I've just written a rather shorter advance chapter given the length of the other ones, but this chapter here is about 5k I think as usual, and additionally as usual was up a couple of weeks ago as an advanced chapter. The penultimate advance chapter of the story has just been posted, and I'll be writing a last council scene to end up the fic for now. I'm pretty happy with it in general given the writing challenge as mentioned previously, but feedback is of course always welcome.

Also I might make a longer post about this somewhere but I really do find the lack of media literacy by some people very strange. I'm sure most people are perfectly find but I'm getting consistent reviews on FFnet from people who clearly do not understand how stories work. I don't even agree with things like 'dont like dont read', and I'll leave negative reviews on things sometimes, but I just find it odd that people find it so difficult to understand subtext, themes and so on. In any case, on with the story I suppose.

-l-

The godswood of Wintefell was a magnificent place.

Three acres wide it occupied a good quarter of Winterfell's footprint over a wide hill. It was ancient, there were stumps and old dead trees there, as well as a sort of dark primal earthiness as Greyback walked through the trees.

It was magical.

Fenrir had felt the sensation back at the village before his transformation. It was a tingling, a sort of prickling on the back of the neck or a pleasant itching at the tips of his fingers. It was the glorious feeling of a stretch after a long sleep, and the sense of familiarity.

He'd rarely felt such feelings. In Britain, there were few places which still preserved the ancient magic, cultivated by worshippers rather than artificially constrained through wardings or magical networks.

He'd felt the wards of Winterfell of course. Once his arousal after the last full moon's transformation faded, he could feel it.

Deep beneath the world it rose up like geothermic heat. Greyback was no curse-breaker or runemaster, but he'd still studied both arts occasionally, picking up this and that in his travels. Werewolves, like most magical creatures, were naturally sensitive to magic. In the ancient days of the druids and their rituals, these sorts of places would have been holy. In the modern Wizarding World there were only a few strange folk who still kept to such customs though, scattered about int eh wild, far palaces of the natural world.

Some of his own kind were such atavisms. Greyback didn't count himself among them, but he'd walked with the packs in the sacred groves in the depths of Siberia or in the old growth forests of Europe, what remained of them anyway.

The godswood was the most powerfully magical place he'd encountered, and he spent a great deal of time in it when he wasn't busy with other matters. He would bring books here to read by the black, still pools of the woods. He'd soak and bathe in the hot springs by the wall, or just walk through the woods admiring the trees.

There were sentinel pines, mighty oaks, stout ironwoods as well as sacred ash, broad chestnut, spreading elm and gnarled hawthorn. Besides these were many bushes, the haunts of little birds and creatures which scurried this way and that.

In the centre there were the black pools. Greyback had stood before them at first, falling into the darkness that led down to the core of the world. The weirwood's bloody tear tracked faces stared into his soul. The air had been thick with moss and earth and as if stepping into the Feylands, Fenrir had felt the presence of ancient secrets and history.

He'd torn himself away at first, uncomfortable with the feeling. He rejected the mystical, having no care for the superstitions or faith of the Northerners. There was something in the weirdwoods, that much was plain, but Greyback hadn't trusted it at first.

Steadily though he'd been drawn back. He'd made sacrifices to the Old Gods when he'd killed over the last few weeks. He'd not necessarily expected anything to happen, more than he'd wanted to convey and impression, but perhaps he'd caught their attention.

Of course, the godswood wasn't open to him at all times. Lord Stark's guards would empty it whenever their Lord wanted to pray. Greyback had snarled at that. The world was not Stark's! The trees didn't belong to him!

The werewolf had ignored the commands, thrusting a soldier into the hot spring and stalking off through the woods.

They'd come for him eventually. It was Stark himself who found Greyback sitting on a rock in front of the heart tree. He came alone, but for a few attendants, demanding an explanation for the assault on his serving man.

