Andrew

The forest was a dense tangle of elms, and oaks and tall redwoods rising solitary and staunch, their fresh green tops visible from miles off. The Rivermen called it the White Wood. Though there was nothing white about it Andrew thought, standing amidst this strong barrier of earth and wood, all green and brown.

The tales they told of this forest that was called as White Wood was of darker stuff. It was said that there was a terrible battle fought here between the Children of the Forest and the Andals during their coming to Westeros. Legends spoke of a fateful night in the White Wood, where the children of the forest emerged from beneath a hollow hill to send hundreds of wolves against an Andal camp, tearing hundreds of men apart beneath the light of a crescent moon during the coming of the Andals. No doubt there were other battles fought here as well, but this was the tale most known to all.

His scouts had found a good elevated and commanding position surrounded by a ring of solemn oaks standing guard for his camp to be set up. Andrew rode to the place first with Lords Jon and Robert, a strong defensive position with a hill in the center. He had left Ghost below with the trees. The direwolf had run off three times as they climbed, twice returning reluctantly to Andrew's whistle. The third time, Andrew let him have his way. It's been a while since he had left for a hunt. The white wolf was prone to get bored when he was fed dead meat. He wants to hunt, he wants to kill. He wants to taste fresh, hot blood. Andrew knew it for he still dreamed in the nights. Jojen Reed was still trying his best to teach Andrew how to control those dreams. But apparently he was a bad student, in part because he didn't believe Jojen's words. How could a man wear a wolf's skin? He never knew but Jojen insisted that he could.

The way up the hill was simple and safe and it was a quick ascent. Andrew reached the summit first, circling around the steep tumbled rocks half buried in the ground. "This is good ground, Jon," Lord Robert proclaimed when at last they attained the top. "We could scarce hope for better. We'll make our camp here before moving onto King's Landing." The Lord of the Storm's End swung down off his saddle, and took a careful look at the summit.

The views atop the hill were bracing, yet it was the ringwall that drew Andrew's eye, the weathered grey stones with their white patches of lichen, their beards of green moss.

"An old place, and strong," Lord Yohn Royce acknowledged.

Andrew had to admit that it was a strong position. His scouts had promised that there were no other army in the Kingsroad and anywhere close to it, but he didn't want to take any chances. He had used more than his fair chances to remove unwary opponents to let himself be unwary.

"The hill will be easy to defend, if need be," Lord Robert pointed out as he walked along the ring of summit, his sable-trimmed cloak stirring in the wind. "We will build a barricade made of stakes around the summit to make it better protected."

Andrew nodded. "Yes, this place will do." The woods made for a wooden fort around them and the trees its great walls. There was a brook at the foot of the hill as well. A source of fresh water within the camp. They wouldn't find a better place than this to make camp. We're not like to find another place as strong. He could make certain they are well supplied before continuing on with the march.

So the command was given, and the combined army of the North, Vale, Riverlands and Stormlands raised their camp within the safety of the White wood. Coloured tents sprouted like mushrooms after a rain, and blankets and rushes covered the bare ground. Stewards tethered the horses in long lines, and saw them fed and watered. Foresters took their axes to the trees in the waning afternoon light to harvest enough wood to see them through the night. A score of builders set to clearing brush, digging latrines, and untying their bundles of fire-hardened stakes to put up the a chest-high barricade of around the ring wall.

His own tent had been put up in the centre of the summit surrounded by the pavilions of the great lords who followed him. Andrew Stark stood there and watched the defences of the hill being put up, hearing his men talk and jape about each other to forget the lull of the weary work. The sight brought a smile to his face.

He stayed there for awhile and then descended the hill in search of Ghost. The direwolf came at once, all in silence. One moment Andrew was striding beneath the trees, whistling and shouting, alone in the green, acorns and fallen leaves under his feet; the next, the great white direwolf was walking beside him, pale as morning mist. However he was off once again as he climbed up to the top and Andrew was forced to return to his tent alone.

When he reached back to the crest the barricade of wooden stakes were all done. He wedged in through the gap in the barricade left open for the entrance guarded by four guards with halberds.

They bowed as he made his way back through the barricade. They ought to be safe here, Andrew thought as he looked around. The hill offered commanding views, and the slopes were all wooded to the north and west and only slightly more clear to the east.

As the dusk deepened and darkness seeped into the hollows between the trees, Andrew stood at the top of the hill and looked down to the South. It was not too far away to the Crownlands and where the Red Keep sat from here. I am so close to King's Landing, yet so far away. There were still a lot of things to do before he could go chasing after Rhaegar. Especially securing those whom he had left behind.

