Chapter 23 (Patreon)

Chapter 23:

Dimitri:

They rode hard. Hard enough that even the freezing cold of the lands of always winter only just seemed to stave off the heat their own bodies were producing. A column of men rode at the Prince’s back. Between the men of Stark, Baratheon and Lannister along with the rangers of the night’s watch and his personal retinue there were nearly a hundred. By all rights in these lands where a large ranging party was about a dozen men at most he had the equivalent of an army.

Qhorin led the way, the veteran Ranger Captain knew these lands like the back of his hand, but even so they’d found no trail of Marianne, or even Wildlings at all so far. Not with Snow’s direwolf or any of the hunting hounds. 

As they drew near the place called Hardhome Quorin called for their pace to slow. 

It would not do to make it there with tired horses that are no longer fit to fight.

Dimitri understood the logic, he did not like it but he understood. 

“How many can we expect in this village?” He asked and the Ranger Captain offered a shrug. 

“Depends. Ne’er seen more than three hundred- not fightin men mind ya, but men, women, children all. So I would normally venture to say around a hundred or so fighters.”

Numbers wise that made it an even fight, but only by the numbers. Most of the men behind him had armor. Gambeson, chainmail, proper steel swords and broad faced shields. The Wildlings were likely bundled in just furs with perhaps a single steel sword between them. That put the odds in their favor.

“You said normally.” His uncle Jamie called from just slightly behind Dimitri. “What makes this different?”

“Wildling’s have been acting strange.” Quorin answered. Thenns and Hornfoots found cooperating, Frozen Shore clans and Ice river clans congregating. Even the Dwellers descending down from their mountains in numbers we’ve never seen. 

Dimitri tried not to wince. He could hear what the man was saying, but he understood none of it. The Wall had never been a great concern. Certainly brothers in black were sent from all across the seven Kingdoms and the Night’s watch always declared that they needed more funds and sent reports of beasts in the snow, monsters beyond the wall - but it never went anywhere or gained much traction in court where other, far more pressing concerns such as the Kingdoms finances, the stability of the realm and the fragile alliances and networks that held the young Baratheon dynasty together needed to be precariously balanced.

Now, he wished he’d paid more attention, even if only nominally. 

He could wield a sword, he could ride, he could fight, he could do so much if it came down to battle, or if it came down to vengeance.

But he felt… unprepared. Out of his element. Thenns and Hornfoots, Ice River Clans and Dwellers. He knew more about the people of Yi-Ti than the Wildlings. 

“So you’re saying there might be more than a hundred.”

“Could be less too.” Quorin shrugged. “As I said, they’ve been acting too strangely of late.”

“Worst case.”

The lady Byleth’s soft spoken voice barely carried, almost a whisper lost in the low moaning winds, but somehow it did carry.

“Huh?” Quorin turned around, looking back at her.

“I believe she’s asking to know what would be the worst case scenario.” Dimitri fathomed a quick guess and was pleased when the raven haired woman nodded.

“Hardhome is one of the few settlements the Wildling’s have made with a real Wall around it. Aye it’s more wooden stockades than anything we’d find in the south, but it’s encircled, with its back to the icy shore, fairly large. You could cram in four, five hundred if some blokes didn’t mind gettin friendly with eachother.” Qhorin shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough. We’re nearly there.”

The Ranger Captain kicked his horse, the beast moving from a slow walk to a canter as Dimitri moved to follow quickly behind him.

None of them noticed the winds slowly beginning to die.

None of them noticed the unnatural, still silence that descended.  

—

Hubert

Hubert felt something in the world shift around him. A subtle thing, but an important one. Because despite the skin of civility that humanity had long since adopted, there were instincts that weren’t so easily forgotten. The kind of feelings that let humanity survive for this long, and it made the young Bolton lord pause.

“Something wrong?” Claude asked, pulling up his coat to cover his mouth.

The happy go lucky man was curious, clearly not having the same feeling as Hubert. The Stark however, was more serious than normal, and that was saying something. His grip on his sword was tighter even as they moved through the snow, and the wolf perked its head up. 

“No…,” Hubert answered, obfuscating, “Just an odd feeling.”

“Well you can keep feeling whatever you’d like my lord,” Alois said, the older man keeping his bright smile despite the cold, “Because for my own part, I think we’ll be in luck! I think we’ll find the lady and the scallywags that absconded with her before long you’ll see”

Hubert let himself nod. For all that he was a buffoon, or played the part well, there was no doubt the mercenary was a good warrior, the many victories in the Winterfell courtyard against Lannister, Stark and Baratheon men proved that easily enough. It would not do to needlessly antagonize or ridicule him in the middle of enemy territory. Silence costs nothing. 

Suddenly, ahead of them, Claude yanked hard on the Horse’s reigns. “Bolton!”