"Once men lived in the wilds. Every tree was sacred, every stone the haunt of a spirit. We lived amidst the great world, and it was good. The trees stretched across the land and the fish were abundant in the streams. No man owned the land, no man claimed rights over another." Greyback had said, "That is why I denied your man's command."

"Would you tear down the stones of this keep?" Stark had asked, face cold, "See that time come again?"

Greyback laughed, "No! Animals and men are different, and there are many advantages of being a man, rather than a beast. Coin, shelter, fire, warm clothes and warmer women with ribbons in their hair and sweet smiles in the night. No, I'd not see it come again, but that doesn't mean it's not important to remember it."

Stark had stayed silent a long time after that. A tension had grown in the air as the weight of the godswood pressed down on them both. Then the man had nodded slowly.

"You may have your solace, I will instruct my guards not to trouble you, if you do not trouble them." the Lord of Winterfell had said, "But while you say the woods are not mine, nor are they yours. Keep your silence, let me pray and you'll have no trouble." and the Stark had knelt quietly before the tree in worship.

Ancient magic coursed through Winterfell. Too deep, too old for Fenrir to sense anything of it other than it's presence. He would return he, he knew, return to wake it again perhaps, or to capture it.

But for now he had matters to attend to.

Greyback trudged up the outer stair of the Library Tower. For whatever reason, the tower's stair had been set around the structure of the building, rather than within. It was perilous in the frost and he was careful in his step but Greyback didn't have access to the covered walkway which led to the main keep, that was just one of the areas guarded to prevent intruders.

Most of Winterfell's people lived in the town outside. The inside of the castle's walls were a series of rings of exclusivity and access. The first was for Lord Stark, his family, his immediate servants and his household. The next was for guards and for more remote servants, while the next was for visitors and tradespeople, with the outside of the walls being for the people of Wintertown.

While a merchant, emissary, minor noble or person of similar rank might visit to pay Lord Stark homage, or to barter with the castle's steward, it was rare for strangers to be permitted within the main keep. Greyback had only been there twice when Lord Stark called to consult him, and the werewolf wasn't allowed in without an escort.

Twice his meaty fist pounded into the external door of the library. It was freezing, and even with his bearskin cloak he could feel the cold seeping into him.

Despite the controlled access of the fortress, there were a number of liminal spaces where people could theoretically get in, but who would cause alarum and cry if they did. The library had a walkway into the keep, the guards' barracks connected to the armoury which connected to the keep, and there was a lesser keep for the higher ranked servants such as the steward and guard captain.

Fenrir shivered. He was at the midpoint of the month, the time when he was furthest from his beast, furthest from the bliss of the moon-change. Furthest from the wolf he felt almost…

Human.

The lycanthrope sneered as he heard the shuffling footsteps of the maester.

He would never be human. Never be weak…

"You took your time." Fenrir growled as the slight man opened the door. Luwin only looked at him, unimpressed and turned away back to his study.

The werewolf set aside his anger, swiftly coming up the steps behind the maester and taking his seat. He breathed hot breaths into his hands to warm them, then shook his inkpot over a candle to warm that too.

Luwin cleared his throat, settling his robes and chain.

The maester was far more learned and wise than the one of Castle Cerwyn. While that maester had only had a few links in his chain, Luwin had more than twenty, all of different metals. Greyback was mostly interested in the rarest link though, that grey smoky metal that was Valyrian steel. There was power in that metal and Greyback desired it greatly…

"We shall deal today with the Greenwardens, their significance and position in the Reach, and their subsequent expansion into the Riverlands. Following this, I shall detail their interactions within the Riverlords' conflicts, as well as their alleged magical powers and the use of the 'Greenwarden's Staff'." Luwin began his lecture, tapping a series of locations on the map of Westeros in his study. The map was taller than the maester, and to avoid having to stand he used a long stick to poke at it.

