Wolf Age (Harry Potter x ASOIAF insert fic)

[FractiousDay]

Yeah, I think Fenrir is feeling a little too comfortable after his successes. He just eye-fucked Sansa in a room with 4-5 other people. I wouldn't be surprised if that was noticed. Now I'm wondering how he'll hold up against Valyrian steel.

Click to shrink...

I've mentioned it on another board, but Ned knows Greyback is unusual so him continuing to be weird isn't that odd. He massively dissproves if he does see it, but he's not the sort of guy to chop someone's head off just for looking at his daughter. Additionally, two of his friends have just died so he was quite distracted and is content that Sansa would be safe within the keep, rather than outside of it where Greyback is.

 

[FractiousDay]

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.

 

[NewWillinium]

Oh I very much do not like this man.

Come on Eddard, Pooles, rescue her and become the new Wolves of the Age.

Or Catalyn like in canon. A river fish becoming a true Mother Wolf

 

[FractiousDay]

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…

 

[Paloswag]

Sansa is nothing but resilient, just like her future canon self. I'm looking forward to seeing how this shapes her character going forward. It's bleak as fuck, but I'm enjoying it.

 

[Martin Bajar]

Either the magical destruction of Lalyrua had destroyed magic's influence, or it had not.

Click to shrink...

I do believe you want to say Valyria

 

[FractiousDay]

I do believe you want to say Valyria

Click to shrink...

Yep probably. Can't be bothered to change it now though lol

 

[Martin Bajar]

Yep probably. Can't be bothered to change it now though lol

Click to shrink...

Happy new year either way (here it's 0:25 AM)

 

[BreezyWheeze]

Grim and wonderful. Thanks much for sharing this with us. Got a very OG fairy tale vibe.

One correction: it's spelled Ryswell.

 

[FractiousDay]

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.

 

[Paloswag]

The Iron Islands. Interesting. I would have thought he'd go north of the Wall. It's a cliche, but one that fits the character given his background and abilities. He'd also have some interesting interactions with wargs, I bet. I'm still hoping we get a Howland Reed interrupt eventually. He's gone from victory to victory, he's gotten veeeery confident. It'd be funny if he got tricked by some muggles.

 

[FractiousDay]

The Iron Islands. Interesting. I would have thought he'd go north of the Wall. It's a cliche, but one that fits the character given his background and abilities. He'd also have some interesting interactions with wargs, I bet.

Click to shrink...

It is cliche which is why I'm avoiding it. Also no infrastructure. Yes Greyback could stumble about looking for Wargs, but he wants somewhere with good trade links, amenities, and with information resouces. He also ideally wants places that are easy to escape from or to use to delay people pursuing him. In this instance he's off to Harlaw because there's a big library there and he can conduct his experiments in peace for a bit, until he needs to run again, at which point he can go to Oldtown and try to get some stuff off the Maesters maybe.

I'm still hoping we get a Howland Reed interrupt eventually. He's gone from victory to victory, he's gotten veeeery confident. It'd be funny if he got tricked by some muggles.

Click to shrink...

yeaaaa I'm aware of this. Is a weakness of the story perhaps. I was planning to do some timeskips before the north attacks the Iron Islands to get Sansa back, so that could be part of it.

 

[FractiousDay]

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.

 

[16 characters]

What I loved most about this was the later portion finally giving us a taste of the shifting geopolitics at play. Butterfly effects that utterly smash cliched dynamics are scenarios I tend to love. Both of which I think you have always been good at writing at least since I began following you.

Some of the only things I really liked in Orc Quest were seeing the power struggles and plotting and misinterpretations others make of each and whatnot with the main character get unexpectedly exiled because of such.

Here I find myself attached to characters that don't bore me I enjoyed such even more. Also the character perspective shifts were not only fine but welcome, Orc Quest has some I think but not any I recalled that would change the course of things in terms of reader understanding, or at least was before I dropped it.

As I may have mentioned before I liked also the perspective this character brought to the world in terms of challenging so many of it's norms at not even always on purpose.

All of those things plus setting I enjoyed were what lead me to enjoy this and Mallus as much as I have. Come to think of it hearing all the important plot points pretty much only from the Soviets may have been one of the few things I actively disliked about that project, unless my memory is conflating things which my memory does sometimes.

I hope that helps even if it is a bit heavy on the comparison side of things.

 

[FractiousDay]

Also the character perspective shifts were not only fine but welcome, Orc Quest has some I think but not any I recalled that would change the course of things in terms of reader understanding, or at least was before I dropped it.

Click to shrink...

It's an interesting comparison. I was exploring different perspectives here to explore the different characters. Comparably, I'm much more willing to jump about with the characters and PoVs in Mallus because it's convenient to present different elements of the Compliance. However, those are slightly different reasons. In Mallus the actual character isn't that important tbh, it's the events that are important. We went to see the Sultan where he's watching the ships etc and that's the important element, him being amazed at it but he himself isn't that important. Comparably, with Sansa for example the events are comparably a lot less important because it's just Greyback trheatening her with various horrors and it's her personality which is of greater importance to it.

Or, alternatively, I intentionally restrict information and the reader and characters' understanding of events in Orc Quest because that one theme of that quest is agency, which requries a limited information set to work with.

Thanks for the comment.