We've now breached the 25k mark with a rather large 7.5k chapter I've written up yesterday and today. I very much enjoyed writing that one, and am indeed enjoying this fic in general so far. It's quite novel to force myself to write in a particular style, and also to remember to integrate particular things. For example, Greyback as a werewolf has a good sense of smell, so I have to imagine what he's smelling when he goes somewhere new. I also have to imagine how depraved he is, as that's another part of his character which has been interesting to write about. In any case, feedback is most welcome as I'd like to see what people think of this in general, whether the prose or the characters or the plot so far. The 7.5k chapter has some fairly significant stuff in it, and will be posted in a couple of weeks as per the posting schedule.

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.

Fenrir woke to fire and smoke.

Yet, aside from the raids and bloody reprisals at Voldemort's order or to sate his own bloodlust over the years, he'd rarely woken to these scents.

Fire and smoke. Yet there was a peace there too.

Greyback lay in his cot and breathed the air. Scents came to him as he lay still, closing his eyes, losing himself as he walked the world through the sensations.

His blanket and the straw of his mattress were musty and a little damp. There were the cooling embers of a fire in the grate of his room, but no servant had come to light it again during the morning, no doubt fearing his response.

The bearskin cloak stank of grease and lye from the tanning and cleaning process. It was warm though, and besides it was a rich garment made from his own victory.

The crumbs of the honeycake he'd devoured last night, as well as the fading smell of the stew were there too. There was rye in the hard black bread, there was the cream of herbs and butter combined. There was the spices and the heady meat of the meal.

There was the oil of his dagger and the scent of iron and war.

There was the harsh burn of silver, for even the coins in his stolen purse would rub together and shed minute particles of dust which would burn his nostrils. Lycanthropes could handle silver, but only the highest purities would actually cause injury rather than irritation.

Further, Greyback loped. He scented beyond his room, down upon the air currents to the kitchen where another day's soup bubbled and the innkeeper carried the contents of chamber pots to the latrine beyond the inn's door. He smelt the fresh dew on the grass, the frost melting away under the sun's assault. He smelt the earthy scent of manure, from men and horses both, from the gathering army.

It was beautiful.

But the werewolf had work to do. He stood swiftly, leaping from his bed, setting his boots on his feet and his cloak swirling behind him, down the stairs and out the door before the innkeeper could draw breath to call him back.

Up to Castle Cerwyn Greyback went. More men had come during the night, it seemed, and Fenrir remembered the scent of horses and of the troop, as if in a dream he'd detected them as they rode in at midnight.

Ser Kyle was with Mollin, the captain of Lord Cerwyn's guards, but neither were difficult to find. They were looking over maps and records in an office and one glare at a man-at-arms had brought him to the commanders.

"It is Lord Cerwyn's order that you remain here." Ser Kyle said coolly.

Greyback hadn't meant to confront the man, but the knight had spoken even before the werewolf was able to decide what to say.

"I told you to stay at the inn. That way we know where you are, should Lord Cerwyn need to speak with you again." the knight continued. "I think he means for you to speak with Lord Stark, but Lord Stark is rallying his banners at Winterfell and coordinating the search of the Wolfswood from there. I've heard it said the Lord of Winterfell will move south to meet us here, but Lord Cerwyn would know more."

"What am I to do then?" Greyback asked.

"You are to wait patiently for Lord Cerwyn to call for you. Memory you may have lost, but if there's one thing you must learn again it's courtesy." then Kyle made a dismissive gesture with his hand and called another man over to escort Greyback out.

The werewolf walked surly from the chamber, then out into the yard. There were men training all about him and Captain Mollin turned to him.

"I'd listen to him, if I were you. Lords have their expectations, and no matter how you look, you're a man, not a wolf or a beast."

That made Greyback smile, "There are no wolves like me."

The remark put a distasteful frown on Mollin's face, but Fenrir hadn't been able to help himself. He knew the Starks had a wolf for their sigil, perhaps it was fate that'd brought him to the North.

