Pleased with the reception of this so far. Amused by some people who seem to not understand what it's about but given the usual sort of HPxASOIAF crossover that's not surprising (and is indeed one of the purposes of this fic, to subvert the usual crossover stuff). No idea whether I'm on track for 50k in November as part of the challenge, but I'm going to give it a good go in any case. This chapter was posted a week ago on my pat-reon page and further chapters will also be there early. You can find me on that site at /85604565 and under the same name as here. Alternatively, if you just wanted to give me a one off tip because you enjoyed a particular chapter, I'm on Koi-fi at /fractiousday. I'm planning on posting the whole fic with 5k each week, which will be therefore over the next 8 weeks. After I finish the 50k I'll poll people to see what they're interested in next.
The dense greenery of the Wolfswood rapidly faded away.
The party rode swiftly, cantering on flat ground, then trotting the horses where the trees grew thicker or the ground less firm.
Fenrir had a harder time of it than the others. For one, he was bigger, he was more than a hand's span taller than the tallest of the party and he'd also not ridden anything in years.
Wizards would of course use a variety of creatures as mounts, gryphons coming to mind for example, but for the most part they rode brooms, and then only recreationally. Floo travel was the most common method of long distance travel, with apparition being another way. The most skilled wizards (a category in which Fenrir did not include himself) could use more esoteric methods like when the Dark Lord turned himself into smoke to fly without external assistance.
These were the thoughts that distracted Fenrir while he rode. He had to have some distraction, for even within a few hours he was saddlesore, his thighs chafed and his head so shaken about by the pace of the ride that he could only grit his teeth in frustration as they passed through the trees.
The ride took them past villages and little stone towers, past houses half built into the earth with turf roofs which stank of earthy safety. Once they passed a larger wooden castle, whitewashed by Muggles outside with buckets of caustic lime. Fenrir had to breathe through his mouth while the sergeant spoke with the knight of the structure to get the latest news.
"Lord Stark rallies to Castle Cerwyn, we'll report to Captain Mollen there!" the sergeant called. From the castle came grooms and servants and they ate a quick meal, only half an hour at table at most before they left again.
Greyback had heard of 'the Stark of Winterfell'. He had some understanding of the terrain around him, knowledge enough to know the rough geography of the Wolfswood, of the territory of Lord Glover, the supposed steward of that forest, as well as the orientation of the Kingsroad which ran north past Castle Cerwyn to Winterfell, the capital of the region. He knew enough to know that Westeros, the continent he found himself on, was ruled by a single king, yet divided into several regions.
This told him nothing at all of how he'd found himself naked and alone in a forest on what seemed to be another world.
But Fenrir Greyback was a practical man. He always had been, it was almost a requirement as a werewolf. In truth, he was looking forward to it. Here was a whole new world, and one absent the cursed Ministry of Magic, absent the nonsense of the blood purists.
His world. If he willed it…
If he could only think for a moment, instead of concentrating on trying to keep his seat on this ridiculous horse!
On through a barrowland, on past three companies of men wearing black axes on grey for their sigils, on past farms and mills. On past the musky odour of cattle, the scent of leather and horsesweat his constant companion. On past smoke and blood at the cookfires and hunting spots of villagers, on to the gloriously sweet and clear scent of the rivers they passed. On past ale and bread in the inns and the salt of a quarry.
"You don't ride well, if I might say so, friend." the sergeant said to him one night when the troop had bedded down.
Fenrir slept within the confines of his bearskin cloak. It was a rich garment indeed and he'd had more than one envious glance at it. Any who looked more than once got a glimpse of his eyes though and hurriedly looked away.
He kept his gaze averted, pretending to fiddle with his boots while he thought on his reply.
Torren, that foolish muggle back in the village, had been terrified of his eyes. For a month before he'd regained his memories he'd just thought the man a coward. Greyback knew he was a large and intimidating man after all, his years of lycanthropic transformations leaving a distinct cast to his features, and not one that inspired friendliness. This was different though. Fenrir had realised it when he'd caught a glimpse of the sergeant's memories.
The prime requirements for the Mental Arts was clarity of thought and strength of will. Some would call it a technical skill, one of secret knowledge and training, but Greyback knew better. He had been a werewolf for decades and over time he'd managed to control the transformation somewhat, to be able to almost induce it, to call upon its strength. The Department of Mysteries would have liked to get their hands on him for their experiments but he'd never been foolish enough to let that happen.
