I've written 2 chapters ahead so far, which puts us at about 33k words done. I've not in fact acheived the 50k in November target, but I've been sort of busy over the last few days so haven't have the time to write another 17k. I'll give myself another week as I did no planning for this and starting writing in week 2 of November. I've not put the poll up for what I'll be writing after the 50k is done. I've enjoyed writing this so far, but I do have other ideas. Voting is up on .

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.

The room was small and cozy, with a low ceiling and a narrow window. The walls were made of rough grey stone with little flecks of shining quartz. On the floor there were fresh rushes, Greyback insisted on it, he couldn't tolerate the smell.

Just because he was a werewolf it didn't mean he wanted to live in filth… Too many of his kind fell into such traps and it made their enhanced senses a torment.

And besides, the peasants of Winterfell were perpetually covered in mud and dung. Or so he though when he got a whiff of them.

Fenrir didn't like cities, generally speaking. He especially didn't like muggle ones, or dense collections of wizards. Where you got density you got industry and artificial things… They stank. He hated Diagon Alley for example, and took great pleasure whenever he'd been order to terrorise it and blow up a few shops.

Greyback spent a lot of time in the wilds. Some of that was deliberate to be sure, some less so and more than once he'd had to crawl into a cave to hide from Aurors after a wound or a transformation that left him too tired to move, but that was relatively rare.

He could deal with cities. Well planned ones, well-ventilated ones… He couldn't deal with muggle pollution or soot clogging his nose, couldn't deal with the horrid smells of potion shops which had never been cleaned properly, or the harsh smell of solvents or caustic chemicals when they were.

Winterfell wasn't so bad, he supposed. The snow froze most of the bad smells, and the gong farmers were relatively efficient in their work. Certainly, he was enjoying being able to pay to have his clothes washed regularly, so that was an advantage.

The fireplace in the corner provided warmth and light, and a pile of logs was stacked nearby. His wooden bed had two mattresses, both thin and of straw. This too Greyback had paid extra for, well as for another blanket, again washed well before the servants had set it on his bed. He had a small chest for his belongings, and his bearskin cloak hung from a peg over a fine new pair of hobnailed boots dripping snow into the rushes.

A small table was on the other side of the room under the closed shutters. A single chair stood by it, he'd ordered the other one taken away, he would not be receiving visitors after all, and currently on the table sat a basin and cloth for washing. A candle, extinguished currently, and a horn cup were the only decorations on the table, while a simple tapestry of geometric design hung from the wall.

Upon the door sat a stout bar and a lock for which Greyback had the only key. He'd sneered at the innkeeper when the man had mentioned that, but seen no tell of a lie in the man's eyes. The room cost half a stag for each night he stayed there, and he'd booked it out for a month already, then handed over another five stags for the extra's he'd ordered, including good meat regularly and hearty food and clean linens.

Fenrir wasn't entirely used to be waited upon. Servants had become less common in the muggle world, since before he'd been born really, and while in the Wizarding World especially in the east some families still had them, it was usually work done by charms or house elves.

Werewolves weren't well suited for domestic service either, and among the clans he'd sometimes been attended by lower ranked pack members, none of them would think to wash clothes often, it was rather useless with the smell of a whole pack of werewolves together after all. It seeped into everything, the cloying stench of old blood, the musk of sweat and urine, the oily fur-smell which was somewhat bitter, somewhat sharp…

Greyback lay back and breathed.

The inn itself wasn't that different from the one he'd stayed at a few weeks ago at Castle Cerwyn. The place was cleaner, the furnishings of higher quality, and the servants more capable.

But he wasn't concentrating on that. Instead he tried to sense the castle further away. He could scent the smoke and the heat of the metal. Not feel it, but smell the red iron as the castle's smith pounded away. He could smell the wood and leather of the soldiers and of the armoury itself, which was in constant use these days due to the great activity Lord Stark had ordered to combat the wildlings.

