Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Betad by Priapus
The Celestial Wolf
Chapter 01: Artos
— Eddard Stark –
He loved all his children.
From his eldest and heir, Robb, to his youngest, Rickon. Each of them was a treasured member of House Stark, with their own talents and flaws. He had no 'favourite' child, despite the occasional grumbling from the younger children (usually Arya when she had to go to her lessons while the boys practised with blade or bow).
And yet, he would be lying if he said that one of his children didn't stand out amongst their siblings in more ways than one. Heading into the forge, he paused at the loud clang of metal on metal and the heat of the forge. It was always hot in the forge, too hot for the apprentice smiths to withstand for long. Even he felt himself start to sweat as he headed deeper towards the source of the noise.
As he got closer, he paused at the sight of the beast lazily sleeping at the doorway to the main forge. A head perked up, blue eyes that seemed to glow with an icy light staring at him for a moment before the large white head slumped back down, and Cregan went back to sleep, uncaring of his presence. It had been months since his son had brought back Cregan, and even still, he felt an unease in the creature's presence.
It wasn't that he feared Cregan would harm him, but an instinctive understanding that if the wolf decided to attack, he'd die before he finished reaching for his blade. Still, he preferred Cregan to Theon. One was merely intimidating, the other was monstrous.
Reaching down to pat Cregan's large head, the massive wolf panted softly at his presence and whined as he stopped and walked into the doorway. As always, his brow furrowed as he looked over the stone and bronze forge with confusion. He was no smith, but even to his inexperienced eyes, he knew that this forge did not function like a normal smithy. As always, his eyes ran over the stone passages that carried the red-hot liquid that heated the forge. As always, he mentally shrugged and looked away to the source of the clanging.
"Artos," Eddard said, not worrying about being heard over the roar of the forge and the beating of metal. The figure before the anvil paused, his hammer held high, then lowered it and reattached it to his belt, where it often hung as he turned to face him.
"Father," Artos greeted with a respectful nod as he stepped away from the anvil. Eddard was oddly pleased that he was still taller than his sixteen-year-old son, but he did not doubt that it would not stay that way. Already, Artos had him beaten in pure muscle, and he was almost a head taller than his twin, Robb.
His muscular son wiped at his face, removing some soot from his cheek, brushing against his neatly trimmed beard, as his dark grey eyes, the same as Eddard's own, looked at him in confusion. He paused for a moment, taking in Artos with a careful look. His long, dark brown hair was tied back for safety, handsome features furrowing in confusion at Eddard's momentary silence.
"You were right," Eddard started, seeing the confusion only grow as Artos tilted his head. "Lady Mormont reported that they found iron where you said it would be."
Artos just hummed. Grunted, really. He wasn't remotely surprised by the announcement, but then why would he be? Over the past year, Artos' reputation had skyrocketed amongst the people of the North as a man loved by the Old Gods, as the very earth seemed to speak to him. If there was ore to be found, Artos would find it, and his skill in the forge was undeniable.
The Mormonts had never truly recovered from the shame Jorah had inflicted on them, having paid a hefty price for his crimes in both honour and coin. Their land had little to offer, but when it became clear that Artos possessed this… gift, Eddard had decided to put it to the test. It was good for the twins to see more of the North than just Winterfell anyway, so the pair had been sent on a visit to the unimaginatively named Bear Island.
…Then again, the entire region was just called the North because it was in the north, they called the wall that protected them 'the Wall' and the lands beyond it, the Lands Beyond the Wall. He wasn't entirely certain how Winterfell got its name, but he suspected that winter was falling at the time. Perhaps he shouldn't judge.
"I'm glad," Artos finally responded.
"Lady Mormont has… hinted at a betrothal between you and one of her daughters," Eddard admitted.
"Dacey or Alysane? And Lady Maege doesn't hint. She asked flat out, didn't she?" Artos asked with a snort of amusement.
"Either, and yes," Eddard admitted with a quiet laugh. The Mormont women were certainly willful sorts. "I haven't accepted, yet."
"Both are good women, but Alysane already has two bastards. Fathered by a bear, if you believe her bullshit," Artos said with an almost indifferent shrug. "I take it Mother has opinions?"
"You know she'd prefer a southern bride for you. Cregan scared the Septa again," Eddard commented. Artos very carefully didn't laugh as he broke eye contact, but it was clear that he was trying his best not to show his amusement. He was sure it was just a coincidence that the ghostly white wolf would stalk the night, coming across the Septa multiple times in a single week. Septa Mordane should just be glad it wasn't Theon that Artos sent to haunt her when she irritated him.