Luwin was the most knowledgeable and scholarly person in Winterfell, probably the North, and Greyback wanted that knowledge. He'd learned from the merchant's son in the town, but he needed a better teacher for more advanced studies. He'd offered the maester a gold dragon for a month's tutoring and the man had accepted. He taught Greyback the histories of the noble houses of Westeros, gave a brief account of the histories of other places and matters like the wars of Essos, as well as teaching in herblore and matters concerning potions. There were an assortment of more esoteric subjects which only the maester knew, and if he could Greyback would have retained the man for longer.

Unfortunately, Luwin had other duties. He had significant responsibilities in Winterfell and couldn't spend more time with the werewolf, having instead elected to design an accelerated teaching schedule, seemingly for the novelty of it, and for the discussions they had about the magic of Westeros.

Greyback was no scholar. Never was, never would be.

But he knew the value of learning. The maesters were called the 'knights of the mind', so Luwin said when he was feeling pompous, and Greyback knew the use of the mind as a weapon too. Greyback might have an international reputation as the most savage werewolf alive, but he didn't let his beast dominate him. Even when in the midst of the transformation he prided himself on retaining control… usually anyway…

In Westeros, he needed that savagery and strength, but he needed knowledge and understanding too.

In any case, many a night they'd spent in discussion over a spiced wine from Luwin's own store.

Fenrir was no scholar, no, that was true. But he was experienced. He had never studied societies or histories formally, but he'd still experienced them. From one end of Europe to the other he'd gone to and fro, searching out packs of werewolves. He'd taken part in strange rituals in Baltic forests, sat with shaman on the shores of the Arctic Sea or danced under the moon till his spirit howled through the mountains of Persia. Greyback had done and seen much in the Wizarding and Muggle worlds both, and he could exposit on that for the amusement of Luwin. The werewolf actually found himself enjoying it. Luwin was an intelligent and well-educated man and though sceptical of many of Greyback's stories he listened with interest and respect. The maester was suspicious, but they swapped facts and stories back and forth even after the formal lessons were complete, subject to Luwin's other duties attending the Starks and their children.

"Thus," Luwin concluded, "we may observe that the steady encroachment of the organisation of the Faith and the more militant policies of Septon Barnath created a more hostile environment for the Greenwardens. Their staffs were confiscated from their groves, and the groves cut down. The remaining families following the Old Gods or the Riverlands schismatic septs were destroyed or reduced in the case of the Blackwoods and ultimately only the carved faces of the Green Men are left, depicted on some of the older septrys in the Riverlands and the eastern Reach."

Somewhere outside a bell tolled.

Greyback made a final note, the quill scratching across the parchment in a shaky, unskilled hand.

He was concealing the fact that he could write from the maester, forcing himself to write only in the script of the Westerosi. It wasn't too difficult, he found, not like writing Cyrillic, something he cordially despised. The pretended ignorance helped to sell the image of a philosophical wildman Greyback had adopted to the people of Winterfell, and he was amply supplied with paper and ink by the Maester and his own coinpurse.

"I must go." he remarked aloud, grabbing up a satchel from the floor and turning for the door.

Luwin's slender wand tapped the table in annoyance.

"Greyback." he said sternly, "The pursuit of knowledge is a worthy one indeed, especially for a man in your position, but I again advise you, there are things that are not worth knowing."

"So you've said." grinned the werewolf as he left.

Luwin was putting away the book heraldry and he had been teaching and sighed. The maester said nothing as the door shut, but Greyback could sense his simmering frustration.

While Luwin had the wisdom of scholarship, like so many other scholars Greyback had met over the years, he had little appreciated for that which couldn't be contained within his books. Instead, Greyback sought out another source for his learning.

"And so they say, 'A king may rule the land, but a lord may rule the hearts.'" concluded the crone after a few more hours.

Old Nan was an ancient matron, apparently the oldest in the castle, and she was a wealth of information. She was quite mad of course, barely knew who she was speaking to, and entirely blind.

That only made her more valuable in Greyback's mind though, for without her sight and only knitting needles to keep her company she got bored easily. Additionally, she had no idea what he looked like and so couldn't be intimidated by his appearance.

