The Coming War/Prologue

A/N: The events of the prologue will not be touched on right away in the story, it's just to give you a sense of the world I've created. Enjoy!

It was a fearsome thing to anger the King of the North. Yes, he was a warmhearted man, honorable, loyal, and brave, but as cold and unforgiving as the winter he had been born in and the northern lands he ruled. If one were to commit a crime on his lands he would punish you himself, especially for the most heinous of crimes. Rory knew that, and still he went with Bandon and his gang through the Ghostwood and up Mount Werewood to pillage from the lord and his lands. Bandon had thought it would be easy because Lord Wendell Werwayne was nearing his hundredth year, was near blind, and said to be as frail as a newborn without the vitality. Rory had been skeptical of course, he had cousins up in the Northern lands and they all told that the King of the North’s people were not like other common folk. They were all trained in some form of combat since the age of three. One would think the King of the North was always prepared for a war but it was not the idea of war that had him train his people so, it was the blood in him. His great-grandmother had been a Dashur and they were all trained in combat, even women. When she had ruled in place of her husband for fifty years and fought in one of the realm’s greatest wars she had made sure the people of the Northern Lands were as combative as herself and would remain that way. She had lived until the current King of the North was twelve and he loved her greatly and her ways.

Cases of bandits raiding villages always ended with the bandits being caught, their leaders always lost three fingers on their dominant hand before they were sent to the Crossing. Flexing his right hand, Rory was glad he was only a guide. Should we get caught I will make sure to escape, even if I am the only one to. He refused to have to withstand more cold up on the Wall with the Old Raven and the Third Sons. He was the only son to his parents and preferred his line of work, legal or not. However, never had he taken a risk such as this. He glanced around, wary of the eyes of the Seer trees that filled the Ghostwood. The gods see all. All the eyes of the Seer trees, all black pupils in gray cornea seemed to following him. He felt a chill down to his bones. Mother have mercy, why would the Nameless Gods care if I steal. I steal not from them? The Nameless Gods had no temples, only a tree for an altar, one that was white as snow but when cut, bled blood so red you’d never know it was sap. The leaves were red too, nothing like blood on snow to tell a man what his death would be. He shivered; glad the Ghostwood was want of the God Tree.

Rory knew that raiding a North mountain would not be easy, even if it was summer. In the Northern Lands there were always traces of winter. Always were there patches of snow to be found and a thin sheet of ice over the water in the mountains. But there were hot springs bubbling beneath and mines of iron and silver and according to rumors gems. But Rory did not believe rumors, only truth and more oft then not, truth was what he could see with his eyes. And he had eyesight fit for an archer. At the moment he could see that they would not even make it the mountain, Bandon and their gang of seven other men, none from the North and none very combative. They are only brigands and barely that, thought Rory as he stared at the shivering men. Only Rory had the sense to wear a fur cloak, borrowed from a cousin. Southern men knew not the dangers of the cold, or it’s murderous and cruel nature.

They had made it a tenth of the way up the mountain before getting lost and another tenth before someone fell into a pool, as they kept walking their clothes froze. Now, they stood huddled together, shivering. Howling could be heard of in the distance and Rory wasn’t sure if it were the demon wolves, D’tri, or the snow cats, Ta’comir. He regretted his decision to come.

“It hopeless, let’s go back,” he told Bandon.

Bandon, scowling, shook his head stubbornly. “Nay, we trudge on. The North has more gold than King Eric himself. We shall never hunger again if we can steal it.”

“Every noble has more gold than King Eric,” said Warren. “As far as rumors go.” They paid him no mind.

“We shall die before we can if we keep going,” Rory persisted. The evening light was fading now and he was wary of these mountains at night. Wildlings were said to walk the mountains and woods of the North at night and no man was brave enough to see if it were true. Though he had heard tale of a girl…no, he could not worry about that now. He must get them off the mountain or at least into shelter. “It is dark now, it’s not safe.”

“It wasn’t safe in the first place,” cried Warren, hugging himself, teeth chattering. “Bandon, let’s just go.”

“No,” Bandon snarled, “We came here to do a job and I plan to get it down. Don’t you know Kip will have our heads if we come back with nothing?”

Rory’s expression morphed from one of worry to one of annoyance. So that was it then, this was all a job for Kip. With a name like “Kip” one was like to think of a scrawny, weak boy but he was as tough as his fellow Landless Men and as cunning as a fox, but as Rory always reminded himself, rabbits were more cunning and tricky. Still, he had to wonder what that conniving lawless lad thought to gain from a vain attempt at robbing a Northern Lord. As he thought on it, he frowned because such a man as Kip’ motives were impossible for him to comprehend. He thought it best to just forget about it and get the others off the mountain.

“Listen,” he told Bandon. “We can return on the morn but right now we must go, these mountains are not for humans at night.”

Bandon laughed, “What, ‘fraid of a child’s ghost stories. Thought you had more sense than that, guess I was wrong.”

Rory scowled, “Fool, even if they are ghost stories these mountains are still dangerous. It gets colder at night and none of us will make it. Better to take refuge and to see the morrow.”

“I second that,” said a blonde Rory knew as Oz.

“Same here,” said Warren raising his hand.

“Ya, me too,” said Crow, named that for his hair, eyes, and aquiline nose.

The other four men, boys really, glanced uncertainly at Bandon and then at Rory; worried for their lives for sure. On one hand, there was staying on the mountain and freezing to death, on the other hand there was leaving and returning with nothing and having to face Kip’s wrath. Neither seemed very nice an idea. Rory opened his mouth to speak but before he could the sound of snarls and growls surrounded them, being heard even before the wolves could be seen. Rory knew at once that they were not normal wolves, their eyes glowed a pale, blue-white and they were twice as big as normal wolves. He knew now that they were doomed because, as tales told, with the wolves came the Wildlings, ready to exact their revenge. With a howl from the Alpha, all the wolves descended upon the nine young men, snapping and tearing at their clothes, arms, legs, faces. One boy went down and then another, followed by screams of anguish and then as those scream died away they were replaced by the sound of tearing flesh. Terror gripped Rory in its cold and icy hands and did not let go, it was all he could do to grab his axe and swing at the beast as they neared him.

He cut some, he was sure, but they attacked even as they bled and he knew they would not stop until he was nothing but bone to be covered in morning frost. Fearing for his life, he swung and ran at the same time, dashing headlong into the throng of beast and ignored the anguished cries of the other boys. Boys, we were only boys trying to act the part of men. He was only sixteen, his mother still lived, and she would grieve. He wanted to live longer, he wanted to wed. Neither would happen if he died here? Screaming, he pushed and slashed at the demon wolves, bleeding from a bite on his arms, but still he had managed to get past them. He ran, as fast and as far as he could, blindly through the forest and further up the mountain. All around him it seemed the trees were reaching out to grab him and there were voices, sweet voices of children, or angels, calling out to him. He knew them for what they were though, the Wildlings, the Others; the true rulers of these lands. They would have their revenge.