyback laughed, stepping forward himself. He knocked the knight's sword aside with a contemptuous blow of his crossbow, then came behind the knight, grasping the man's face in an iron grip, turning him toward Sansa as the man's breath wheezed from his body.
"Have you nothing to say to him, girl?" Greyback demanded.
Sansa looked into the pained blue eyes of the hero.
"You were gallant, Ser." she said, and she was proud her voice didn't waver.
"My lady…" wheezed the knight, and then Greyback's hand tightened around his throat.
With a roar of triumph the wildling tore the Rysewell's throat from his neck, hurling the chuck of flesh into the river and kicking the bleeding corpse forward.
The Rysewell's blood flowed freely out, into the sand. It was scarlet at first, then swiftly the water ebbing at the sand washing it away, first vermillion, then pink and finally just a reddish hue as the river carried his life away.
The remaining horsemen were screaming now, shouting curses and dooms upon Greyback's soul, condemning him to the Seven Hells and tearing at their hair in grief. They took up bows, sending shafts across the river, before Greyback seized Sansa bodily, forcing the knights to hold lest they hit her.
"Can you feel it, girl?" the monster asked, fetid breath in her ear smelling like a mound of corpses. "The yearning? Do you want to be strong, girl? I can give you that…"
"I will take nothing from you, demon!" the girl struggled.
Had she said that? She had not meant to.
Greyback was untiring. He forced her to walk at first, carrying both their packs over his great shoulders. They hiked away from the river swiftly, and when she fell and cried out he grabbed her too, throwing her over his shoulders and going on, his long legs eating up the distance swiftly over the hills, through long grasses that tickled her face and through gnarled, mossy woodland of ancient trees and flat stones.
The terrain was strange, there were low hills which seemed to be made of layers of rock, pitted and worn by millennia of erosion. Vegetation was scarce, with only small scrubs and little purple flowers growing here and there.
The land had great cracks in it, Sansa didn't know why, but when Greyback stopped to rest she wanted to just fall into one of those cracks, fall into the warm embrace of the earth, fall into safety and darkness.
She dreamed of it that night, as Fenrir kept watch from a hight stone and she shivered in her cloak. He had not allowed her a fire, only told her to bundle herself up, and so she did, wedging herself in a crevice away from the wind. She watched the moon rise, almost full but gravid with promise.
Sansa dreamed that the earth opened behind her, that some dark thing drew her in. She dreamed that the roots of the forests of the world were all connected, that blood flowed through them as it did in a body. She could taste it, dark and languid, then living and vital when she drew near. She could feel something there, out in the darkness of the cave behind her.
Then she woke. She could taste blood and she realised she'd bitten her tongue.
Greyback made her walk that day, they picked their way down the stony hill, through a long valley and under the cover of yet more twisting trunks and shadowed boughs.
She tried to remember the dream, but it was like trying to catch rain in her fingers. The dream faded, and Greyback was still there
Over brooks then went, brushing at ferns spread out like grasping hands, over small rivers and skirting a sort of green bog, till they came up to more hills. As Sansa looked back she could see it, a thunderhead of dour cloud, racing across the sky.
Greyback pushed her hard up the hill, he would grasp her arm with his clawed hand, hauling her up over stones where she struggled, or pushing her on ahead when he thought she was going to slowly. Finally though they came to a small, sandy cave and made to shelter from the rain that had started.
The cave was barely big enough for them both and their packs, but Greyback bade her bring out all that they'd need for the night.
She was just taking out a rather battered pie when she heard it.
Throbbing through the stony hills, she heard the calls of horns.
Had she imagined it?
Then the call came again. No, it was real!
And when she stood, coming to the mouth of the cave and shielding her eyes from the rain she could see them, men bearing lanterns and burning brands coming down the valley where they'd been that morning.
"Yes." Drawled Greyback from behind her, his great stature making him bend low, just next to her ear, his breath racing across her neck. "There's more than a hundred of them and they're gaining on us. A fine thing isn't it, to see the chivalry of the North ride out."
"Less of a fine thing for the monster they pursue." she said, thinking of the ruined woman.
"Ha!" barked her monster. "Ha!" and his laugher was horrible and gleeful. "We shall see. Tonight is the full moon. I intend to go out and kill them."
Sansa whirled, looking at him. Was he mad? Why did the moon matter? Or was he moon-touched, like some wretch who didn't know truth from fiction? "A hundred men? How? You may have had help to bear me from Winterfell, but how can you hope to fight them? The Rysewells were undone more by the river than by your accuracy, and I doubt any man can fight well when weighed down by wet clothes. How can you be so pleased? You're going to die!"
"And I'm sure you're glad of it, aren't you, girl?" Greyback laughed again, scraping one claw across her cheek before she twisted her head.
"I will not mourn you." she managed.
Night was falling, and the moon would soon rise through the storm. That would be when their pursuers would discover them, she guessed, that or the next morning.
Greyback though was making to leave. He had his hatchet and his knife in either hand, and he'd removed his bearskin cloak, dressing only in his boots, breeches and a loose shirt. He looked like a pit fighter or similar slave Sansa had read about once.
"Don't leave the cave." Greyback told her. "I'll be fighting tonight, and I'll return for you soon enough. If you leave the cave I might lose myself and get carried away, and you've seen what happens when I get carried away."
His eyes seemed to gleam in the growing darkness.
Sansa pressed herself back into the wall. The ruined woman, the image of the bloody, torn flesh forced its way into her mind.
"I will not leave the cave." she promised, and she meant it.
"Clever girl." Greyback said. He made to turn toward the storm, then came back. She heard something drop to the floor with a clatter of steel on stone, then Greyback came closer.
And closer…
She felt him kiss her, as if it was happening to another person, someone she watched. She tasted his bloody lips, his rough tongue in her mouth. She felt something hard pressing into her belly and couldn't move for fear of it. She shut her eyes tight, praying for it to stop.
And then he was gone.
The rain poured down, making a little river above the cave and a puddle at the entrance. The wind howled.
But she heard other howls. She heard wolves outside the cave, she saw something moving in the moonlight. She heard the screams of horses and of dying men, and the clash of steel.
She concentrated on the cave. The rocks were white and crowned with lichen, like the thick green hair on a sleeping giant.
Men died outside and Sansa's heart thundered.
The moon shone brightly and Sansa prayed a gallant knight would walk through the torrent, step within the cave and sweep her off her feet, bear her swiftly away to her family that she'd never have to worry about Greyback or his evil ever again.
Then she heard a movement.
But what came to the cave's entrance wasn't a knight. First came a claw, scraping at the stone. Then came the foot, bloody water running down the fur.
Then the snout and the head.
It wasn't real.
Sansa could not see it.
It wasn't real.
There would be a knight soon, some brave rider from Barrowtown or the Rills, some young lord to save her.
The beast stepped forward, it's blue eyes transfixed her, she couldn't move, she just stared at it even as she struggled to breathe under the thing's gaze.
In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm.
But there were no knights here.
Sansa knew that now…
- Location
- United Kingdom
Happy New Year and associated festive period all. Here's the penultimate chapter.
-v-
The Saltspear was in his nostrils as Greyback rode happily toward the coast.
The girl, his prize from Winterfell, was seated on the horse behind him. She started blankly at him, but he'd tied her to the horse.
He smiled back at her, then kicked his horse up a stony slope.
The coastal village unveiled itself at the edge of the world, a scattering of thatched cottages nestled among rolling sandy dunes and a sloping beach. The sunlight painted the grasses a dull gold, causing them to sway gently in the coastal breeze as though mimicking the softer waves beyond, out in the larger river that led to Blazewater Bay. Among the grasses there were pretty pockets of wildflowers and bushes of berries and gorse, spatterings of colour among the landscape.
This was the last hill before the sea, and as the werewolf reached it's summit he looked out upon the Saltspear.
To his left, off to the east was the Fever River and a large swamp, the Neck. That geography separated the North from the rest of Westeros, but that had been far too risky to chance, and Greyback hadn't wanted to spend weeks going through a swamp in any case.
He could just about see it now, the smudge of darkness that was a large frigid forest stretching along the west coast of the Neck, half bogland and peat flat, the rest dark trees and suspicious folk.
Beyond that was the Trident, the Riverlands and then down to the Crownlands. He could have turned further east, crossed the mountains into the Vale of Arryn, or perhaps west into the lands of House Lannister, but either way had been treacherous, and there was too much land to get through, and too many people who might oppose him.
No, now was the time for quiet, and that meant a stealthy exit from the North.
"We'll soon be away, girl." he said to the child, "And we'll soon have you safe."
Her lips were pale, her eyes glazed over, even as she looked at him with a sort of absent fear.
He wasn't sure what she was so offended at, he'd given her a great gift after all.
Taking a deep breath of salt air, Greyback led their horses down toward the village.
"Remember what I've told you, girl." he warned her as they rode.
Sansa Stark hadn't spoken sense for several days.
While Greyback was reasonably well practised in biting children, in the controlled transmission of lycanthropy to bodies too young to take such stress, it was always a risky procedure. He'd gotten some supplies from Barrowtown, as well as collected the bloody sap of a weirwood after hearing of its use in healing in one of Old Nan's stories, weeks ago in Winterfell.
After Greyback had smeared the sap into the girl's wounds they'd closed remarkably, setting into a hard red carapace almost, which Greyback had then bandaged and padded well.
The girl had said nothing, only looked at him with eyes that seemed hardly to see him. It didn't matter though, at least she wasn't complaining or making a fuss. Just in case though he'd threatened her well, showed her the bodies of the Northern soldiers he'd killed during the full moon and told her that if she revealed herself he'd kill more, that she held the lives of her countryfolk in her hands, purchased by her silence.