After asking around in the castle and Wintertown he'd been sent her way, told she was a repository of stories. The promise of a penny for each story wasn't even needed, for the old woman had been quite happy to ramble at him for as long as he could stand it, or till she fell asleep.

He hadn't been trusted at first of course, the guards had sought to protect their grandmother, perhaps great-grandmother from the fearsome stranger. They were still there, this time it was Hull, a portly middle-aged man who's watch was later in the day and who liked to sit by the fire to ease the pain in his knee from a wound he'd taken at Pyke. Hull was half asleep as Old Nan concluded her story and Greyback saw no need to wake him, slipping out with a murmur of thanks to the woman.

Luwin disapproved because while Luwin would teach Greyback about magic from the academic point of view, a cold summary of facts and reports that Luwin did not fully credit, Old Nan would tell stories of magic and monsters. Luwin thought the Children of the Forests had never existed, or if they did were just another clan of people who had strange customs. Old Nan though was entirely convinced of their alien nature, and of their continued existence, even swearing that she'd seen one once when she'd been picking mushrooms in the Wolfswood. Not only that, while Luwin did not repeat anything he did not credit with some element of evidence and truth, Old Nan was perfectly happy to reel off any story she'd heard.

Yes, there was magic in the world. It just took some digging to get at it.

Even now Greyback had accumulated a small notebook full of locations, people and items that he wanted to find out more about. Luwin spoke of the Tragedy at Summerhall, where the Targaryens had tried to wake dragons from stone. Luwin claimed it was yet more Targaryen madness, but he said some thought it sorcery. That was exactly the remarks Greyback knew he had to look into.

Oh, dragons were real alright, just dead.

Greyback had been rather disappointed at that. There would be no heartstrings for poor Fenrir's wand, he thought with a mock mourning in his smile. No, he would have to look for a different core for his wand.

Unicorns too, could be found in Westeros upon the isle of Skagos. Greyback had been excited again, despite his doubt that a reagent from a creature of noted goodness would be useful to a savage like himself. As it turned out though, once Greyback acquired the horn of such a creature in the market, that the things were just strange looking horses. The horn itself was gnarled and crooked with a large splintered crack down one side and Greyback had tossed it in the midden is disgust. There had been as much magic in that stick as he'd find in a latrine.

There were more promising ideas though. There was a witch in the Riverlands who once advised kings, there were strange oily stones impervious to harm under the Hightower, there were the melted black stone of Storm's End and Dragonstone, built by ancient magicians or so it was said. There was blood magic, necromancers and alchemists, there was diviners and greenseers, there were the dragon dreams of Daenys Targaryen and the green men of the Isle of Faces. There was the Valyrian steel of the lost Freehold and the Hammer of the Waters which shattered the Arm of Dorne.

"The mind must be honed as a knight hones a sword." Luwin was wont to say. "Many a maester has gone mad staring fruitlessly into glass candles or playing with sticks or river stones to peer into the future. Nothing is to be found there, magic is gone from the world. To pursue it thus is to blunt that sword that is your mind, Greyback."

But Fenrir knew better…

He had yet to truly begin his magical experiments, but Lord Stark's patronage and forbearance had given him some authority among the servants. He could call for small things, like a flagon of blood from the kitchens, and with it he'd set up a little studio in the room he'd been given in the guesthouse. The room was finer than he'd had in the inn outside Winterfell, and better he didn't to pay for it. He instead ordered small quantities of what he needed for the experiments from silver, gold and blood, to tokens or staff of wood.

The steward, Poole, had enquired what he was up to, and apparently taken it to Maester Luwin. The old man had frowned at Greyback during the next lesson, telling him about the tests maesters had to go through to earn the link in their chains symbolising the 'Higher Mysteries'. It was a clever test, the prospective maester would sit for a night with a glass candle, a divinatory tool apparently. Inevitably the student would be unable to make the thing work and would conclude that magic was gone from the world.

Of course, Greyback knew better.