Herbs and flowers wer next, he could smell the plants in the glass gardens, the greenhouses Greyback would call them. Winterfell mainly grew more exotic herbs there, he was led to understand, rather than anything more useful for actual eating.

Then parchment, poured wax and birds touched the air, wafting down toward him in his room. That would be the maester and raven master.

Last there was moss and stony. The godswood of the castle and the standing weirdwoods.

Something was there though. Something hidden, something coming up from the ground. It was sweet and sour, it was bloody like the weirwood's tears, but it seemed to come from the earth…

Greyback shook himself.

He was being lazy.

With a start he threw himself from his bed and swiftly headed out.

He never got up slowly, never gently. He was a man of action, and either he was at rest or at labour. Now was the time for the later and he had his horse saddled and set off into the Wolfswood. He passed through Wintertown, the unplanned village that had grown up around the walls of the great castle, then out onto the road and over snowy plain.

It was several hours ride to the clearing where his workers saw to their duties. He did not speak, nor whistle or sing. He just rode. There was much to do after all and he had no time for frivolities. He needed to be hard with the men, needed them to obey him, and he couldn't go about larking where they could see him.

The clearing was a small patch of land surrounded by tall pine trees and snow-covered bushes. The ground was covered with a thick layer of snow as Greyback rode up. It had snowed during the night in the forest and the drifts had been steadily getting higher and higher as he rode along. While sometimes the frost had been beautiful, a tiny image of nature's beauty in each flake, here the ground was a frozen quagmire, soggy, churned and then frozen again each night.

The place stank of old blood and new blood. The mud was tainted red in spots where the blood and guts of the animals had stained it, while a large fire in the centre and a rickety smoking apparatus strung between two great trees brought on more strange smells, tangy and sour. Around the fire, there were dozens of wooden poles and racks where the skins and furs of the animals were hung to dry, beyond that in rows were crude baskets and woven barrels where strips of meat were packed with snow and ice for storage.

Rodrick and his brothers had been alarmed by Greyback's appearance at first. The three were boys from one of the villages nearby, only a day's ride from Winterfell, and he'd taken them into his employ. While he could have stolen money the largest amounts of it nearby would be in Lord Stark's treasury and Greyback didn't want to draw attention to himself just yet. Instead he made use of his natural talents and went out and killed a bear. It wasn't that difficult, he was stronger than a normal man and fearless besides and the bear was groggy in its wakening, even before he'd sunk a dagger into its spine.

Greyback had then walked to the village he could smell nearby and hired the first person he saw, Rodrick, to come clean the carcass. By the time he'd got the boy back to the bear's cave the carcass was being torn apart by two wolves, but that just meant more work for Rodrick, for as soon as Greyback saw the wolves he'd sprang on them with a howl of rage, incensed that animals would steal from him.

The affair had continued from there. He had brought Rodrick and his brothers out to a clearing in the woods, then brought them back animals to deal with. Greyback could catch and fight wolves on his own. They sensed a challenger in him and did not flee, at least not before he'd speared one. Bears were more difficult, he'd only killed two of them, while the lynxes he'd found would have been almost invisible without his enhanced senses and years of trained hunter's perception.

Boars were plentiful too, he'd taken ten of them, matching the tusked grunters in strength, flipping them over onto spine-bearing backs and breaking their necks. The hides from the boars weren't worth much apparently, but he'd told Rodrick to deal with it and the boy had bartered a few boar carcasses for additional supplies from the villages for the work.

Greyback had sold the first savaged bear fur for ten silver stags. It wasn't an enormous amount, but it had amazed the peasants he'd hired. No matter, it was their pay for the month and he set them to work to a harsh schedule. They would sleep out in the woods next to their tools, they'd work all day and eat as much meat as they wished. Greyback wanted money, and he wanted it as quickly and conveniently as possible.

Rodrick had stood over the furs and hides, picking one up and putting his hand through a bloody rent in the coat, marvelling at the wound. "These won't sell for much. We might get half, at best I think, of what they should be worth. How did you kill them? It's like some monster clawed them…"

Greyback only sneered at the boy. "Get back to work." he'd ordered, "Or maybe that monster will come for you too."