While Greyback had been relatively uncaring when he'd found in the caves the month before, allowing some of the men to escape, wounded but living, in this instance against the pursuing Barrowtown men who'd followed them down the river, Greyback had killed them all. He'd tracked them through the rocks, the few that had escaped his rampage during the storm, and seen to their deaths. Stealth was what he wanted here, and it would take weeks for anyone to find what happened to the party, and by that time Greyback would be safely away and the North in chaos.
He smiled at the memory. It had been a good night. But the best of it was to feel the girl's blood on his tongue as he made her his.
Closer to the shore, the humble shanties of the fishermen huddled together. Their exteriors, weather-beaten and worn, still bore little signs of decoration, of the pride the workers took, even among their nets, and traps strewn about in a purposeless disarray. Seagulls perched on roosts, their beady eyes fixed on the day's catch with hungry anticipation.
Greyback looked along the coast, it was all low land, but across the bay, he could see the start of hills. Perhaps in a thousand years those hill would be cliffs, he thought, then banished the notion from his mind. He had better things to worry about. Instead, he rode on, past old stone ruins, perhaps a mill or a watchtower too far from the village for anyone to bother with.
This part of the North was poorly settled and wild. Untamed pasture and grassland spread out south of Barrowtown, and the Rills were known to by a sparse land with few resources, populated mostly by sheep. The whole western shore of the North was like that, from the Wolfswood to the Stony Shore.
Greyback knew he was too unsubtle for an extended subterfuge, so he just rode in boldly, drawing the girl's horse behind him as he went.
"Bring me a healer or wise woman for the girl, she's hurt badly!" he called aloud as he stopped his horse. Several women approached as Greyback too Sansa from the horse, untying her quickly. "She's delirious." he said, "But there's a dire wound here, almost like a wolf or a bear was at her, look." he said, motioning to the girl's neck.
One of the village women approached, a stout matron in a floury apron, her light hair escaping a tight bun at the back of her neck. "What's happened here?" she demanded.
Fenrir smiled a little, it was rare for people to speak to him in such a tone, "Wildlings." he said simply, "Fetch your headman too."
Greyback concentrated on the scent of the sea. He could smell the rotting seaweed further down the beach, could smell the gutted fish on the shore and the roasting of a ham in one house somewhere in the village.
He couldn't risk his lust showing on his face. When he'd sunk his teeth into the girl it had been glorious.
But that would wait, he couldn't stand about salivating about it.
A group of men were striding up, in their middle the headman of the village, or Greyback identified him as such by his slightly better clothing. The werewolf swiftly drew the man away into a more private setting in the village's commonhouse.
"We rode out from Barrowtown two months ago. You've heard about the troubles with Wildlings in the Wolfswood?" he asked the man, speaking softly as to draw him into intimate conversation and share a secret.
"Aye, we've heard something of it from travellers." the man nodded.
"Well, it's worse than you'd think. Hundreds of Wildlings, perhaps thousands in truth." Greyback grunted, "They fought their way through the hill clans in a great battle, then came through caves to the Wolfswood. They've been raiding there, slaying whole villages. They killed two-" and Greyback rapidly thought as he decided to inflate the numbers even further. "Three hundred maybe, men under Lords Cerwyn and Tallhart."
"Three hundred!" the headman exclaimed, "How many Wildlings are there?"
Greyback just shook his head, "Not so loud." he said, "Lord Stark is worried about spreading panic, I heard it from the man himself when he spoke to us all before we went into the Wolfswood."
"None shall head such a thing from me!"
No, Greyback thought. Not yet at least. But he knew the man would spread it sooner or later, and all to the werewolf's benefit.
"Anyway, we went in under Lord Stark, but we couldn't find them. We found tracks heading south and we men in service to the Dustins went back to Barrowtown, but we'd heard that groups of strange men had been seen heading south, trying to keep quiet and out of sight." Greyback explained his lie further.
"Surely any man would know a Wildling when he saw one?" the headman protested.
"You'd think so, but there are so many queer folk in the land these days, perhaps they blend in? Only the Gods can know." Greyback shrugged. "They were making south though, that much is clear, and Lord Harwood-" he threw in a name of one of the Barrowtown subordinate nobles for good measure, "He says to us, 'go out to the coast and check the Wildlings don't make for it there'."
Greyback shrugged dramatically. "Of course, we had no idea where they might be. Parties went out into the Barrowlands, down the Kingsroad, and other places. We came to a farmhouse a few days ride from here. Everyone was dead there, and cruel things had been done to the women."
Greyback almost smiled at the memory of that.
"We tracked them though, ran them down in a gully and killed them all. There were only twenty, and this Hati Moon-Brother, their chief, wasn't among them. We found the girl there and I said I'd make for the coast to alert any villages I could, and see if any here might aid her."
It was a well concocted story, Greyback knew. It played on the prejudices and fears of the headman, and he was confident it would be believed long enough to let him do what he needed to.
"Now." Greyback continued, "You must see to your part. I'll thank you for the care of your women over the girl, but you must send out men around the village, and to others. They must be warned too. Let them come to me here and alert me of any danger, and my lads will come find me eventually."
The headman was nodding earnestly.
"Are there any suspicious folk around here?" Greyback continued, "Any knaves who might give aid to the Wildlings? Willingly or no?"
"I've not heard of any, other than a few Ironborn traders who stop here for lumber sometimes."
Perfect.
Greyback nodded his own earnest nod, "Then we must watch them especially carefully, and you must coordinate the searching. I don't know this country as well as you, and you have the authority here."
After all, flattery never hurt anyone did it?
"I must assemble the village elders." the headman protested, "I can't order men about, not without a writ from Master Berold."
Some provincial lord sworn to House Dustin of Barrowtown, Greyback assumed. Not important enough to matter…
"You'll do no such thing." Greyback rose to his full height, speaking down at the man as he stood too, a head or more shorter than Greyback. "I come here, not from your lord no, but on their behalf and with their authority." And with that Greyback touched the sigil on his stolen doublet. "You will search the coasts and the lands around and keep a keen lookout for any Wildling bands. If you don't, you'll have Hati Moon-Brother and his savages burning down this hovel before the month is out. I've seen what he does, headman, and by the Old Gods and the New, you don't want to meet him."
The headman left with murmured grumbles, but Greyback knew he'd obey. What else was there to do after all, in light of such threats by these dangerous Wildlings? Soon after though he returned, and Greyback found himself thrust before an assembly of the villagers, who were too curious to obey at once.
Greyback half suspected the headman had put them up to this. There was something in the feudal contract of the North about men being paid for service in a militia, but he didn't know enough about it to tell whether this was some play by the crowd to get coin.
He just shrugged a little and began to tell his tale, it didn't matter to him after all, he was just trying to get as many people out of the village and sow enough confusion that he could escape after all.
"And what about this girl, I saw blood on her dress!" one old man clutching a staff with one hoary hand said.
"She must have been through a great deal, for she'll not speak to me other than to say that a great beast attacked her and slaughtered many men." Greyback said, feigning concern in what he assumed was a credible way.
The villagers grumbled, "A beast?" said the headman, "What beast could kill men-at-arms?"
"As I said," Greyback repeated, "She's delirious because of her injuries, that or what's been done to her has broken her mind. Who can know such things." and he shrugged, "In any case though, I'll check on her later and see if your women can make her calm down enough to tell me something useful."
The villagers saw an authoritative soldier with the right sigil and believed him.
It was so simple sometimes, Greyback reflected. He didn't count himself as a magnificent actor. He could deceive when he wanted, and he was especially good when he was reasonably well-prepared and understood his audience. It was easy enough to use theatre, charisma, intimidation or just bribery to achieve what he needed.
That was the mistake of wizards and muggles both. They believed his legend, the harvest of which he'd cultivated over decades and reaped well after. He'd been captured multiple times, it wasn't as if he was a match for squads of Aurors after all, not on his own, and he'd often managed to escape mostly by making them underestimate him. Once he'd even pretended to be a muggle tramp, and the wizards had taken his pretended amazement at magic, his ragged clothes and his lack of wand as proof.
A longer-term deception was more difficult of course, but he'd played the cuckoo many times. It was easy enough, to attack a population, then slip in behind their defences in his human form. Wait a month in secrecy, then attack again and escape.
His stay in this village wouldn't be so long, he wanted to be off relatively quickly, away across the water toward the Iron Islands. He'd only ever had to transform at sea once, and mercifully it was on a large enough ship that he'd been able to sate himself on the crew instead of going mad, but it had been a close thing and he didn't wish for anything similar on this trip.
It was just so easy to play folk against each other.
Greyback didn't really think he had any great skill in long term deception, he was too unsubtle for that. But to persuade people to do things they already thought were in their best interest, and to threaten them with the fear of monsters in the dark if they didn't? That was easy.
It had been the same when he'd slipped into Torrhen's Square or Barrowtown. It would be foolish for him to pretend to be some unaware man, not knowing what was going on. His physicality saw to that. Yes, he could stoop or were a loose cloak, but Greyback knew he intimidated people just by standing and looking at them. Better to use that and play the harsh armsman looking for a quarrel of bolts and some hot food before heading back out, willing to share news of the terrible Hati Moon-Brother and his murderous band.
There was no inn in the village, it was too small for that and there weren't enough travellers who might need such a thing. There was a commonhouse though, and Greyback got himself set up in there, seeing to his weapons as best he could without the proper training. But he checked over each of them, laying out the death-tools on a table and cleaning them carefully. The motions were familiar to him, they were safe. He felt himself slip into an almost meditative flow as he worked, focusing on the smell of the fire, trying to escape the uncomfortably hypersensitivity that came just after a transformation.
