Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It is a northern country; they have cold weather, they have cold hearts. The Werewolf. Angela Carter. Titles inspired by Angela Carter’s work.

Years after the White Wolf was last seen amongst men, legends sprout from the frozen ground like mushrooms. Tales of a mighty wolf that cannot die, of a she-wolf that has protected him with magic. Of the witchcraft that has kept these Northern lands prosperous when other kingdoms have fallen. Wulf never believed them. Until now.

Wulf.

The cold sips through his bones. Colder and colder as he walks deeper into the forests beyond man made roads. He should have stayed south. He should have said no. He was a child when he saw the dragons fly above his head, headed north. Back then the south seemed safer, away from The Others, safe from winter and dragon fire. And it was safe, for when the news came than the ice monsters had crashed against the walls of Winterfell and melted, they all cheered on from afar and went back to their farms and their keeps. 

He grew safe and well fed but starving for adventure. When his mates came to find him it didn’t take them long to convince him. He should have said no. But he had to come. There’s a dangerous beast out there, a ghost. Many have heard the beast howling, and sure enough, when the moon is high in the sky he calls on his she-wolf and they mate. Traps don’t snare him, he’s too cunning. Some who have seen him say he has red eyes, but others say he looks like a man. Slightly built and wearing worn out black clothes.

His party began with five men and four hounds. Well fed and armed they ventured into the northern lands moons ago, only to lose their way at every turn. Their maps now lay abandoned by a lake. Useless. Three of the men and three of the dogs also lay by the same lake in shallow graves. 

“It’s her magic.” They whisper while they fall asleep. “The Queen in the North, the She-Wolf.”

One by one the cold claimed his mates. Or a spell. He doesn’t know anymore. Now it’s only him and Cerwyn. Every morning they gather their gear and cover their tracks but they no longer want to find him. They just want to go home. Empty handed but alive. If only they could find their way back. If only they could find her and convince her to let them go, to stop the spell that has blinded them so they can go home.

A branch crackles and his heart booms in his chest. 

Everything around them is silent, almost beautiful. But they cannot enjoy it, exhausted and cold to the bone. This is his country, and he follows them, he does, with his red eyes.

*********

Cerwyn.

The Queen in the North rules with an iron fist, from the Neck to the Last Hearth her people are loyal, and in her high throne she hears it all, even the conversations whispered by their hearths. The small folk are fed and clothed by her orders, so they worship her. But what do those peasants know?

They all believe the strangest tales about her. When she was a child her captors married her to a dwarf, but she grew wings and flew out of King’s Landing. She killed the dragon queen they say, she ordered her brother to plunge the knife. She has blood in her hands. Others think she is pure, the tenderest creature. The bards sing of her beauty, of unblemished skin that never fades. That’s how he knows she is a witch. She must be. How else will she stay young and beautiful after all those years? 

And the children. 

No one has seen her take any lover, and all the knights and princes and minor lords of Westeros that sought her hand came back disappointed. Every time the moon is high in the sky she leaves her throne, her warm castle, and ventures north. And farther and farther still. She mates with a wolf they say, a wolf big as mountains. He is not stupid, he knows there are no he-wolves. She must have a lover. A man she procures for her base desires. All witches do. In any case, when her belly grows no one asks, no one questions her. The children she births look human.

Skin made of snow, hair like raven wings. 

They grow strong and happy, secured within the walls of Winterfell. Beloved by the northern men. Mostly. There is always some discontent lord that claims she sleeps with her own brother and that is why the children are fatherless. He does not care for any of that, he just wants to find her, and throw an arrow through her heart. That’s the only way to end a witch. But first they have to find her. And they don’t know how.

He is tired. He wants to go home. But not without his prize. They will make songs about him, the man who stopped the witch, the man that ended her monstrous, unnatural reign. Even if he is the last one left. He is not afraid. Wulf walks ahead of him, but he’s careless, and steps on a branch. The forest around them is so silent the sound bounces around like a cracker. 

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He hears them when they are still far away. He doesn’t want to move and wake up Sansa that snores slightly under their furs. He untangles from her arms delicately and paces to the clearing, waiting behind the trees in complete silence. When they finally enter his field of vision they are a lot younger that he thought them to be.

Ghost bites the arm of one before he can raise his bow, as he places the tip of Longclaw at the other one’s throat. Suddenly, without warning, Sansa appears between them, her black hood and cloak floating against the pure white of the snow. 

She gasps. “They are children!”

“No”. He growls. “They are grown ups and they were going to shoot those arrows at us”.

Sansa walks in a circle around the one with his arm still between Ghost’s jaws.

“What is your name, child?”

She places her delicate hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

He swallows hard. Jon can smell the blood dripping from his wounded arm.

“Cerwyn. And he... is Wulf”.

“Where are you from?”

“A small village in the Neck.” 

Sansa raises one brow in question.

“You’ve...never...heard of it. It’s a small...village.”

“Your Grace”. Jon spits. “You’ve never heard of it, Your Grace”.

The boy seems about to faint. “Sorry, Your Grace”.

Sansa turns to the other one, kneels by his side and touches his cheek in a gentle, motherly gesture. At her wordless command he puts his sword back. When she talks there’s a tone of mischief in her voice.

“We should show them, Jon”.

“You want to show them, my love?”.

“Yes”. She grabs his arm and leans on him. “They have come to hunt us, thinking we are...monsters. If we show them, they will go back to their village talking about it”. Her eyes are bright with excitement. “And when they do, they will be the village fools”.

The ones that came before them died in the woods, and after their villages forgot about them, others came, and then some others, searching for answers no one can find. He realises that if they let these two go back, they will tell a story no one will believe. People will laugh at them and move on. They will stop coming. All of them. 

He nods at her. “As you wish, my love”.

Chanting softly, Sansa takes a step forward and kneels, her pale hands grab fits full of snow, and she packs, and rubs and smashes. Slowly, gently, the balls of snow resemble a head, then arms, then a belly, and legs. The boys watch her entranced, their bows and arrows forgotten on the forest floor.

Her voice raises clear and high in a sweet melody. “Snow child, snow child”.

Jon joins in her chant. “Skin pale as snow. Hair dark as raven”. 

It only takes her a moment. When she raises to her feet her cloak opens up a bit to reveal a babe sucking at her breast. One of the boys faints on the snow. The other one pales, his eyes big as saucers. 

“Come see her”. Sansa commands. 

The boy obeys, his eyes wide open. He looks at the baby, that makes suckling noises and moves her tiny fist. 

“Does she look like a monster to you? Wulf?”

The boy shakes his head. “But, how...?”

Sansa rocks their daughter gently. “She’s human, you see? All her parts. Now...” she smiles at the boy. “You will go back to where you came from, all right?”

The boy nods. The one that had fainted opens his eyes and gets up.

“We want to, Your Grace. But...”

Jon remembers the corpses buried by the lake. He can still smell them.

“Ghost will guide you out of the woods”.

The dire wolf starts walking towards the tree line very slowly but the boys look frozen in their spots.

“Go on”. He says, “he won’t hurt you”.

When the boys disappear beyond the tree line he turns to Sansa that coos at the baby. He raises his hand and caresses their daughter’s raven hair.