Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

POV: Maelen

Location: Wolfsblood Ridge – Outer Forest

The world sharpened when he wore animal skin.

Maelen lay still beneath the pines, his human body forgotten as his mind slid into the fox curled between two frost-heaved stones. No more panic, no more gasping back to his own flesh—just the quiet shift into warm fur and sharper senses.

The fox lifted her head, ears twitching.

Here, every sound had edges. The crunch of snow beneath boots three ridges away. The metallic whisper of Sarra adjusting her knives. Even the slow, deep rhythm of Arthur's heartbeat—a steady drum beneath the forest's chatter.

Follow instinct, Arthur had told him. Not sight.

So Maelen let the fox hunt.

She wove through the underbrush, paws silent on the snow. The scents here had layers—damp bark, rotting leaves, the iron tang of something older. Blood. Not fresh.

The fox froze.

A raven perched on a dead oak, its feathers blacker than shadow. It didn't move. Didn't blink. Just... watched.

Maelen recoiled—too fast, too harsh. The fox yipped as his presence tore away.

—

He woke gasping, fingers clawing at frozen earth. His mouth tasted of copper. That raven hadn't been natural. It had seen him.

A scream ripped through the trees to the south.

Human. Dying.

Maelen didn't hesitate. He warged into the owl roosting above him, its wings silent as it cut through the twilight.

The scene below made his borrowed heart stutter.

Two wildlings stood over a body in black. A Night's Watch ranger. One—a woman with filed teeth—wrenched something from the corpse's grip. A horn. Broken.

The other, a mountain of a man with a beard braided with fingerbones, kicked the dead man's ribs. "Should've stayed on your Wall, crow."

Something glinted in the snow. An axe—but the sigil on its haft wasn't wildling make. A red eye stared up from the metal.

The giant—Hrok, the woman called him—picked it up, testing its weight. "Dagmer's gifts cut deep."

The woman spat. "His price cuts deeper."

A twig snapped. The owl's head swiveled.

A younger wildling burst from the trees, panting. "Scouts—from the ridge. The bastard's pack is coming."

Hrok grinned, licking the axe blade. "Good. Let them."

Maelen fled back to his own flesh, the taste of blood thick in his throat.

—

Arthur sat at the edge of camp, rubbing warmth into his fingers when the raven landed—black feathers slick with pine tar, the scroll on its leg sealed with cheap brown wax bearing House Dustin's cracked sigil.

He read the note in silence.

Lord Rickard Stark seeks confirmation of Free Folk movement near Rimehall...

Too neat. Too careful. Too convenient.

The scroll curled in his hand as he turned toward the fire.

Then Maelen stumbled through the trees, breathless.

"Wildlings," he choked out. "They killed a ranger."

Arthur's hand settled on his sword. "Where?"

"South ridge. They're coming here."

A beat of silence. Then Arthur turned to the others already gathering weapons.

"We move. Now."

—

Meanwhile, aboard the Foam-Singer...

Dagmer Clefjaw did not sleep easy. The sea whispered in his bones, but this night the Drowned God roared.

In his dream, waves towered over mountains. Black sails flapped above burning trees. A voice thundered from the deep, not like water, but iron on stone:

"Alliance is sacrifice. The wildlings will bleed the North dry for you."

Dagmer awoke with a start, breath ragged, the salt air heavy with omen.

He grinned through cracked teeth. The god speaks strategy now, he thought. Let them burn the Bastard's North to ash.

He never saw the shadow in the cabin's corner flicker and vanish. Never felt the tremor in the wood.

He didn't know the voice wasn't his god's.