But now after his amnesic episode in the village, he found his focus sundered. Whenever he met the gaze of the muggles he could feel himself clawing his way into their eyes, into their minds.
The Mental Arts could be dangerous on the user as well though, and he'd resolved to try to avoid looking people in the eyes till he was in more control.
The bliss of the transformation was still affecting him.
While some lycanthropes suffered stresses and premature ageing due to their transformations each month, Greyback welcomed them. He had eaten well, his beast had delighted in the slaughter of the village and it had given him a boon. It sometimes happened after a particularly good hunt, for a few days after he would feel the pangs of joy, a sensation almost like stretching after a long sleep. It was glorious, though hazardous given the distraction that it caused, clouding his focus.
In truth, the massacre had been incredibly foolish. He hadn't let himself go like that in decades. Not since the Ruhr in '62.
He had been silent too long. He was too distracted, and Greyback dug his pointed nails into his palm till they drew fresh copper-blood.
"Not in some time." he replied back to the sergeant.
"Aye, seems not. You remember who you were then? Did you serve? You have that look about you. Was it a blow to the head? I've heard men can lose their memories from it sometimes."
"I remember more each day." Greyback replied. 'Had he served'? What did that mean? He was in dangerous territory. He needed the access the sergeant's rank could give him… "I did serve yes, though I only remember some of it."
"Where was it? In the War?"
Greyback had heard of a war. Alyn had fought in it, but hadn't gone into details. Apparently a war against dragons, or perhaps people who supported dragons in some fashion. "No, not there." he replied.
"Ah, the Disputed Lands then." the sergeant nodded sagely. "I thought you might be a sellsword. Men don't get muscles like yours without battle. Which company were you with? I knew several who served with the Second Sons or the Company of the Rose."
"They were the Death Eaters." Greyback said with a smile.
The sergeant nodded, as if that wasn't an unusual name, "And your commander? I don't know the name but I might know the sigil."
Fenrir knew the sergeant suspected him. He knew how he looked and had used his appearance and reputation for his own benefit many times. But what was the sergeant's plan?
"He called himself 'Lord Voldemort'." Greyback replied slowly. "His sigil was a serpent and a skull on a green field."
"Sounds like a Dornishman… They love snakes." replied the Sergeant. "Well, we'd better sleep, we'll reach Castle Cerwyn tomorrow if we ride hard."
Fenrir grinned a toothy grin as he lay back. The idea of the Dark Lord being dismissed by a muggle was farcical. Oh well, not like he'd be seeing Riddle again.
As he lay there the lycanthrope thought further on his initial question. What was the Sergeant thinking? The questioning had been an interrogation. Likely the man would report Fenrir's words to his commander, and then to the various lords of the North. No doubt in his mind, the Sergeant didn't suspect him of being a werewolf. Apparently magic was a thing of the past in Westeros, confined to story and tale. But a wildling spy? An infiltrator or scout of the force of barbarians who had butchered the village? That might be more probable.
Greyback slept fitfully. He had never slept especially well, for werewolves were often nocturnal, forced into work below their station because of their condition. Well, Greyback had rejected that, rejected the Wizards and their laws. If they named him 'beast', he would act like one, and besides, night was often the best time to strike.
The waking was done quickly. The men dined on cheese, bread, and cold sausage, then swiftly mounted and rode. After another uncomfortable day of riding they sighted the modest keep of the Cerwyns, the banner which flew above the keep was made of silver thread, not merely grey-dyed wool like the surcoats of the soldiers.
Now again Fenrir scented strange smells. Some wizards or muggles lived in rude fashion, especially those of his own kind, but he'd rarely smelt the acrid scent of tubs of urine from a tannery, or the earthy cloying smell of open latrines. It was as if this world was all new to him, it even recalled his first Change, the first time he'd transformed and how the more powerful nose of the werewolf had opened a new world of sensations and senses to him.
Greyback dismounted with a groan. They had to dismount at the pickets beyond the castle, making their way through a copse of tents. It was not that forest of canvas from the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, but it was well-populated all the same. Here were hundreds of unwashed soldiers smelling of greasy, rust and sweat.
He saw more sigils there, the axe of Cerwyn, the mailed fist of Glover, the moose of Hornwood. The Sergeant pointed them all out and muttered to himself and his company as you walked toward the keep. "I'd not like to be Lord Glover now." he said darkly.