Eddard had seen much over the years, but the sight of Theon stalking the night had caused him to flinch back more than once. Nothing that big should move that quietly.
"Are you sure a proper southern girl would accept a heretical barbarian like me?" Artos asked, a boyish grin clear on his face. Eddard just snorted, well aware that the southern highborn could accept a lot if it came with power or wealth.
In truth, it was why he hadn't accepted any of the betrothals for Artos. As much as it annoyed him to have to think like this, Artos was a valuable negotiating piece. He'd heard the whispers of some of his bannermen wondering if the wrong twin had come out first. Robb was a good heir, but he did not stand out when his twin drew so much attention.
"I'm sure your mother believes a proper southern bride would domesticate you," Eddard replied with a huff of amusement. "You've heard of the royal visit, haven't you?"
"Half of Winterfell has," Artos agreed easily. "I take it Mother wants me to send Theon and Cregan away for the duration? Can't scare the southerners, can we?"
"I'm sure she would, but King Robert has heard of Theon and wishes to see him. No point sending Cregan away if Theon will remain," Eddard waved off. "That's not what this is about. There have been reports of bandits on the Kingsroad, north of Moat Cailin. The King's retinue will have more than enough men to handle it, but we can't appear weak by having bandits prey on travellers coming from the south."
Artos paused, his face losing its easy smile as his eyes turned cold and flinty.
"Say the word," Artos replied simply, arms crossed. In any other situation, he wouldn't send someone barely a man out to hunt bandits, but Artos was not a normal man and Eddard had come to realise that treating him as such was foolish.
"Take some men and track them down. They're likely deserters. Take Robb with you, this time," Eddard ordered, seeing the momentary disapproval that crossed Artos' face before it was gone entirely. "Jon and Theon as well. Theon Greyjoy, this time. Yes, I know you 'technically' listened by taking your Theon instead last time."
Artos grunted, unable to hide his amusement, even as his stare remained cold.
"Understood, Father. You'll handle Mother?" Artos asked, making Eddard hide his own amusement. There was little Artos truly feared, and he'd happily take a deserter's blade over an argument with his mother.
Artos was close with his mother. Perhaps that was why he had not grown to see Jon as a brother in the same way that Robb had. Cat's opinions had coloured his thoughts.
"She's already agreed. Reluctantly," Eddard admitted. "You're not a boy anymore, none of you are, and-"
"Winter is coming," Artos finished for him, a quiet grin on his lips. "Not too soon, I hope. I don't want to listen to Theon whining if we get caught out in the snow."
As for Theon? Artos just didn't like him. Theon had boasted, Artos had challenged, noses had been broken. That was before Artos had taken to the smithy and gained far more muscle. Theon was less eager to get into fights with Artos now.
Giving his son a proud look, he patted his shoulder and left him to his work. Artos was a gift from the Old Gods when it came to properly equipping his guards, able to handle more orders than the rest of the smiths combined. Even as he left, once again stopping to pat Cregan's head, he felt his proud smile fade to a more complicated expression.
Robb was his heir, but things were not so simple as to be left at that. He did not believe Artos would challenge his brother for Winterfell, but the rumours were already spreading, and Artos himself believed there was 'more to come'.
Robb needed to go with him, despite not being needed, because he couldn't have Artos clearing bandits alone and building his legend further while leaving his brother in the dust.
Deep in his thoughts as he headed out into the cold, he didn't notice the set of eyes staring at him until he turned, jumping back with a shout as his hand went to his blade before he sighed tiredly. Where Cregan ignored him, Theon almost smiled darkly as the beast of a wolf turned and prowled away, not a single sound coming from his steps despite the monster of a wolf being damn-near the size of a horse.
It was fitting to name the creature after The Hungry Wolf. Shaking his head, he waved off the guards who let out a sigh that was a mixture of relief that it was a false alarm and a tired knowing sound, having likely had their own experiences with his son's… pet.
– Artos Stark –
Despite my marching orders, I don't leave the forge until I am good and finished. If there is one simple truth of the North, it is that everything is in short supply, and castle-forged steel is certainly high on that list. With the south turning their eyes toward us, I won't have our guards armed with subpar weapons and armour.
Frankly, I wish I could walk down to Moat Cailin and tell them to turn around and fuck off back south rather than us playing host to their nonsense, but that's not an option. Not one that my father is willing to consider, anyway. I've heard his hushed discussions with mother over what the King really wants.