The headman came to him, saying that Greyback's commands had been carried out, that men had been sent to the villages to the east and west and would report back in a few days, and that others would head out tomorrow to start searching carefully for any Wildlings. Greyback praised the man, but found himself tired, unwilling to engage in the deception further and begging off any more discussion, he turned to sleep. He would see to Sansa Stark, and to their escape tomorrow.
He had plans in the Iron Islands, and as he fell into sleep, Greyback lost himself with dreams of magic.
-v-
The Saltspear was in his nostrils as Greyback rode happily toward the coast.
The girl, his prize from Winterfell, was seated on the horse behind him. She started blankly at him, but he'd tied her to the horse.
He smiled back at her, then kicked his horse up a stony slope.
The coastal village unveiled itself at the edge of the world, a scattering of thatched cottages nestled among rolling sandy dunes and a sloping beach. The sunlight painted the grasses a dull gold, causing them to sway gently in the coastal breeze as though mimicking the softer waves beyond, out in the larger river that led to Blazewater Bay. Among the grasses there were pretty pockets of wildflowers and bushes of berries and gorse, spatterings of colour among the landscape.
This was the last hill before the sea, and as the werewolf reached it's summit he looked out upon the Saltspear.
To his left, off to the east was the Fever River and a large swamp, the Neck. That geography separated the North from the rest of Westeros, but that had been far too risky to chance, and Greyback hadn't wanted to spend weeks going through a swamp in any case.
He could just about see it now, the smudge of darkness that was a large frigid forest stretching along the west coast of the Neck, half bogland and peat flat, the rest dark trees and suspicious folk.
Beyond that was the Trident, the Riverlands and then down to the Crownlands. He could have turned further east, crossed the mountains into the Vale of Arryn, or perhaps west into the lands of House Lannister, but either way had been treacherous, and there was too much land to get through, and too many people who might oppose him.
No, now was the time for quiet, and that meant a stealthy exit from the North.
"We'll soon be away, girl." he said to the child, "And we'll soon have you safe."
Her lips were pale, her eyes glazed over, even as she looked at him with a sort of absent fear.
He wasn't sure what she was so offended at, he'd given her a great gift after all.
Taking a deep breath of salt air, Greyback led their horses down toward the village.
"Remember what I've told you, girl." he warned her as they rode.
Sansa Stark hadn't spoken sense for several days.
While Greyback was reasonably well practised in biting children, in the controlled transmission of lycanthropy to bodies too young to take such stress, it was always a risky procedure. He'd gotten some supplies from Barrowtown, as well as collected the bloody sap of a weirwood after hearing of its use in healing in one of Old Nan's stories, weeks ago in Winterfell.
After Greyback had smeared the sap into the girl's wounds they'd closed remarkably, setting into a hard red carapace almost, which Greyback had then bandaged and padded well.
The girl had said nothing, only looked at him with eyes that seemed hardly to see him. It didn't matter though, at least she wasn't complaining or making a fuss. Just in case though he'd threatened her well, showed her the bodies of the Northern soldiers he'd killed during the full moon and told her that if she revealed herself he'd kill more, that she held the lives of her countryfolk in her hands, purchased by her silence.
While Greyback had been relatively uncaring when he'd found in the caves the month before, allowing some of the men to escape, wounded but living, in this instance against the pursuing Barrowtown men who'd followed them down the river, Greyback had killed them all. He'd tracked them through the rocks, the few that had escaped his rampage during the storm, and seen to their deaths. Stealth was what he wanted here, and it would take weeks for anyone to find what happened to the party, and by that time Greyback would be safely away and the North in chaos.
He smiled at the memory. It had been a good night. But the best of it was to feel the girl's blood on his tongue as he made her his.
Closer to the shore, the humble shanties of the fishermen huddled together. Their exteriors, weather-beaten and worn, still bore little signs of decoration, of the pride the workers took, even among their nets, and traps strewn about in a purposeless disarray. Seagulls perched on roosts, their beady eyes fixed on the day's catch with hungry anticipation.
Greyback looked along the coast, it was all low land, but across the bay, he could see the start of hills. Perhaps in a thousand years those hill would be cliffs, he thought, then banished the notion from his mind. He had better things to worry about. Instead, he rode on, past old stone ruins, perhaps a mill or a watchtower too far from the village for anyone to bother with.
This part of the North was poorly settled and wild. Untamed pasture and grassland spread out south of Barrowtown, and the Rills were known to by a sparse land with few resources, populated mostly by sheep. The whole western shore of the North was like that, from the Wolfswood to the Stony Shore.
Greyback knew he was too unsubtle for an extended subterfuge, so he just rode in boldly, drawing the girl's horse behind him as he went.
"Bring me a healer or wise woman for the girl, she's hurt badly!" he called aloud as he stopped his horse. Several women approached as Greyback too Sansa from the horse, untying her quickly. "She's delirious." he said, "But there's a dire wound here, almost like a wolf or a bear was at her, look." he said, motioning to the girl's neck.
One of the village women approached, a stout matron in a floury apron, her light hair escaping a tight bun at the back of her neck. "What's happened here?" she demanded.
Fenrir smiled a little, it was rare for people to speak to him in such a tone, "Wildlings." he said simply, "Fetch your headman too."
Greyback concentrated on the scent of the sea. He could smell the rotting seaweed further down the beach, could smell the gutted fish on the shore and the roasting of a ham in one house somewhere in the village.
He couldn't risk his lust showing on his face. When he'd sunk his teeth into the girl it had been glorious.
But that would wait, he couldn't stand about salivating about it.
A group of men were striding up, in their middle the headman of the village, or Greyback identified him as such by his slightly better clothing. The werewolf swiftly drew the man away into a more private setting in the village's commonhouse.
"We rode out from Barrowtown two months ago. You've heard about the troubles with Wildlings in the Wolfswood?" he asked the man, speaking softly as to draw him into intimate conversation and share a secret.
"Aye, we've heard something of it from travellers." the man nodded.
"Well, it's worse than you'd think. Hundreds of Wildlings, perhaps thousands in truth." Greyback grunted, "They fought their way through the hill clans in a great battle, then came through caves to the Wolfswood. They've been raiding there, slaying whole villages. They killed two-" and Greyback rapidly thought as he decided to inflate the numbers even further. "Three hundred maybe, men under Lords Cerwyn and Tallhart."
"Three hundred!" the headman exclaimed, "How many Wildlings are there?"
Greyback just shook his head, "Not so loud." he said, "Lord Stark is worried about spreading panic, I heard it from the man himself when he spoke to us all before we went into the Wolfswood."
"None shall head such a thing from me!"
No, Greyback thought. Not yet at least. But he knew the man would spread it sooner or later, and all to the werewolf's benefit.
"Anyway, we went in under Lord Stark, but we couldn't find them. We found tracks heading south and we men in service to the Dustins went back to Barrowtown, but we'd heard that groups of strange men had been seen heading south, trying to keep quiet and out of sight." Greyback explained his lie further.
"Surely any man would know a Wildling when he saw one?" the headman protested.
"You'd think so, but there are so many queer folk in the land these days, perhaps they blend in? Only the Gods can know." Greyback shrugged. "They were making south though, that much is clear, and Lord Harwood-" he threw in a name of one of the Barrowtown subordinate nobles for good measure, "He says to us, 'go out to the coast and check the Wildlings don't make for it there'."
Greyback shrugged dramatically. "Of course, we had no idea where they might be. Parties went out into the Barrowlands, down the Kingsroad, and other places. We came to a farmhouse a few days ride from here. Everyone was dead there, and cruel things had been done to the women."
Greyback almost smiled at the memory of that.
"We tracked them though, ran them down in a gully and killed them all. There were only twenty, and this Hati Moon-Brother, their chief, wasn't among them. We found the girl there and I said I'd make for the coast to alert any villages I could, and see if any here might aid her."
It was a well concocted story, Greyback knew. It played on the prejudices and fears of the headman, and he was confident it would be believed long enough to let him do what he needed to.
"Now." Greyback continued, "You must see to your part. I'll thank you for the care of your women over the girl, but you must send out men around the village, and to others. They must be warned too. Let them come to me here and alert me of any danger, and my lads will come find me eventually."
The headman was nodding earnestly.
"Are there any suspicious folk around here?" Greyback continued, "Any knaves who might give aid to the Wildlings? Willingly or no?"
"I've not heard of any, other than a few Ironborn traders who stop here for lumber sometimes."
Perfect.
Greyback nodded his own earnest nod, "Then we must watch them especially carefully, and you must coordinate the searching. I don't know this country as well as you, and you have the authority here."
After all, flattery never hurt anyone did it?
"I must assemble the village elders." the headman protested, "I can't order men about, not without a writ from Master Berold."
Some provincial lord sworn to House Dustin of Barrowtown, Greyback assumed. Not important enough to matter…
"You'll do no such thing." Greyback rose to his full height, speaking down at the man as he stood too, a head or more shorter than Greyback. "I come here, not from your lord no, but on their behalf and with their authority." And with that Greyback touched the sigil on his stolen doublet. "You will search the coasts and the lands around and keep a keen lookout for any Wildling bands. If you don't, you'll have Hati Moon-Brother and his savages burning down this hovel before the month is out. I've seen what he does, headman, and by the Old Gods and the New, you don't want to meet him."
The headman left with murmured grumbles, but Greyback knew he'd obey. What else was there to do after all, in light of such threats by these dangerous Wildlings? Soon after though he returned, and Greyback found himself thrust before an assembly of the villagers, who were too curious to obey at once.