Rodrick flushed but turned back to his work.

Fenrir had known how to prepare kills, but he'd not seen the methods the northerners used, they had different steps and uses for different parts of the animals, and Greyback had studied the methods, even tried a few smaller animals himself to practice the skill.

For smaller animals, Rodrick and his brothers would hand the creatures like squirrels or rabbits and make a cut in one foot, continuing up the leg and then down the other leg. After that, the skin could be peeled off like a sock. For the larger creatures though the carcass first had to be wrestled into position on a flat surface, then a cut made the length of the body, with the skin opened with specialised tools and then stripped off like a jacket, and finally scrapped with further tools.

In any case, Greyback's own efforts hadn't gone well. He'd ruined one wolfskin when he'd carelessly pierced the stomach of the beast and bile burst out everywhere. That had been unpleasant and he'd ignored the boys in favour of seeking a pond to wash off in.

The bears' skins were worth the most, twenty silver stags each if they were intact and prepared. While the set up in the clearing wasn't as complete as that of an actual butcher or tanner, the boys did well enough. Rodrick and his brothers were busy as he rode in and only Rodrick, kneeling in the bloody mud with a skinning knife in his hand and a boar's carcass before him, looked up.

The others were cutting meat with a hatchet or cleaning skins with a strange flat tool like a chisel. They worked in silence generally, and while slower than some perhaps, they were fast enough. They could only process so much meat at once and Greyback had returned to check on their progress.

The smell of the clearing was a mixture of blood, smoke, and salt. The blood of the animals had a metallic and sour odor, which was mixed with the smoke of the fire and some salt for those meats or hides which couldn't be cooled by the snow. Ice wasn't a long term solution, and although Wintertown had an ice cellar with great blocks cut from a lake nearby, they still salted beef and pork by the barrel. The smell was strong, but for once it smelt like the hunt, rather than like the artificial cloying scent of encroaching civilisation. Greyback was no atavist, but he did love the smell of blood and he smiled as he beheld the scene.

The condition of the bearskins hadn't brought in as much as it might have, had Greyback hunted normally rather than setting himself bodily against beasts. One bearskin was worth good silver. A shadowcat was worth half that of a bearskin, and a wolf half again. Boars weren't known for their value in the hide, but rather in the meat, and Greyback had led two horses packed with meat back to the town not two nights ago.

Initially the skinners tried to barter their way into some of the meat and skins for themselves, but Greyback growled low and they shut up. They were his kills, not these scavengers. He was already paying them a fifth of the takings for the three of them.

Greyback would not tolerate thieves…

There was demand for relatively cheap meat in Winterfell at that time to feed the soldiers and lessen the burden on Winterfell's granaries. There were few hunters out in the Wolfswood due to the wildling threat, but that just meant better hunting for Fenrir. The Stark soldiery were still tramping through the Wolfswood searching for the Wildling band who'd slaughtered the villagers. That had been weeks ago and while apparently they'd caught a few random bandits, the supposed hundreds of savages had yet to appear. The hides and furs saw various uses, some to be cleaned and sold in Winterfell or transformed further there, while others would be shipped south or even to White Harbour, the main port of the North, to be traded further afield.

Two weeks hunting had earned him three gold dragons. Or rather, it would have, had anyone in the area actually dealt in dragons. In total though he'd gotten a half a hundred silver stags, almost half of which immediately went on various consumables, as well as converting it into labour. He brought goods mostly, but he'd also retained the services of the local herbalist to teach him the local plants, as well as retaining a poor merchant's son to teach him to read.

Life here was expensive. Or rather, the normalities of his previous life were incredible luxuries in Winterfell. Perhaps prices would be lesser in a more cosmopolitan place but that was irrelevant for now he supposed.

