This is more of a pet project, so it will NOT be updated frequently. You have been warned!

In a cataclysmic event termed the 'Ragnarok', the almighty Valyrian Freehold has fallen. Two decades of chaos ensued as city states vie for control, while the self-crowned High Queen Hela, the Lady of Death, searches far and wide for her two renegade brothers...

Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, Westeros was the same as it had always been: Divided.

King Antony Eddard Stark, the Iron Wolf, rules over the North, locked in a generations-old conflict with the River Kings of Hydrahal. After a hunting trip gone wrong, the King meets an unlikely savior in the forest, a masked child-like figure with a crude spider drawn on his tunic...

In the Vale, Prince Samwell Arryn, the Falcon of the Eyrie, sets out with his loyal friend, Ser Stefon Rodgers, to find their friend and companion, Ser Jaymes Barnes, who'd reportedly gone missing somewhere near Hydrahal...

On the Wall, there are more worrying news. Before she went missing, the legendary First Ranger, Lady Carol the Marvelous, had sent back alarming ravens regarding whispered rumors of a Night King. Lord Commander Nic Durrandon the Furious fears that this might be the Long Night that was once prophecied...

. o O o .

The hoof falls were soft against the powdered snow.

They were both breathing fast, man and beast, white mist coming out in puffs before them, and by rights the sound should have been deafening in the silence. But here, in the Wolfswood where the First Men roamed and the Children of the Forest once made home, the gnarly branches and needle leaves had a way of swallowing all things foreign.

And that they were — amongst the sentinel trees ancient and immovable, guardians of ages past, it didn't matter what titles one held — one was foreign.

Looking up, the sun struggled to pierce the snow-studded leaves, a wan and pitiable thing. It was afternoon, soon to be supper time — daylight for a few more hours, thank the gods — but the Wolfswood stretched for hundreds of miles, millions of acres of untouched primal darkness, and there was no saying where exactly they were.

Not for the first time that day, King Antony Eddard Stark wrapped his furs a little tighter around his shoulders and cursed himself for going along with this abominable plan.

"I hope you are very satisfied, Rhodey," he muttered crossly as he took another futile look around. He imagined his best friend and Master-at-Arms, calling out his name in the shadowed woods, searching for him with the rest of the hunting party. For a moment it almost amused him to think how frantic everyone would be right about now, until he remembered the small size of the hunting party. He would be fortunate if they managed to cover beyond a fewscore acres by nightfall, which made the likelihood of rescue rather slim.

It had been a spectacular stroke of bad luck, really. Bad luck, the stag, the thrice-damned boar… plus the small inconvenience of Antony's aversion to horses. Dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle, he'd always said.

Oh, he could ride them for some boring ceremonial purpose well enough, as his duties required of him; but that was atop a tame mare, on the paved paths of Winterfell, with nothing and no one daring to block his way. A spirited stallion that'd just been spooked by a boar, trudging over the tangled undergrowth, every branch or weed or bits of rock seemingly conspiring against them… that was another matter entirely.

Antony, or Tony as he was known to those close to him, had never been very… Stark. Of course he had the same dark hair, dark eyes, and stocky build of his ancestors before him, but altogether he was too soft, too quick to laugh, too eccentric. He had always preferred mechanical things and metalwork to swordplay or target practice, for one thing, and for another he was an inquisitive and avid reader, having gone through the entire library tower by the age of fifteen. He despised hunting or hawking, and preferred to spend his days relaxing amongst finer, more southron comforts — wine and women, mostly. Lord Stane had always joked that he reeked of summer — not a compliment for the heir of a family whose very words warned of winter.

Tony's mouth pursed into a hard line. Lord Obadiah Stane, the Lord of the Dreadfort; his father's most trusted bannerman and the sire of his future wife… if the man hadn't tried to murder him within the halls of his hearth, committing sacrilege under the eyes of the Old Gods. He would have succeeded, too, but for a fortuitous stroke of luck and Winterfell's head housekeeper, one Virginia Potts. Before Tony could dispense the King's justice, however, Stane had slain his daughter — Tony' betrothed — then stabbed himself through the heart.