He ordered a score of staves from the poleturner, and plates and cubes of stone from the castle's mason.

He botched the first lot of course. He was entirely out of practice in inscribing runes and it took some time to achieve the level of stillness and dexterity to even set the runes down. He sketched diagrams in charcoal on the floor, the walls. He pushed the furniture into the corners to make more room and forbade the servants from coming into the room.

Jory Cassel, the captain of the guards, came to see him, bursting open the door. Greyback had been kneeling on the floor, daubing blood on a numerological diagram.

The werewolf had never taken numerology, but as with much else, he'd picked up a lot over the years. This was just something he'd seen in a discarded textbook, a sort of way to check the flow of magical energy in a warding field. He was using it to test magic and he looked up, hand bloody, eyes like dark gems in the darkness of the room.

"Yes?" Fenrir had grinned, "Can I help you?"

He was in a mood for jokes, and grinned toothily.

"What are you doing?" Cassel asked, unaware he was speaking with the man who'd murdered his uncle. "There are rumours you practice blood magic and Lord Stark's commanded me to check."

"Oh I do." Greyback grinned, greatly enjoying the way Jory's face blanched and other guards made signs of warding from where they were peering in, "Or at least I'm trying to. There's power in blood. Why do you think the Kings of Winter would make sacrifices to weirwoods? They still do that in the deep woods, you know."

"Where did you get the blood?"

"Gage." Greyback had said, the cook used blood in his work, but seldom, most of it was just drained he assumed. "You can ask him."

"I must tell Lord Stark of this." Cassel shivered as he looked around the room, the strange sights unnerving him.

"You must do what you must do." Fenrir said, his smile growing wider as he enjoyed the man's discomfort. "Go ask the maester about it, you shouldn't be concerned after all, magic is gone form the world, so he said."

Nothing came of it in the end. Luwin had chastised him again, not bothering to even ask him what he was doing, only scolding the werewolf for scaring the guards.

Apparently Cassel had run from the guesthouse into the keep and up the library stairs, falling on the icy steps and breaking his arm in his haste. The accident had made him a figure of mockery in the garrison and Lord Stark had spoken harshly to him, telling him to concentrate on training more guards to hunt the wildlings, not get lost chasing children's stories.

Greyback in turn had acquired a reputation as a fearsome, pious, eccentric figure. He didn't partake in many of the communal activities, but kept himself to himself, seeing to his studies or experiments.

While the former proceeded well, the later went nowhere. He carved wands, set them with gold dusts suspended in inks or writ them with blood. He carved runic arrays and focused his magic into them in the manner he understood such things were done.

Nothing happened.

But the werewolf wasn't disheartened. He had plenty of time for such experiments in future, and besides, through all of it his ardour hadn't died as he worked during the weeks.

He caught her.

He scent.

Her smell.

Her essence.

The honeywine of her blood and sweat, the flowers in her hair, the lemony sweetness when she and her sister crept down into the kitchens to steal cakes.

Greyback was a man of needs, but he'd rarely been so captivated. It was an effort to restrain himself but he knew he must, if he was to acquire his prize.

Yet still, he found himself clinging to a wall in the dead of night, claws piercing the mortar as his muscles strained. The night was freezing, but he wanted a look at her, wanted to drink her in. She was always cooped up in the main keep and Fenrir had decided to climb up in the hour of the wolf to see her.

It was difficult, climbing in the dark and the wind, but it was worth it.

He could see her.

Not much, admittedly, the girl was bundled up in her bed with a companion, the Steward's daughter, he thought, but he could see the glorious auburn of her hair, taste her scent as his tongue darted out.

Old Nan was there too, quieting the girl after a nightmare.

Sansa Stark would have reason to have nightmares soon enough…

"Beyond the gates the monsters live, and the giants and the ghouls, but they cannot pass so long as the Wall stands strong. So go to sleep, my little Sansa, my dear. You needn't fear." Old Nan was saying quietly.

Greyback did not interrupt her. She would be away soon enough, and he had no reason to correct her.