The tone of his voice, the alarm threaded within. “What have you found!?” Hubert demanded.

“Tracks!”

They all began to converge, Felix Stark arriving first, his Wolf shifting and keening.

“What is it?” He asked of the Stark. “Does your beast have a scent?”

The Stark’s third son shook his head, eyeing his wolf with a narrowed gaze. “Something is wrong.” He repeated. 

Hubert frowned, the feeling of unease he’d learned to listen to itching at the back of his neck, but he maneuvered his horse between Stark and Connington to get a better look. 

One skill he had picked up from his father and his love of hunting, was the knowledge of how to track. Claude pointed, and Hubert followed the direction. There, nearly hidden by the snowfall around them, was the subtle imprints of feet.

He peered at the snow, the trail was fresh. Or fresh as possible in the weather like this. Which gave him pause. The wildlings knew these lands, why make such obvious tracks?

“A half dozen.” Claude assessed. “Perhaps more.”

“How can you tell?” Connington asked. 

“I can tell.” He narrowed his eyes. They were… dragging something? Or there was something large with them.

“It must be the lady Manderly!” One of the Stark soldiers said. 

It could be, but it might not. Wildlings rather infamously dragged women off all the time. But this was too obvious, they were going as hard as Hubert and the others were if more. It was like they were scared of something. Though that begged a question, what would wildlings be scared of here?

“Hands on weapons, keep them ready, double quick march! Hah!” Alois barked out the command, kicking at his horse, fixating on the trail and charging after it.

If it was the lady Manderly, then the Wildlings would soon understand first hand why the Bolton Banner was a flayed man. 

—

Jon Snow

He felt unsure as he made his horse climb up to join the Prince and the others at the top of the hill. For all that he was Lord Stark’s son and a mercenary, and the Prince seemed to have no objection in being joined by the Lady Byleth, he was still a bastard. And Bastards should not presume they could walk alongside princes. 

But… no one had told him otherwise, and in the end, his curiosity was stronger than his trepidation.

So, forcing the beast to climb and heave its way up the slope, he reached the top to find…

“I thought you said there’d only be four hundred at most!” Jamie Lannister snarled.

The man’s anger was warranted.

If Jon looked, he could faintly see the outline of what Hardhome had been. The larger tents and long homes of wood and hay were distinct in comparison to the motley collection of thatched tents of furs and hides.

But there was almost an ocean of those tents stuffed inside of the small, cramped space behind the wooden stockades. 

“There must be six… or seven hundred, easily. More than could ever fit comfortably in such a space.” The Prince’s squire, Ashe, sounded awed, or maybe horrified, Jon couldn’t blame him. Hell, he agreed, he was just quieter about it. 

“Didn’t expect this many.” Qhorin said, seemingly to himself rather than them. 

“Clearly.” Jamie growled. 

Ghost stood silently at Jon’s side, still no scent of Marianne it seems, but he took comfort in the Wolf’s quiet presence regardless. 

“Even with armor, weapons and horses if we choose to fight them the numbers won’t make this easy.” Jamie Lannister said, looking uneasily at the prince. 

“They’ve spotted us.” The Prince said. Jon turned to look, finding movement in the camp, men grabbing axes and spears, women taking their children into the long house atop the hill. 

Jon looked towards the prince, finding the Baratheon’s expression… contemplative.

Then, he kicked at his horse, the beast trotting down the hillside. “Let’s see if they’re not averse to speaking.”

“Your Grace!” Jamie protested moving his horse to cut off the Prince’s “It’s too dangerous! They’re as like to kill you as speak.”

“Fighting three to one odds is just as dangerous.” Dimitri shot back, his frown severe. 

“Then let me go on your behalf!”

Dimitri smiled. “Uncle, you’re the best sword in westeros, but we both know you’re no great negotiator.”

“If they make an oath of guest rights, they’ll keep it.” Qhorin said. “Even the Wildlings do not go against such things. Your Kingsguard and I can haggle that out of them at least.”

The prince let out a huff of air, the breath turning to fog as he exhaled. “Very well.”

Jamie Lannister wheeled his horse around his head on a swivel. “Ashe, you’re the Prince’s squire, with me, Baratheon and Lannister men, four of you, now, lets move. Night is falling and it’s getting too cold out here.

—

Theon

Theon rarely admitted it, even to himself, but he often times considered himself more a northerner than an iron islander.

He’d lived most of his life in the north. Ate their food, sang their songs. He hadn’t stepped on a ship in years. He knew how to tie camp ropes than ship worthy ones. Knew how to skin an animal better than he knew how to scale a fish. 

Right now though, following after Grey-wind with the Black brothers of the Night’s watch at their flanks, he felt like the lady Catelyn, a woman who somewhat infamously was a southern woman in a northern castle. 