Unlike other werewolves who tended to lose themselves in their beasts, living a crude and primitive existence on the edges of civilisation to conceal their savagery, Greyback had always revelled in his own curse. Yet, he'd never let it overcome his reason. He indulged himself yes, for there was little sweeter in the world than meat fresh off a young girl's thigh, but he was a leader among his people. Many looked to him for guidance, and unlike the weak dogs who played along with the Wizards, Greyback had actually made progress in his association with the Death Eaters. He wasn't respected, but he was valued at least for his skills. They took him seriously, and didn't treat him like some animal…

"Listen." Mollin said after they'd stood looking out at the yard for a time, "If you conduct yourself well you might gain a good position. You've the look of a wanderer. Do you want that to continue like some vagabond? You know how to fight, that's clear, you could get a position in Lord Cerwyn's guards, or even Lord Stark's if you impress him. If you'd desire it, if you'd give your word of honour to obey Ser Kyle in battle and follow the banner I could get you weapons, put you somewhere you could see battle against these wildlings bastards! These lordly lords love courtesy, yes, but they like men who can kill too…"

Leaving aside the fact that there were no wildlings and all this activity was for naught as soon as Greyback slipped their sight, the werewolf regarded the captain with something akin to admiration. It was a kindness, an unexpected one.

"I'll think on it." he just said.

"Aye, you do that."

Greyback left the castle swiftly. He had holes in his story and would rather not be questioned further on it. Mollin's remarks had been interesting, but as Fenrir went among the vendors of the small village outside the castle gate, he saw the advantages.

Ultimately, he was a stranger. No one would trust him, not without a reputation, not without familiarity and trust. Each merchant, from the tailor to the smith to the grocer, all looked at him with suspicion and distaste. He was a wanderer, without kin or community, and it showed.

Greyback supposed that this is what it must have been like in the past, on Earth that is. If you turned up somewhere without papers or means to communicate, or without knowing the customs of the area you'd be seen as a threat. That was how it'd been for him when he was younger, trying to meet other werewolves or join packs, most of them out in the Balkans or Eastern Europe. More recently, he could walk into any pack and all there would know him, such was his reputation among his own kind.

But he had scars to show when it had been different.

On Westeros though he had no such community, not even the shared curse of lycanthropy to bind him to others.

The solution, he supposed, was to acquire a reputation. Acquire fame, a sigil, and the means to ensure people knew him. The means also though to shed that sigil like a lizard sheds its skin when he needed to, to fade back into obscurity.

He brought a hat, gloves, hatchet, and a pack of travelling supplies in the town outside Castle Cerwyn. He didn't really actually need them, he was used to the cold and the kiss of the elements on his face. But, he thought, it would look strange to be without such things on the road. Additionally, he wasn't used to travelling for so long by Muggle means and he supposed eventually he'd want such clothing.

He might have to cut the fingers off the gloves though, he wasn't trimming his nails, they were too useful in combat and they'd grow back again in a week anyway.

Of course, acquiring a reputation and recognition would have it's challenges. The land was at peace, apparently, for the moment and there would be no battles for him to partake in. If he wounded anyone they might have the secondary effects of a werewolf attack, and that might expose him further. It would be useless to seek a reputation he could be respected with, then to lose it all when people realised he was a monster.

But then, that had worked fairly well before. Even since he'd started biting children, or threatening to, Wizards had feared him. As far as he knew he was the only lycanthrope to make such threats and that gave him a formidable reputation, one he'd used to apply political pressure before.

What to do? What to do?

He wandered back down the main road toward the castle. He'd heard of a scholar there before and that might be a route to more information.

Greyback walked slowly, unhurried in his pace.

When he was younger and less visibly altered by his beast he'd been able to rely on ignorance and kindness. He'd been a young man, to be able to fool aurors into letting their guard down before he opened their throats hadn't been especially difficult. He'd even been captured by the Ministry once and the Aurors had been fooled by an act that he was just a Muggle tramp. In his dirty clothes and without a wand it had been easy to fool them, and Fenrir remembered the day fondly.

Now though he was in his fifties. Any look of innocence and kindness was long since gone from his face, and his frame and bulk had swelled as his beast's influence waxed in his flesh.

Once, a Romanian witch had called him 'beautiful'. They'd rutted under the moon and she'd borne him a litter of half-wolf children, each with his piercing eyes who'd grown up to look like small versions of him.

He wasn't sure if he'd go that far though, vanity had never been a failing of his. Men called him a monster and they were probably right. The problem now though was that it was so clear. He was no play actor, he could deceive when he needed to, but his very aspect would arouse suspicion.

He'd somewhat sabotaged himself in this way. He'd trained himself to smile with his mouth open for years and it was a habit by now. His fangs were intimidating he knew and it gave him a fearsome appearance. Now though he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself doing it if he wanted to.

