Chapter 1

Author's Note: Welcome to one of many of my brainchildren, if you came from another story then I hope you enjoy, if you don't then and you finish, and if you like the story then you're welcome to check out my other ones.

5 Chapters further in all my stories here:

patreon.com/NiflheimA

Chapter 1

Maester Luwin

When Maester Luwin handed Robb Stark the letter, bearing sordid news, he expected rage, sadness, sentiments that are to be felt by any man who heard of injustice directed at ones father.

He didn't expect him to go through the… spectacle that he was privy to. The boy had suddenly fallen to the ground, twitching in place, murmuring odd words in a strange tongue, before suddenly stilling, falling asleep at the floor.

Whatever the boy went through changed him to his core, Luwin tried to attribute the changes to the consecutive misfortunes that seemed to befall him, little Brandon's fall and subsequent assassination attempt, Jon's leave to the Black brothers, his mother's negligence in favor of sadness and guilt, and finally, Eddard Stark's seizure in response to Tyrion's capture.

Yet, there was something gnawing at his mind, Robb's stark change had an eerie quality to it. Lord Ned was always a quiet man, and many a tale depicted him as cold as winter, yet there was nothing that reminded Luwin of a winter chill more than the young lord's light blue eyes.

They had almost a mystical quality to their hue, and seemed to almost glow in shadow with piercing blue.

So, as Robb Stark stood at his own father's solar, his back turned toward him as he contemplated the sky, Luwin couldn't help but mime a shiver at his icy cold voice.

"Call the banners." Robb spoke.

Maester Luwin expected the order, so he asked not for further detail.

"Send letters to the lords of the realm, they are to gather their men and make for Moat Cailin." He turns to him as he speaks a cold, detached presence to his glare. "In your missives to Bear Island, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, Barrowtown and Flint's Finger, add additional orders to leave a sizable garrison to guard the western shore."

"From what, my lord?" Luwin asks.

"A man can choose all aspects of his life except for one." Robb seemingly expected Luwin to understand, yet his response left him with more questions than answers.

Greywind

Countless smells permeate his nose, mixing and matching, yet the trail of his prey stays distinct amidst the chaos of myriad scents and courses.

Ever since that fateful day, something deep within A̸̛̗͙̰̣͑͂̃͒͊̈́͋͒̋͌̅̂̊͂̽̉̓̕͘͜ļ̷̨̡̛̤̱͔͓̺̄͗̇͐̈̇̃̍̔̈́p̷̡̲͓̣͖͕͌̈́̅͂̍̈́̾̋̊̀͛̈́́̅́̕̕͜h̶͇̲̠̝̱̬̄̓a̵̢̧̟̫̩̮̹͈̠̫̺̯͕̱͚̱̭̦͎͉̿͛̽͑'s mind awakened. In Greywind's primitive memory, it was something that was always dormant within him, a cold yet comforting star within the back of their collective consciousness.

A̸̛̗͙̰̣͑͂̃͒͊̈́͋͒̋͌̅̂̊͂̽̉̓̕͘͜ļ̷̨̡̛̤̱͔͓̺̄͗̇͐̈̇̃̍̔̈́p̷̡̲͓̣͖͕͌̈́̅͂̍̈́̾̋̊̀͛̈́́̅́̕̕͜h̶͇̲̠̝̱̬̄̓a̵̢̧̟̫̩̮̹͈̠̫̺̯͕̱͚̱̭̦͎͉̿͛̽͑ never acknowledged the presence, yet following mounting feelings of distress and deep unrelenting ḩ̴̧̡̜͎̞͖͉̰̲͕̥̫̗̱̇̓̉̇́͆́͛͊̀̒̆͋̽̕͘͝â̶͔̭͉͇͍̰̖͉͖̞͎͇͍̟͕̙̱̥̟̘͔̳̺͌̉̈́͠t̵̡͕̪̜̰̮̹̞͇͉͈͚̗͎̖̘͕͖̥̲͉̻̪̜̤̼̪̫̹̦͛̽̑̕͜͜͠e̶̛͂̄͋͋̿̈́̂͂̐́͘͠,̭͙̱̭̪̮̮͓̗̩̲̞̬̤̄ the presence had no choice but to come to the surface.

