Winners Collection - Anthology

Feral Instinct: A Game of Wolves and Whispers - @notvxncey

A Game of Wolves and Whispers

notvxncey

Ice on his cheek. Lions licking lips as they waited for fresh meat to be served. A jeering mob who'd sooner see his head than question the wolves in sheep's clothing that reigned so high above them, and trapped them in on all sides.

Wolves. He thought, a venom in his inner voice that could not reach his dry, blocked up throat- a stomach-dropping gush of air stroked his cheek as the sword rose up above his head.

If only it were just wolves again, games of Wolves and Whispers.

Old Nan told many stories of The North- and The Real North too. Ned had been unable to help a chuckle escape him at the terror in his own children when they would run to him crying at thunder in fear that it was the roar of a grumpkin, or when they had spotted a small figure crossing the courtyard below their windows at night, convinced they had seen a snark, or a wight- he would hold them in his arms tight and tell them, "Don't listen to Old Nan's stories- they're just that." Yet he had been no different himself at that age, till he had grown up enough to learn which stories were just that, stories-

And which were warnings under the guise of myths and legends.

There was one tale in particular that had struck out to Ned as a particular spook as a child. His own Old Nan had told him of a man who had gone wandering into the woods alone, searching for his missing wife. As a full moon sat high above him, streaking his vision of the grey winter forest with silver, he had heard a growl from the depths of the foliage that swarmed him.

Before he could even draw his sword, two glowering red eyes leapt out of the darkness and he was set upon by an ungodly wolf- gnarled and bloody white fur, and the same height as him, even on all fours. It tore into his arm, straight to the bone, and he felt the bite fester and burn in a way he'd never felt from any beast he'd hunted before, nor any blade that had cut him in battle. Though he managed to wriggle a dagger from his belt and drive it deep into the beast's heart, the damage had been done and man and wolf lay atop each other, drawing their last breaths-

He was no ordinary man, though. He had the blood of the First Men in his veins, and that blood danced with the blood of the beast that slumped above him. As the full light of that cursed moon stroked that fading body of ragged breaths, his skin was torn asunder... and from within a beast emerged, bloody wet fur and not a scrap of sensibility left in him. Not till morning came, and once again the man was birthed painfully from the skin of the beast- cursed to suffer that same fate once every full moon.

The story of the beast with a man's form had terrified little Ned; He couldn't imagine such a terrifying monster waiting to burst out from someone who looked so ordinary, and yet was impossible to bring any mercy to in form of death.

I know now just how many monsters lay beneath the skin of man.

For weeks he jumped at the sound of whining in the night, at the growls of hounds in his own home and in the vale where he spent much of his childhood- but like all children, his fear was conquered when his ever gallant friend Robert Baratheon had made a game from it; the game of Wolves.

Waiting till night, Robert would bar them up in a cellar with the stable boys and kitchen servants, and tell the tale under the light of a dithering candle, golden glow of light fighting a losing battle with the shreds of moonlight from the window. The boys would sit in a circle and he would silently declare a wolf, with the brash and resolute command in his glare and his pointing arm of the King he'd one day become. This wolf would then stalk the circle as everyone else sat rigid, eyes tightly shut, and he would take another boy to the ground- when he returned to his seat and everyone opened their eyes to see who had been taken by the 'wolf-man' in the night, the accusations would start flying till either the wolf killed everyone night by night, or was successfully lynched by the just young men.

Those stupid enough not to realise that subtlety was key would get carried away with their new role, howling and smirking with childish glee as they shoved another boy so rough into the floor of the cellar that on several occasions Eddard would call out for the game to stop as a boy was left crying and bleeding, his head spinning and arms scuffed. A chorus of groans would echo through the cramped room from all spare the poor soul who'd been picked on that day, who would silently look back up at the stern little Stark boy with wide eyes of gratitude.

Even as a boy he'd shown the matured, brooding nature of his predecessors, "Stop it! We're not really wolves, we're just boys- and Lord Arryn would say to be men we must know better than to attack each other for no reason." Little Ned had of course never encountered a mad king or queen, pithy to delusions and paranoia; never met a lion before, who'd sooner tear apart a man than have him whisper rumours degrading it's respect.

Robert would smirk at his scolding tone, and roughly dig him in the shoulder before serving him a reminder, "Aye, but you're a wolf! Think some of these boys should be a lot more afraid of you thank they are of having a little fall." Ned had flushed, and gone to protest- but he was right. If anyone had mastered this Game of Wolves it was the Stark boy himself- who would swiftly, silently, pull a boy from the circle at random, creating whiffs of air around the heads of those quick to turn on their neighbours- seating himself again so slowly as to not create the slightest indication that he had gone- aye, when Ned played Wolf, he always won. At least, back then he did.

Eventually, the fun and games were ceased when Jon Arryn caught his two young wards sneaking back to their rooms as the moon began to drop from the sky and demanded an explanation. Robert was ever defensive, but Ned sheepishly came out with the truth of the game, head hung as he expected a scolding from a man who had become his second father- instead, Lord Arryn had chuckled and let out a sad sigh as he ruffled the boys hair and left them to return to their rooms after a grave warning,

"You're too young for this- enjoy your youth in other ways whilst you can; this Game of Wolves is a game too familiar to us who've lived long enough to see it, dressed up in fantasy- but the monsters remain the same."

It had been a cryptic phrase to the young lord, and his friend had laughed it off as another boring set of 'wise words' from an adult who'd forgotten what it was like to have fun; but Ned had remembered.

He remembered even as he rode south for the first time in nine years at the behest of his dear King, and thrice did the Game of Wolves bitterly present itself to him again.

As Ned had entered King's Landing by Robert's side for the first time, he had first bitterly reminded himself of that game and it's reality; Jon Arryn dead, a victim of the poisonous bite of a beast- but it was no wolf, Ned was certain of that much. Robert Baratheon and he the poor woodsmen, watching for a knife in the dark to send them to the Seven Hells- Robb had always been the one to spur them on to start this damned game, and unwittingly he was doing it again without even realising he was part of the game himself- that left it to Eddard Stark alone to uncover the monster among the men he was surrounded with.

I never chose to play this game again.

He had then thought sourly of the game as the lions faltered and the bastards began to speak- the night was fading, and he was ready to cry wolf- but that crafty man Lord Baelish had reminded him with his silk tongue, such accusations oft would turn upon the accuser themselves- as per the many times he had called Robb a wolf-man, noting the excitable buzz in the boy's demeanour, and had failed to convince the other boys playing of his guilt due to the charisma of the Baratheon compared to his own reserved nature, a valuable lesson was learnt: failing to lynch the man with blood on his hands often ended with your own death in the night- if not that, then by the accusations of the herd of unsuspecting villagers calling for your head instead.

Did I have a choice? I never had a choice with Rob. He always got his way-

The final time the game hit him was as he hit the executioner's block. Tired, defeated face against cold stone, he thought long and hard about his childhood game. He ached, as he stared out at his own little wolf in the crowd. He had called the Joffrey boy out for being a lion in the pelt of a deer, and it had cost him his life. Maybe it would cost the life of his little ones too.

Not this time Rob. This time we lost, old friend.

The monsters here were not wolf-men, or witches, grumpkins or snarks- they were Lions- Lions that had torn apart the last two men that stood in their way to victory.

As the sword fell down on that icy block and his fate was sealed, Ned prayed for his children.

Prayed, that they would never have to play this cursed game.