Andrew gazed off toward the setting sun. He could see the light shimmering like red gold off in the distance of the western horizon as it spread out away from the forest. The land east to the hill was more rugged, where the dense forest that stood like a great shadow ended and gave way for the rolling plains that rose and fell.

Closer at hand, it was the trees that ruled. To south and east the wood went on as far as Andrew could see, a vast tangle of root and limb painted in a thousand shades of green, or a blush of yellow where some broadleafs had begun to turn. When the wind blew, he could hear the creak and groan of branches older than he was. A thousand leaves fluttered, and for a moment the forest seemed a deep green sea, storm-tossed and heaving, eternal and unknowable. A strong and old place indeed. And better yet a stronger position to make camp for a safe night. No doubt the andal knights must have thought the same before the Children of the Forest sent their army of wolves amidst them.

Ghost was not like to be alone down there, he thought. Anything could be moving under that sea, creeping toward the ringfort through the dark of the wood, concealed beneath those trees. Anything. How would they ever know? He stood there for a long time, until the sun vanished behind the saw-toothed mountains and darkness began to creep through the forest.

"Your Grace?" Asher Forrester called up from behind. "I thought to find you here. Are you well?"

"Well enough." Andrew turned away from the trees. "How did you fare today?"

"Well. I fared well. Truly."

Andrew was not about to share his disquiet with his friend now. Once he might have done it when things were simple and he was some unknown bastard in the gutters of Braavos and he the young son of a Lord. They were two boys who had been friends then, no name or blood to keep hold onto them in any way. Now things had changed. Often he found himself sharing them to none. "Has the camp been made and the men settled?"

"As you commanded. It seems a strong place," said Asher. "Do you think the Rivermen are true and there were battles fought here?"

"No doubt," Andrew sighed. There were battles likely fought in every inch of Westeros long before they were born and there will be more fought long after they are gone. "You'd best call the maester and get a bird ready. I will want to send back word to tell them of our position."

Asher nodded. "Do you remember that one time we broke into the sealord's palace to steal his newest exotic bird in his menagerie?"

Andrew smiled. "We went in to see it, not to steal it."

He still remembered that day as much as if it happened only yesterday. They couldn't have been any older than eleven or twelve and the bird had been the talk of entire Braavos when it finally arrived in the Purple Harbour. The paradise bird it was called by the Braavosi, and some said it was because the bird was from the paradise itself and not all could see. It must have been quite the worth that the Sealord had sent his own bravos to escort the box to his palace from the harbour and the guards never even allowed anyone within three feet near it.

When Andrew had tried to get a glimpse he had only earned a push from one of the guards. So he had made his plan in the evening with his friends and Asher. Almost all of the boys had ran off as soon as they reached the palace and the amount of guards guarding it. Not them though. They had made up their mind. It was not hard to enter the palace along with the servants pretending to be the sons of one. The hardest part had been at finding the menagerie once inside. They had come upon it finally only to see it more guarded by more guards than there was at the main gate.

So instead they had been forced to creep in through a small window high on the side of a wall. Syrio had already told Andrew of the Sealord's Menagerie which was famous throughout the known world. But none of the tales he'd heard of it could have prepared him for the sight he had seen within. Such animals as one might have never seen or even heard of before, striped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws, striped tigers as big as bulls, and lions with coats as white as snow. And the newest addition to it was in the far end of the room, housed in a cage made of purest gold, a bird with the most colourful plumage he'd seen that it could even challenge the peacocks of Dorne in their beauty. It's iridescent plumes changed colours everytime it moved, once green then blue and then gold and back to green again. And it's tail feathers had been of long green ribbons that swayed in the gusts of wind with a bright red underside. Even the cry of the bird had been as beautiful as it was.

They stayed there and watched it for a long time. Though the cage was made of gold it was hardly big. The bird hadn't been able to spread its wings even if it wanted. He had then wanted to see how the bird would look when it flew and that had led to the chaos afterward.

And there was no choice but to steal it after it. He was the one to climb out first, with the cage and the bird in hand. Andrew remembered even now how the heft of the gold had made it hard for him to scale the wall. And the bird didn't help as well. Every bump and jerk made it startle in fear and scream in its sweet tune. The guards of the Sealord caught up with their mischief as Asher was making his way out.