Since then, the wild link shared between partners was consciously strengthened and protected from à̴̢̤̱̤̲͕̙̽̿̔̿̓́͜l̸̢̧͎̬̣͙̝̺̟͉͙̊p̴̢͇͕̗͇̯̓̅̾́̌̈͜͝͝h̷̢̡̯͇͓͈̏ȃ̶̢͍͔̗'s side, with that came bodily benefits, Greywind became faster, stronger, and could unconsciously channel the same force as à̴̢̤̱̤̲͕̙̽̿̔̿̓́͜l̸̢̧͎̬̣͙̝̺̟͉͙̊p̴̢͇͕̗͇̯̓̅̾́̌̈͜͝͝h̷̢̡̯͇͓͈̏ȃ̶̢͍͔̗ to guide his path.

It is after a relentless charge that he finds his prey. It was accompanied by a female and two hounds, chasing another one of its kind through the trees.

Greywind slowly but surely approaches, making nary a sound.

A dire wolf hunts like no other, despite their size; they can be sneaky to an unbelievable degree. Their physiology poised at hunting mammoths, ice spiders, and shadowcats, creatures faster, stronger, or larger than it.

It was then inevitable that red blood coated Greywind's fangs; his target had fallen, like all the others.

After all, man or animal, all share the same quality.

All are P̵̢̨̻̣̘̮̭͉̝̳̖̦̠̜͇̱̱̼̯͐̉͑R̴̡̧̢̡̛̛̖̬̟̘̭̰͈͖͉͇̥͕̞̫̼̬̯̪͇̱̻̳̜̱͓̩̤̱͔͖͕̓̔̅͋̄̋̀̅̂̾́̄̿̈́̑́̅͘̕͜͠E̷̛̤̗̯͔͔̠̱͖̭͇̱̰̗̝̮̋̃̈́͗̿̎͗͗̉̔͆͌͑͑̃͗͌̈́͒͝͝Y̸̧̡̠̤̟͈̲͚͇͈͌̍̉͛̀̚̚.

Catelyn Stark née Tully

It all went wrong, in worse ways than she thought.

In hindsight, she'd been extremely foolish in her actions. She was Catelyn Tully, a woman raised to think like a Lady, to consider the aftermath of her actions, yet in her urge to avenge her son, her sweet Brandon, she had begun a war.

It was because of her actions that her daughters were trapped within that city of vipers, that her husband was in the clutch of the Lannisters, and that her young son is set to wage war at an age much too young.

It was all she could think of throughout her journey, her mind full of what ifs, alternatives actions, some different way that she could have made to change the outcome of her deeds.

'I definitively shouldn't have taken that Imp to the Eyrie, my sister was a poor choice for a judge.' She thought. 'Lysa was deathly afraid of the Lannisters, and her paranoia led her over the edge. Little Robin was much too frail, if only I'd been able to assure better care for the boy. And then there's that infuriating sellsword.' Yet her thoughts only drove her to a deeper hole.

The now familiar voice of Ser Wylis Manderly –the heir and oldest son of House Manderly- sounded from her left. "My Lady, we are here." The man is bald and has a bushy walrus mustache which covers his mouth, and his heavy weight clearly made for an undue burden on his poor stallion.

She extended a head out of her carriage, finally seeing the recognizable form of Moat Cailin, even in its dilapidated state, the stronghold was intimidating.

Moat Cailin was once a great stronghold, with twenty towers, a wooden keep, and a great basalt curtain wall as high as that of Winterfell's. Today only great blocks of black basalt lay scattered about, half sunk in the ground where the wall once stood, and the keep rotted away. Only three towers remain, which are covered with green moss and white ghostskin.

The Children's Tower is tall and slender. It has only half of the crenellations of its crown. Legend has it that the children of the forest called upon their gods here to send the hammer of the waters to smash the Neck.

The Gatehouse Tower, the largest of the remaining towers, is squat and wide. It is the only tower which still stands straight, even retaining some of the walls around it, although a tree grows through its northern side. The tower's hall of dark stone is spotted with lichen and has a high, drafty ceiling. Within the hall is a massive carved table, also of stone.

The Drunkard's Tower is so named due to its great lean. It stands where the south and west walls once met.