"There are no monsters here." Old Nan finished quietly, planting a kiss on Sansa's forehead.

Fenrir grinned.

The next morning he began making his plans in earnest.

The main keep of Winterfell was surrounded by three sets of enormous walls. Unusually, the outer was the largest, rising almost eighty feet tall, by Greyback's reckoning. That was only for the defences, for once an attacker gained the wall they'd be exposed to bowshot and crossbow bolt from the second wall, which had been built around an uneaven hill which most of Winterfell sat on. The defenders meanwhile could fall back across collapsible bridges over a moat, taking up station on the second wall and leaving the castle no worse defended than it had been by the first wall.

Within the second wall sat the town of Winterfell. In Greyback's estimation it could not be called a city, for while there were hundreds of people there they served the Starks ultimately, rather than pursuing their own ends. Within the walls lay numerous larger stone buildings such as an old round keep fallen into disuse over the centuries and a broken tower connected to it, the barracks of the Stark soldiery and a lesser keep for servants. There also sat many smaller buildings of wood and shingles such as a brewery, granaries, a market and tavern, and a dozen or so woodpiles for the heating of Winterfell.

Further still, beyond the guesthouse for the rich merchants and minor lords who couldn't wrangle lodging within the main keep there was the godswood. Greyback had walked there many a time, wandered between the trees and felt the living earth. It was a strange place, a magic place he did not doubt, and the trees watched him carefully, that would not do as an escape route, he knew.

Lastly though, the centre of his desire and indeed his ire, was the main keep. Within a final layer of walls the main keep of Winterfell was enormous. It was a vast sprawling conglomeration of angled towers and turrets, of dark stone and covered walkways. The rooves were buttressed with stone and seemed to stab the sky, their harsh angles required by the excessive snow which could cover the fortress over a single night.

It would be hell for an army to take. Even if a company could gain one section of the wall and take it, they'd have to fight their way through towers and turrets all the while under attack and fire from the other section of the castle.

But Greyback wasn't an army.

Out the keep, across the yard and through the gate or over the wall. He could stash a rope somewhere, get the girl down that, then out into the outer bailey?

Greyback looked out over the yard, seeing the many guards on the turrets and patrolling the walls. There were hundreds of them, at least four hundred in the daytime and perhaps only a hundred at night, and that was just the outside. That didn't account for all the servants or the houndmaster's dogs.

He couldn't go anywhere near the stables or the kennels, animals feared werewolves when they caught his unusual smell…

Out the keep yes, but the same defences which prevented enemies from getting in would prevent him from getting out. Even if he tricked his way past one turret, he'd be exposed on the walls and all the doors around the towers would be barred to him. He didn't fancy chancing his strength against six inches of oak, and as soon as someone saw him with the girl over his shoulder or if she cried out, he'd be discovered and horns blown.

Even if he got through the doors and down to the second wall, maybe even across one of the collapsible bridges over the moat, he'd back to get down the eighty foot drop. If there was a snowdrift there he could make it, but then to fight his way out of the drift, the girl on his back, and then what?

Presumably away into Wintertown… He could leave orders for horses to be prepared, two or three probably, but the innkeeper would be suspicious of such orders. He couldn't saddle them himself, and no doubt the innkeeper would know that once horns were blown something was amiss, and would likely take the horses back within the stable, lest some ruffian (like Greyback) escape on them.

Fenrir had to make his move soon. It would be two more weeks till full moon, and he should use that. He didn't have time to set another ambush and rush about in the woods after the Northerners. He knew they were frustrated and tempers were flaring. Stark had ridden out several times, and his knights and commanders were coming in with reports, the Lord himself pouring over maps and parchments. Greyback had only been summoned once to repeat his fabrication, but it seemed that Lord Stark assumed the wildlings had slipped away to the north, through caves and woods into the mountains, and were now making back toward the Wall and their Lands Beyond the Wall.

