274 AC, Beyond the Wall
The howling of wolves was becoming louder and louder.
It did not carry aggression. It was not a warning. It was a rhythm. Steady, even, persistent. Like an echo that refuses to fall silent.
Wendel, nervously looking around the wall of trees, tightened his hands on the axe and muttered:
"How many are there?"
Howland closed his eyes, listening for a moment to the sounds carried by the air, and then quietly, almost sadly, replied:
"I don't know. But more than cannibals. Many more."
"Great." — Wendel swore under his breath, his shoulders tensing like a man who expects the worst. — "We've barely finished with those damn cannibals, and another queue is lined up at our door."
I looked towards the forest. The shadows between the trees began to thicken. The snow had stopped falling. The wind had died down. As if something or someone had held their breath.
"Tight formation. No breaking away. No shooting without orders." — I said loudly but calmly, in a tone that left no room for discussion.
Huddled in a half-circle, we waited.
And then the first silhouette appeared.
It was not an ordinary wolf. It was huge. Larger than anything I had seen in the North — walking slowly, without hesitation, with the grace and confidence of a creature that knows every stone, every branch, every story of this forest. And in its mouth, it carried a sword.
Behind it, the entire pack moved — not a few, not a dozen, but tens, maybe a hundred wolves of various sizes, coloration, and ages — and they all stopped exactly opposite us, at the perfect distance: close enough to assess us, but too far for us to touch them.
Wendel swallowed, too loudly for anyone in our unit to miss.
"Is this... normal?" — he asked with the voice of a man who knew the answer but preferred not to say it out loud.
Looking at the wolf, I had the feeling that I would soon have to fight it, and then go fight the Four Kings.
All that was missing was an orchestra in the background and a health bar that displays.
But the wolf did not move.
It stood, holding that damn sword in its mouth, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and stared at me.
Harrion finally whispered in disbelief:
"He's really holding a sword..."
I did not respond. I had so many curses on the tip of my tongue that they would suffice for a new version of A Song of Ice and Fire written by a tavern keeper after a few mugs of vodka. Instead, I simply looked. At the wolf.
And then it growled — quietly, deeply, as if commenting on my silence, and then, as if it were part of some ancient ritual that none of us understood, from the darkness between the larger wolves' paws, a wolf cub emerged — small, with fur so light that it almost blended with the snow.
It moved slowly, calmly, without fear.
The largest wolf did not even twitch when the young one approached me, as if he knew in advance what would happen, as if it were a choice already made.
The wolf cub stopped maybe two or three steps from me. Close enough that I could hear its breath — shallow, quick, but steady.
It looked me straight in the eyes.
And then I understood. Is this supposed to be my direwolf. But why couldn't I get it normally. Just like it was with the book. It was supposed to be normal, not some ancestor's plan.
I reached out to it, and it licked my hand.
I sighed quietly, more to myself than to anyone around.
"Does everything I receive have to look like a prophecy scene?"
I could have found the wolf in a cave. Or someone had just handed me a pup, saying: "Lord Stark, I found a young direwolf".
The wolf settled by my leg, its tail sweeping across the snow.
Seeing that its young was accepted, the wolf with the sword howled.
After that howl, the wolf looked at me for a moment, as if wanting to make sure I was watching. And then, without unnecessary gestures, without theatricality, it turned and moved into the forest.
The rest of the pack followed one by one, in silence and without haste.
Soon there was nothing left but fresh snow, the breath vapor of the people, and the small direwolf by my leg, who just yawned, as if this dramatic staging was exhausting for him.
"He will be called Fenrir," I said firmly.
He barked. As if accepting.
"Good that they approached you, not me," — Wendel finally muttered. — "Because after such a scene, I would have to change my pants."
"Check how many are wounded," I threw without emotion, still looking at the place where the pack had disappeared.
Howland immediately issued orders. People began to move, checking the wounded, treating injuries, helping those who were still trembling in shock. Fortunately, no one died. A few had bruises, two had light cuts. One of ours panicked and hit himself in the forehead with his own bow. Fortunately, he was not from the Stark military camp.
"They're whole, though in shock," — Howland threw. — "I saw them stop breathing when the first wolf approached."
"That was not a wolf," — Harrion interjected gloomily. — "That was a direwolf. And a huge one at that."
"The most important thing is that it drove away that flock of crows" I added. "Because they were not normal either. And it's good they didn't try to attack us."
Wooof.
"See? Fenrir agrees."
Howland approached closer, still looking around the sky.
"Those birds, they weren't behaving like wild ones."
"You noticed that too?" I muttered.
He nodded. "They were moving synchronously. As if someone was controlling them."
"Possible. But we don't have time to think about it now."