Poor Valorie. She had done no wrong.

Tony shook his head to clear his thoughts of the incident. It did him no good in the present circumstance.

Which… come to think of it, what could do him good in the present circumstance?

A touch desperate, he tried to take stock of his surroundings yet again, holding an almost asinine hope of spying perchance a trail, or some distant campfire, or even a spot of familiar ground, anything that might lead him out; anything, anything at all.

The forest gazed serenely back wherever he looked. He thought he might've seen that gnarly tree with three consecutive double-forked branches earlier in his ill-fated afternoon escapade, so he rode on over to give it a closer inspection. He was only fooling himself, of course — even on the minute chance that he was correct, and it truly was the same tree, he had not a clue which way to turn.

His mouth twitched in annoyance, and a budding panic he immediately clamped down on. He took a deep breath of the cold dry air. He was the King in the North. This was his domain, the heartlands of his kingdom, ruled by his kin and his blood ever since the days of the First Men. He was a Stark of Winterfell, and he would not be cowed into —

A flicker of shadow passed at the periphery of his vision. He whipped his head around, breath hitched in his throat, eyes scanning desperately through shrub and bark and bare branches. His heart rate, which he had just barely managed to contain, surged like the snows outside the castle walls after winter's first blizzard.

Horses can sense your unease, or so Rhodey had always told him. Stay in control, they stay calm; but panic, and they panic.

As per usual, the man was right. It wasn't a moment after Tony turned that his mount turned too, whinnying softly as it shook its head. He felt a tug on his reins as the massive dumb animal whickered, louder this time, and stamped its hooves nervously on the ground. The dull clop was more audible under the trees, with lighter snowdrift and harder ground.

"E-easy boy," Tony said, hating how his voice trembled.

You have to control them with firmness, Rhodey said.

"Yeah, high time for you to shut that yammering pie hole of yours," Tony muttered, yanking at the reins. "Finding me sometime before sundown would be a nice bonus, too…"

Great. Now he was talking to someone who wasn't even here, like a raving lunatic. To add to that, the horse was paying no heed to his handling, either, puffing and half-rearing, turning every which way as Tony concentrated on staying on the saddle. Gods, this was why he preferred gears than creatures. Gears worked and didn't fight back, and gears certainly didn't do its bowel movements over his favorite pair of shoes.

His struggles with the animal was enough to temporarily occupy his mind, as much as could be said under the moment. But all it took was a distinct rustle at the edge of the tiny clearing, before man and beast alike went absolutely still.

Tony's imagination went wilder than a fresh-captured raider from Beyond the Wall. Even with the sun still up, the shadow between the dark spaces of the trees was suddenly any number of things. Bear. Boar. Wolf. Aurochs. Direwolf. The Others.

The Chi'tauri, as they were called in the Age of Heroes. The name had been taken from the Children of the Forest, and only in the North had it passed on into the present. They were rumored to be part lizard, part gear — and where they went, winter and darkness followed. They commanded the legions of the undead, or so the stories said — scorpions as large as taverns, warriors of decaying flesh, frozen corpses of giants and ice bears, reanimated at a glance of their frost-blue eyes.

The King scoffed as he shook the image off his mind. They were children's tales; bedtime stories. He was far more worried about the creatures that inhabited the wolfswood. A hungry pack of wolves could spell doom for him and his not-so-trusty steed. A bear irritated at being woken up would have no trouble catching them in this undergrowth. Even an aurochs could prove dangerous if it decided to take offense to their presence.

And it might be worse than mere creatures. It might be people — rapers, slave traders, ruthless cutthroats, on the run from the King's justice. They could be armed, and dangerous. If a King's ransom could drive most honest men to crime, he shuddered to think what effect it would have on those men.