The lodging was half a dragon, a two new suits of clothes, another half dragon from a decent tailor. Tools he might need himself for carving runes, making potions, or other such magical enquiries were a whole dragon for twenty or more tools in a good leather case. Even a small chest of spices couldn't be found for more than a whole dragon, which Greyback couldn't justify to himself really. Nor the purchase of a horse which might be three dragons or more. Instead he rented where he could, or brought fractions of what he might like to. Instead of a full set of weapons such as battle axe, knives, spear, bow or crossbow, as well as armour to give him the look of the sellsword he pretended to be, Greyback suited himself with a broad, long knife which he wore at his side. It was an ugly thing, but it was meant for ugly deeds.

Books were the worst. You could pick up parchment from any stationers in Diagon Alley for a decent price, or just rob a muggle shop for their thinner paper, but here there was no bookbinder in Winterfell or any such establishment where he might find paper or books to buy. The master of the keep had a library apparently, which Greyback would very much like access to, but that was it. After enquiring with some of the merchants as to the price of books, he found they'd be almost the same cost as horses and turned away in disgust, while he'd found the same when he asked about glass instruments. Apparently there was very little manufacture of such things in the North, or indeed in Westeros.

That may say something about trade he supposed, for the Myrish were known for their glassblowing, or the Tyroshi for their dyes. Greyback did not need every luxury, but he would need some items for his magical experiments when he eventually got somewhere to do them. For that he could do with a patron, but in turn that would need trust, and he knew his looks made him hard to trust in that way.

It all went back to his initial planning, thought Fenrir. He had set it aside for the moment. There could be much he might do, but it needed more resources than he'd have now. He needed money and more money, position or rank, the patronage and protection of a powerful lord, but also the secrecy necessary to avoid inciting unrest which might endanger him. While he might lope through the world killing and biting and eating as he would, eventually someone would bring him to a poor end. As a young man he'd longed for battle and loved the chase, but now having spent decades in struggle and in his fifth decade, Greyback knew the value of stability.

After looming over Rodrick and his brothers a little more for his own amusement, Greyback rode out, following his nose into the forest. Quite soon though he caught a smell he'd not smelt recently.

Iron and oil wafted through the forest, and Fenrir's ears pricked as he heard the rasping sound of someone sharpening a sword. It piqued his curiosity and the werewolf rode on toward it, smelling a camp more distinctly with the scent of fire and the soldiers around it.

The patrol was camped in a small clearing, surrounded by tall pine trees that cast long shadows in the fading light. The men had pitched their tents in a rough circle, leaving a space in the centre for a fire. The fire was low and smoky, barely enough to keep them warm in the chilly autumn air, but they couldn't have found many dry branches with the snows being what they had been.

Greyback pitied them, in a way. They'd likely been tramping round the Wolfswood for weeks in the snow and mud, searching for Wildlings that didn't exist.

The men had gathered around the fire, some sitting on logs or rocks, others lying on their cloaks or blankets. They looked weary and bored, their faces grimy and stubbled, their eyes dull and tired. They wore leather jerkins and mail shirts over woollen tunics, and had helmets, shields, and swords at their sides. Some carried spears or axes, and their sergeant, a portly but broad man with a coat of rivetted plates, was sharpening his sword.

Their clothes and armour were stained with mud and their boots were in poor repair. They were Stark men-at-arms, professional soldiers from Winterfell or the surrounding areas the Starks held directly. Hard bread and dried meat would have been their fare, but Fenrir could smell more food stashed away in their packs. They spoke in low voices which Fenrir couldn't quite hear, but they seemed in decent spirits for all their toil.

The werewolf stepped forward into the light, leaving his horse to graze and snuffle at a bush that'd shed most of the snow from the night before.

The sergeant stood swiftly, his oilcloth in his hand and the whetstone on his lap falling to the floor as he took a stance with his longsword. Greyback just stood there though as the others jumped up as well.

"Wait, I know this one, I've seen him in Wintertown." said one of the soldiers, lowering his blade somewhat.

"I sell furs there." Greyback confirmed, stepping forward into the light more.