As they come to halt in front of the gates of the old fortress, Ser Rodrik Cassel graciously helps her exit the carriage.

Their procession is headed by herself, her escort Ser Rodrik, her uncle Brynden, and the Manderly brothers.

They are received at the gate by Martyn Cassel and strangely enough, Theon Greyjoy.

"Lady Catelyn, it warms my heart to see you safe and sound." Martyn Cassel then turns to her companions, greeting his brother warmly; a servant extends a plate filled with bread and salt. "Greetings to you all, I welcome you to Moat Cailin."

Before anyone could speak, Catelyn spoke. "Where is Robb?" She asks.

A queer expression makes its way in Martyn's face, whilst Theon responds with a pained expression. "He is at the Yard, my Lady." He says.

"Lead me to him." She orders.

The younger Cassel and Theon share a knowing look before shrugging and going along with her demands, while the rest partake in bread and salt and are led in.

Ser Rodrik, her brother and Manderly's follow her, probably to also meet her son.

The dilapidated state of the castle becomes even more apparent as they are led through its halls, the walls are cracked, and even broken in some places, and the scent of stale earth and grass made its way into its premises.

After a period of strange silence, Martyn cautiously speaks. "My Lady, I believe it is not my place to do so, yet I find myself compelled to… warn you." He says.

"Warn me?" She asks. "What is the matter Ser? Is there something of import to inform me?"

"Nothing so urgent, my Lady. It is simply that when news of the Lord Eddard's capture was received by Lord Robb, something… changed within him. I am simply afraid that you might be surprised by the change in the young man." He explains.

Catelyn takes some time to register his words, turning toward Theon in questioning. The young man simply gives her a resigned look.

It was at that moment that an emotion of dread built itself within, her poor boy; he must be crushed from the news. The emotion pushed her to increase her pace, urgent to meet her son.

When they made their way across the clearing that constituted the training yard, they were met with a large crowd gathering around, the sounds of clashing steel made it clear that they were observing a spar.

Not seeing her son anywhere else, she surmised that he must be either one of the spectators, or one of the people clashing swords, so with the help of her escort knight she made its way into the crowd.

What she saw shocked her.

There he was, her son, facing against four large men decked in armor and wielding blunted steel, another laid to the side in the ground, clearly incapacitated.

Robb only wore a simple tunic, however, wielding a one handed sword, he fearlessly charged into the fray.

Catelyn was no expert in martial matters, but even she could deduce the amount of skills necessary to face four skilled warriors –five if the fallen one is included- with such a disadvantage, yet her boy did it with ease.

It was like if he had eyes on the back of his head, even her untrained eye could notice that he moved before his opponents, dodging strikes that no man should have with unnatural grace.

"He never showed such skill before…" Ser Rodrik astonished, audibly mused on her side.

He was aggressive, and held his sword with uncharacteristic nonchalance. His blows were light and quick, serving simply to probe openings in his opponents, yet when one of them overreached, he swiftly knocked him down with a blistering blow to the nape of his neck.

Another quickly went down, as he was momentarily dazed by the fall of his companion.

The rest were dealt with ease, Robb pushed one with his foot, struck the other on his side, knocked down the first with two strikes in quick succession, one to his sword wielding arm, the other to the side of his thigh.

The last opponent ended up behind him, and tried to strike at his back. Yet again, her son spun around the man, and somehow ended up drawing his sword up to his neck.

"Dead." He said, pushing the man away.

It was the first time she heard her son speak since her departure, and the first thing to come to her mind is 'Cold'.

His voice carried no inflection to it, as it brought chills to her back.

Her boy, her precious boy, turned around, yet even though she could recognize his features she was shocked by what she saw.

His face was calm as ice, staring at her with barely any emotion. It was only her experience dealing with cold men that allowed her to perceive the slightest hints of warmth in his expression.

"Mother." He says. "You are back."

'A man of four and ten should not have such eyes.'

Tears well up on her eyes as she rushes to hug her son, she could feel his build stiffen, before he belatedly taps her back.

The awkwardness of the motion brought a note of mirth to her heart, yet it is drowned by sorrow and guilt.

That she was the person responsible for her son growing much too soon.