He throttled the urge to yell out a challenge — he knew better than to holler inside the Wolfswood, alone as he was. Quietly, he grasped the pommel of his sword and slowly slipped it from its scabbard, wincing as he heard the whirr of the metal sliding against each other. He wished he had the comfort of his greatsword, Ice — Valyrian steel held an edge like no other, and he could use the extra reach.

Alas, that weapon was currently safe in his chambers, back home in Winterfell. It was half too big to bring on a hunting trip anyhow.

With a blade in his right, Tony forced himself to focus, keeping the horse steady with his other. He was a Stark, born and bred, and he knew his way around a sword. The rustle grew louder. His stallion whinnied, shifting nervously. Tony's thighs were sore, but he made sure to enforce the constant pressure, to let the beast know its place.

"Come out," he hissed under his breath. "Show yourself, whatever you are."

The barren shrub shook just beneath the pine tree's shadow. Another rustle, inching closer — Tony wished he had a torch or some gods-damned light source to throw at the gloom — this time the long-hanging branches were shaking, barely visible with such poor contrast…

The head emerged first, black and unholy, the fur mangled. His breath hitched. He spotted a glint in the creature's beady eyes, a snout that poked out, sniffling…

It was a hare. An abnormally large one, over two and a half feet in length… but a hare nonetheless.

Tony slumped forward in the saddle, panting slightly. He re-sheathed his sword on the second try, almost cutting himself on the waist. He stared in half-exasperation at the creature, who was sniffing again, head swiveling. Their eyes met in one short moment, and the hare stared at the man on the tall horse, before it lost interest and returned its attention to the undergrowth.

Evidently classing the pair as nonthreatening, the hare burst into the clearing with an easy hop, and immediately began paw and dig at the powdered snow in front of it. It wasn't a few breaths later when a root was uncovered, and the dumb animal dug in with gusto.

Tony shook his head. This story he was definitely going to keep to himself, granted he got out of the forest alive. Still, as he patted his horse on its warm neck, both of them calmed now and watching the hare, he couldn't help but feel a sense of hope. It wasn't nearly as bad as he'd thought, probably. Perhaps he should just stay put, and let Rhodey's tracking hounds do their job.

"Spooked by a hare, soothed by the same," he mused, absently scratching his horse's mane. It whickered in response. "We're going to make it, boy."

His voice was almost instantly absorbed by the forest, as it had been before, but he felt immeasurably cheered. Looking around now, the clearing was nowhere as menacing or inscrutable as he had previously perceived; no longer another node in a labyrinth of oblivion. It was what it was — a forest, calm and ancient and full of —

A sharp twang pierced the air, then a whistle following close behind. There was some frantic scurrying.

The hare was pinned to the ground, hind leg kicking weakly, miserably, even as red dotted the snow around it. A crude arrow stuck out of its neck. Tony watched as it kicked one more time, and went still.

"We got it. And look! A high and mighty Lord."

The voice was deep, gruff, seeped in scornful mockery that made Tony's heart sink. He whirled around as a man, seven feet tall at least, emerged from behind him — through the path he had just been treading.

The man was wrapped in what looked to be a crude cape woven from a patchwork of pelts, and dark leather-and-cloth covered his body. In his hand he held a short bow, arrow nocked.

He smiled when he noticed Tony's expressions. He was missing half his teeth, and the other half were yellowed and sharpened.

"Name's Jerid, milord." He sauntered forward, and Tony's horse swished its tail. Tony could feel the tense muscles moving beneath the skin. Under direct sunlight, the man's form seemed to grow even larger. He bent down and plucked the arrow from out of the hare, mouth corners twitching with near-sadism. "How may I be of service?"

Tony never thought he'd be grateful to the late Obadiah Stane, but his bust would have adorned every coin in the Kingdom had Lord Stane not dissuaded him… and Jerid would've known who he was.