"You're the one with the bearskins." continued the soldier, then stepped forward himself, peering through the gloom at Greyback. "Yes, I can see your cloak."

The soldiers calmed down after that and the sergeant invited him to share the fire. Greyback would be there for long he knew, but it was the first time he'd seen them in this section of the woods.

The Wolfswood was massive. It was large and dense, covering more than 300 miles north and west of Winterfell, off toward the mountains. There were a dozen types of tree and animal, and even with villages dotted through it you could walk for a week without seeing another human. There were hills, lakes, caves and rivers through it, and it could probably sustain a reasonable troop of wildlings.

"How do you mean to find them, these raiders?" he asked the sergeant as the men settled down.

"Lord Stark thinks, so I've been told anyway, that there cannot be so many wildlings as were previously thought. We don't know why they struck the village and butchered the people there, but they must have crossed the Wall a few months ago…"

The Wall was an enormous structure of ice and stone which separated the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros from the Lands Beyond, the untamed wilderness of the far north. Supposedly the Wall, like Winterfell itself, had been raised by Brandon the Builder, an ancient king reputed to have used magic and allied with giants to raise his structures.

Greyback intended to visit at some point, but he had other matters to attend to first.

"There's fifty or more companies like mine out in the woods." the sergeant continued, "The Wildlings have been very quiet, but I suppose they let their base nature get the better of them. Or, maybe, the villagers discovered them and the savages wanted to silence them. Some of our bands have dogs, but not enough by my mind to search out the wildlings in these woods. I know Lord Talhart has argued that we should set fires and burn the wildlings out but it wouldn't work with this snow. Maybe we were still in the height of summer."

"A stupid plan." Greyback murmured.

"Aye, well so thought Lord Stark evidently. If you ask me, they're long gone by now. This was no raid, you mark my words, but what they intended I've no idea."

The wildlings of the north would sometimes cross the Wall, apparently simply climbing over it, to abduct women from the northmost districts of the North. Apparently this was something done to prove a warrior's valour, though Greyback had also heard that sometimes more militaristic wildling chieftains would raid specifically to gather supplies they did not have, notably steel tools, arms and armour.

That gave him an idea.

The rest of the evening passed easily. No one was in the mood for extensive conversation, but Greyback passed a few comments on the nature of hunting in these parts, while the soldiers told of how they'd initially had larger companies ride out to search deeper into the Wolfswood, but finding nothing they'd been split into smaller groups and were now searching the outskirts of Winterfell's direct domain.

The sergeant invited him to rest the night by the fire, and Fenrir accepted. He tied his horse to a branch and set himself down near the boundary. He didn't sleep though, he just lay awake watching the stars. The full moon would be soon and he meant to use it to his advantage.

For now though, he would act as a man. He heard the sentry still awake fidgeting and sat up slowly, as if groggy. Greyback made an affected stagger toward his horse, retrieving a waterskin and drinking a draft.

"Can't sleep, friend?" asked the sentry, wandering over. The man abandoned his place quick enough. That was interesting.

"I needed water." Greyback shrugged quietly, "The food was dry enough."

"Aye, the jerky was shit wasn't it?" the sentry agreed, but he quickly continued, drawing closer to Greyback in conspiratorial whispering. "Listen, could you take my watch for a few moments? I need to go piss but the sergeant will skin me alive if he finds out I've left the camp unguarded."

"Of course." Greyback agreed easily, watching the man retreat.

The werewolf looked down at the sleeping guards. Then he brought out his long knife, freeing it with a half-draw before deciding on another action. Instead he came up behind the sentry as the man was fiddling with the strings of his trousers, reaching up and around, then snapping the man's neck with a savage rip up and to the side.

Greyback caught the body as it fell, then grasped it up and hurled the sentry bodily away from the camp. No reason to have anyone else stumble on him before Greyback was ready.

He stepped back into the light. The fire was dying now, but he could still see well enough to do what was necessary.

Which one first?

The furthest from the fire, Greyback supposed. He stepped stealthily over, drawing his long knife. Then he struck!