As my hammer works the metal into shape, I smile down at the blade I've forged. Better than anything they'll find in the south beyond Valyrian Steel itself. That's my guarantee as a smith. More than that, it's a promise from my power.
[Dwarven Craft] - 400cp
You are a master smith, able to singlehandedly run even a large forge. You can make weapons and armour that stand up to hundreds of years of continuous use, and even know how to mine and forge mystical metals such as Mithril.
[Ambient Magic: Smith] - 400cp
A form of Fire Magic, it allows sensing and manipulation of metals, ores, and other materials used in Smithing (such as coal), resistance to fire and burning metal, resistance to smoke damage to the lungs, and varying levels of fire manipulation. It is practised by Daja and Dedicate Frostpine. Not only are Smithmages immune to normal fire and being pierced by nonmagical metal, but they can also craft supernaturally sharp blades, future-scrying mirrors, and any number of charms from engraved metal or twisted wire.
I still don't know what Mithril is, after nearly six months of having this knowledge. Nor do I have a clue who the Daja are, but nor do I care. What I care for are results, and the Celestial has delivered. I did speak to the Maester about what Celestial meant, much to his confusion, and his answer left me even more confused. What do the stars have to do with anything?
Dwarven Craft is from the Grimoire, Ambient Magic is from the Forge. For a moment, I wondered if I was secretly a Targaryen from my immunity to fire. I don't think I've ever seen my father so concerned as when I asked and demonstrated my immunity to flame. He assured me that I am not.
In the end, I came to a decision. I don't care where it came from. I care about what I can do with it.
Finishing my work for the day and sending word to Ser Rodrik that his order is finished, I click my tongue as Cregan rises rapidly and rushes to follow me, padding behind me as his tongue hangs from his mouth. Lazy wolf.
[League of Legends: Rimefang Wolf (Cregan)] - 100cp
Rimefang Wolves are a subspecies of wolves that live in the northern parts of the Freljord. They have been seen with distinctive white fur frozen over by ice and glowing blue eyes. These carnivores hunt stragglers in the harsh winter climate.
The Menagerie provided me with this grumpy mutt, but despite his laziness, he's a reliable companion.
[Warhammer 40k: Fenrisian Wolf (Theon)] - 200cp
Fenrisian Wolves are unlike any other wolf. They are at the top of the food chain on the harsh world of Fenris, and are among the most cunning and dangerous predators in the galaxy. The sheer diversity of Fenrisian Wolves is enormous. Adult wolves reliably reach the size of horses, with the greatest approaching the size of a Snow Lion, Rhino armoured carrier, or a battle tank.
And he's the only one of my two wolves that can fit indoors, as Theon (the good one, not the squid) trots over, teeth bared as he nudges his giant head against my face.
"We're going hunting tomorrow," I say, stroking him under his chin as I pat Cregan with my other hand. "Don't eat the stupid Theon, even if he's annoying."
Theon huffs, clearly displeased. I don't blame him. What I do blame are the guards looking so damn worried. They're my wolves, they're not going to hurt me. If I weren't sure they'd tattle on me to mother, I'd pry open Theon's maw and stick my head in it again just to show how safe I am.
"Artos!" a familiar voice calls, getting my attention from Theon's pouting as I turn to greet the source with a grin on my face. "Father told you, then?" Robb asks as he reaches me, scratching Theon's neck idly.
"He did. Bloody bandits. Well, Theon needed the exercise anyway," I snort. "We're setting off before first light. Be ready, and tell Greyjoy and Snow."
"You remember that I'm the heir, right?" Robb asks with a snort at my commanding tone.
"And when you're the Lord, you can tell me what to do, assuming I don't follow Uncle Benjen's example and fuck off to the wall. But I'm the better ranger, and you know it. It's why he gave the job to me and told me to let you all tag along," I counter with a laugh. Robb doesn't disagree, nor does he seem offended at my words.
[Ranger] - Free
You are the perfect tracker, hunter, and protector, keeping civilisation safe from threats both within and without. Whatever your preferred ground for prowling is, you are a master of it and can take the meaning of 'use environment to your advantage' saying to the next level. Few can match your pace in the wilds and difficult terrains, and in terms of subtlety and expertise, only rogues and bards may exceed you in sheer versatility.
"Theon won't be happy, being up that early," Robb laughs. "And you aren't allowed to go to the wall. You're too damn useful. Gonna squeeze every drop out of use out of you."
"Then he can stay behind. We Do Not Sow is right, if he's any example, because the work's done long before he stumbles out of bed. Lazy fucking squid," I grunt. "And that's the spirit. You sound just like a proper southern highborn twat. Mother will be so pleased."
