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    Real Strategy Requires Cunning

Herbert West

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Another black metal concert, another inspiration.

This time, in the setting of the world of Westeros, focusing on Bran Stark, John Stark, and maybe Rickon, Jojen, and Val.

Disclaimer: While I consider GRRM to be a good world-builder, I consider him an average at best writer in terms of things like focus and plot. Therefore, I will ignore and modify a whole lot of stuff. Yeah, this is basically fanfiction, and GRRM hates it, but he can get bent over by an editor.

Style, focus, etc: My usual occult/esoteric/magical stuff. I have, in my head, sketched out the whole story, so I intend to end it in 10-20 updates at most. I will try not to get bogged down and keep the focus small in terms of characters, if not in terms of story, since me going overboard with stuff is why my aars die. First and foremost, this is a story, gameplay elements may be included if my fancy strikes me particularly hard. Story takes precedence, though, so preapre yourself for text. I will try to limit myself to less than 1000-1500 words per update, but I have a bad habit of writing a lot. I will try to keep the language authentic, with no modern expressions. Due to the cathartic nature of what inspires me, I will try to give each chapter a sufficiently strong ending, but that may turn into cliffhangers.

I will also post the first drafts of the chapters directly, as me re-reading what I write usually results in "select all"+"delete".

Most, if not all, chapters will have some kind of musical inspiration behind them, usually atmoshperic black metal or the like. I will post links to appropriate songs at the end of the chapters. While you dont have to listen to them, it is encouraged.



Dramatis personae:

Bran Stark - crippled, greenseer, warg, current heir of the House Stark, Lordship of Winterfell, and Lord Paramountcy of the North
Jon Snow - bastard of the House, currently Lord Commander of the Nights Watch
Rickon Stark - younger brother on Bran Stark
Osha - Wildling woman, currently warden of the Stark boys
Jojen Reed - of house Reed, greenseer
Meera Reed - of House Reed. Skilled huntress and pathfinder. Sister of Jojen.
Summer - direwolf of Bran Stark
The Child-Raven - dream-messenger of the Children Of The Forest
Coldhands - undead messenger of the White Walkers


Index:

Run

(note: since I am writing this an hour after the end of the concert, expect some typos and such. Will correct once I wake up)
 
Last edited:

Herbert West

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Run​

5iSVNx3.jpg

My blood rushes in my ear like the foam off White Harbour. I lay my paws on the ground, white, melting into the falling snow, becoming one with my surroundings. I lift them swiftly, running along the frozen stream, hearing the trickle below the ice, grown to a rush in my ears, I hear the creaking of the trees, and I hear the mocking of that bird.

It sits somewhere up there, I can feel it, I can smell it, I can taste its dark, lice-ridden feathers in my mouth, but its cawing drowns it all out. It is goading me, calling me, playing with me, guiding me.

I hear its flutter from branch to branch, from tree to tree, from glade to glen to peak.

I place one paw after the other. I devour the miles, my joints revolting against the strain, but I must press on. I feel the wind getting stronger, tugging at my fur with hands of frost. I feel the snow falling onto my nose, I feel the drops of meltwater freeze to hard ice on my chin. I race along the stream, its ice cracked open. I see the trees, taller now, but thinner, their branches pruned by the freeze.

I feel the wind slam an open palm into my eyes and jaw. I hear the bird mocking so very close. The snow whirls in a storm, its flakes now daggers, burrowing into my fur, trying to get to my flesh.

I must not falter. I press on.

I howl at the winter, and it responds. My fur comes loose from my sides. I feel patches torn off. I feel the shards of ice grinding away at the skin of my eyelids. The ground grows tired of my claws. It reaches up, and tears them out, one after the other. My track becomes frozen crimson, by blood oozing, freezing on the tips of my toes.

I must not falter. I must press on. The raven mocks me.

My pelt is gone. The needle leaves pierce my naked skin. I bleed from a dozen little cuts, red streaks on my side. I feel my skin peeling off, my eyes freezing in their sockets. The stream is the colour of rotting meat. Its ice shines like flames. The world smell different. The trees thin, their forms twisted, dwarven.

The raven cries.

My legs are stiff like branches. I run on them like crutches. The skin of my throat begins to peel. I feel the frost seeping into my lungs, my blood, my flesh. The snow shears my muzzle clean. My bones are dripping red snow. The stream is dried blood.

The raven cries.

I press on. My bones break and snap in the frost like icicles. I drag myself to the clearing. The raven looks at me with one ice-blue eye. It opens its beak, and the winter winds gnaw at me still. Its breath freezes in mid-air, falling onto a frozen pond of scarlet. I howl my last, my throat torn open, blood bubbling up my mouth, my heart frozen and dead.

The ice breaks and the ground twists like a fever.

The trees seep frozen blood, and look on in despair.



Music: Agalloch - Dead Winter Days
 
Last edited:

unmerged(541702)

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fyi the wildling caretaker of rickon and bran was called osha, asha is balons daughter and a cthulu worshiping vicking
 

Herbert West

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I blame the beer. Fixed:)

Did you like it, nevertheless?
 

unmerged(541702)

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I would give GRRM more credit, it seems interesting but it needs more of an introduction
 

LsT_G

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I don't agree with your view of GRRM, but I liked your chapter; sure, it's very introductory and tells me next to nothing, yet it was enjoyable.

On a hopefully constructive critcism, I found the number of sentences that you began on the molds of "i did this, i did that" a bit much. Repetion is a nice way to try and put the reader on the mind of the character, I use it quite a lot myself, but try and vary the phrase structure a bit more.

Good work and good luck.
 

Herbert West

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That dig at GRRM was sort of meant as a hook:)

I appreciate the criticism, and you re partly right. But these are the thoughts of a direwolf/a warg in a direwolf, so I wanted them to be simple, and fixed on one target (in this case, the bird).

Sadly no update til this weekend, I have deadlines gallore.