"I'm not a Lord," he clarified, even as his horse reared. He forced his regal mask to stay on, and patted his sword, almost as an offhand gesture. "I'm a free rider under Lord Glover. Just passing through."

"Glover, eh?" Jerid cracked a wide grin. "You're far from Deepwood Motte. Are ye' lost, milord?"

"Lost?" Tony chuckled, trying to make himself seem nonchalant and unthreatened. "Don't be ridiculous. I know these parts as well as the back of my —"

"Oh yeh? Well we're lost. Reckon you can show us the way out, Ser?"

A second man strode into the clearing, a knife in hand. Shorter than his companion, he was nonetheless savagely built, with muscles which poked from under his ragged clothes. A smile split his face.

"And who might you be?" Tony managed to squeeze out. He noticed the slight anxious edge in his own voice, and wanted to kick himself in the head.

"Ah, pardon my manners. I'm Lukas. So what says you, milord?"

"A-about what?" Tony couldn't stop the slight stammer, and Jerid's eyes glinted in a way that said he'd noticed.

"We're lost." Lukas took a few steps, circling, until he and his companion were at the opposite sides of the clearing — blocking off any avenues of escape. "We're loyal Glover subjects, too, you know. Would you show us out?"

Tony did the only sensible thing he could. He drew his sword.

"I don't want trouble," he warned, hoping to inject a semblance of steely resolve. He really wished he had Ice with him, right now.

Jerid's response was instant, his arrow drawn a split second later.

"I wouldn't do that, milord." His beady eyes were suddenly much darker as he kept his gaze on Tony's sword.

"We don't want any trouble either, milord," Lukas nodded. He took an experimental step forward; there was not twenty feet's distance between them, now.

Briefly Tony wondered what would become of him. They likely had no intentions of killing him; he had little of value on his person, while his ransom was worth at least twice his weight in gold. But then again, they likely thought him exactly as he proclaimed; perhaps a hedge knight, or a minor lord, whose House might not be able to bear such an expense, so they might just kill him after all, and take his meager belongings. And if they did find out who he truly was, there was a high chance they'd kill him and be done with it anyway — it would take a lucky man indeed to collect a King's ransom, and live long enough to spend it.

His heart wrenched as he saw his household receiving the news. Rhodey, his Housekeeper Potts, his Captain of the Guard Harold the Happy… Maester Jarvis, who'd been like a true father to him.

Focus, Rhodey said. Clear your thoughts before battle.

Right. Those long hours in the practice yard with his friend managed to instill a sense of temporary calm. Tony pushed his thoughts away and concentrated on eyeing his odds. He was decently armored, and might stand a chance if he didn't get taken out by an arrow. He was mounted; it would take at most a heartbeat to be upon them. Whether or not he could control the beast to charge would be another test of his mettle, but he refused to think about that as well.

"Yer final chance," Lukas snarled. "Drop ye sword, milord, an' show us out, nice and easy."

To the other side, Jerid's arrow was pointed straight at him. "I'm going to count to five, milord. Drop ye sword."

Tony pulled at the reins. Go for the archer, he decided.

"One."

Yes, definitely the archer. Jerid would have one shot at most at this range, and if Tony were lucky, he could hide behind the horse's bulk and avoid danger entirely.

"Two."

Tony kicked the stallion's stomach, making a show of turning toward Lukas. He really hoped his shoddy handling would be enough to mislead them…

"Three."

He felt himself sweat beneath his furs. He hoped could steer the horse in the correct direction when it came for the time to strike.

"Four."

He slowly raised his sword-arm, as if to drop the weapon, before he hunched himself as low as he could behind the horse's head, and yanked —

"Five!"

Tony heard the arrow first, a whoosh that he was familiar with. Then he heard the twang of the bowstring. He heard the hoof-falls of his horse.

And then… perhaps it was better to describe what he didn't hear. He didn't hear the arrow hitting his horse, or flying past him, or striking some trees. He didn't hear the cry of battle as Lukas rushed him. He didn't hear the curse as Jerid stumbled backwards, nocking another arrow, desperate to get off another shot.