Greyback half suspected the headman had put them up to this. There was something in the feudal contract of the North about men being paid for service in a militia, but he didn't know enough about it to tell whether this was some play by the crowd to get coin.
He just shrugged a little and began to tell his tale, it didn't matter to him after all, he was just trying to get as many people out of the village and sow enough confusion that he could escape after all.
"And what about this girl, I saw blood on her dress!" one old man clutching a staff with one hoary hand said.
"She must have been through a great deal, for she'll not speak to me other than to say that a great beast attacked her and slaughtered many men." Greyback said, feigning concern in what he assumed was a credible way.
The villagers grumbled, "A beast?" said the headman, "What beast could kill men-at-arms?"
"As I said," Greyback repeated, "She's delirious because of her injuries, that or what's been done to her has broken her mind. Who can know such things." and he shrugged, "In any case though, I'll check on her later and see if your women can make her calm down enough to tell me something useful."
The villagers saw an authoritative soldier with the right sigil and believed him.
It was so simple sometimes, Greyback reflected. He didn't count himself as a magnificent actor. He could deceive when he wanted, and he was especially good when he was reasonably well-prepared and understood his audience. It was easy enough to use theatre, charisma, intimidation or just bribery to achieve what he needed.
That was the mistake of wizards and muggles both. They believed his legend, the harvest of which he'd cultivated over decades and reaped well after. He'd been captured multiple times, it wasn't as if he was a match for squads of Aurors after all, not on his own, and he'd often managed to escape mostly by making them underestimate him. Once he'd even pretended to be a muggle tramp, and the wizards had taken his pretended amazement at magic, his ragged clothes and his lack of wand as proof.
A longer-term deception was more difficult of course, but he'd played the cuckoo many times. It was easy enough, to attack a population, then slip in behind their defences in his human form. Wait a month in secrecy, then attack again and escape.
His stay in this village wouldn't be so long, he wanted to be off relatively quickly, away across the water toward the Iron Islands. He'd only ever had to transform at sea once, and mercifully it was on a large enough ship that he'd been able to sate himself on the crew instead of going mad, but it had been a close thing and he didn't wish for anything similar on this trip.
It was just so easy to play folk against each other.
Greyback didn't really think he had any great skill in long term deception, he was too unsubtle for that. But to persuade people to do things they already thought were in their best interest, and to threaten them with the fear of monsters in the dark if they didn't? That was easy.
It had been the same when he'd slipped into Torrhen's Square or Barrowtown. It would be foolish for him to pretend to be some unaware man, not knowing what was going on. His physicality saw to that. Yes, he could stoop or were a loose cloak, but Greyback knew he intimidated people just by standing and looking at them. Better to use that and play the harsh armsman looking for a quarrel of bolts and some hot food before heading back out, willing to share news of the terrible Hati Moon-Brother and his murderous band.
There was no inn in the village, it was too small for that and there weren't enough travellers who might need such a thing. There was a commonhouse though, and Greyback got himself set up in there, seeing to his weapons as best he could without the proper training. But he checked over each of them, laying out the death-tools on a table and cleaning them carefully. The motions were familiar to him, they were safe. He felt himself slip into an almost meditative flow as he worked, focusing on the smell of the fire, trying to escape the uncomfortably hypersensitivity that came just after a transformation.
The headman came to him, saying that Greyback's commands had been carried out, that men had been sent to the villages to the east and west and would report back in a few days, and that others would head out tomorrow to start searching carefully for any Wildlings. Greyback praised the man, but found himself tired, unwilling to engage in the deception further and begging off any more discussion, he turned to sleep. He would see to Sansa Stark, and to their escape tomorrow.
He had plans in the Iron Islands, and as he fell into sleep, Greyback lost himself with dreams of magic.
- Location
- United Kingdom
And the last chapter…
-v-
Her lord husband crossed the room, pulled back the heavy tapestries, and threw open the high narrow windows one by one, letting the night air into the chamber. The wind swirled around him as he stood facing the dark, naked and empty-handed.
The Starks were made for the cold, Ned had always said. He could never abide the head, and she'd always laughed to know that Winterfell's walls had routes of hot water through them, coming up from the earth. The Stark of Winterfell's bedroom was the warmest in the castle after all, and Catelyn pulled the furs up to her chin as she watched her husband.
He looked somehow smaller and more vulnerable, like the youth she had wed in the sept at Riverrun, long years gone.
"Ben will return today." Ned said, turning back to her. The sun was rising beyond, and she saw his haunted eyes, the deep bags under them and the pallor of his skin belying his worries.
"He'll bring news, my love." she assured him.
He was so strong, her Lord of Winter. His long face, his stern grey eyes, his commanding voice and his strong hand.
But after Greyback, Moon-Brother, whatever he sought to call himself, Ned had taken a terrible wound.
"I hope so." was all he said, before he turned to the pitcher of water beside their bed, taking a cloth and scrubbing at his skin vigorously before putting on his gambeson and swordbelt.
Where once Ned would cleanse himself daily after weapons training, now he hadn't bathed in weeks. It took too long, he said, and instead, her husband had ordered that washing things be placed in their room for the mornings so he might be up and go from his chamber faster.
The world had always weighed heavily on her husband's shoulders, for the place of the Stark of Winterfell was a harsh one, always choosing between Wildling or Ironborn raids and the encroaching cold of winter itself.
But recent events played on him even more heavily. Many a day he'd rode out with his knights and armsmen, scouring the forest in desperate chase against the Wildlings. He'd been gone two weeks recently, out searching, but to no avail.
Subsequently, her husband had busied himself in his work. He set himself to coordinating the search for the Wildlings, and for Sansa, sending ravens to all parts of the North and sending out orders. In his times of rest he would pour over maps or simply stare out of the window.
They had five children, Rickon only three while Robb was a man grown. Her husband had another child though, Jon.
She wished that it had been him taken.
Taken or killed, she cared not, but let it be the bastard that suffered, not her sweet Sansa.
"Never did I ask for the cup to pass to me." her husband had said once. That was true, for Catelyn had been promised to his brother Brandon. Ned's future had been uncertain. He'd probably have been married off, perhaps given a strong fief like Moat Cailin, but Brandon would have ruled the North.
Catelyn shook herself. It was no use thinking of has-beens and mayhapses. Instead, she dressed as swiftly as her husband, going down to the sept to pray.
Her prayers had grown longer in the last few weeks. She'd prayed for the dead men in the woods yes, but it had changed when Sansa had been taken.
She didn't like to remember it.
They'd woken, she'd made love to her husband that morning, they'd gotten up later. It had been only three years since Rickon's birth, she could still give him another son. Catelyn had gone about her business, reviewing some appointments her husband had delegated to her following the death of Ser Rodrick.
Sansa could dress by herself, and Catelyn had thought her to be at her lessons, but Septa Mordane had come down to the sept looking for her while Catelyn went to pray that day.
At first, she'd just thought her daughter had just been at some jape or game, some play with Beth Cassel or Jeyne Poole. But then she'd thrown back the covers of Sansa's bed and seen the blood…
It wasn't much, no cause to think the worst, but she'd still gone to Jory to have his men search the keep.
Sentries were questioned and watchers were interrogated.
All swore they'd not seen Sansa leave the keep.
They'd searched all that day. Catelyn had gone into the Godswood and called for her daughter while Robb and the Greyjoy boy had gone down into the crypts with torches, while Bran and Rickon had just cried, knowing something was wrong.
Maester Luwin had brought the worst news. Catelyn had asked him to once again look over her daughter's room, to see what might be seen with his greater knowledge. The man had called for a servant, telling them to make a mummer's play of attacking someone in the bed. Then Luwin had looked closely at the movements and stooped, retrieving an item from beneath the bed.
Catelyn tried not to look at it anymore. Her lord husband had set it up in his solar so that he might stare hatefully at it each day.
The bone mask of Hati Moon-Brother just stared back.
It was hell to her mothering heart.
The chief of the Wildlings had stolen the daughter of Lord Stark, and news of it roused the whole of the North. Ned had called his banners, all of them from the Rills to Last Hearth. Where once grim-faced and dour, now a fury ran through the soldiers as they swore fell oaths of bloody vengeance against the Wildlings.
There wasn't a house in the North that hadn't lost daughters to raids, whether Wildling or Ironborn, it was all the same. They were savages, striking at hearth and home, and everyone knew the story of Bael the Bard and Brandon the Daughterless.
The sept was peaceful, and Septon Chayle was a goodly man. Catelyn prayed with him till two more bells had struck, "She lives in every lover's sigh. Her smiles teach the birds to fly."
The Maiden would protect Sansa.
There was a wetness on her cheeks, and the Septon grasped her by the shoulder.
The Lady of Winterfell left him there without a word. There was much to be done, from arranging the logistics of nobles coming to Winterfell with their retinues, to her own duties about the Stark household.
Ravens cawed in the daylight and their words were evil.
Dark wings, dark words. That was what the smallfolk said.
"There is grief in this day." she told herself as she walked, and she did not care to guard her words from a group of armsmen marching past.
It had been months since Sansa's disappearance. Months of stress and searching. Months of rumours and chasing queer shadows.
Catelyn did not sleep well now. Nor did the children, though perhaps Robb had taken it best, riding with the armsmen in the Wolfswood to search for his sister.
The news had gone south too. Ned had written to his kin in the Vale, the Riverlands and the Stormlands, begging what aid they could give. Not in soldiers this time, but in news and watchfulness of ports and crossing places, or upon the Narrow Sea.
