The baying of hounds grew closer.
I had been running for hours, pushing through the frozen underbrush, my breath coming in ragged clouds. The old hunting trails had betrayed me—or perhaps Ramsay's hunters were simply better than I had hoped. The dogs had found my scent again, despite the stream, despite the distance. They were relentless.
Of course they are. Ramsay starves them for days before a hunt. Keeps them hungry. Keeps them vicious.
The forest had changed. The thick pines were thinning, giving way to rocky hills and open ground. Not ideal for hiding. I needed cover. I needed time. I needed a miracle.
In my mind, the ancient page flickered.
[Warning: Hunter proximity detected.]
[Estimated distance: 2 miles and closing.]
[Threat Level: High.]
[Recommended Action: Find defensible ground. Prepare for engagement.]
Defensible ground. I scanned the terrain ahead. A rocky outcrop rose from the snow, its face jagged and uneven. At its base, a narrow crevice—barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. It wasn't a cave, but it would force any attacker to come at me one at a time.
I ran for it.
The crevice was cold and damp, its walls pressing against my shoulders as I squeezed inside. It opened into a small hollow, perhaps ten feet deep and half as wide. The ceiling was low—I had to crouch—but it was shelter. It was a place to make a stand.
I drew my sword. The bastard blade felt heavy in my hand, but solid. Real. A weapon meant for killing. I had trained with it little—there had been no time, no opportunity—but I knew the basics. Pointy end goes into the enemy.
If it comes to that. If I can't outrun them.
The baying grew louder. Closer. I could hear the crashing of bodies through the underbrush now, the excited yelps of dogs who had found their prey. And beneath it all, a voice. High. Playful. Singing.
"The little wolf runs so fast and far, but the hunter knows where the little wolves are..."
Ramsay.
My blood ran cold. He was here. Not just his dogs, not just his men. Ramsay himself had joined the hunt. That meant this wasn't just about recapturing an escaped prisoner. This was sport. This was pleasure.
He wants to see my face when his dogs tear me apart.
I pressed myself against the back of the hollow, sword raised. The crevice was my only entrance. If I could hold it, I might survive. If they flanked me, I was dead.
The first dog appeared at the mouth of the crevice.
It was massive—a Cane Corso, its coat dark and matted, its eyes wild with hunger. It snarled, baring teeth that gleamed in the pale light. Behind it, I could hear more. A pack. Ramsay's "girls."
They're trained to kill wolves, Harren had said. Ben Bones made sure of it.
The dog lunged.
I swung the sword. Not a clean strike—I was cramped, off-balance—but the blade caught the dog across the snout. It yelped and recoiled, blood streaming from the wound. But it didn't flee. It paced at the entrance, growling, waiting for its packmates.
Then the second dog came. And the third.
They didn't attack together—the crevice was too narrow—but they took turns lunging, testing my defenses, wearing me down. I swung and stabbed and shouted, my arms burning with exhaustion. Blood splattered the snow—theirs and mine. One of them had caught my forearm, tearing through the sleeve of my tunic. The wound was shallow, but it burned.
In my mind, the ancient page flickered desperately.
[Combat Encounter: Ramsay's Hounds.]
[Threat Level: Extreme.]
[Status: Wounded. Stamina draining.]
[Hint: You cannot win this fight alone. Seek an alternative.]
Alternative. What alternative? I was trapped in a hole, fighting off starving dogs while Ramsay Bolton watched and laughed. There was no alternative. There was only survival.
Then I heard it. A new sound. Not the baying of hounds, not Ramsay's singing. A howl. Long and mournful and wild.
The wolves.
The pack I had encountered nights ago. They were close. I could feel them—not through sound or sight, but something deeper. A pull in my chest. A connection I didn't understand.
The blood of the First Men. The gift of the warg.
I didn't know how to use it. I had never tried. The system had said it was dormant, waiting to be awakened. But if there was ever a moment to awaken it, this was it.