As Greyback understood, it was a great embarrassment for the Glovers to have missed what was apparently a sizeable force of wildlings. It would be more embarrassing though to have those 'wildlings' disappear like morning mist before the sun, for Greyback was hardly going to confess.
They passed washerwomen and their babes, beating drying clothes with sticks and scrubbing laundry over boards. Fenrir licked his lips as they passed, sighting one beauty, her dress soaked and sticking to her skin.
No.
He had sated his beast in the village. He didn't need to hunt so soon.
Instead, he brought his wrist to his face, scenting the lock of hair he'd cut from Palla's head while she lay broken and rent in the dawnlight.
There was a tension in the air. Fenrir had been a werewolf for forty years, and his nose was keen. These men were preparing for battle, but they seemed to have no fear. Admirable…
For muggles.
The Sergeant reported to his captain, and that captain to his commander, and that commander led them into the keep to the study of Lord Cerwyn. The space was reasonably large, and comfortably decorated, though not luxuriously so.
Fenrir could smell spices, only a small amount, in a locked chest in an otherwise musty draw. He could smell the private privy through a door, and the oil from the weapons hung on a stand. The room was round, located in one of the towers of the keep, with a large window bordered in well-cut white stone. A river, the White Knife perhaps, wound its way through the countryside beyond, while within a fire burned merrily in a stone fireplace. Lord Cerwyn himself was there, a man of forty or more, with a boy in the House livery attending him. On the table were some signs of wealth such as a silver candlestick, an inkpot of blown glass, imported presumably, a steel razor Fenrir sensed by the smell of the ointment on the blade, and two leatherbound books. Fenrir looked them over and discounted them as soon as he saw them, none had value to him.
"My lord," Ser Kyle Condon, one of Cerwyn's commanders reported, "This man, Fenrir Greyback by name, was staying in the village before the attack. I have knowledge of him from others who have known him over this past month. A hunter found him in the woods wandering naked and the headman took him in. He proved himself over time, killing a blood-mad bear on his own."
Fenrir did not bow. He would sometimes feign subservience to Wizards to fool them, or at least he had in his youth before his appearance changed so radically, but he refused to feign such to a muggle.
Even without his wand he could kill the man before he drew another breath. He almost felt himself move then before he quashed the dark urge, a sudden energy, a strength in his legs, he saw himself leaping over the table, hand drawn back to slash open the man's throat!
"How did you come to be in the Wolfswood in such a state?" Cerwyn asked, and it shocked Greyback out of his fantasy.
"I don't know." he replied easily, "I even couldn't remember how to speak at first."
"I can vouch for this, through my sources, my lord." Condon put in, "It is the reason we did not suspect him. It would take a mummer of surpassing skill to pull off such a ruse, and," Fenrir heard a rustle of metal behind as the man shrugged in his chainmail, "he doesn't look like a mummer."
"No, he does not." Cerwyn said cooly. He regarded Greyback, who quickly averted his eyes. Would the lord take it as subservience? Perhaps, but the werewolf supposed his pride could accept that at least. "Well then, we shall question you." the lord continued, "Where were you on the night of the massacre, we deem it to have happened more than a week ago, from the condition of the bodies…"
Now that was interesting. It seemed his beast's savagery during the transformation had made them think the village had been destroyed several days before it had. Why was that? Fenrir's mind worked as he considered his answer. 'The condition of the bodies', did Cerwyn think the villagers had been killed, then subsequently scavenged by the creatures of the forest?
But no! Greyback had told the Sergeant when they'd met that the villagers were preparing for a feast, and the feast had been laid out in readiness. They'd been halfway through when the moon had risen. Surely the local people would know what day the feast was? They'd even had the wassailing cauldron out. This was potentially dangerous… If they thought the feast had been days earlier than it had been, what would they do? Greyback didn't know enough about the Northerners to consider it properly…
"I was hunting." Fenrir just answered honestly, still thinking. He didn't need to explain exactly what he'd been hunting, namely the villagers, and he was hardly about to correct the lord about the timing. Better to disappear perhaps, before they questioned his story further.
"Was there any sign of a wildling band in your hunts?" Cerwyn leant forward, "Spoor, the remains of camps, unusual smoke or fires?"
What was best to answer there to frustrate them the most?
"To the north, some of the others said there wasn't much prey, that the wolves weren't howling to the north." Greyback answered.