“My Lord-” One of the Black brothers called, but not to him. 

Lorenz Baratheon looked pale as a corpse in the winter drifts, thick furs draped over him but did little to hide how the man shivered as the wind howled between the trees like the moaning dead. “Yes ranger!?” The Prince’s cousin had to shout to be heard over the gusts and Theon had to squint to try and see everyone through the white out blizzard, even with the torches in their hands. 

As the party came to a hesitant stop Theon gave a sharp whistle. The same one all the dogs of Winterfell had been trained to heel to, and the Direwolves for all they were wolves were no different. Grey Wind doubled back, his form nearly lost in the grey landscape before he emerged from the snows to Theon’s left. 

The horse under him shifted and nickered, nervously shying away from the predator that would soon be reaching Theon’s hip even while mounted. Hell, soon the damn beast would be able to eat the whole damn horse out from under him.

“We’ve traveled far, neither our hounds nor the Stark wolf has a trail. I suggest we double back ser, we won’t do anyone any good gettin caught out.”

“And I nae like the look of this storm!” Another man, a Stark man called. 

The hound trotted into Theon’s view; the man was massive, it was hard to believe his brother was even larger. Clegane towered over everyone on his destrier. With full plate and greatsword on him, he looked like he could take on an army of wildlings singlehanded. 

Stannis’ heir looked uncertain. “Is it possible to turn and link up with the Prince’s search party from here.

“Possible!” The first ranger that had spoken shouted. “But given how intense the winds have gotten it might turn into a blizzard, easy to get lost, easier to freeze. Better off heading to the Wall-” The man pointed Theon followed the gesture, even with the near white out, the massive unmistakeable shadow of the wall dominated the distant horizon, an unmissable landmark. “-Or at least take shelter til the storm passes!”

Theon saw Lorenz working his jaw, uncertainty in his gaze, then he turned and looked at Theon himself. “What do you think Greyjoy?”

Surprise cut through the heir of Pyke, he hadn’t expected to be asked. 

He looked around, it was hard to see expressions but he knew a few of the Winterfell guards that had come with him, enough to know what they thought should be done.

And that was enough.

Northerners knew Winter better than anyone. And the first lesson you learned in the north was simple.

Fear the Winter. 

“Shelter.” He answered immediately. “If we can’t make it to the wall, a cave, or even the hollow of a tree, anything. We’re no good to anyone froze-”

There was a howl.

The sound was like a horn being blown, long, loud and overpowering, it seemed to swallow the whole world. 

A direwolf?

He looked to his left, but Grey-wind wasn’t howling.

No. 

Robb’s wolf had its ears pinned back, muscles bunched up as though it were ready to pounce, growling and snarling into the darkness around them as the Howl continued on. 

Before he realized it, Theon had drawn his sword.

“What’s happening?”

Lorenz question was cut off as the first Howl was answered by another, then another… and another, until the whole of this vile dreadful forest had suddenly sprouted up direwolves all around them. 

And Theon looked at the Ranger captain accompanying them. Abd that’s when Theon knew they were in for it.

The man had gone milk pale, and his eyes were wide as dinnerplates.

The ranger, this hardened veteran, years upon years venturing past the wall- looked like he hung on the very precipice of outright panic.

There was a sudden, horrified scream, and the sound of rending flesh.

Theon turned, blade in hand, barely even understanding what he was looking at as a beast standing on two legs but looking like a wolf tore out the throat of a Stark Soldier.

Someone screamed.

“SKIN WOLVES!”

—

Marianne

Her throat burned with the cold. 

She was a daughter of the North, she should know cold. She did know cold.

But this wasn’t cold.

It was too much. Unnatural. Icy knives replaced every snowflake, ice felt like it formed under her skin. Frost encased her joints.

She was bundled in Wildling furs, but still it cut through her, the edges of her sight darkened and what little she could see was little more than nothing, obscured by sheets and sheets of cascading white.

“Stop! Stop!”

She’s not sure who shouts the order but she’s grateful, leaning her weight against a massive tree she trembles with exhaustion, the woman who can become a bear shifts back into human form.

“Are ya fuckin daft! Why the hell are we stoppin!” Someone hisses, whispering at the massive red head called called Tormund.

But Tormund doesn’t even look at them, staring into the grey fog that was this northern world like he was looking at a ghost. 

He shakes his head. “They’re waitin.” He says. “We have to move!”

“They’re not here! Not yet!” Another one argues. “We have to keep moving, Hardhome is the only place that might still be safe! The Wards and Runes will still be holdin.”

“Runes won’t do us any good if we never reach it-” Tormund answers and Marianne has to wonder what they’re talking about, what they think is waiting for them. 

