WiSh - Chapter 44

Chapter 44: The Art of Power and Wisdom

The Wolfswood night was thick with a bitter, decaying chill, a breath of ancient, untouched wilderness where fallen branches and leaves had accumulated over the centuries, creating a natural tapestry of rot and frost. As one ventured further north, the trees became shrouded in thicker layers of ice and snow, sharpening the already biting cold.

Though the Wolfswood held dangers aplenty, it paled in comparison to the menacing aura of the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall. Here, in the relative safety of the Wolfswood, two scouts from the Howling Stone tribe perched silently high in the branches of an ancient tree, barely moving under their mountain lion pelts, as if they were part of the forest itself.

Moments earlier, they had caught the faint echoes of battle from deep within the woods but had remained motionless, wary of revealing their presence. To them, such sounds were distant, almost unreal, as the wind carried them through the thick canopy.

"Shh!" A soft, almost imperceptible whisper seemed to brush past their ears.

Impossible—it must have been an illusion born from the eerie stillness of the night.

As devotees of the shadowcat, the sacred creature they revered, the Howling Stone scouts were known for their agility and stealth, qualities that rivaled the very creatures they worshipped. Like their feline counterparts, they chose to rest in high places—caves or treetops—where they could remain alert and elusive.

The wind whistled through the trees, its mournful cries mingling with the howls of wolves, creating a haunting melody that lulled the scouts into a state of cautious repose.

"Shh, shh!" The whisper came again, clearer this time, as though someone were right beside them.

The two scouts sprang to their feet with the reflexes of startled cats, their stone axes drawn in an instant. Balanced on the tree trunk as if it were solid ground, they peered down at the forest floor below.

There, shrouded in darkness, stood a man cloaked in black. He silently pointed to the ground beneath the tree before vanishing like a specter, leaving no trace of his presence.

The scouts, though accustomed to such stealth, felt a chill creep down their spines. Their leader, too, could move with such silent grace, often appearing without warning. But he would never don a black cloak—he preferred battle robes crafted from the pelts of mountain lions or wolves, marking his dominance in the wilds.

The scouts, now drenched in cold sweat, descended from the tree with the nimbleness of foxes. At the base of the tree, they discovered a large bundle. Carefully unwrapping it, they were astonished to find over a dozen finely crafted blades, gleaming with a cold, menacing light, along with two solid oak shields, their edges reinforced with iron.

These were exceptional weapons, far superior to the primitive tools they were used to. The scouts were both thrilled and wary, uncertain whether this was a gift or a trap laid by an enemy.

"We should move quickly!" one of the scouts urged.

Regardless of the risks, these weapons were worth the danger. The Howling Stone tribe, though fierce in battle, lacked the advanced forging techniques of the southern lands. Their weapons were typically acquired through trade or plunder, and such a windfall of high-quality arms was an opportunity too great to pass up.

Within half an hour, the scouts had covered a significant distance, burdened by their newfound spoils. They remained vigilant, but no ambush materialized, and the forest was eerily quiet.

They had crossed into what they considered their territory—though, in truth, this was a self-proclaimed domain, unrecognized by the other tribes or the noble families who ruled the lands beyond the Wolfswood. The northern lords saw little value in waging war for the desolate woods, where the only prizes were ancient trees, decaying leaves, and the deadly beasts that lurked within.

As the scouts neared their camp, their excitement grew. The closer they got, the more these treasures felt truly theirs. 

Unbeknownst to them, a ghostly figure trailed in the shadows, silently observing their every move.

The noble houses of the North, who had resided there for generations, knew little about the elusive Howling Stone tribe, who made their homes in the Wolfswood mountains. But the further north one ventured, the deeper the reverence for the heart trees and the old gods became. This ancient faith provided Will with a potential path to connect with the Howling Stone tribe—a connection rooted in belief and tradition.

Will's mysterious ally, the Heart Tree Spirit—an almost immortal being, a fusion of human-like consciousness and a ten-thousand-year-old heart tree—knew the secrets of all the northern tribes. He was an omnipresent force, not a god, but something close—a being steeped in the customs and lore of the Howling Stone tribe, who revered the shadowcat as a divine beast, the earthly progeny of the gods of the First Men.

However, a far greater threat loomed on the horizon—the White Walkers, commanders of the wights and embodiments of cold and darkness. These beings saw all forms of life, human or otherwise, as their prey. Will, armed with knowledge of the impending catastrophe, understood the urgency of uniting the disparate forces of the North against this common enemy.

While the noble lords and knights squabbled over honor and pride, dismissing Will as insignificant, he was formulating a plan to ally with the Howling Stone tribe. His experience with the Woodshield clan had shown him the brutality of noble retaliation. A mere skirmish had brought a hundred-man force intent on annihilating the Woodshield clan—a stark reminder of the nobles' ruthless pursuit of vengeance.

Even with their victory, Will knew that a more substantial force would soon be marshaled against them. The nobles of Deepwood Motte, their pride wounded, would not rest until they had avenged their defeat. And though Deepwood Motte was far to the south, their reach extended along the King's Road, where loyalists, mercenaries, and free riders awaited their call.

In a day and a night, the nobles could muster a formidable cavalry to pursue and annihilate the Woodshield clan. Even if they managed to escape to the north of Long Lake, House Umber, bound by the unspoken alliance of northern nobility, would likely join the hunt. The lowly treefolk tribe had no allies among the nobility, and not even the Night's Watch could protect them from the nobles' retribution.

Will, ever the strategist, knew reinforcements were essential. His best hope lay in forging an alliance with the Howling Stone tribe, though this would be no easy task. Offering them weapons was just the beginning—a gesture to pique their interest.

But Will's true plan was far more intricate.

He recalled a lesson from his previous world, a maxim from the cunning Tywin Lannister: "Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens." The Red Wedding was a prime example, where Tywin Lannister orchestrated the near annihilation of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, not with armies, but with treachery and strategy, using only letters and messengers to outmaneuver his enemy.

This was the art of power and wisdom—a craft Will intended to master as he sought to win the trust of the unconquered Howling Stone tribe. But time was running out.

He had only one night and one day to accomplish this feat.