What he heard… was just scuffling. Two sharp snaps. Then two dull thuds.

And silence.

He had botched the charge; he was sure of it. The stallion hadn't even broken into a gallop, and was now slowing to a trot as it puffed air indignantly. It whinnied and shook, before rearing, almost throwing Tony off the saddle. He scrambled to keep his feet in the stirrups…

Then it stopped.

"Good boy," someone said in a soft, high voice. The horse snorted, and the person laughed. The sound was like water, pure and tinkling as it landed in the half-frosted ponds.

Tony lifted his head.

What he noticed first was the scene immediately in front of him. Sprawled out on the snow were his two would-be kidnapper… or murderers. Each of them had no visible wounds, and there was no rust-red around their bodies. They were down for the count.

Then he looked in front of the horse.

A wooden mask peered back at him, painted dull red and blue, mere slits where the eyes should be.

"Good gods!" he recoiled, nearly sending the horse to a blind charge.

"Woah, woah!" the figure held up their hands, pressing one against the horse's chest. "Easy, boy. Easy, easy… good boy." Then it turned its gaze to Tony once again. "I'm sorry to startle you."

The figure wasn't so large, Tony realized. Perhaps only a little over five-and-a-half feet, and certainly lithe and scrawny to a fault. It — they? he?— was clad in a faded grey woolen tunic, with a crude red symbol adorning the chest, and a simple string belt held up his drab patchwork trousers… though no shoes were in sight. Tony squinted at the mud-encrusted outline. Human feet. Good.

"So…" he began, hesitant, "who… are you?"

For some odd reason, Tony wasn't afraid. It was the small thin shoulders, maybe, or the youthful voice which sounded of summers and warmth and… innocence. The mask obscured most of the figure's head, but patches of dark brown hair poked out here and there.

The figure seemed to consider this, before he shrugged.

"I'm just me," he said, letting out that chiming chuckle. "I try to help people who seem to be in trouble. What about you, Ser knight? Who are you?"

"Ah, I'm no Ser." Tony scratched his head. "I'm… call me Antony."

The figure nodded. "Ser Antony. You have a beautiful horse, by the way."

"Thank you." Tony patted the animal's neck. "I don't actually know its name. It's my friend's."

"I'm sure he has a splendid name," the youth declared, wholly confident, as he gave the animal an affectionate rub. It neighed in appreciation, and seemed to relax. "Why were they after you, Ser?"

Tony caught the small nod at the two downed men, and was shocked to realize he'd almost forgotten about them. The strange situation had him exceptionally relaxed and at ease, more than he had any right to be. He was almost murdered, for Winter's sake. Had he gone so inane?

"They thought I was a lord," the King explained softly. "I think they were bandits. Lords traveling alone and vulnerable are rare treats you do not pass up on."

"Yeah, I know them," the figure snorted, though Tony thought he heard a trace of anger. "They're members of the Wolfswood Brotherhood. I try to stop them whenever I can."

"Don't worry," the youth added with an indignant sniff, "I didn't kill those two, just stunned them with rocks. I don't, ah, kill people." He shook his head, as if ridding himself of unpleasant memories, before his gaze snapped up.

His entire demeanor changed instantly. The King smiled when he found he had no difficulty in interpretation — his savior was proving to be remarkably transparent; between the flailing arms, the rolling shoulders, and the rich diversity in tone, the mask may as well have not been there.

"Are you?" the youth asked, and Tony was rather fondly reminded of an excitable pup in the kennels, despite the gruesome nature of their situation. "A-a lord, I mean?"

Tony hesitated. Through the slits in the mask he thought he saw a flash of trepidation.

"I am." He breathed out, tasting the way that sounded on his tongue. "I live in Winterfell."

Comments are always welcome! If there's a demand, I'll probably update sooner. (I do have an entire world planned out after all!)