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When the Wolves Cry Out

Summary:

War changed men. Through fire and blood, through the fog of war and the death of his friends, Eddard Stark had seen the last vestiges of his battered faith burnt to ash. Faith in Gods, faith in men.

He couldn’t keep his eyes closed after that, regardless of how much he desired to.

No more.

Eddard Stark was done believing in the vain pretences of honour and virtue.

He would not repeat the same mistakes that had led his father and his brother to an early grave. He would keep what little family remained to him safe by all means necessary, the Others take his honour.

The Gods would understand, Ned hoped.

That is, if they even cared.

 

Or:

In the aftermath of the Rebellion, Eddard Stark plays the game of thrones, and he intends to win. Far-reaching and unexpected butterflies ensue. This is their story.

A monster-dong, long-runner of a story.

Not a fix-it fic.

Notes:

Cheers, mates.

Now, I know most of you reading this have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about, so if you never read When the Wolves Cry Out before, just feel free to go ahead and get on with the story, which I sincerely hope you enjoy.

For those that have come from the previous iteration of this story, I welcome you to the second version of When the Wolves Cry Out, refitted and rewritten. Plot points have been reworked, rough edges polished, and just about the entire thing has been overhauled. For the most part, it is a better realised iteration of the old version, so if you're expecting a completely different story, you might be disappointed; the story as a whole is more focused and has a clearer narrative purpose than it did beforehand.

We also have Sciatic_Nerd as a co-writer! She has brought quite a lot to the table, and honestly, has improved the overall quality of the story at least threefold. Many of her ideas will take time to take the stage, as they relate to the more mysterious aspects of this world, but they’re pretty damn brilliant. I also added William A. Grey as a co-writer, although he was already helping me out in the previous iteration as an editor, but I think he has stepped up for this version and fair’s fair.

Given the fast paced beginning of the whole thing, the first three chapters (+ prologue) have been published all in one go. However, as we’ve got until at least chapter 15 written by the moment of publishing the new version of this story, we’ll have weekly updates until we catch up to where we are and from there it’s whenever Fate wills it.

Though on a narrative level, the story’s Point of Divergence is quite specific in regards to canon, the world in general is also mildly tweaked (which is what I call “Canon Adjacent”), mostly as a result of my actual irl profession as a Medieval Historian adding a new dimension to the world that Martin (who, though an excellent writer and plotter, is not a Historian) never really developed for the sake of mantaining his own sanity ("That way lies madness"). Well, as my own sanity is long gone anyways, I went the extra mile. Most of those elements will be pointed out in the author’s notes, which usually explain our rationale for the decisions made.

Anyways, I’ve already talked enough. Enjoy!

 

Or not.

I'm not your boss.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

The format of this prologue is a stylistic choice exclusive to it. If you dislike it, don't worry, because it won't stick around starting from next chapter.

Chapter Text

The last man standing, holding onto a broken sword coated with frost.

Hunted down by the silent wraiths in the shadows, burning eyes of blue.

Running through the snow, thick and treacherous, battered by a storm of ice and death.

Legs burning, sweat freezing where it sprung.

Dread running down my spine and spurring me onwards.

But it was all in vain.

No matter how much you run, they’re never far behind.

Like the stag given hunt in a walled enclosure, your fate is sealed from the start.

They will always catch you.

Your frightened desperation, their loathsome amusement.

Not even in death can freedom be found.

They’ll kill you for sport, then raise your body to serve them forever more.

Slaves to their desires, mindless wights and shadows, battered and bastardised remains.

Everything you were, wiped away under piercing gazes of blue.

The fate of thousands.

The fate of my friends.

My fate.

Broken bone.

Frozen gore.

Wounds that should have been fatal.

Wounds that were fatal.

Pain, sorrow, regret and fear, all silenced by the darkness that consumes me.

The vast, unending nothingness of death embracing me like a spider embraces her prey, pulling me down, down, down into oblivion.

Yet here I am.

Standing in the snow.

Unbreathing.

My destroyed heart.

Unbeating.

My hands are as cold as ice, congealed blood and dead flesh darkening them.

Through my destroyed and exposed ribcage, I can see my organs.

With trembling fingers, I dig into my chest.

I feel nothing.

With a strength I never knew I had, I wrestle my heart free.

I feel nothing.

Staring intently, the tattered remains of my heart are crushed by my frostbitten fingers.

I feel nothing.

No pain.

Not even the slightest sway in my composure.

If any breath still remained within me, it would have failed to hitch.

My body is dead, yet I’m still standing.

Not truly alive, not truly dead.

Though phantoms move around me, enthralled to the will of their slavers, in the middle of the current, I remain still.

Though my eyes blaze as blue as theirs, my mind and my body are still my own.

With grim enlightenment, everything becomes so clear.

My mission, feasible at last.

I cannot be slain, for I am already dead.

I have nothing left to lose, for even my life has been taken away.

And so, I march onwards, for I must fulfil my quest.

One only I can accomplish.

To bring light to this world forsaken by the Gods.

To bring an end to this long night.

To let there be fire again.