They had been quick for their ages and small enough to confuse the the guards from their pursuit. Half of the city had been on their heels by the time Andrew climbed upto the top of the huge silvered dome of the Temple of the Moonsingers made of milk glass windows. There upon the entire sight of half the city and under the shining silver moonlight reflected upon the milk glass windows of the dome Andrew had opened the gate of the golden cage and let the bird fly. It was as beautiful as he had imagined it would be as he saw the golden green wings open to soar up against the silver moon. So beautiful indeed that everyone who had come chasing them forgot about the pursuit at the sight of the beautiful bird flying under the moon. That had saved him and Asher from the blades of the bravos of the sealord that day.

"Eh, we stole it anyway," said Asher. "It was better that way. Who would keep such a beautiful creature cooped up in some cage like a hen?"

"The Sealord," Andrew said letting a small smile come to his face.

"I wish we had opened all the cages in that menagerie," Asher said then. "Sent those creatures running through the streets of Braavos."

"If we had done that we wouldn't be having this talk right now," Andrew replied. "Have you forgotten the lions and tigers? If those other strange creatures hadn't killed us first they would have for sure."

"Ah, those were the good days, huh?"

Andrew clapped him on the shoulder with his burned hand. They walked back through the camp together. Cookfires were being lit all around them. Overhead, the stars were coming out. Andrew heard the ravens before he saw them. Some were calling his name. The birds were not shy when it came to making noise.

He advised the maester to send word of his position to Riverrun and Winterfell and another one to Moat Cailin. If Argella hadn't reached Winterfell yet, Lord Howland could tell her of where he is and what he's doing. It felt the most right and he owed her that much after taking her for wife. No woman would like to think that her husband has forgotten her within months of marriage. Argella was not most woman though, but it's the least he could do as a proper husband.

Andrew found himself remembering her kiss and thinking of her of late. Even as he rode to another fight or subduing a nearby castle he found himself wondering more about where she was or what she was doing? Did my father thought about mother when he left to fight in his wars? Was it the same for him? He didn't know and likely never would for King Eddard was dead and it was Andrew's wars left to be fought.

It was a gloomy thought and forlorn. "I'd best get back Ghost," he said, grimly. "He has been restless since we got here."

He returned to his tent to change out of his Kingly clothes before going out in search of the direwolf. However Andrew found Lord Arryn and Lord Robert waiting for him inside talking with Lord Hoster and half a dozen of their other lords and knights.

All stopped their conversation when he arrived. "Your grace."

"There you are," old Lord Arryn said kindly. "We have some urgent matters to discuss."

Andrew nodded and went over to the chair at the head of the table that was reserved for him. He sat down on the oakwood chair and a large map of the Seven Kingdoms was kept open in front of him.

Olyvar Frey was preparing his bed for the night. "Olyvar," Andrew called. "Some hot wine for the lords, if you would. The rain has left its chill in the world."

"As you command, my lord." The boy quickly set to built a cookfire. Andrew pushed a small cask of robust red from stores to him to pour it into a kettle and heat it up. As Olyvar hung the kettle above the flames, Andrew turned back to his lords and allies.

It was the Greatjon who broke the silence first never once for patience. "Your grace, the road to King's Landing is wide open right now," he said, clutching his great iron sword against his chest. "Now is the time to go knocking onto Rhaegar's doors."

Lord Robert agreed. He pointed out the Kingsroad in the map and said, "The easiest road up to the city is straight down to follow the Kingsroad south back to its source in the Red Keep. Yet if we go that path, Rhaegar will know of our approach, certain as sunrise."

"And we will be leaving defiant castles still loyal to the Targaryens on our back," said Lord Arryn. "Not all of Prince Aegon's strength was shattered in the Trident. There are survivors still and they could cut off our retreat."

"There would be no reason to retreat," Lord Umber thumped his chest.

"Even still, we would be exposing our backs for any attack."

Andrew peered down at the map that sat unfolded in front of him on the table. He took a good long look of the castles nearby. Maidenpool, Harrenhal, Duskendale, Antlers... All of them were sworn to Rhaegar and had followed their King loyally. Andrew didn't doubt that they would continue to do so to the bitter end. It was a bitter potion to swallow but Lord Arryn had the right of it. He was amidst the lands ruled by loyalists on all sides. He might have scattered off their armies for now but Andrew knew that given enough time Harrenhall, Maidenpool and Duskendale could raise a new own from their levies, poised to strike him from behind.