Dodging his swipe, I laugh as we tussle. He can't hurt me, but not much can, and I know my strength enough not to hurt him. Besides, even if I'm stronger, I still cheat as Cregan knocks his legs out from under him, then just pounces onto Robb, flopping down and putting his full weight onto my brother's chest.
Robb grunts at the weight before chuckling, giving Cregan the good scratches behind the ear to bribe him into getting up. Like me, he spots the concerned guards and gives off a laugh and a roll of his eyes.
"Cregan," Robb says firmly, Cregan snapping to attention as a grin grows on my idiot twin's face. I already know what he's about to do, but he'll be the one shouted at, so I also don't care. "Scare."
With a nod of Robb's head towards the lingering guards, Cregan pounces towards them, teeth bared, and a fierce growl sends the two men running for the hills before Cregan stops and goes back to lazily panting.
"They're going to tell mother on you, again," I point out, as Robb just shrugs.
"She's already in bed, and we'll be gone first thing in the morning. I have faith that Arya will cause enough trouble while we're gone that she'll forget to scold me when we get back. If not, I'll remind her that Arya was the one to teach Cregan to do that to begin with," Robb laughs. "Speaking of bed, if I'm getting dragged off before first light, I'd better get to mine."
"Track down Greyjoy first, the fucker is probably drunk or at a brothel," I snort. For a man (by some definition of the word) who speaks about the Iron Price so much, he sure doesn't mind paying the gold price for pussy. Then again, it's the only way he can get a woman to speak with him. "The Bastard too, wherever he is."
"You know, you can just call him Jon. It's always 'Snow' or 'the Bastard'," Robb points out, to which I give him exactly as much of a response as his statement deserves. A dismissive grunt. "Sansa started copying you."
"Which of those two forms of address is incorrect?" I ask bluntly.
"Now who sounds like a southern twat?" Robb snorts, bumping his shoulder into mine. "Look, this hunt is gonna be enough trouble without you being at the throat of Theon and Jon. Getting you to get along with Theon is a lost cause, but at least try not to be a dick to our brother."
"Half," I correct. "And I won't be at his throat, as long as he stays out of the way and doesn't become a problem."
"Momma's boy," Robb laughs, ducking under my half-hearted swipe. "Just because mother can't stand him, doesn't mean you have to follow her skirts."
"Fine, fine. I'll play nice with the bastard. I won't even have the better Theon eat him," I promise with a laugh, patting Theon's fur. "Now fuck off to bed. If I have to wake you up in the morning, I'm doing it with a bucket of icy water. Or I'll let Arya do it for me."
"She would," Robb agrees with a fond grin. "Night, Artos. Come on, Creg. You can sleep in my room tonight."
Cregan looks to me, but I just nod and give him a last pat. If nothing else, Cregan will make sure Robb is awake on time. It's not like Cregan doesn't usually sleep in Arya's bed. It drives Mother mad.
Watching him leave, I frown to myself. In the privacy of my own mind, I am well aware that I am unfair to the bas- to Snow. And yes, I'm also aware that I'm a momma's boy, even if I'd beat anyone but Robb for saying it. I have beaten Theon for saying it. On at least two separate occasions.
But he's a constant, living, breathing insult to my mother. His existence is an insult to her honour. It's bad enough that Father brought him back, but to have the bastard- to have Snow growing up beside us trueborn children is salt in the wound. Snow is just Robb's scowling, sulking shadow that lingers around him like a bad smell. It would have been fine if Father had just had him apprenticed into a good trade or something, but raising him with the rest of us has given the bastard ideas. I can see the jealousy in his eyes when he thinks nobody is looking. He resents being seen for what he is, and if Robb is determined to treat him like a true brother, I'm going to make sure Snow remembers that he is not a Stark. He's a Snow, and a Snow he will remain.
He dreams of being more, and dreams can turn into ambitions all too easily. I know he had hopes that Father would raise him to a Lord when there were plans to settle the abandoned Holdfasts in the New Gift, but with winter fast approaching, those plans have been put on hold.
But mother raised us on stories of the dangers of a bastard's ambitions, and raising a Snow to lordship over any of his highborn subjects would be an insult. The most honourable thing he can do is fuck off to the Wall and stay there, and the more Robb (and Arya) treat him like a genuine brother, the more he lingers around Winterfell.
