It was all he could do. Run. The memory was much too terrible and gruesome to think of. But where would he run to? Being forced north, he knew he would reach the Stark lines soon enough. That eventuality was something he would not want to happen. But the wandering in this Trident forest was taking its toll, as he once again slipped on the undergrowth.
Falling constantly was a result of his clumsiness. The forest was unforgiving in that regard, with branches and logs littering the ground of the woods. Picking himself up, the boy marched north.
It wasn't so bad in the forest, all things considered. He thought. The trees made little sound, and the flowers that have recently blossomed smelled wonderful.
This tentative peace was at least better than the horror he had run from. But anything would have been a better sight than the one he had escaped.
He looked up to catch a glimpse of the sun, to see the time of day, and if he should make camp yet again. He had a pack of clothing rolled into a bundle on his back, with a knife his father had given him, a beautiful dagger with castle-forged steel, designed with a red dragon to show the allegiance to the long gone Blackfyres. His family had a penchant for choosing the wrong side of every struggle, and they had paid for it greatly.
He had been walking with these thoughts on his mind for nearly an hour when he suddenly heard something in the forest ahead. Moving along the forest floor, he saw the shining of a coat of fur, silver in the sun. Instantly dropping to the ground, he had a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Wolves. He thought. His fears were soon confirmed, as more and more wolves came out of the brush. Black and white and even reddish coats of fur surrounded the boy, and he was terrified.
His hand shaking, he slowly picked up a large stick that was laying in front of him. The boy stood in a defensive stance, as he and his brother practiced, and prepared for the oncoming attack.
The wolves were silent, save for a few snarls and yipping. Soon, the wolves in front of the boy made way, and he saw something more dangerous and terrifying than anything he had seen before.
Climbing onto the little elevation was a massive wolf, bigger than he had ever seen. It was beautiful, but it's massive paws and teeth were more terrifying than anything else. This is my end. He thought and braced for an attack from all sides.
The boy breathed heavily, shaking so much that his hands could barely hold onto the rock and thick branch he had picked up. What can I do. There's no way out. Maybe charge at the big one, and throw a rock then run by it and escape. No, that's insane. He thought these things as the wolves started snarling more and louder. Soon, their howling and growling echoed throughout the forest and they started walking forward, following the massive one.
Knowing nothing could be done, he backed up and started running. The circle of wolves got smaller and smaller, and the boy soon had nowhere to go. All was lost.
As the wolves prepared to rip him to shreds, an arrow flew into the wolf beside the big one. Soon, more arrows came, and horsemen rode down, charging and screaming. The boy backed up, too far. The wolf behind him bit his shoulder and carried him to the ground. Before the wolf could rip his neck out, a rider swung a mace into the body of the wolf, knocking him into the ground. The wolves howling, ran back into the deep forest, licking their wounds.
The boy saw a rider dismount his horse and walk towards him with a weird grin. The man was big, dressed in black, and as the boy looked down, he saw the silver sigil of House Stark. Too far, he thought. Strayed too far north. The wound on his shoulder burning like all the seven hells, he struggled to his feet, but the loss of blood forced him back down to his knees. Collapsing onto the ground, the man ran over to him. Taking his head, he asked him "Give us a name boy. We'll bring you back and fix you up."
"Aren of House Greyfair." he replied, as the world turned black as ink, and the direwolf sigil faded away.