Andrew pointed out to all the castles that lay around him on his way to King's Landing. "I want messages to be sent to these castles with the terms of surrender," he said. "They can keep their lordships and their castles. None has to join our fight if they don't want to, but I expect them to stay out of the war from here on. It's true that we need to secure our line of march before moving onto King's Landing, especially the supply lines."

It was the best option he could think of. Andrew didn't find the need to strike them with force straight away, at least not until they posed a threat and a peace offer has been denied. Either way he would find enough supplies for the army on their march to King's Landing with the subjugation of these lands.

By then Olyvar Frey was done with the wine and brought them out to serve. Andrew waved the wine away and gestured to him to serve them to the others and his squire started filling the cups of the other lords.

Lord Hoster stroked his beard as he gazed upon the said castles. "I would not expect them to surrender and give up the castles right away, my lord," he said in a thin, tired voice. "No more than I'd expected them to obey my commands when I called my banners."

"We cannot risk leaving unfinished foes on our back," said Robert Arryn. "Those who fought and lost in the battles against us are not entirely gone. They will emerge from their hideouts soon enough, and who knows what mighty host is waiting for us on our route to King's Landing. If so, we would risk getting caught between two armies and we cannot hope to slip by then."

"And then there is Jon Connington to deal with as well. He was leading a great host which numbered in several thousands. We will risk getting caught between three armies if he reaches us," Lord Stannis Baratheon placing his hand over the mouth of his cup when Olyvar went over to pour him some wine.

"Bah, Connington is just a rabid dog rushing after whatever his master is pointing out to him," Lord Umber said. "He remains a threat only as long as Rhaegar remains. I say we march onto King's Landing to cut the head off the snake and everything else would cease to work after that."

"Where is the Hand's army?" Ser Gunthor Hightower asked.

"Last we had heard of him is that he'd taken Pinkmaiden Castle before moving on from there," Ser Brynden Tully replied.

"If he has taken Pinkmaiden now then there wouldn't be anything delaying him any further from moving against Riverrun itself," said Lord Tytos Blackwood as he accepted a cup from Olyvar. "Unless the forces under Lord Bolton manages to do so."

"I haven't received any messages from Lord Bolton as well," Andrew admitted.

"Might be Connington caught up with him?" Robert Baratheon suggested.

Andrew hoped not. He would lose a huge portion of his army under his command if that was the case.

"We should leave Connington and move for King's Landing." Someone shouted and others mumbled their approval. "We can deal with him after we deal with Rhaegar."

"Aye!" His goodfather agreed. "Strike hard and fast at King's Landing before Rhaegar realises what's happening and Connington will come running back to us."

There were others who disagreed to that as well. Chief amongst them were the Riverlords who were bearing the brunt of Jon Connington's campaign.

"No, we can't leave him threatening our back," Lord Hoster argued. "While I am sure that Riverrun might resist him I don't think he would require that to truly threaten to cut us off."

"Turn around to face Connington then," suggested Lord Karstark.

"No, if we should come to battle, we could not hope for better ground than here," declared Lord Fell. "We'll strengthen the defenses. Pits and spikes, caltrops scattered on the forest grounds, every breach mended. Let our men lead the Hand over to us and his doom. We can harass the column every day they creep through the woods and finish them off once and for all."

"We don't know if any other army is left nearby us," said Ser Stevron Frey. "The loyalists might be massing another loyalist host a day's ride from here, or in Harrenhal or in Maidenpool and we'd never know."

"No makeshift army they could put up with the survivors of the previous battles would be of any big challenge to us," Yohn Royce said.

Andrew regarded the matter silently. He didn't have that many options left to him as the men said. The biggest concern was whether to make for King's Landing or going after Jon Connington. The thought of driving Frost through Rhaegar's heart made the former more desirable than the latter. But Andrew didn't want to let Connington wreak havoc on the Tullys' domains and ancestral home and put those who remained there after the wedding under danger. Half the families of the men who'd come for his wedding stayed back in Riverrun.

"We will wait for a few more days to get a reply from Lord Bolton," Andrew said finally. "We'll choose our wisest course of action then. Right now I want to keep moving towards King's Landing after securing those lands and castles around us to secure our supply route."

"As you say, my lord." Lord Jon said and so it was decided. Lord Arryn took a silent leave first. The others finished their wine and followed, courteously enough.

"Shall I bring you supper, my lord?" Olyvar asked when they were all gone and it was just the two of them in the tent.