Maester Luwin had counselled against the action at first, rightly stating that the loss of his daughter to an abductor and the strike against his dignity and prestige would damage Ned's authority among the other Lords Paramount, but neither he nor Catelyn had cared. They had to get Sansa back, and do vengeance upon the Wildlings.
Even the king had sent word.
A daughter of House Stark abducted and the prospect of war? It had aroused King Robert's fury like no other news, save perhaps that Rhaegar Targaryen had somehow risen from the dead. No, Robert was coming north with his retinue to join the planning. He had been too slow in his rebellion to save his bride, Lyanna, but it was said the king had sworn an oath that Sansa would be returned back to her father's keep before he once again sat the Iron Throne.
Jon Arryn ruled in King's Landing now, and Robert had passed the Twins by the last news they had of him. Her goodbrother was an able steward, Catelyn knew that well, but-
"Cat!" a voice rang out across the yard.
Catelyn span, her heart thundering in surprise.
Before her, walking swiftly up with long strides was a tall, lean man. His voice had been hoarse, as if he'd been crying orders in a battle, but his eyes were glad.
Bryden Blackfish stepped up, pulling her into a fierce embrace which she returned with all her might.
She felt mail beneath her uncle's dark cloak, and when she pulled away she saw his grave face.
"I'm sorry, Cat." the Blackfish said, "But we'll get her back, I know it."
She didn't say anything, but her cheeks were wet again, she only hugged him, mail and all.
"Why are you hear, uncle?" she asked in surprise when she'd composed herself more.
Bryden Tully looked about them carefully, then nodded to the keep, "Best we speak of this with your lord husband."
There had been so many queer goings on that Catelyn didn't question it, leading him directly to the solar and sending for her husband.
Ned arrived soon, his face brightening as he saw Bryden. "What news, what has happened? Why is your face so grave?" he asked.
"I bear a secret message." the Blackfish said, and he fished within his leathers for a pouch, pulling out a paper and handing it to Cat.
She gave it immediately to her husband, thinking it strange that her uncle had even passed it to her in the first place, but when Ned looked with confusion, calling for Maester Luwin instead.
"What is it, my lord?" she asked.
"I know not." Ned only said.
Luwin swiftly came, examining the paper too after bidding the Blackfish greetings. "To whom was this addressed, Ser?" the Maester asked.
"To Lord-" Then her uncle paused, "In truth, Lysa told me to bring it to you, Cat."
But that seemed to strange to her. "When? Did you go down to King's Landing?" she asked him.
"Why, no!" the Blackfish said, drawn aback, "I met her at the Eyrie! Lysa returned soon after Lord Arryn's death-"
"Dead?!" Exclaimed Ned at the same time as Cat, "Jon Arryn, dead?"
"You do not know?" asked Bryden.
"No, when? How?!" Ned demanded.
"A fever, I had tell of it, for we had a bird to the Eyrie, and I heard it from Ser Vardis Egen, the captain of the guard. You must have received the same news?" Bryden insisted.
They all looked to Maester Luwin, but the slight man only shook his head, "I swear it my lord, we have received no such raven."
"And nothing from Robert either." said Ned thoughtfully.
If the King was riding swiftly, it might be that he outpaced messengers sent to find him.
Or, Cat wondered, something fouler might be afoot. She looked over to her husband, and his face was grave, she knew how much he'd loved his foster father.
"Ser." the Maester said slowly, "Let us start from the beginning."
Bryden seemed a little affronted, but he acquiesced, "Weeks ago, three weeks I suppose by now, Lysa and a party of her household passed through the Bloody Gate. I thought it strange indeed, but she went on quickly without answering any of my questions. She has always been wilful, impulsive even, so I thought little of it. A few days before that I'd heard, as I said, that Jon Arryn was dead. The news swiftly spread through the Vale and I thought perhaps to go down to King's Landing to see to Lysa and Lord Robert, and to bring him back. Lord Royce thought something similar and we'd agreed to discuss it further, but then Lysa returned."
Cat knew Lysa hadn't been as lucky as she had with Ned. Her sister loved the old Lord Arryn, but the man was indeed old, and they were often separated.
"In any case, a day later Lysa summoned me, commanded me to bring this note to you, Cat, and to travel as quietly and swiftly as I might. I took a bag of silver for fresh horses and rode hard to get here." Bryden continued.
This time Catelyn took the letter herself. She swiftly realised why neither her husband nor the Maester had been able to read it, for it was a language of her girlhood and the games she used to play with Lysa when they'd grown up in Riverrun.
"This is dire news." she said slowly. Then she took a candle and burned the note, looking up at the surprised men.
"What is it, Cat?" her uncle asked.
She took a deep breath, "Lysa writes me that Jon Arryn was murdered by the Lannisters, and further that they, with the Greyjoys, have aided the Wildlings to attack the North in order to bring chaos to the Realm."
"Gods be good!"
Cat hadn't heard who'd said it, her mind was on the letter.
At once she felt her legs wobble, and slumped into a chair.
The three were on her, her husband laying a hand on her shoulder while her uncle came to kneel beside her, putting a hand on her forehead to take her temperately.
"No, no." she said, "I'm alright. There was more… Lysa says that Sansa has been seen on the island of Harlaw, and that Greyback was seen there too."
"Greyback?" asked her uncle, "Who is Greyback? Some relation to the Lord of Pyke?"
Of course, Cat realised, while news of the abduction might have travelled, news of Fenrir Greyback might not have.
She'd only met the man once, but he'd struck her as an evil thing, a savage and a butcher, but one who might serve her husband in his combat against the Wildlings. Cat had heard about him of course, the rumours and the talk of how the people of Winterfell had called him a mage and wizard, how he'd performed blood magic in his room in the guesthouse, or how he took to queer rituals in the Godswood. Cat hadn't said anything then, trusting in her husband's judgement, but it seemed later that Hati Moon-Brother was Fenrir Greyback himself, or perhaps it was the other way around, or perhaps they were brothers. There was some connection with them certainly, for Greyback had disappeared the day Sansa had and his absence was telling, to say nothing of the model of Winterfell that had been found in his rooms, no doubt an aid to plan.
Ned had been swiftly explaining what they knew of Greyback while Cat lost herself in thoughts. It had been passing strange that Greyback could have somehow crept into the main keep, through layers of sentries and defences, and then managed to somehow abduct Sansa without raising any alarm. It might be possible, the men had conceded, that such a thing be done but it was extremely unlikely and immediately thoughts turned to other spies.
Even after questioning every stranger in Winterfell and imprisoning more than one they were no closer to gaining and understanding. No doors had been forced and no windows broken, but Maester Luwin had discovered that the Wintertown herbalist had sold a certain potion to Greyback a few days prior and that the savage had also purchased rope and commissioned a barbed hook from the smith. It seemed therefore that Greyback, being a capable man and skilled in his work was able to climb the walls or otherwise scale over the keep's defences by night and to abduct Sansa using the potion to make her sleep during the escape.
"It may well be that this wildling, Greyback, abducted your daughter." Bryden was saying, "I grant too that it seems that the Wildling forces might have been brought over the Bay of Ice by the Ironborn, or have some other alliance with them. But how does this bring us to knowing the Lannisters are involved? To what end?"
"Lysa wrote that Petyr told her." Cat explained.
That would make sense, after all. Petyr Baelish had grown up with Cat, of course he would have a care for her family, even if she'd not seen him in years, ever since he'd so foolishly challenged Brandon Stark to a duel for her hand. In truth she'd not thought about him in some time, but she knew Lysa had gotten him a position in the Gulltown customs house, and thence to the lofty position of Master of Coin on the Small Council. No doubt he maintained all sorts of connections in the ports of the world, and Harlaw was the largest and richest isle in the Iron Islands.
"Ever have the Lannisters sought wealth and influence." Ned said, "It troubles me, but it does not surprise me. The Ironborn might have thought to bring over some Wildlings or have some other agreement, there is wealth beyond the Wall after all, even if it's not in coin itself. No doubt there was some prior arrangement, and I know Bear Island has been hard pressed all this past year by raiders and pirates. If they could distract the Mormonts, it would be an easy thing to use a few longships to bring a small but disciplined force down from the Frozen Shore and land them somewhere on the outskirts of the Wolfswood. We'd wondered how they'd gotten past the Mountain Clans, but perhaps this was the way. And the Lannisters, well, to kill Jon Arryn would mean a new Hand of the King…"
"And the Queen would press for her father, Lord Tywin." Cat seized upon it too.
"But what would the ultimately plan be?" the Blackfish asked. He was the one most out of touch with the politics of the area. "Let us say the Lannisters want to acquire power, and murdered Lord Arryn, what then? Perhaps Lord Tywin would come and serve again as Hand, but why engage in this scheme to abduct your daughter? To what end? Do they seek to push you into war with the Iron Islands? They could see to that themselves, for Lannisport has a fleet of their own and armsmen enough. Why use a proxy?"
"I know not." her husband admitted. "But in any case we could not move against them. I've already received reports of Ironborn piracy recently, and we know Greyback left through the Saltspear and that would indeed take him toward the Iron Islands. Perhaps he meant to hide himself there, but now we know where he is we must see to ships. What we might think of the Lannisters might come later, but for now I must plan."
They spoke a little more, but it was true that the matters were uncertain. Cat tried to soothe them both. Her husband worried for his daughter, while her uncle was feeling offended that he'd not been trusted enough by Lysa to convey a message without it being in code. In any case though, a week later Ned had gathered all his councillors and servingmen into his solar. The room was crowded, and Cat had ordered several of the furniture items to be taken out and set in the corridor for the duration of the meeting.