The north of the village was into the most densely forested and least accessible part of the Wolfswood. Hopefully that would lead them on a merry chase, wandering about in the woods for weeks before they realised their mistake.
"See to it, Ser Kyle." Cerwyn ordered and continued his questioning.
Yes, Fenrir had been a hunter, yes he'd lost his memories but was regaining them, yes he'd served in battle under the banner of the Death Eaters, no he didn't know where Voldemort was now, yes it was a small company anyway so maybe that's why Cerwyn hadn't heard of him. Yes he'd killed that bear, yes he now wore it as a cloak, no he'd not heard anything, he'd left before the massacre.
Cerwyn started to grow frustrated before Ser Kyle deflected him. In the end both Fenrir and Kyle were sent away.
"You may have your pride, Sellsword." the knight said to him after they were out of earshot of the lord, "But you'd be wise to remember your courtesies. My lord took offence there, but he's a just man. Others would have had you whipped for your insolence."
"They could try." the werewolf grinned.
The smile seemed to unnerve the knight, and he said nothing more for a while, handing Fenrir off to his subordinate, Mollen.
The werewolf was brought to the inn just outside the castle, given a room and told not to leave. No guard was posted, but Greyback heard the innkeeper speaking softly with Mollen as he shut the door. He would be watched, and informed upon if he tried to escape, no doubt.
Greyback threw himself down on the narrow cot.
Then he got up again immediately, stalking to the door he opened it and bellowed down in the rasping growl that was his voice, "Innkeeper! Food and drink in an hour!"
He smelt the fear off the man immediately and grinned, then he slammed the door shut just to terrify the publican.
Most amusing.
With a grin, the lycanthrope went back to the bed. Off came the bearskin and the jacket he'd stolen from Joram. He lay down in the bed, legs crossed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
There was much to consider, and Greyback went over it in his mind, slowly organising his thoughts. It was essential, both for controlling his urges, and to properly examine his situation. He had not survived fifty years as one of Europe's most infamous criminals by being hasty, even if he let himself go sometimes when his beast was raging.
Firstly, he was on another world. He'd never heard of such a thing, but through magic many things were possible. There could be any number of magical artefacts which might cause such a thing. Or was he in the future? There were plants and animals and people, where had they come from? The muggles had many comical theories about the existence of life on other planets and what form it might take, why then did everything appear so… mundane?
Was he in a different time? Had he been crushed by a comically large time-turner? Experienced some other improbable magical accident? He hadn't studied muggle history since he'd been a boy, and he vaguely remembered the names of some of the kings of Britain, of that one with nine wives or the other one with the crooked foot. He didn't remember anything like this.
Was he in the future? One where humanity had somehow regressed back to a medieval state of technology?
He supposed there would be no way to tell that, and moved on from the thought.
How had he gotten here? He thought again on the ridiculous thought of an enormous time-turner falling slowly toward him, splattering him with it's weight, and he laughed a little to himself. He would die in battle, of that he'd always been sure, never in such a silly way as he'd envisaged.
What was the last thing he remembered?
Greyback cleared his mind. The Dark Lord had returned. Fenrir had thought him dead, killed by the Potter boy years ago, but then his contacts had told him of the return and Fenrir had sought him out. While the werewolf had never been permitted to wear the Dark Mark, such was the blood purist ideology, he had been accepted among the Death Eaters, though never respected. Nevertheless, he would put his pride aside for his people, and serve Voldemort as long as the dark wizard served Fenrir's interests in turn.
He remembered… where had it been? One of the packs in Croatia he thought, he remembered the caves under Papuk, the clan of his people who made it their home. He had been reacquainting himself with the clans in preparation for rallying them into a season of violence on behalf of Voldemort, who had renewed his promise to make Britain a free country for werewolves.
Greyback had never entirely trusted the Dark Lord. Anyone would have been foolish to do so, but Voldemort provided him the means and cover to bite others, increasing the numbers of his people, which in turn translated to military, magical, and political power. That was enough, and Fenrir had used that strategy before…
He was getting off track. He focused his mind again, piercing the veil of his foggy brain.
Voldemort had been agitated, looking for something. Fenrir hadn't been told what, he'd just followed when he was bade to. They had gone on the attack, followed Voldemort into battle.
But where?
Had they attacked some sort of esoteric site? A place of exotic magics or energies? Had the Dark Lord enacted some dread ritual which had gone awry? Had the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore opposed them and the resultant wild enchantment somehow transported him to this world?