Andrew did not answer at once, more occupied with the war plans of the day. When he did he bid Olyvar eat before him. "I have one more thing to do before the night, Olyvar. Don't wait on my account. Have your supper."

He didn't change his clothes but left the tent in his royal attire, the long brown coat lined with ermine, in search of the direwolf. He was not back yet and Andrew found himself missing his company of late.

Andrew gathered up Frost and stepped outside. He heard distant laughter, the plaintive sound of pipes. A great blaze was crackling in the center of the camp, and he could smell meat cooking.

The wind was blowing briskly from the north as he came out of his tent. The night was only going to get more chilling as the time passed. He flexed his fingers as he made his way down the hill. The guards for the night watch had taken up their stations around the perimeter of the mound. Torches flickered all along the trees around the camp. The night was moonless, but a thousand stars shone overhead.

A sound rose out of the darkness, faint and distant, but unmistakable: the howling of wolves. Their voices rose and fell, a chilly song, and lonely. It made the hairs rise along the back of his neck. Across the fire, a pair of red eyes regarded him from the shadows. The light of the flames made them glow.

"Ghost," Andrew breathed, surprised. "So you came back after all, eh?" The white wolf often hunted all night; he had not expected to see him again till daybreak. "Was the hunting so bad?" he asked. "Here. To me, Ghost."

The direwolf circled the fire, sniffing Andrew, sniffing the wind, never still. It did not seem as if he were after meat right now. "What are you doing?"

The direwolf looked up at him as if he wanted to say something, but he was always silent. Ghost loped off, stopped, looked back. He wants me to follow. Tugging up the fur trimmed collar of his coat against his neck, Andrew walked away from the tents, away from the warmth of his fire, past the lines of the warhorses and coursers. One of the horses whickered nervously when Ghost padded by. Andrew soothed him with a word and paused to stroke his muzzle.

A voice called out a challenge at the perimeter of the camp. Andrew stepped into the torchlight. "Your grace, I apologise." The man quickly went down to one knee.

Andrew raised him back up to his feet and patted his shoulder. "Never apologise for doing what you are supposed to do," he said to the guard. "I'll be back in a minute."

The guard nodded enthusiastically. Andrew slipped sideways between two sharpened stakes while Ghost slid beneath them. A torch had been tied in a tall wooden pole beyond the stakes, its flames flying pale orange banners when the gusts came. He snatched it up as he squeezed through the gap between the stones. Ghost went racing through the trees. Andrew followed more slowly, the torch thrust out before him as he made his way through the forest. The camp sounds faded behind him. The night was black, and the White Wood was silent and daunting so much more than the Wolfswood was.

The trees stood all around him, warriors armored in bark and leaf, deployed in their silent ranks awaiting the command to storm the ranks of any foe. Black, they seemed . . . it was only when his torchlight brushed against them that Andrew glimpsed a flash of green. Faintly, he heard the sound of little streams flowing through. Ghost vanished in the dark. Andrew struggled after him, listening to the call of the brook, to the leaves sighing in the wind. Branches clutched at his coat, while overhead thick limbs twined together and shut out the stars.

He found Ghost lapping from the stream. "Ghost," he called, "to me. Now." When the direwolf raised his head, his eyes glowed red and baleful, and water streamed down from his jaws like slaver. There was something fierce and terrible about him in that instant. And then he was off, bounding past Andrew, racing through the trees. "Ghost, no, stay," he shouted, but the wolf paid no heed. The lean white shape was swallowed by the dark, and Andrew had only two choices-to returned back the hill again, alone, or to follow.

He followed, angry, holding the torch out low so he could see the rocks that threatened to trip him with every step, the thick roots that seemed to grab as his feet, the holes where a man could twist an ankle. Every few feet he called again for Ghost, but the night wind was swirling amongst the trees and it drank the words. This is madness, he thought as he plunged deeper into the trees. He was about to turn back when he glimpsed a flash of white off ahead and to the right. He jogged after it, cursing under his breath.

A quarter way around the trees he chased the wolf before he lost him again. Finally he stopped to catch his breath amidst the scrub, thorns, and tumbled rocks. Beyond the torchlight, the dark pressed close.

A soft scrabbling noise made him turn. Andrew moved toward the sound, stepping carefully among boulders and thornbushes. Behind a fallen tree, he came on Ghost again.