The man-at-arms woke in blood, struggling half to his feet before Greyback left him, moving onto the next. He drew a hatchet, bearing it in his left hand while his murderous blade was in his right, already dripping with purpose.

Two more men died, but when he struck with the axe the blade bit at the man's mail byrnie. Greyback felt the blade turn, and struck at the man again, this time burying the axe in his skull. He pulled at it, but it was stuck fast and the failure had awoken the others. The sergeant was on his feet, bellowing in rage, drawing his sword and shouting for the others.

Greyback was among them in a heartbeat. He beat aside the rising blade of one man, reaching out with clawed hand and ripping the man's throat out. Then he struck at the others, one of them fumbling with a bow as the sergeant shouted for him to take up a spear instead.

By a hair's breadth the fumbler managed to dodge Greyback's stroke, but in doing so he exposed himself and the werewolf leapt upon him, tackling him to the forest floor and tasting hot blood as he bit at the man's face.

Fenrir rose, the mutilated man struggling on the ground. He would be dead soon enough, there was no need to go further.

He spat out a portion of the man's cheek, the bristles of the soldier's stubble irritating his lips.

"Monster!" the sergeant gasped. "You'll die here! Winterfell!"

Six men were dead, there was only sergeant and one other left.

Greyback met their charge with a road that made his horse scream. He charged forward fast, too fast for the men and bowled them over, striking them at their waists. His knife was gone, he'd dropped it somewhere but he raged against them in the mud, teeth and claws and might against their steel.

His claws scratched across one man's eyes, then he sank his teeth into a throat. That was one of them, and there was only the sergeant. Greyback regained his feet, and the sergeant hauled himself up too. There was resolve in the man's eyes as he looked at his dead men.

Brave, thought Greyback.

With a final, wordless scream the northman charged forward. His sword was bright in the night, a graceful pillar against the night.

Fenrir stepped forward quickly, catching his wrist and squeezing, bringing the man to a halt.

The sergeant breathed hard through grey whiskers, straining against Greyback's iron grip. It was the man's strength against his, and easily Greyback turned the sword. Instead he set the tip toward the man's breast, slowly pushing forward.

The sergeant screamed as Greyback pierced his flesh. Armour and cloth and skin and muscled parted as the sergeant screamed, his hands grippingly the blade, the edges of his own weapon cutting his palms to ribbons as Fenrir thrust into him. The man coughed blood, his hands weakly battering at Greyback's face as the werewolf laughed.

The sergeant died.

When the clearing grew quiet there was only the wolf. The man Greyback had wounded lay dying and the werewolf turned away. The sergeant's dead eyes seemed to follow him as he stepped, the beast settling again within his soul till it slumbered once more. He reached down to where the sergeant had slept, digging through the man's pack till it found it. Red wine, sour and bad, as wines went, but good enough to wash down the taste of men's flesh.

Fenrir sat down on a rock, raising the skin in tribute. They'd fought well, and bravely. He drank as they died, slowly watching as their hearts stilled and any men who still lived slowly faded.

It would be well to make sure Lord Stark kept the idea of wildlings in his mind, Greyback thought. The werewolf could only benefit from the continued agitation of the area, and while he didn't quite know what benefit he might draw from it, it was sure that he would think of something. In the meantime he would put pressure on Stark and the northerners, and that meant he needed to create terror…

With that in mind, Greyback took his knife and set to work. He first went to the body of the sentry, further away from the camp where he'd tossed the man. As he grasped him by the hair the man's neck crunched and splintered, but Greyback thought he could hear breathing. Was the sentry still alive?

He looked down in the light cast by the fire. Yes, there was life in those eyes. There was fear, there was hatred, there was anger, but there was life.

The sentry's breath hissed out as he lay awkwardly, his spine broken and ruined.

Greyback's knife flashed in the firelight. He smiled down at the man and wiped a tear off his cheek. "It won't be the sergeant who'll be skinning you, 'friend'."