Fenrir wracked his brain for ideas. He was no loremaster, but he knew of a few curious magical artefacts. There was the Veil of Death for one, no one knew what happened to those who passed through that. Had he slipped into it? Been tossed in by the Order during a duel?
But why would the Veil of Death function in such a way? The common consensus was that it truly transported those who fell into it into an afterlife, thus giving it it's name. Even so, why would Voldemort have attacked the Department of Mysteries? Had he sought something there to oppose Dumbledore?
Fenrir moved on, that was also irrelevant, ultimately. Perhaps this was all some hallucination. Perhaps he'd taken a bad batch of potion. Or perhaps his mind was just breaking down in the last moments of his life, his blood rushing from a wound as he lay dying in some dark place back on Earth…
It was a morbid thought. Greyback rolled his shoulder uncomfortably, bringing his arms down and laying his clawed hands over his belly.
Once again he came back to his initial thought. None of this really mattered he supposed. He would do as he'd always done. Greyback was a greedy man, he was quite happy to accept that. He had desires, ones he would sate regardless of the prey. He couldn't be satisfied with living as most werewolves did, staying in some isolated cottage away from civilisation and eking out an existence scrabbling for scraps.
No, he wanted more.
And absent the Ministry of Magic, it seemed he could have it.
Not as a single man perhaps, but this was a world ruled by might, and compared with a muggle, Fenrir knew he was strong enough to make something of himself. Back in the solar he'd thought of killing Lord Cerwyn, been confident he'd be able to do it. He could move faster than a human, he was stronger too. Strong enough to defeat three men with ease perhaps, though he'd never fought muggles in steel armour…
He had his own strength and a purse of stolen silver, the world was his…
The first step, Greyback thought as the scent of salt and meat wafted up from the greatroom below, was to secure his magic.
Werewolves were generally required to get along without wands. His people occupied the liminal space between beast and being in the Ministry's classification, and that meant their rights to carry wands were often constrained. Similarly, due to the social stigma of lycanthropy and the dangers of the physical transformation, werewolves could rarely get the education or occupations which might allow them to educate themselves in magic properly. Greyback himself had been expelled from Hogwarts after Headmaster Prewitt had learned of his affliction, though Greyback knew Dumbledore had been more willing to accept lycanthrope students and other half-breeds, that half-giant gamekeeper sprung to mind.
Then there was the physical transformation of course. One could hardly carry around a wand when loping through a forest, and most werewolves found themselves waking naked and covered in blood if they didn't lock themselves up during the full moon.
Greyback scoffed, he had never respected those who did that. They claimed it was a matter of self-control but he knew it was just cowardice.
In any case, he was used to working without a wand. Never for so long though. He would often just steal or take one from a victim, but here he had no wand and no way to get one.
Magic was real though. He could feel it. It was different in some way, perhaps less constrained by the networks of wards, magical transport systems or national enchantments, but he could still feel it if he concentrated. The weirwood, that had been a thing of magic, and Greyback fingered the amulet he'd been given in the village, carved with the face of the Old Gods.
Had the Old Gods been wizards? Or something like it?
There were dragons though and other magical creatures. That was certain and very clear from the villagers. Some, he supposed, might be mundane but it was clear there were magical things in Westeros and that meant reagents and materials.
While Greyback had a broad set of skills from his varied life, wandlore was one thing he'd never investigated. It was useless to do so, for what werewolf would be able to amass the resources, connections and acceptance from the community to start to sell wands or find employment in a wandmakers?
He knew that wands were constructed from various woods, and that they had different cores. Wizards would often remark on wand combinations, but in truth, only those fascinated by divination or of a superstitious temperament actually cared about it.
Greyback's first wand had been alder and unicorn hair, but he'd lost that decades ago. More recently he'd tried to buy from a Bulgarian wandmaker to see if he could find something more useful to him. He'd not really intended to buy, he'd really been scouting the shop with the intention of robbing it later that night, but in any case the Bulgar wizard had been happy to try to match him.
The result had been an affinity for oak and blackthorn, with a core of dragon heartstring, but before he could make the purchase the wandmaker had ordered him out of the shop and called the local aurors. Greyback hadn't been sure why at the time, he'd assumed the man recognised him as a werewolf and feared for his life. He'd been right do so, but Fenrir also supposed that the combination of the wood and core might have had some meaning which scared the wandmaker.