…in truth, I think my mother gave me more of those warnings on ambition because I'm Robb's twin. He's the heir by all of a moment. Much like how Jon no doubt sees being seen as a bastard as unfair, I won't deny that I've occasionally shared the same thoughts on how Robb will be Lord of Winterfell because he came out moments before I did. Doubly so now that I have these… gifts. I was already smarter than Robb, though he was the better fighter, but now I can best him with relative ease. But, at the end of the day, Robb remains my beloved brother and not my rival.
With my own ambitions lingering in the back of my mind, it makes me all the more aware of the threat of Snow's. Grunting to myself, I head for my own bed. It's too late to be thinking about stuff like this.
In the end, I doubt I will ever like Snow.
– Next Morning –
"Why the fuck do we have to set off so early?" Greyjoy predictably whines as we ride out of Winterfell.
"Because the King has already set off from King's Landing, and we have to find and deal with these bandits before the King's party makes it that far. You're lucky I didn't have us set out last night, now stop your whinging," I grunt, atop the only living Theon I respect. Why would I ride a horse when my wolf is faster? "We ride straight for Moat Cailin, stopping only when absolutely necessary."
"But that's more than a tenday ride!" Greyjoy whines, despite me specifically telling him to stop whining.
"Aye, and we're going to make it in seven. We have a duty to do, and I won't have your shitty riding slowing us down, now shut it and ride," I shout back, giving Robb a look that he understands quickly. Some say twins can understand each other's thoughts without words, but I don't think we needed some magic bond for Robb to translate 'shut him up before I beat him'.
100cp granted, 100cp total.
What the bloody hell is that? The words in my head almost make me fall off Theon's back. I saw them before, when I gained my gifts, but it's been damn silent ever since. Why now? What the fuck does it mean?
[Psychic Abilities - Channelling (One Dot)] - 100cp, 0cp remaining.
In the World of Darkness, psychic abilities and mythic sorcery are, at first glance, completely different. However, both manipulate the same powers, albeit in very different ways, and are both considered forms of linear magic. While a sorcerer utilises numerous tools and ceremonies to harness supernatural powers, a psychic makes do with lots and lots of willpower. Furthermore, the majority of psychic powers are innate and can be improved, but not gained, without outside interference, in stark contrast to sorcery.
The psychic world's answer to the Path of Ephemera, channelling is sometimes called Necro-Psi, and often confused with the aforementioned Path. It allows the psychic to interact with the spirits of the dead, but not other forms of spiritual beings, perceiving their presence and even drawing upon their skills and experiences.
[1] The channeler may sense nearby ghosts in a vague sense and channel the skills and knowledge of one ghost of choice, once per day.
Ghosts? This isn't one of Old Nan's stories, there are no such thing as-
…why do I feel an uncomfortable prickling on the back of my neck?
Lock in [Psychic Abilities - Channelling (Two Dots)]?
…well, now that I'm stuck knowing that ghosts are real, yeah, I guess I fucking will! I was perfectly happy thinking Old Nan was talking nonsense five minutes ago. If they're real, then I need to get this new power of mine working as well as possible, because… fucking ghosts!
Damn it all. I've heard that the wildlings say that sorcery is a sword without a hilt, and I'm starting to agree. As much as I enjoy my other powers, it isn't going to be entirely pleasant.
Ahh, damn it. I don't have the time to worry about this right now. Father is relying on my Ranger gift to track down these bandits, as there are far too many places to hide in the vast wilderness of the North, I can't be worrying about bloody ghosts.
Hearing Robb talking to Greyjoy, distracting him, I focus on the ride as I wonder what to do about my growing powers before shaking my head.
– Jon Snow –
It had been a long and hard ride, as Artos was a demanding man and saw any request for a stop as weakness. He stopped if the horses seemed to need a break, but would laugh at any man who requested the same.
Artos was… strange, and everyone knew it. It had started small enough with Artos showing an interest in the forge of Winterfell, much to their father's pleasure at Artos putting his intelligence to use as Mikken claimed he had a gift for forging that smiths who had been working the forges for decades would struggle to match, but Artos had always been intelligent.
Jon didn't need to like him to see that. While he and Robb preferred sparring, Artos often preferred his books to the sparring ring. Not that he was a slouch with a sword, he simply seemed more intellectually inclined than martially inclined. It had brought Jon some secret pride to be able to best Artos in spars.
Then, Artos had gone on a hunt with their father, and it was like Jon had been looking at another person entirely as Artos moved through the forest with such grace, his bow taking down a deer before the others had even seen it. Eddard had been proud, and Jon had watched in confusion as Artos had not been that graceful a tenday prior.