Her husband stood before his table, a map of the north before him. Cat sat to his right, and Maester Luwin to his left. There to was her uncle, the Blackfish, as well as Benjen Stark all dressed in black. Jory Cassel was there as Captain of the Guard, and Hallis Mollen had been appointed master-at-arms in place of poor Ser Rodrick.
"What we speak of now must not leave this room." her husband began, and his voice was solemn. "I would have your oaths on it."
All gave them, bowing respectfully.
"First I shall speak of what's happened." Eddard Stark said, "Then of what will happen. I will tell you think you may know, and others you may not. I will say though that these things have the potential to harm us dearly, if we falter, so let us all be steadfast. Winter is Coming."
"Winter is Coming." they all echoed.
"First, it seems now that the Wildlings are in greater numbers and organisation that we had realised. That there is at least one King-Beyond-the-Wall, and that they have connections in the South too. The Wildling Hati Moon-Brother has led a band of Wildlings, somewhere in the region of five hundred strong, over the Bay of Ice, likely aided by the Ironborn." Ned explained.
He spoke in clipped sentences, an iron control in his voice.
"We know that the Wildlings landed on the Stony Shore months ago and headed into the Wolfswood. There they made their preparations and planned their assault, beginning with the destruction of a village. This roused us, but it seems now that it was a ruse to draw us in. Alas, we followed, and Lords Tallhart and Cerwyn are dead because of it. There was another slaughter, the Battle of the Caves as you will all know. So far we've killed at least a hundred bandits, but often it's been unclear whether they were wildlings at all or whether they were part of Moon-Brother's band. A man we initially thought was too obvious to be a spy, Fenrir Greyback, may in truth be this Hati Moon-Brother, or may be in some way connected to him. Greyback came to Winterfell offering news and aid, which I accepted. He then posed as a wizard or eccentric for almost a month, before abducting my daughter from the keep. We pursued him into the Wolfswood, for that was where we thought he'd gone. While searching many more were killed, like to the way men were killed in the Battle of the Caves. The Wildlings are known to employ beasts in battle, and there's been many sightings of wolves or bears that they've tamed, or of men in fur cloaks or wearing the skulls of beasts."
Ned sighed. She knew he'd not seen any of these bearskin warriors himself, but he'd been frustrated by the reports of monsters in the woods. They knew Moon-Brother used subterfuge to deceive his pursuers, and Benjen had given his opinions on the 'wargs' from Beyond-the-Wall. There was talk of such things in legends, but Maester Luwin had stepped in, pointing out that it would simply be Wildlings who had tamed beasts, rather than some special magic.
Her husband had even had to execute several men for desertion, men who claimed they'd seen a man transform into a wolf under moonlight and attack their comrades. The men had run and it was clear the battle had broken their minds.
"However, we know now that Greyback moved south, not north. The alliance Moon-Brother has with the Ironborn has been made clear, for as Greyback moved south he went quickly. He and any accomplices he had destroyed a farmhouse in Barrowtown lands, as well as made several other murders on their way, stealing what they could and moving on swiftly. They made for the coast and Greyback himself killed Roger Rysewell as the boy tried to cross a river. Rysewells and Barrowtown men joined forces, pursuing Greyback into a gully near the coast. They did not prevail." Ned said.
Those reports had been harsh to hear. It seemed that Greyback had allies waiting in the area and had ambushed the Northerners with great slaughter. By the time the battlefield had been found the wolves and crows had been at the bodies, and the reports had only mentioned carnage.
"Greyback, with either a force of Wildlings he'd been leading, or a force of Ironborn he met up with, slew the joint company and made further south. There he posed as a man-at-arms, commanding the villages along the shore to bring him news. Alas, they knew to do nothing better and aided him, and with him a girl he supposedly rescued from the Wildlings. Within two days though they were both gone, and with them several Ironborn ships in the area who'd been posing as traders. A week after that, two galleys out of Seaguard went missing and dead men with the Mallister eagle on their surcoats washed ashore around Sea Dragon Point. After that, I've had trusted news that Greyback has been sighted with my daughter on Harlaw." Ned sighed at the end of it, the news wearing on him.
He drew breath, meeting the eyes of his advisors, slowly moving from one to the other.
"What you do not know yet is that all these events appear to have been organised by the Lannisters. To what end, we do not know, perhaps to draw the king into a battle and slay him, allowing Prince Joffrey to take over and Lannisters to acquire influence in the capital. I know not. What we must know though is that the Wildlings are gathering, that the Ironborn hold my daughter, and that the Lannisters mean to destroy the North and seize the Realm. This will not stand." and her husband's voice grew in strength as he spoke. "Ben will lead a force of Umbers and Karstarks north beyond the Wall to shatter the Wildlings for a generation. I, in joined arms with my goodfather, Hoster Tully, will go with go with King Robert to the Iron Islands and demand an explanation. This will likely come to war, and we must be prepared for any Lannister treachery. I do not mean to see the Ironborn or the Wildlings pose a threat to the North in my lifetime. We must arms and train men enough before winter that we can deal them a blow so hard, they will not rise again. That is what I promise, and that is what we will do."
The North Remembers.
-v-
And that's where we'll leave it for now.
I'm happy to count this as a successful project. I've heard about NaNoWriMo since I started writing years ago, but I'd never participated before. I started a bit late but I did manage to get the majority of the 50k finished within a month, and I'm pretty happy with the quality of the story.
I tried a somewhat different writing style here, for example I've put a lot more description of smells and sensations because the main PoV is a werewolf and has enhanced senses. I'd welcome feedback on that, as well as how people feel this first act has come together. As a reflection I'd say I agree with some points made that Greyback has had it too easy, which I think is partly why I wanted to show Sansa's perspective in the big 10k chapter. That was also interesting to write about a traumatised person dealing with their situation, and a person who is trying to seek agency and autonomy within constraints.
I very much enjoyed subverting the usual 'Harry helps the Starks' type stories, and I'm glad people were surprised with how things went. I wanted to subvert expectations but also write something interesting that people would actually want to read.
I think this is also the first time I've written an actual evil character, rather than a misguided character or someone who might just be perceived to do evil sometimes. It's been an educational experience to write about Greyback's struggles without trying to make him seem less evil. I have however leant into things like his political angle. He's hardly the hero of his own story, but he does at least have non-evil aspects of his character.
Anyway, as mentioned previously the poll is up on patreon currently regarding which story to do next. I've got lots of ideas so I was planning to write 20k for each and then post that over this year potentially, along with my existing projects. Regardless of the results of that though, I will eventually be returning to this story as I enjoyed writing it. Some things to come up would be Greyback's continued experiments, the conflict between the Iron Islands and the North, as well as Sansa's growing agency as a werewolf, and eventually the impacts of the werewolf virus spreading in Westeros.
As I said though, I'll leave it there for the moment. Feedback welcome.
-v-
Her lord husband crossed the room, pulled back the heavy tapestries, and threw open the high narrow windows one by one, letting the night air into the chamber. The wind swirled around him as he stood facing the dark, naked and empty-handed.
The Starks were made for the cold, Ned had always said. He could never abide the head, and she'd always laughed to know that Winterfell's walls had routes of hot water through them, coming up from the earth. The Stark of Winterfell's bedroom was the warmest in the castle after all, and Catelyn pulled the furs up to her chin as she watched her husband.
He looked somehow smaller and more vulnerable, like the youth she had wed in the sept at Riverrun, long years gone.
"Ben will return today." Ned said, turning back to her. The sun was rising beyond, and she saw his haunted eyes, the deep bags under them and the pallor of his skin belying his worries.
"He'll bring news, my love." she assured him.
He was so strong, her Lord of Winter. His long face, his stern grey eyes, his commanding voice and his strong hand.
But after Greyback, Moon-Brother, whatever he sought to call himself, Ned had taken a terrible wound.
"I hope so." was all he said, before he turned to the pitcher of water beside their bed, taking a cloth and scrubbing at his skin vigorously before putting on his gambeson and swordbelt.
Where once Ned would cleanse himself daily after weapons training, now he hadn't bathed in weeks. It took too long, he said, and instead, her husband had ordered that washing things be placed in their room for the mornings so he might be up and go from his chamber faster.
The world had always weighed heavily on her husband's shoulders, for the place of the Stark of Winterfell was a harsh one, always choosing between Wildling or Ironborn raids and the encroaching cold of winter itself.
But recent events played on him even more heavily. Many a day he'd rode out with his knights and armsmen, scouring the forest in desperate chase against the Wildlings. He'd been gone two weeks recently, out searching, but to no avail.
Subsequently, her husband had busied himself in his work. He set himself to coordinating the search for the Wildlings, and for Sansa, sending ravens to all parts of the North and sending out orders. In his times of rest he would pour over maps or simply stare out of the window.
They had five children, Rickon only three while Robb was a man grown. Her husband had another child though, Jon.
She wished that it had been him taken.
Taken or killed, she cared not, but let it be the bastard that suffered, not her sweet Sansa.
"Never did I ask for the cup to pass to me." her husband had said once. That was true, for Catelyn had been promised to his brother Brandon. Ned's future had been uncertain. He'd probably have been married off, perhaps given a strong fief like Moat Cailin, but Brandon would have ruled the North.
Catelyn shook herself. It was no use thinking of has-beens and mayhapses. Instead, she dressed as swiftly as her husband, going down to the sept to pray.
Her prayers had grown longer in the last few weeks. She'd prayed for the dead men in the woods yes, but it had changed when Sansa had been taken.
She didn't like to remember it.
They'd woken, she'd made love to her husband that morning, they'd gotten up later. It had been only three years since Rickon's birth, she could still give him another son. Catelyn had gone about her business, reviewing some appointments her husband had delegated to her following the death of Ser Rodrick.