He had already seen oak trees, as well as firs, pines, sycamores and willows. He was inclined to try weirwood as well, though he might take time to do so, till he'd had some practice with the others first.
Then there was the core. If he could find and kill a dragon he might use the heartstrings, but he'd have to look at others if the dragons proved illusive.
Until he had a wand he couldn't cast spells or use most magic. While he didn't know wandlore, magical theory and the ways in which it applied to werewolves had been a great interest of his, and Greyback knew what his limitations would be.
No apparition. Not without a high risk of splinching, and not knowing his destination besides given he was on a new world and hadn't seen many locations. No complex charms, transfigurations or curses. No wards, and any runes he wanted to make he'd have to carve, or get someone else to carve sufficiently proficiently to take the magic. With a wand he could cast Fiendfyre and destroy a city, without one he'd just burn himself to cinders. No precise control over the Mental Arts.
With a thought, he snapped his fingers and called a little bluebell flame. A parlour trick…
Orthodox magical theory, at least that which predominated in Europe and the colonies, stated that magic was the application of will and magical power through mnemonic tools such as incantations or wand movements. It was more complex than that of course given the addition of the inherent power of a wand, but the wizards of Asia or Africa had native magical traditions of long study and significant power, unlike those Greyback had been taught, and even they held true to the basic principles. Whether a Chinese wizard used hand gestures and movements of the limbs to cast a spell, or a British wizard used an incantation, it was much the same at the basic level.
He could use curses wandlessly, he'd always had an inclination toward direct, violent spells like Cutting or Blasting curses, but that would be about it till he acquired a proper wand.
Then there was the sheer convenience of using magic! He'd used magic in the village to shape water or to slightly alter his current clothes, to kill the bear and the other animals. That had been instinctive, the same way children sometimes used accidental magic. Supremely powerful and learned wizards like Dumbledore or the Dark Lord could use magic like that consciously, but Greyback didn't count himself among their number.
There was also the infrastructure of magic and of the Wizarding World. There would be no easy international travel for him, perhaps not ever, for Greyback had no idea how one would go about connecting two fireplaces together or to a wider Floo Network. The Ministry had people for that, or so he assumed. It was just something that happened after all, presumably it was someone's job.
Potions too, would be in short supply, and Greyback doubted he'd have the time or resources to set up a proper workshop. There were some potions which could prove extremely useful to a werewolf and though he was philosophically and morally opposed to the Wolfsbane Potion, he'd used it more than once when the need arose to control his beast, when he couldn't afford to lose a night to it running free.
He would have to seek out an alchemist. Some of the reagents might be the same, but while he knew how to brew the Wolfsbane Potion by heart, as well as a few others, he'd never completed his formal education in that particular art.
Fenrir had been lying in bed for an hour or more by now. He stirred himself, sitting up, stretching and cracking his joints. The transformation created new bones and muscles and it was always slightly uncomfortable to be back in human form afterward, but he'd gotten used to it over time. It was just like breaking in a new pair of boots really.
The smell of a meaty stew made him salivate. He would eat well tonight he decided, for despite his dining on the villagers he found himself hungry again. This time he'd make do with mundane fare. He was looking forward to it even as he concentrated on the rich scent wafting from the innkeeper's cookpot.
His first step must be to seek places of magical power, and places where he might acquire reagents for future experimentation. That would take months no doubt, and if he seeded the starts of a few clans of werewolves while he was doing it, even better.
Reagents meant cities though. Merchants and herbalists who might already have such items, learned men like scholars and historians who might point him in the right direction.
Gaining such knowledge would require funds both to pay the people, and to bribe anyone who might question Greyback about why he wanted to know such things. He knew the permanent effects of his transformations over the decades made his appearance intimidating, and he'd not stoop to wearing a mask, he was proud of his scars and his aspect.
He could turn assassin or brigand, kill for coin, whether on his own initiative or on the orders of another. Those occupations were familiar ones to him. Or he could make a direct approach, scale the walls of a keep by night and steal away with a lord's valuables perhaps…
Ordinarily he could have just robbed and Confounded a muggle, but without a wand he wasn't capable of such a spell.
Someone knocked at his room's door. The hinges squeaked and a young girl, not unlovely, though far from the best he'd seen walked in nervously. She averted her eyes, staring at the floor as she came to bring him his food.
The smell of her and of the meal interrupted Greyback's thoughts. They could wait. For now he would eat.
And who knows, perhaps the innkeeper's daughter might do for afters?