And yet, it had proven not to be a stroke of luck at all. Within a turn of the moon, Artos had their father's faith when it came to ranging. Jon still thought he was better with a sword, but Artos had simply grown unnaturally talented in such a short amount of time. Heading out to explore the Wolfswood alone and even returning with his… pets. Jon could still remember the arguments about Artos keeping them, but Artos had shown that they were intelligent and, more importantly, obedient. Sometimes, Jon heard Artos seemingly holding entire conversations with them, with them responding to him appropriately.
Then, Artos had suddenly gained a sixth sense for the location of ores. Thrice Artos had claimed to have found deposits of iron in places that had no signs of it. Thrice their father had listened and had men investigate, finding exactly that. Now, there was even an iron mine on Bear Island where the Mormonts themselves had believed there to be no valuable ores.
As they made camp near the crumbling Moat Cailin, Jon looked down at his castle-forged sword. It had been a namesday gift from his father, and as he looked at the base of the blade, he stared at the mark the smith left on all his works, a small wolf's head. Artos signed all his work, and now everyone in Winterfell knew that weapons and armour with these marks were a step up from normal castle-forged steel. It was no Valyrian steel, of course, but the blades Artos forged cut true and required little maintenance to remain sharp.
He also remembered the look on Artos' face when he saw the blade at Jon's waist. A flash of realisation followed by a momentary sneer at a bastard being given one of his blades. Robb had distracted Artos before he could say anything, but then Artos was quick to ignore him and had no issue pretending Jon didn't exist.
"I'm going to scout around the road. I saw some tracks, and if we all go we'll be too damn noisy," Artos said as they settled. Lord Stark had sent nearly a dozen riders with them, but they were all clearly tired from the harsh ride, unlike Artos who seemed unbothered. "Theon, stay here."
"You think I was about to volunteer after that bloody ride?" Theon grumbled.
"Not you, Greyjoy. I was talking to my wolf," Artos cut in, turning to his mount as it stared at him. "Don't give me that look, you're too damn big. Stay at camp."
"You're not going alone," Robb said bluntly, his tone firm. "Jon, go with him. You're the quietest out of us, and the least tired. Artos, find the tracks and come back."
Artos gave Robb an entirely unamused look, before grumbling.
"Fine. Cregan, Jon, you're with me. Come on," Artos grunted, nodding his head as Jon downed his waterskin and rushed to follow behind. "Stay at a distance once we head off the road, close enough to help if it becomes a fight, but far enough not to make too much noise. You're quieter than Robb and Greyjoy's stomping feet but louder than me."
Jon just nodded. He'd like to say that Artos was just being rude for the fun of it, but he knew Artos was simply telling the truth as they headed back up the path they'd ridden down.
"The survivors said that they were attacked shortly after passing through Moat Cailin, which makes sense. It funnels all travellers North through this one spot, so they'd have the best chance at finding wealthy prey around here," Artos explained quietly, his eyes on the road as they moved up in relative silence. It wasn't… entirely uncomfortable.
Cregan moved ahead, sniffing the ground before he let out a soft growl. Artos moved closer and knelt, his hand brushing against the floor.
"What is it?" Jon asked, not seeing anything as Artos hummed.
"Cregan can smell blood. Old, but there. The ground is disturbed, and not by horse hooves. Look, the movements were wrong for that. Horses and people travelling on foot would have been moving north or south along the road, but these ones divert off and head to the west," Artos explained quietly, his eyes turning to the east.
Jon couldn't see what Artos was looking at. Sure, there were tracks but a dozen horses ran through here as they came south, and all he could see was the signs of that. Still, Artos knew what he was talking about. Even Uncle Benjen said Artos was a natural-born ranger.
"As if they were running from an attacker coming from the east," Jon replied, his own eyes turning to the woodlands to the east of the road. Trees and bushes lined the path, giving plenty of places for someone to hide, while the west was primarily swampland. If you were lying in wait, you wouldn't choose to lurk in a swamp with perfectly good forests so close by.
Artos just hummed, in what sounded like agreement.
"Looks like something was dragged back to the east, look," Artos said, gesturing for him to come closer. Jon did, kneeling beside Artos and looking at the ground where Artos was gesturing. This time, he could just about see what Artos meant, the way the ground was disturbed, and both flowers and branches were broken.
"Do you think their camp is that way?" Jon asked, getting a nod.
"I'm willing to bet they had someone watching the road when we passed, but they're not likely to want to attack fifteen armed men if they're looking to pick off travellers," Artos replied.
"Fifteen armed men and two wolves," Jon pointed out, getting an actual laugh from him.