Sansa could dress by herself, and Catelyn had thought her to be at her lessons, but Septa Mordane had come down to the sept looking for her while Catelyn went to pray that day.
At first, she'd just thought her daughter had just been at some jape or game, some play with Beth Cassel or Jeyne Poole. But then she'd thrown back the covers of Sansa's bed and seen the blood…
It wasn't much, no cause to think the worst, but she'd still gone to Jory to have his men search the keep.
Sentries were questioned and watchers were interrogated.
All swore they'd not seen Sansa leave the keep.
They'd searched all that day. Catelyn had gone into the Godswood and called for her daughter while Robb and the Greyjoy boy had gone down into the crypts with torches, while Bran and Rickon had just cried, knowing something was wrong.
Maester Luwin had brought the worst news. Catelyn had asked him to once again look over her daughter's room, to see what might be seen with his greater knowledge. The man had called for a servant, telling them to make a mummer's play of attacking someone in the bed. Then Luwin had looked closely at the movements and stooped, retrieving an item from beneath the bed.
Catelyn tried not to look at it anymore. Her lord husband had set it up in his solar so that he might stare hatefully at it each day.
The bone mask of Hati Moon-Brother just stared back.
It was hell to her mothering heart.
The chief of the Wildlings had stolen the daughter of Lord Stark, and news of it roused the whole of the North. Ned had called his banners, all of them from the Rills to Last Hearth. Where once grim-faced and dour, now a fury ran through the soldiers as they swore fell oaths of bloody vengeance against the Wildlings.
There wasn't a house in the North that hadn't lost daughters to raids, whether Wildling or Ironborn, it was all the same. They were savages, striking at hearth and home, and everyone knew the story of Bael the Bard and Brandon the Daughterless.
The sept was peaceful, and Septon Chayle was a goodly man. Catelyn prayed with him till two more bells had struck, "She lives in every lover's sigh. Her smiles teach the birds to fly."
The Maiden would protect Sansa.
There was a wetness on her cheeks, and the Septon grasped her by the shoulder.
The Lady of Winterfell left him there without a word. There was much to be done, from arranging the logistics of nobles coming to Winterfell with their retinues, to her own duties about the Stark household.
Ravens cawed in the daylight and their words were evil.
Dark wings, dark words. That was what the smallfolk said.
"There is grief in this day." she told herself as she walked, and she did not care to guard her words from a group of armsmen marching past.
It had been months since Sansa's disappearance. Months of stress and searching. Months of rumours and chasing queer shadows.
Catelyn did not sleep well now. Nor did the children, though perhaps Robb had taken it best, riding with the armsmen in the Wolfswood to search for his sister.
The news had gone south too. Ned had written to his kin in the Vale, the Riverlands and the Stormlands, begging what aid they could give. Not in soldiers this time, but in news and watchfulness of ports and crossing places, or upon the Narrow Sea.
Maester Luwin had counselled against the action at first, rightly stating that the loss of his daughter to an abductor and the strike against his dignity and prestige would damage Ned's authority among the other Lords Paramount, but neither he nor Catelyn had cared. They had to get Sansa back, and do vengeance upon the Wildlings.
Even the king had sent word.
A daughter of House Stark abducted and the prospect of war? It had aroused King Robert's fury like no other news, save perhaps that Rhaegar Targaryen had somehow risen from the dead. No, Robert was coming north with his retinue to join the planning. He had been too slow in his rebellion to save his bride, Lyanna, but it was said the king had sworn an oath that Sansa would be returned back to her father's keep before he once again sat the Iron Throne.
Jon Arryn ruled in King's Landing now, and Robert had passed the Twins by the last news they had of him. Her goodbrother was an able steward, Catelyn knew that well, but-
"Cat!" a voice rang out across the yard.
Catelyn span, her heart thundering in surprise.
Before her, walking swiftly up with long strides was a tall, lean man. His voice had been hoarse, as if he'd been crying orders in a battle, but his eyes were glad.
Bryden Blackfish stepped up, pulling her into a fierce embrace which she returned with all her might.
She felt mail beneath her uncle's dark cloak, and when she pulled away she saw his grave face.
"I'm sorry, Cat." the Blackfish said, "But we'll get her back, I know it."
She didn't say anything, but her cheeks were wet again, she only hugged him, mail and all.
"Why are you hear, uncle?" she asked in surprise when she'd composed herself more.
Bryden Tully looked about them carefully, then nodded to the keep, "Best we speak of this with your lord husband."
There had been so many queer goings on that Catelyn didn't question it, leading him directly to the solar and sending for her husband.
Ned arrived soon, his face brightening as he saw Bryden. "What news, what has happened? Why is your face so grave?" he asked.
"I bear a secret message." the Blackfish said, and he fished within his leathers for a pouch, pulling out a paper and handing it to Cat.
She gave it immediately to her husband, thinking it strange that her uncle had even passed it to her in the first place, but when Ned looked with confusion, calling for Maester Luwin instead.
"What is it, my lord?" she asked.
"I know not." Ned only said.
Luwin swiftly came, examining the paper too after bidding the Blackfish greetings. "To whom was this addressed, Ser?" the Maester asked.
"To Lord-" Then her uncle paused, "In truth, Lysa told me to bring it to you, Cat."
But that seemed to strange to her. "When? Did you go down to King's Landing?" she asked him.
"Why, no!" the Blackfish said, drawn aback, "I met her at the Eyrie! Lysa returned soon after Lord Arryn's death-"
"Dead?!" Exclaimed Ned at the same time as Cat, "Jon Arryn, dead?"
"You do not know?" asked Bryden.
"No, when? How?!" Ned demanded.
"A fever, I had tell of it, for we had a bird to the Eyrie, and I heard it from Ser Vardis Egen, the captain of the guard. You must have received the same news?" Bryden insisted.
They all looked to Maester Luwin, but the slight man only shook his head, "I swear it my lord, we have received no such raven."
"And nothing from Robert either." said Ned thoughtfully.
If the King was riding swiftly, it might be that he outpaced messengers sent to find him.
Or, Cat wondered, something fouler might be afoot. She looked over to her husband, and his face was grave, she knew how much he'd loved his foster father.
"Ser." the Maester said slowly, "Let us start from the beginning."
Bryden seemed a little affronted, but he acquiesced, "Weeks ago, three weeks I suppose by now, Lysa and a party of her household passed through the Bloody Gate. I thought it strange indeed, but she went on quickly without answering any of my questions. She has always been wilful, impulsive even, so I thought little of it. A few days before that I'd heard, as I said, that Jon Arryn was dead. The news swiftly spread through the Vale and I thought perhaps to go down to King's Landing to see to Lysa and Lord Robert, and to bring him back. Lord Royce thought something similar and we'd agreed to discuss it further, but then Lysa returned."
Cat knew Lysa hadn't been as lucky as she had with Ned. Her sister loved the old Lord Arryn, but the man was indeed old, and they were often separated.
"In any case, a day later Lysa summoned me, commanded me to bring this note to you, Cat, and to travel as quietly and swiftly as I might. I took a bag of silver for fresh horses and rode hard to get here." Bryden continued.
This time Catelyn took the letter herself. She swiftly realised why neither her husband nor the Maester had been able to read it, for it was a language of her girlhood and the games she used to play with Lysa when they'd grown up in Riverrun.
"This is dire news." she said slowly. Then she took a candle and burned the note, looking up at the surprised men.
"What is it, Cat?" her uncle asked.
She took a deep breath, "Lysa writes me that Jon Arryn was murdered by the Lannisters, and further that they, with the Greyjoys, have aided the Wildlings to attack the North in order to bring chaos to the Realm."
"Gods be good!"
Cat hadn't heard who'd said it, her mind was on the letter.
At once she felt her legs wobble, and slumped into a chair.
The three were on her, her husband laying a hand on her shoulder while her uncle came to kneel beside her, putting a hand on her forehead to take her temperately.
"No, no." she said, "I'm alright. There was more… Lysa says that Sansa has been seen on the island of Harlaw, and that Greyback was seen there too."
"Greyback?" asked her uncle, "Who is Greyback? Some relation to the Lord of Pyke?"
Of course, Cat realised, while news of the abduction might have travelled, news of Fenrir Greyback might not have.
She'd only met the man once, but he'd struck her as an evil thing, a savage and a butcher, but one who might serve her husband in his combat against the Wildlings. Cat had heard about him of course, the rumours and the talk of how the people of Winterfell had called him a mage and wizard, how he'd performed blood magic in his room in the guesthouse, or how he took to queer rituals in the Godswood. Cat hadn't said anything then, trusting in her husband's judgement, but it seemed later that Hati Moon-Brother was Fenrir Greyback himself, or perhaps it was the other way around, or perhaps they were brothers. There was some connection with them certainly, for Greyback had disappeared the day Sansa had and his absence was telling, to say nothing of the model of Winterfell that had been found in his rooms, no doubt an aid to plan.
Ned had been swiftly explaining what they knew of Greyback while Cat lost herself in thoughts. It had been passing strange that Greyback could have somehow crept into the main keep, through layers of sentries and defences, and then managed to somehow abduct Sansa without raising any alarm. It might be possible, the men had conceded, that such a thing be done but it was extremely unlikely and immediately thoughts turned to other spies.
Even after questioning every stranger in Winterfell and imprisoning more than one they were no closer to gaining and understanding. No doors had been forced and no windows broken, but Maester Luwin had discovered that the Wintertown herbalist had sold a certain potion to Greyback a few days prior and that the savage had also purchased rope and commissioned a barbed hook from the smith. It seemed therefore that Greyback, being a capable man and skilled in his work was able to climb the walls or otherwise scale over the keep's defences by night and to abduct Sansa using the potion to make her sleep during the escape.