Greyback could use that, he knew. He intended to go south. There was a strong wildling tradition of 'stealing' women from the south, and he intended to make it look like he'd done that, having already fashioned another weirwood mask from a fallen branch. He was going to leave it on Sansa Stark's bed when he took her, and the thought of it already brought a smile to his face.

The werewolf looked over his own diagrams a final time. He'd built himself a little model of Winterfell, map of sorts with string and blocks and labels. He examined it closely, checking his route a final time, then Greyback made ready. He put away his inscription kit, away the stimulants, tranquilisers and herbs he planned to use in the abduction, he set up his gear so he could make a swift exit.

Fenrir slipped from a high window of the guesthouse, padding across the courtyard, into the godswood. He went through the trees across the moss-covered, half buried flagstones and then up into a tree. He climbed, being carefully to put his considerable weight only on the stoutest branches, gripping the bark with his claws and the iron sinews of his hands.

Then he leapt, sailing for a second out into the freezing night air, landing heavily on the godswood's wall.

Secrecy was his greatest defence here. While a man might visit the godswood by night for a nocturnal liaison, or for more pious purposes, Greyback knew that a man going up the library tower, which stood next to the godswood, would be suspicious. The only people who might want to access the library so late was the maester and he would travel over the covered walkway from the keep. It was this walkway Fenrir planned to take now, and he climbed the wall of the library tower carefully. It was only six feet till the steps which sat toward the godswood wall, hiding him from view. He ran at the wall, putting a boot against it and jumping up, grasping the step and hauling himself swiftly upwards.

He could now make his way half way around the tower before he was exposed from view, gaining another six feet or so of height. That put him just about near enough to the covered walkway for the next step.

Uncurling a stout rope from his shoulder, Greyback checked the knot on the grappling hook, before tossing it toward the walkway. The hook struck firm and he pulled the rope, finding fast resistance. It was stuck well, and now Greyback swung out, climbing rapidly hand over hand, hauling himself up till he could grasp the walkway with his claws, then flipping himself over the balcony.

He took to his feet quickly, recurling the rope, lest some passing guard find it dangling, then he went quietly, bent low through the covered walkway between the library tower and the keep. It was the hour of the wolf, his hour, the blackest time of night.

The door to the keep was not barred. He had observed the walkway secretly over the last few weeks, as well as watching Luwin on occasion as the maester went to his library for the lessons. Naturally, there was no need to bar it, for the library door itself was barred. Having bypassed that door though, Greyback now stealthily opened the door into the keep, slipping inside into the warmth.

He waited a moment to warm his bones, taking in the smell of the place.

There was old fires, built up by servants as night fell, then left to burn int eh darkness. There was the musk of furs that lined the walls and floors of the rooms, there was the acrid stench of urine from someone's privy, and the aroma of bread from the kitchens deep below.

The air was warm, blowing softly through the passageways as Greyback crouched as he breathed, trying to sense…

Her.

His lips peeled back as the werewolf grinned. There was the scent. He had her now!

He ran down the corridors, swiftly yet silently in soft slippers. He could smell guards coming before they got to him, and twice had to divert away from patrols. He heard the snoring of guards, the distance hoot of a snowy owl outside.

The walls throbbed with ardent power as Greyback slipped past the Starks' defences. The night was his, and he finally came to the door.

A shadow slipped into the room. A shadow of evil, with bright eyes and a hungry grin.

Sansa stirred from a dream, something bringing her to wakefulness.

No, it was only a dream, shadow wasn't there.

Greyback drew out the tranquilising potion he'd procured from the herbalist.

Sansa woke suddenly as the hairy hand went over her mouth, as the claws scratched her throat.

"Quiet girl!" came Greyback's hoarse growl. "You don't mean to wake the keep do you?"

He smiled a cruel smile down at her, "Don't you worry, we'll be away from here soon enough, and I'll show you things you never thought to see."

The child tried to scream into his hand, tried to struggle, but Greyback kept firm, watching her as she passed into unconsciousness.