"Yeah, that'd do it. Come on, let's see if we can find any trace of a watchman," Artos said, gesturing for him to follow as they entered the treeline. Cregan made a beeline for a particular bush as they followed behind, and even Jon could see the clear imprints of armoured boots on the ground. Standing in the same spot, he looked out at the road with a sneer. He could see down the road toward Moat Cailin and far up the straight road. From here, they'd have plenty of time to see travellers coming toward them. "My guess? He's run back to the camp to warn the others of our arrival. It doensn't take a genius to figure out why we're here. If they're smart, they'll scatter deeper into the forest to hide until we leave. Cregan! Head back to Robb and get them to follow you, then follow my scent. We're following his tracks. I won't let them slip away into the night."
Cregan set off, paws pounding against the road as he sprinted down toward the Moat.
"Should we try going alone?" Jon asked hesitantly, but Artos just scowled to himself.
"I won't let these scum slip away to set up camp elsewhere. Go back with Cregan if you want, I'm hunting them," Artos replied bluntly, his eyes on the imprints on the ground as he began to move.
Jon hesitated before he followed behind, trying to move quietly through the brush. Each snapped twig made Artos look back with an unamused expression, before Artos slowed down to let Jon catch up and, with great reluctance, guided Jon on how to know what was safe to step on and what should be avoided.
Artos did not like him. Jon didn't overly like Artos either. But Artos wasn't the type to let his prejudice get in the way of his duty.
As they moved, Jon froze at the sounds of raised voices in the distance. Too far to hear what was being said, too muffled by the dense foliage, but clear male voices arguing about something. Artos didn't freeze, continuing to creep closer as he pulled out his bow and nocked an arrow.
Rather than go to fire, Artos gestured with a tilt of the bow for Jon to follow him as they moved to the side and crouched in some bushes.
"We'll hear if they try to pack up camp from here," Artos replied simply, crouching against a tree. "Cregan will have made his way back to the others by now. Robb will be on his way, with the men."
"They'll be noisy," Jon pointed out, getting a nod.
"Almost certainly. Come on, let's get to the other side. Stay low, move slow and follow my steps. When Robb distracts, we attack," Artos commanded. A pincer manoeuvre? The bandits would turn their backs to face the incoming warriors, exposing their backs to them. A part of him said this wasn't honourable, but these were bandits praying on travellers. They didn't deserve to be treated with honour.
They moved until they were positioned behind the small makeshift camp, listening to the men argue whether to flee or not. The watchman had fled before he saw if they stopped at Moat Cailin or not, which meant they weren't sure if Robb and the others were even still in the area, or if they'd kept going south.
Artos remained silent and as still as stone, sitting against a tree as Jon did the same to ensure they had a low profile. In the growing darkness, he doubted the bandits could see past the small area lit up by their fire.
Sitting in silence, he didn't know how long they remained there before Artos gestured for him to rise and nodded back the way they came. It took Jon a moment longer to hear the sound of footsteps and breaking branches, and the bandits a moment longer still before they scrambled into action.
As they did, an arrow flew from the darkness and hit one of the men who was going for his sword and chaos broke loose as Robb charged into the clearing, a wolf on either side of him and a dozen men behind. The bandits shouted and scrambled to form some line of defence, but the sight of Theon (the wolf) barreling toward them did wonders in making the men hesitant to be at the front and their moment of hesitation cost them dearly.
Artos let an arrow loose, striking one of them from behind just as Robb reached the same man. The pain made him stumble, and Robb was quick to take advantage of it as his sword lashed out. Following Artos, Jon charged from behind as the bandits fell into true panic at the two-pronged assault.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Theon pounce onto a man, claws ripping into the man's unarmoured chest. If he ever needed a reminder that Artos' pets were deadly despite Cregan's usual dopey behaviour, this was it as Theon bit down on the man's head and tore it away.
Jon hesitated as he reached his target. Not because he was scared, but because the man wasn't facing him, and that tiny voice in his head told him that it wasn't honourable to stab a man in the back. Artos didn't, his sword lashing out with deadly precision as his victim barely had time to turn around before it struck clean and true.
His opponent realised their mistake, spinning to attack Jon as he duelled the man, but this was no real fight. They had the bandits outnumbered two to one, even without the wolves, and before long, he was the only one left fighting at all as the rest of the bandits lay dead around the camp.
The bandit hesitated, suddenly well aware that he was fighting a losing battle, and that even if he won, he was still facing a dozen more men and two monstrous wolves.