I closed my eyes. A dangerous move—the dogs were still lunging, still snapping—but I had to try. I reached out with my mind, not toward the dogs, but beyond them. Toward the howl. Toward the wild.
In my mind, the ancient page blazed.
[Warg Blood: Dormant → Awakening.]
[Initiating first skinchanger contact...]
[Warning: First contact is disorienting. Maintain focus. Do not lose yourself.]
The world shifted.
I was still in the hollow, still holding my sword, still bleeding. But I was also... elsewhere. Running through the snow on four legs instead of two. The forest was a blur of grey and white. The air was thick with scents—pine and blood and fear. My pack was with me, their minds a distant hum of hunger and purpose.
I was the wolf. The wolf was me.
The lead wolf—the one I had met before—was racing toward the sound of the hounds. Toward me. Toward the hollow. I could feel its thoughts, simple and clear: Protect the pack. Protect the one who smells of winter.
The one who smells of winter. That was me. The wolf had recognized my Stark blood. Had bonded with me, even before I understood what was happening.
The hounds were still attacking, but I was barely aware of them now. My body moved on instinct—swinging, dodging, surviving—while my mind soared with the wolf.
We reached the hollow. The wolf burst through the underbrush, snarling. The hounds turned, momentarily distracted by the new threat. One of them—the one I had wounded—lunged at the wolf. They collided in a fury of teeth and claws.
I felt the wolf's pain as my own. A sharp bite to the shoulder. But the wolf was stronger, wilder, driven by something the hounds lacked: a true bond. It was not fighting for food or sport. It was fighting for its pack.
For me.
The other wolves arrived. Two more, grey and fierce. They fell upon the hounds with savage efficiency. The dogs, trained to kill lone wolves, were not prepared for a coordinated pack attack. Within moments, one of the hounds lay dead, its throat torn open. The others fled, yelping, back toward their master.
I heard Ramsay's voice, no longer singing. "What in the seven hells...?"
Then silence.
I opened my eyes.
The hollow was quiet. The dogs were gone. The wolves stood at the entrance, their muzzles bloody, their golden eyes watching me. The lead wolf—my wolf—took a step forward. It lowered its head, not in submission, but in acknowledgment.
We are pack, its eyes seemed to say. We are one.
I reached out with my mind, tentatively, and felt... something. A thread. A connection. It was faint, fragile, but it was there. I could feel the wolf's exhaustion. Its pain from the bite. Its fierce, simple loyalty.
I am a warg.
In my mind, the ancient page erupted.
[Major Milestone Achieved: First Warg Contact.]
[Cursed Blood Skill Tree: 9/10 Fragments Unlocked.]
[+1 Fragment Bonus for establishing a permanent bond.]
[New Ability Unlocked: Warg (Novice).]
[Effect: You can now enter the mind of a bonded wolf. Duration and control are limited. Further training required.]
[Bonded Companion: Northern Wolf (Alpha).]
[Name: Unnamed.]
[Status: Wounded. Loyal.]
[Quest Updated: Evade Ramsay Bolton's hunters.]
[Status: Partial Success. The immediate threat has retreated, but Ramsay is still hunting.]
[Reward: 150 XP (Partial).]
[Current XP: 150/400]
[New Objective: Reach Barrow's End and find shelter.]
I stared at the notifications, my mind reeling. I had done it. I had awakened the warg gift. And in doing so, I had saved my own life.
The wolf and the dragon, my mother had said. Ice and fire.
The dragon blood was still dormant. But the wolf blood was awake.
I looked at the lead wolf—my wolf. It was wounded, its shoulder bleeding from the hound's bite. I tore a strip from my already-ruined tunic and approached slowly, carefully. The wolf watched me, but didn't retreat. I pressed the cloth against its wound, applying pressure. It whined softly, but allowed it.
"You saved me," I said quietly. "I don't know if you understand, but... thank you."
The wolf's golden eyes met mine. And in that moment, I felt something pass between us. A recognition. A bond.
I will call you Frost, I thought. Because you came to me in the coldest moment of my life.