“Come on!” Tormund turns, veering to their left, he tugs on the rope binding Marianne’s wrist, and the Manderly girl stumbles to follow when her legs decide -she’s done moving-

They give out, Marianne tips forward, collapsing into the snow. She sinks past her elbows into the freezing white.

The wildling girl, Leonie, tries to grab her by the arm, to haul her up “Fuckin’ hell move ya southern ponce!”

She feels the impact of something slam into her other side, the air is driven out of her and she’s sent tumbling into the snow, breathless and gasping, pain radiating across her whole torso as she curls in on herself. 

“GET THE FUCK UP!”

“THE FUCK ARE YA DOIN!? SHE WONT MOVE IF YA BREAK HER RIBS YA CUNT!’ She recognizes Leonie’s voice a second before the heavy meaty sound of a fist striking flesh sends her attacker sprawling across the floor, Tormund’s massive bear arm damn near punching the man’s head off.

The red of his hair stands out amidst the dreary grey of the world around them, and he kneels at her side. When he speaks his voice is gentle and she oddly appreciates it, even as her guts roil and pulse with pain. 

“Listen to me lass.” The man whispers. “Ya’v got no reason ta’ like us. No reason to trust us neither, but trust me when I say there are far far worse things out here in these woods now. Ya have ta get up, ya have to move or-”

There’s a howling screech, an inhuman sound that rips through the entire forest and the cold in her veins has nothing to do with the snow.

Every Wildling goes pale. Every single one of them grasping spears and axes, cowering behind shields and shivering with something Marianne recognizes.

Terror.

There is no mistaking it.

They’re all terrified. 

Even Tormund, a man so large he could perhaps be compared to “The mountain that rides” that famous Southern monster, has his face stricken with absolute fear, the apple of his throat leaping as he swallows thickly. 

He tries to make her stand and she reaches her feet, but her legs give out once more.

“She’s exhausted!” Osha, the bear woman hisses. “Girl’s legs are like a newfound foals. And this dumb cunt might have broken her ribs. She’s not gonna make it.”

“Leave her!” Another Wildling, a man who’s spear is shaking so terribly she can hear it from here says. 

“After what we went through to get her have ya lost yer fuckin mind! She’s our way out of this nightmare!” Leonie shoots back.

Their… way out?

Did that- what did that mean!? Did they want to cross the wall?

There’s another howl, another screech of something inhuman in the dark.

And it’s closer. 

“Fuckit.” She hears him mutter before he reaches down, grabbing hold of her and then, unceremoniously tossing her over his shoulder. 

It hurts, not just from the impact she’d taken but because of the pressure on her guts, but she doesn’t have the strength to walk and Tormund begins outright sprinting. Running like the seven hells themselves are at their backs. 

—

Dimitri

They stand upon the hill, waiting. He can’t hear what they’re saying and that makes him anxious. He wants to pace but he’s sitting atop the horse, and even if he wasn’t, such a display would make his men nervous. Anxiety breeds anxiety.

“Be calm.” He heard Byleth suddenly say from atop that monstrous horse beside him. “Anxiety breeds Anxiety.”

“I know.” He whispered back, surprised that she’d seen through him so easily.

It felt like they were standing on that hillside for hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before Jamie, Ashe, Qhorin and the others turned, marching back, Three Wildlings behind them.

Dimitri straightened trying to school his features as the collection of men made their way closer.

“They’ll give Guest Rights.” Was the first thing Qhorin said. 

One of the Wildlings, his head shaven, looked Dimitri up and down his severe frown and stern gaze telling him he thought very little of the prince before he reached into his satchel, pulling free a strip of meat and a skin of what must’ve been ale..

“Don’t have much in the way of bread in these parts.” Quorin explained.

Dimitri reached down, taking hold of the offered food. “I understand. And thank you.” He said to the wildlings. .

The shaven Wildling frowned even more. “Get inside.” He said gruffly as Dimitri took a bite of the meat and a swig of the ale trying not to wince at the… unique taste of it before passing it towards Byleth. “We cannot be outside of the Rune stones at night.”

“Afraid of the Dark?” Jamie said and Dimitri shot him a reproachful look. 

The Wildling however, glared. “If you knew what was out here southerner… you would be too.”

(X)(X)(X)

I apologize for the delay, I got distracted with the shiny new fic My Beta gave me a bit of a kick in the pants, but I'll try to be better about keeping up with this fic, especially now that things are finally gonna go off the rails and start kicking into gear beyond "Here's where everyone wound up"

But anyway; You didn't really think that the ONE place in canon Westeros that actually HAS Magic wasn't gonna get its own boost of magical creatures and beasts to show off did ya?Skin Wolves, transforming druids, and a lot more horrible things crawling out of the wood work next chapter >:)