"Give up," Jon said simply. Their brief clash had shown Jon that the man really wasn't that good compared to his usual sparring partners, and the man knew it as he tossed down his sword.
"You're a deserter, aren't you?" Robb asked, sharing a look with Artos. "My father, Lord Stark, said a Night's Watch recruiter never made it all the way North, with the criminals that were bound for the Wall."
The man paled, his words catching in his throat.
"Guessing you and these scum killed him and fled, turning to banditry rather than head south where you might be recognised for whatever crimes got you in this mess," Artos continued, arms crossed and a scowl on his lips. "Nothing to say?"
"We didn't-"
"Milords, there's bodies," one of the men called, drawing their attention to a pit that Cregan was standing next to. The bandit paled, before he turned and tried to bolt, well aware that whatever was in that pit meant the end for him. With most of them between him and the road, and Cregan and Theon lurking in the camp, it was no surprise that he chose to run toward the way that only had two people in its way, him and Artos.
Jon moved forward as the bandit drew a dagger from his belt and stabbed at Artos, who had looked toward the man when called, but he knew he wouldn't be fast enough as the dagger stabbed into Artos' stomach… or should have, at least. Jon saw clearly as the dagger cut into Artos' top and just… stopped.
Artos snapped back toward him before letting out a snarl as his fist lashed out and broke the man's nose clean, sending him stumbling back. Before he could regain his bearings, Robb shoulder tackled him and two other men pinned him as Robb switched his attention to Artos, before pausing in confusion.
"Artos, he- he stabbed you, didn't he?" Robb asked, confusion crossing his face.
"I'm fine. Let's deal with him and be done with this," Artos grunted. "Our way is the old way. Father put me in charge of this ranging. Someone grab something to use as a block."
"He stabbed you! I saw it!" Theon shouted, staring at Artos in disbelief. Artos just stared back, almost challengingly. And yet, Artos's silent stare couldn't refute the truth. On his top, directly above his stomach, was a clear cut in his leather. Jon could see the flesh under it, unscathed.
"Artos is right, we have a job to do," Robb agreed, ignoring the pleading of the man. As a log that had been cut for firewood was brought over, the man was forced over it with his neck bared. Artos drew his blade, looking all the more like Eddard Stark's son as he moved forward and placed it in the ground.
"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Artos of the House Stark, on behalf of my father, Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to death," Artos said grimly, the man's struggling only increasing but with three men holding him down, there was no chance for the bandit to break free as Artos raised his blade and brought it down in a single, clean sweep.
The head separated, hitting the ground with a meaty thump as Artos put away his blade.
Before he could speak, Robb moved forward and practically ripped his leathers up as Artos sighed.
"See? I'm fine," Artos grumbled, as Robb stared at his exposed stomach. "It was a bad angle."
"Bullshit, look at the cut on your top," Theon spoke, sticking his finger through the hole with a scowl. Somehow, Jon had a feeling Theon was very close to getting punched again.
"We'll talk about this back in Winterfell," Robb demanded, and Artos paused before he nodded once.
"Aye. For now, back to Moat Cailin. We'll camp out there for tonight before we make our way north again. Don't worry, we can take our time on the way back," Artos snorted. Robb looked down at Artos' stomach again, watching him fix his leathers back into place, before nodding.
As they checked the camp for valuables or survivors, Jon heard the whispering of the men and felt the stares aimed at Artos' back. How… The dagger had been sharp enough to cut through leather with ease, so why had it failed to even scratch Artos?
– Artos Stark –
Bollocks.
People know I'm resistant to the heat of the forge, but there's a difference between being able to withstand the hot temperatures and being immune to blades. Too many people saw something I didn't want to spread.
Feat Achieved: Complete the bandit hunt, 100cp. 100cp total.
[Psychic Abilities - Channelling (Two Dots)] - 100cp, 0cp remaining.
The psychic world's answer to the Path of Ephemera, channelling is sometimes called Necro-Psi, and often confused with the aforementioned Path. It allows the psychic to interact with the spirits of the dead, but not other forms of spiritual beings, perceiving their presence and even drawing upon their skills and experiences.
[2] The medium may now see through the Gauntlet and perceive the Shadowlands, where shades dwell. They may communicate with ghosts directly for short periods and channel twice a day.
[Psychic Abilities - Channelling (Three Dots)] is currently locked as beyond the initial loadout; powers are limited to 200cp until the user has achieved a feat or position deserving of increasing the limit.
Communicate with ghosts?
When we get back North, I think I'm going to have to pay a visit to the crypts of Winterfell.
I need answers.