The maester of Castle Cerwyn was a middle-aged man with a thin chain around his neck. He was unremarkable, beneath Fenrir's notice in truth. The werewolf shouldered his way into the maester's turret, past bookshelves and cages of those strange ravens.

The birds flapped their wings and cawed at him as he came into the room. He growled a low rumble from his chest and they fluttered back in their cages, pressing themselves against the bars as far away from him as they could.

Fenrir turned to the maester. The man was looking at him in alarm, a piece of paper scrunched in his hand.

Greyback couldn't actually read. He was literate in English, German, Latin, Greek and many of the Cyrillic languages, but in Westeros he'd yet to learn to read. That would hold him back he knew, especially in his studies of magic. Nevertheless, he would find a way around it. He looked at the scholar with hunger…

"I have come to learn, maester." he told the man.

The room was cramped with books and papers, with boxers of dried herbs and with the cages of ravens. Each enclosure was marked with words, no doubt the places the ravens would fly to and bear messages, and Greyback had seen several birds heading out of the tower over the last few days as the maester or Lord Cerwyn communicated with others to coordinate the campaign against the wildlings.

The room smelt of ink and wax at that moment. The Maester had been writing and Fenrir saw an unfinished letter on the table next to a stamp with a battleaxe and a little pot of wax next to a strange device to hold a measure of the substance over a flame to melt it before the scholar would seal the letter.

Under that scent there was herb and oil from the tinctures and medical supplies in the closets. They were packaged, but either the maester was messy, or his packaging wasn't robust enough to stop the substances escaping.

The scholar seemed to rally himself, standing up straighter, jutting his weak chin forward and assuming a haughty look, "You are this simpleton from the forest. What could you want to learn?"

"About the world and its many opportunities." Fenrir replied easily. He could smell the man's fear.

"Be gone with you, or I'll call the guards!"

That just made Fenrir smile more. "What use would calling them be if you'd be dead by the time they arrive? But then, I am only a simpleton from the forest, so perhaps I don't understand."

The conversation was most informative.

Greyback had already more or less decided to flee Castle Cerwyn that night. He ordered the maester to tell him what he knew about the world, about the different polities and political tensions among the lords of Westeros, about the wildlings. He claimed he'd heard of a warg having caused the destruction at the village and that he wanted to know about magic, but the maester had only scoffed and told him they didn't exist.

The information was useful, both what it covered and what it didn't. Greyback learned of the tribes of the Mountains of the Moon, of the Wildling raiders and of the Ironborn. He learned of the wars in the Dornish Marches and of the pirates of the Stepstones. In any conflict he could find employment he knew, but more than that he needed to pursue the resources to make his wand.

From the maester he learned all manner of trivia, for once he got going the maester forgot his fear and seemed to actually quite enjoy himself. The man wore a chain of iron, bronze, silver and bronze links, these were marks of his knowledge of astronomy, warcraft, alchemy, astronomy and healing. Apparently it did not denote great knowledge, for some maesters would forge several of the same link if they were truly knowledgeable in their subject. In any case, magic, denoted by a link of Valyrian steel, was not present on the man.

The maester told Greyback many things. He told of the Dragonhold of Valyria, of the Children of the Forest and the wargs of the Old North (neither of which the maester regarded as actually existing), as well as of the runes of the Old Tongue and the pyromancy of the Alchemist's Guild or the Red Priests of Essos.

If Greyback had a notebook he'd have been scrawling in it. The maester of Cerwyn wasn't an unusually knowledgeable man, he merely came from a scholarly tradition. What more could a true loremaster teach the werewolf?

Strangely, the maester let Greyback go without confronting him after their conversation was over. Greyback left with a grin on his face. Perhaps the man simply yearned to actually talk to someone. Perhaps the werewolf's pursuit of arcane subjects (which the maester regarded as of no practical use to a spy or enemy) had set the man at ease.

It didn't matter.

Greyback waited till nightfall in his room at the inn and ate well again. He prepared, fooling the innkeeper into believing that he'd gone to sleep, then leaping from the window, gaining purchase on the beams of the neighbouring building and going swiftly across the rooftops of the small town toward the corrals of the gathering army's forces.