And he was not alone. With the orange glow offered by his torch, Andrew could see big shapes of grey and dark in the shadows. Only when they stepped into the light he saw them for what they are, wolves with thick coats of grey and orange and black and the things were all around him. Andrew looked around and the wolves clogged all the escape routes between the trees, some still moving towards him. As they moved closer he saw that some of them were bigger than the biggest ponies he'd seen. These are no mere wolves, Andrew thought then, these are direwolves.

The biggest of them had swarmed around a fresh kill, tearing at the rich ripe flesh. Andrew unsheathed Frost from its scabbard. He looked at Ghost. "Is this why you brought me here in the night?" he asked.

The direwolf looked at him in restful silence and then eyed the kill of the wolves. His only good fortune was that Ghost was with him. The white wolf was much bigger than most of those wolves around them and it looked as if he was not at all bothered to have stumbled upon this great pack. He would be damned if he didn't have Ghost by his side for sure.

The sound of his voice got the attention of the leader of the pack as it looked up from the kill with its evil black eyes. The wolf was almost as big as Ghost, standing as tall as a horse, strongly built and fierce with coat as black as sin and muzzle drenched in blood. When it opened its mouth blood dripped from its jaws and all the other wolves slunk back.

Ghost remained by his side with a strange stillness that managed to unnerve Andrew. He tried to be calm himself, knowing that the beast could smell his nerves if he balked now. He had the torch in one hand and Frost in the other. Andrew used the flames to fend off the other wolves back and pointed his blade at the great black wolf.

The beast prowled forward and circled him and Ghost, sniffing the air and regarding Andrew with eyes full of malice. When he opened his mouth his teeth were stained red with blood as well.

Andrew steadied himself ready to drive Frost point first through the eye. Behind him he could hear the pack prowling as well. I have no chance at fighting all of them at once.

The black wolf snapped at him and growled. He turned Frost to the front once again but the direwolf was unfazed. He was hardly afraid of the blue blade, even less of its cold touch. It walked closer and Andrew moved back, waving the torch around to keep the others away.

The great black beast snapped once again, this time so much closer to him than he liked. And beside him Ghost stirred. Quite as a shadow the white wolf put himself between Andrew and the other direwolf and bared his own teeth in a silent snarl.

The black wolf regarded the challenge for a moment, but then thought better of it. Perhaps because it was afraid of Ghost or more likely it had it's interest pointed on him. Andrew saw him circling once more and then the darkness sprang at him, a flash of teeth, fur as black as the forest around them.

And Ghost came to stop him at the right moment, shooting out from the dimness like a leaping shadow. He slammed into the black direwolf and knocked him back, and the two direwolves rolled over and over in a tangle of white and black fur, snapping and biting at each other.

Andrew thrust the torch at the other wolves who rushed in to assist their leader. When a bold one slinked so close to get a nip at Ghost's tail from behind, Andrew hit him on the head with the flaming torch and sent him away running.

The two direwolves fought savagely, rolling across the forest floor, spinning and snapping and clawing at each other. The black wolf fought growling and barking like a feral beast and Ghost in deathly silence. He could not see them stay still for long enough to let him get a clear hit at the black one and Andrew stayed his blade in fear of wounding Ghost.

In the light of the guttering torch, the two wolves were nothing more than a great ball of white and black fur until somehow Ghost finally had the other one trapped to the ground. With one final snap at the wolf's face, Ghost broke off and bounded to Andrew's side. And that was all it took.

When the black wolf stood back up his ears were droopy and his head was lowered. A deep gash left by Ghost's teeth was in his left shoulder and the white wolf's claws had torn a bloody path through fur and flesh to leave it's neck slashed and bleeding.

Andrew looked down at Ghost and the white direwolf was hurt as well. He knelt down beside him. Ghost lifted his head and licked at his hand gently enough. Andrew placed his other hand on the wound and touched him. The direwolf made no noise but instead kept licking his hand as if he was trying to reassure him.

He would have to take care of that wound. However to do that they would have to get out of that place. Andrew stood up, Frost and torch in hand. Ghost had done his part and it was his time now and he didn't know if he would be as successful as his direwolf was.

Some of the smaller wolves gathered around them and bared their teeth. But one silent snarl from Ghost sent them scattering and the direwolf walked past the black wolf and his pack over to the kill. The rest of the wolves feasting on the aurochs stepped back as Ghost climbed up to take his place at the head of the feast.

He turned and looked at Andrew with blood red eyes as if asking him to follow and Andrew followed readily, sword and torch in hand as he slowly made his way up to Ghost through the ranks of the new pack of the white wolf.