The wolf—Frost—seemed to accept the name. Or perhaps I was imagining it. But the bond was real. I could feel it, thrumming beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
I stayed in the hollow for another hour, recovering my strength. The wolves—my pack—stood guard outside, their presence a comfort I had never known I needed. When I finally emerged, the forest was quiet. Ramsay and his hunters had retreated, at least for now.
But they would be back. Ramsay didn't abandon a hunt. He only paused it.
I looked south. Barrow's End was still a day away, according to Harren's map. A small village, hopefully friendly. A place to rest, to heal, to plan my next move.
I began to walk. Frost fell into step beside me, his shoulder wound already clotting. The other wolves flanked us, silent and watchful.
I am not alone anymore.
The journey to Barrow's End took the rest of the day and into the night.
The wolves led me along paths I would never have found on my own—game trails that wound through the forest, avoiding open ground where I might be seen. Frost seemed to understand where I was going, as if the bond between us shared more than just sensations. Perhaps it did. The old stories said wargs and their beasts became one in mind and spirit over time.
I was too exhausted to question it. I simply followed.
When the lights of Barrow's End appeared through the trees, I stopped. The village was small—perhaps a dozen houses clustered around a central square, with a modest sept and a larger hall that likely belonged to the local lord. Smoke rose from chimneys. Warm light glowed behind shuttered windows.
Civilization. Or as close as the North gets.
I turned to Frost. "You should stay here. The village won't welcome wolves."
Frost's golden eyes regarded me steadily. Then, slowly, he turned and disappeared into the trees with his pack. But I could still feel him—a faint presence at the edge of my awareness. He would wait. He would watch.
I approached the village alone.
Barrow's End was quiet at this hour. The snow had been shoveled from the main path, revealing packed earth beneath. A few villagers hurried past, their heads down against the cold, paying me little attention. A stranger in a Stark cloak was unusual, but not threatening. Not yet.
I found the village's only inn—a modest building with a faded sign depicting a sheaf of wheat. The "Golden Sheaf," it was called. I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The common room was warm and dim, lit by a crackling hearth and a few guttering candles. A handful of patrons sat at rough wooden tables, nursing cups of ale. They looked up when I entered, their eyes curious but not hostile.
The innkeeper was a stout woman with grey-streaked hair and shrewd eyes. She looked me over—my torn clothes, my wounded arm, the direwolf brooch at my shoulder—and frowned.
"You look like you've been through the seven hells, boy," she said. "What's your business here?"
"I need a room," I said. "And food. I can pay." I had no coin, but I had the sword. The dagger. The Stark cloak. Something would serve as trade.
The innkeeper studied me for a long moment. Then her eyes flickered to the brooch. Something shifted in her expression. Recognition? Wariness?
"Where did you get that?" she asked quietly.
"It was my mother's," I said. It wasn't entirely a lie. "I'm traveling south. To Winterfell."
The woman was silent for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly. "There's a room upstairs. Third door on the left. I'll bring food."
She didn't ask for payment.
I climbed the stairs, my legs trembling with exhaustion. The room was small but clean—a straw mattress, a washbasin, a single window overlooking the village square. I collapsed onto the bed and let the warmth wash over me.
I made it. I actually made it.
In my mind, the ancient page flickered.
[Location Discovered: Barrow's End.]
[Quest Updated: Reach Winterfell.]
[Progress: Approximately 250 miles remaining.]
[New Optional Objective: Investigate the village. Something here is... familiar.]
[Hint: The blood of the First Men runs deep in these lands. The old barrows remember. Perhaps they remember you.]
Something familiar. I was too tired to investigate now. But tomorrow, I would learn why the innkeeper had looked at my brooch with recognition. Why the village felt... strange.
I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind. Frost was out there, in the forest, watching the village. Waiting. The bond was a comfort, a warmth in the cold night.
I am a Stark. I am a warg. I am the blood of wolves and dragons.
And I am still alive.
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