It was easy enough to steal a horse. Greyback could see well in the dark and he stalked around till the sentries were tired enough to slip past them, into the corral itself. His scent, the smell of a bloody wolf and the growl he let out terrified the horses. A wolf was among them, and Greyback leapt atop one grey stallion, keeping low to its back as the horse bucked and screamed. He set his heels to the beast's sides, his physical strength more than his skill in horsemanship keeping him in his seat as the creature ran terrified, leaping over the corral's fence, darting past the army's sentries into the night.

Greyback let the beast run. It was twenty miles or more to Winterfell and he could afford to let the horse tire before he needed to rest it. He was unfamiliar with horses, he had to admit, but he was relatively sure they had to be rested.

They ran on through the night. Greyback could see well, even if the horse couldn't, and he directed it around potholes and divots in the road. On and on they went and all the while he thought.

The Order of Maesters, from what Fenrir understood, were hostile to magic. Why so? Was it a practical aversion or a philosophical one? The maester of Castle Cerwyn didn't seem to believe in magic, seemed to think that yes, perhaps it had existed once, but no longer. That it was in the past was clear, that dragons had once flown and strange things once happened, that the Long Night, an apocalyptic time had once reigned and that strange creatures had stalked about, doing whatever it is they did, But more than that was unclear .There was clearly no organised teaching of magic, not anything like Hogwarts of the Ministry. There were no magical authorities, no Aurors or Hit Wizards. No codification or organisation of magical creatures either, or so the maester explained.

A Septon Barth, apparently a famous priest, had investigated Dragons and categorised them in a book, and some maesters had travelled in Essos, another continent near Westeros to examine the traditions of the religions in those areas, but it seemed to Greyback that there was simply not the same sort of popularity of magic that had so overwhelmingly populated his own world.

Again, why had this been? Or rather, why was it now?

Greyback wasn't an Unspeakable. He didn't know the higher mysteries of magic. He had no training in understanding such things or examining them closely. He was a practical man, a trained man in certain things, a killer and a bandit, a political leader and an agitator, a warrior and a hunter. He had knowledge, especially regarding lycanthropy and the various related studies such as potions or the Care of Magical Beasts, as well as some skill in curse breaking, but he'd never had the chance to take up a scholarly pursuit.

Unless he could learn to read especially fast, he'd need attendants and acolytes. People to read for him and present him with information. That would take some time, and be risky, but it was a thought for another time...

Returning to the previous idea as he let the horse rest by a stream for a time, Fenrir sat on a rock in thought. How did one destroy magic? How could one reduce it, bring it down, remove it from the world?

The destruction of magical artefacts, of magical infrastructure, the systematic elimination of magical teaching and education… These would all reduce the amount of magical things in the world, but wasn't magic more than that?

There were a thousand different explanations on where magic actually came from. As a rule though, the Wizarding World had no love for philosophy. It was enough that Wizards could alter reality with a whim, there was no need to deeply consider matters. For his own part, Greyback had never done so. He had wondered, idly over the years, where lycanthropy came from, whether it was (as people said sometimes) a curse or whether it was just a magical disease.

He knew the 'Being' directorate of the Ministry of Magic had their own views on it, indeed Greyback had distributed polemic notes directly against material disagreement with many of the material which had been released by them and the Werewolf Capture Unit, but really no one knew or had a proper idea on the matter.

Had magic declined like the tides? Simply went away over time due to some external influence or astrological phenomena?

Magic had never declined on Earth. Wizards had simply decided to separate themselves. Some, especially Purebloods, thought it was weakness and that Wizards should rule over Muggles. But what was the point? It would be like ruling over animals, there wasn't anything that Muggle slaves could provide that Wizards couldn't just magic up. It had always been a strange political debate within Wizarding society and anyway in most countries the various Ministries of Magic would ignore crimes against Muggles.

In Westeros though obviously that hadn't happened. Had Wizards, or whoever could use magic, for certainly they weren't the same sort of Wizards Greyback was familiar with, simply declined in general? Greyback almost refused to admit it, it grated against his pride, this time as a Wizard rather than just as a werewolf.

Had the Valyrians been Wizards? Had the Doom of Valyria destroyed some large magical network, possibly a warding or an enchantment gone awry? Had that created some sort of magical backlash and destroyed that kingdom?

But no, it couldn't be that either, Fenrir thought, throwing little pebbles into the bubbling brook his horse was drinking from.