"It may well be that this wildling, Greyback, abducted your daughter." Bryden was saying, "I grant too that it seems that the Wildling forces might have been brought over the Bay of Ice by the Ironborn, or have some other alliance with them. But how does this bring us to knowing the Lannisters are involved? To what end?"
"Lysa wrote that Petyr told her." Cat explained.
That would make sense, after all. Petyr Baelish had grown up with Cat, of course he would have a care for her family, even if she'd not seen him in years, ever since he'd so foolishly challenged Brandon Stark to a duel for her hand. In truth she'd not thought about him in some time, but she knew Lysa had gotten him a position in the Gulltown customs house, and thence to the lofty position of Master of Coin on the Small Council. No doubt he maintained all sorts of connections in the ports of the world, and Harlaw was the largest and richest isle in the Iron Islands.
"Ever have the Lannisters sought wealth and influence." Ned said, "It troubles me, but it does not surprise me. The Ironborn might have thought to bring over some Wildlings or have some other agreement, there is wealth beyond the Wall after all, even if it's not in coin itself. No doubt there was some prior arrangement, and I know Bear Island has been hard pressed all this past year by raiders and pirates. If they could distract the Mormonts, it would be an easy thing to use a few longships to bring a small but disciplined force down from the Frozen Shore and land them somewhere on the outskirts of the Wolfswood. We'd wondered how they'd gotten past the Mountain Clans, but perhaps this was the way. And the Lannisters, well, to kill Jon Arryn would mean a new Hand of the King…"
"And the Queen would press for her father, Lord Tywin." Cat seized upon it too.
"But what would the ultimately plan be?" the Blackfish asked. He was the one most out of touch with the politics of the area. "Let us say the Lannisters want to acquire power, and murdered Lord Arryn, what then? Perhaps Lord Tywin would come and serve again as Hand, but why engage in this scheme to abduct your daughter? To what end? Do they seek to push you into war with the Iron Islands? They could see to that themselves, for Lannisport has a fleet of their own and armsmen enough. Why use a proxy?"
"I know not." her husband admitted. "But in any case we could not move against them. I've already received reports of Ironborn piracy recently, and we know Greyback left through the Saltspear and that would indeed take him toward the Iron Islands. Perhaps he meant to hide himself there, but now we know where he is we must see to ships. What we might think of the Lannisters might come later, but for now I must plan."
They spoke a little more, but it was true that the matters were uncertain. Cat tried to soothe them both. Her husband worried for his daughter, while her uncle was feeling offended that he'd not been trusted enough by Lysa to convey a message without it being in code. In any case though, a week later Ned had gathered all his councillors and servingmen into his solar. The room was crowded, and Cat had ordered several of the furniture items to be taken out and set in the corridor for the duration of the meeting.
Her husband stood before his table, a map of the north before him. Cat sat to his right, and Maester Luwin to his left. There to was her uncle, the Blackfish, as well as Benjen Stark all dressed in black. Jory Cassel was there as Captain of the Guard, and Hallis Mollen had been appointed master-at-arms in place of poor Ser Rodrick.
"What we speak of now must not leave this room." her husband began, and his voice was solemn. "I would have your oaths on it."
All gave them, bowing respectfully.
"First I shall speak of what's happened." Eddard Stark said, "Then of what will happen. I will tell you think you may know, and others you may not. I will say though that these things have the potential to harm us dearly, if we falter, so let us all be steadfast. Winter is Coming."
"Winter is Coming." they all echoed.
"First, it seems now that the Wildlings are in greater numbers and organisation that we had realised. That there is at least one King-Beyond-the-Wall, and that they have connections in the South too. The Wildling Hati Moon-Brother has led a band of Wildlings, somewhere in the region of five hundred strong, over the Bay of Ice, likely aided by the Ironborn." Ned explained.
He spoke in clipped sentences, an iron control in his voice.
"We know that the Wildlings landed on the Stony Shore months ago and headed into the Wolfswood. There they made their preparations and planned their assault, beginning with the destruction of a village. This roused us, but it seems now that it was a ruse to draw us in. Alas, we followed, and Lords Tallhart and Cerwyn are dead because of it. There was another slaughter, the Battle of the Caves as you will all know. So far we've killed at least a hundred bandits, but often it's been unclear whether they were wildlings at all or whether they were part of Moon-Brother's band. A man we initially thought was too obvious to be a spy, Fenrir Greyback, may in truth be this Hati Moon-Brother, or may be in some way connected to him. Greyback came to Winterfell offering news and aid, which I accepted. He then posed as a wizard or eccentric for almost a month, before abducting my daughter from the keep. We pursued him into the Wolfswood, for that was where we thought he'd gone. While searching many more were killed, like to the way men were killed in the Battle of the Caves. The Wildlings are known to employ beasts in battle, and there's been many sightings of wolves or bears that they've tamed, or of men in fur cloaks or wearing the skulls of beasts."
Ned sighed. She knew he'd not seen any of these bearskin warriors himself, but he'd been frustrated by the reports of monsters in the woods. They knew Moon-Brother used subterfuge to deceive his pursuers, and Benjen had given his opinions on the 'wargs' from Beyond-the-Wall. There was talk of such things in legends, but Maester Luwin had stepped in, pointing out that it would simply be Wildlings who had tamed beasts, rather than some special magic.
Her husband had even had to execute several men for desertion, men who claimed they'd seen a man transform into a wolf under moonlight and attack their comrades. The men had run and it was clear the battle had broken their minds.
"However, we know now that Greyback moved south, not north. The alliance Moon-Brother has with the Ironborn has been made clear, for as Greyback moved south he went quickly. He and any accomplices he had destroyed a farmhouse in Barrowtown lands, as well as made several other murders on their way, stealing what they could and moving on swiftly. They made for the coast and Greyback himself killed Roger Rysewell as the boy tried to cross a river. Rysewells and Barrowtown men joined forces, pursuing Greyback into a gully near the coast. They did not prevail." Ned said.
Those reports had been harsh to hear. It seemed that Greyback had allies waiting in the area and had ambushed the Northerners with great slaughter. By the time the battlefield had been found the wolves and crows had been at the bodies, and the reports had only mentioned carnage.
"Greyback, with either a force of Wildlings he'd been leading, or a force of Ironborn he met up with, slew the joint company and made further south. There he posed as a man-at-arms, commanding the villages along the shore to bring him news. Alas, they knew to do nothing better and aided him, and with him a girl he supposedly rescued from the Wildlings. Within two days though they were both gone, and with them several Ironborn ships in the area who'd been posing as traders. A week after that, two galleys out of Seaguard went missing and dead men with the Mallister eagle on their surcoats washed ashore around Sea Dragon Point. After that, I've had trusted news that Greyback has been sighted with my daughter on Harlaw." Ned sighed at the end of it, the news wearing on him.
He drew breath, meeting the eyes of his advisors, slowly moving from one to the other.
"What you do not know yet is that all these events appear to have been organised by the Lannisters. To what end, we do not know, perhaps to draw the king into a battle and slay him, allowing Prince Joffrey to take over and Lannisters to acquire influence in the capital. I know not. What we must know though is that the Wildlings are gathering, that the Ironborn hold my daughter, and that the Lannisters mean to destroy the North and seize the Realm. This will not stand." and her husband's voice grew in strength as he spoke. "Ben will lead a force of Umbers and Karstarks north beyond the Wall to shatter the Wildlings for a generation. I, in joined arms with my goodfather, Hoster Tully, will go with go with King Robert to the Iron Islands and demand an explanation. This will likely come to war, and we must be prepared for any Lannister treachery. I do not mean to see the Ironborn or the Wildlings pose a threat to the North in my lifetime. We must arms and train men enough before winter that we can deal them a blow so hard, they will not rise again. That is what I promise, and that is what we will do."
The North Remembers.
-v-
And that's where we'll leave it for now.
I'm happy to count this as a successful project. I've heard about NaNoWriMo since I started writing years ago, but I'd never participated before. I started a bit late but I did manage to get the majority of the 50k finished within a month, and I'm pretty happy with the quality of the story.
I tried a somewhat different writing style here, for example I've put a lot more description of smells and sensations because the main PoV is a werewolf and has enhanced senses. I'd welcome feedback on that, as well as how people feel this first act has come together. As a reflection I'd say I agree with some points made that Greyback has had it too easy, which I think is partly why I wanted to show Sansa's perspective in the big 10k chapter. That was also interesting to write about a traumatised person dealing with their situation, and a person who is trying to seek agency and autonomy within constraints.
I very much enjoyed subverting the usual 'Harry helps the Starks' type stories, and I'm glad people were surprised with how things went. I wanted to subvert expectations but also write something interesting that people would actually want to read.
I think this is also the first time I've written an actual evil character, rather than a misguided character or someone who might just be perceived to do evil sometimes. It's been an educational experience to write about Greyback's struggles without trying to make him seem less evil. I have however leant into things like his political angle. He's hardly the hero of his own story, but he does at least have non-evil aspects of his character.
Anyway, as mentioned previously the poll is up on patreon currently regarding which story to do next. I've got lots of ideas so I was planning to write 20k for each and then post that over this year potentially, along with my existing projects. Regardless of the results of that though, I will eventually be returning to this story as I enjoyed writing it. Some things to come up would be Greyback's continued experiments, the conflict between the Iron Islands and the North, as well as Sansa's growing agency as a werewolf, and eventually the impacts of the werewolf virus spreading in Westeros.
As I said though, I'll leave it there for the moment. Feedback welcome.