There were alternative magical traditions on the planet, both in Westeros and Essos. There were at least a dozen which the maester had spoken of, if not more unspoken or which the maester didn't know about.

And, it seemed at least, that magic was still present. Either the magical destruction of Valyria had destroyed magic's influence, or it had not.

Clearly it had not.

Greyback rode on through the night. Over the hills and between barrows he rode, through the woods and the cries of creatures all around. The horse was tiring, this journey might kill it he knew, but he didn't care. It wasn't his horse after all.

Just over the next hill Fenrir found a camp. He'd not smelt the camp, for the wind blew north and harshly at that. Soon enough though he was drawing closer and could see campfires, tents and pavilions in the centre. This must be Lord Stark's force. Evidently the lord had decided to bestir himself and move south to combine with Cerwyn's troops.

In truth it mattered little to Fenrir. It just meant there would be fewer armed men in Winterfell to make his life difficult.

He sat on his horse for a time before he went on. Was there any opportunity here or should he just move on? There were sentries he saw, and though he'd evaded them against the men of Cerwyn, he had no particular desire to chance a confrontation.

He led his horse in a long circle around the camp instead. The wind changed as he went on, blowing to the west instead and it brought him the scents of the camps.

Again he took in the smell of the campfire. The smell of charred wood and burnt up meats when the men had tossed the bones of their meals into the fire after finishing. He smelt the sweat of the infantry, the oilskins on the archers' weapons. Further on he smelled silk and spice.

Why was there spice? Why pepper and cardamom, why the scent of saffron? It was bizarre. Why would you bring spices to a battle? Were they planning on doing some cooking instead of fighting?

Greyback supposed that wars must be longer here. A wizard could turn and think, and apparate instantly to a battlefield. Even crossing a country of hundreds of miles was only a few hours by broom, even an old broom rather than one of the ones you'd use if you were intending to attack something. Greyback favoured the Floo Network himself, it was convenient to travel to public places, and he had any number of haunts like old pubs that catered to the more unusual clientele that he could use to get close to his victims.

He put it out of his mind. He needed care here, it wouldn't do him any good to arouse the whole camp as he slipped by, that might cause this Lord Stark to send back men to Winterfell, and he wanted time to assess the place before he made his next move. If nothing else, the settlement was bigger and would be well supplied with all that he might need than the Castle Cerwyn was, and that meant he would want to be more careful than he'd been previously perhaps.

There was a sentry in front of him.

The man played a soft tune under the midnight stars. A wood-whittled pipe danced gently in his fingers. It was a pretty dainty, something suited for a place of softness and easy laughter, not for a cold forest.

Greyback's stolen hose whinnied softly and he struck it on the ear harshly to silence it.

The sentry looked up. Peering into the dark toward Greyback.

Could Fenrir escape?

Did he want to?

His heart beat faster as he smelt the man's fear, prickling out in the night's cold on his skin.

Fenrir grinned, his muscles tensed as he made to stand in the saddle.

The man's eyes widened in realisation, then further in fear as he perceived the werewolf.

Greyback leapt!

A startled scream ripped its way from the man's throat before Greyback tackled him to the forest floor. He rolled over and over with the man before grasping him by his surcoat and swinging him up and into a tree, knocking the wind from him. The werewolf drew back his hand to slash at the man's throat with his clawed nails.

And then slowly lowered his hand instead. Relaxed his arm in a conscious effort, felt the tension draining away…

Then with a swift flurry he drew his dagger. Fenrir stabbed the man half a dozen times in the chest, savouring the scent as the sentry died, drowning as his lungs filled with blood. He had to die by mundane means, not look like a wolf had savaged him.

Greyback was back on his horse swiftly, then off through the woods. He galloped down the road, putting as much distance between himself and the camp as possible.

He had almost lost himself there, his beast had roared in triumph when the sentry's throat beneath his hand.

But no, he would kill when he willed it. 'Beast' the Wizards called him, but he was a man underneath.

On Greyback went, his horse dying underneath him as he rode. The creature stumbled, it puffed and blew, begging for respite. Greyback abandoned it at the side of the road and walked the last mile or so. He could see Winterfell from here, see a dozen turreted, snow-capped towers.

To another, it might have been a great fortress, something of power and strength, a wonder of the world.

But Greyback was tired after his ride. He wanted to eat, and to sleep.

He could take the world.

But he'd do it after a nap.