Game of Thrones: Path of the Hungry Bear

Early 278 Spring

Our path into the Haunted Woods was a long one, through the Shadow Tower and across the Bridge of Skulls, a route named after all the bones down in the dark chasm below carved out by the Milkwater. We'd leave a contingent behind patching up the bridge for our heavy traffic and putting up guard rails. No one had been interested in pedestrian safety for this area since the Night's Watch gave up on the Westwatch fortress, pulling back to the Shadow Tower.

By going this route we cut down on exposure to the most dangerous aspects of traversing the Gorge and hundreds of miles overland. We only needed a day's travel to get to our chosen destination to put together a log bridge over the Milkwater, and get us into the proper Haunted Forest.

The Watch was supposed to cut the trees down to a half mile from the Wall, but budget cuts being what they are, the forest now pressed up directly against the icy barrier, as such we had over to three hundred square miles of logging to get to which counts as community service instead of rapacious exploitation of the environment… though we do a little of that too.

The whole, not killing or enslaving, ahem, enthralling everyone we find might have seemed like a let down, but the Wildlings that work with the Watch have nothing but axes to grind with all the anti-Watch Wildings and to call them exuberant in their guiding of my forces to anyone and everyone that so much as ever looked at them wrong is an understatement. These Wildings wanted them to pay, and they wanted them to pay now.

It was of great benefit to us as the canopy in the Haunted Forest is so thick that light barely reaches the ground, meaning my bird scouts lose considerable utility in locating my prey. Better to use dogs in these woods as I am still over a year out from where I can separate my she-bears from their cubs. Not that my hounds are a tremendous downgrade. We'd taken pups from the humongous monster dogs the men of the Frozen Shore kept and bred them into our own lines for years, and the raising of war dogs has taken among the Mountain Clans especially, though the Glovers have dabbled albeit less enthusiastically.

Best to spend the animals in bloody combat or pursuing dangerous game before their size causes them many health issues later in life, and they require an iron discipline from a strong trainer to keep from causing more trouble than they're worth. Or the mental touch of a Skinchanger. Those who truck in the minds of dogs and wolves are known as Wargs, and are the lowest level of Skinchanger unless they work with the latter. Dogs are just too easy through millennia of domestication, they live to serve so long as you treat them right.

Even so I don't think anyone believes I am the gods' gift to dog training with the mechanical efficiency I employ with the score of war dogs I brought on this trip. They carry out my will better than even the most veteran warriors. Riding out every day with my dogs and my dawgs hunting down man and beast is a brutal pleasure only surpassed by riding out everyday with my birds and my dawgs hunting down man and beast.

The wilderness is rough, rugged, all encompassing, and bearing down on the mind as if to constantly remind us that we are not meant to be here. I don't even think it's the influence of the Others, just the cold, harsh, and dark environment naturally causing a steady discomfort. You're never far from a predator and this place has actual tigers prowling around, the black and white striped Shadow Cats capable of disemboweling a man in a single swipe of their claws.

I wanted one - no I wanted twenty - but the things are like liquid smoke in both motion and mental grappling, flowing through both earth and astral planes like the perfect killing machines they are. The infrequently come near enough for mind mind to reach out to them, but I am sure that someday soon I'll get my opportunity.

My companions and I had little to fear from the Shadow Cats, traveling together armed and armored heavily. Over the years the general availability of these things has shifted in the west. Formerly the sick man of the North, our rapid assent as an economic and military force has bolstered us from the grass roots to the trickling down top. The presence of fitted chainmail became more common than not among the rank and file, sandwiched between two layers of padding to fight off the cold and further protect the man underneath.

The men who crewed the Sea Bear with me throughout the year and fought alongside me over and over looked more like a knight company than a band of northern battle brothers. They'd profited greatly supporting me on my rise, and each man wore fully articulated and fitted plate armor forged in Old Town. It may lack the flair of my own, even my more demure campaign armor, but only White Harbor could bring more of their like to the field. Not even the Starks kept such a large and richly equipped force.

When Mance Rayder, one of the Rangers of the Night's Watch, disappeared from our camp one evening, I knew the man chose his side. To the man's credit, abandoning the Watch when they are helping a man like me destroy the Wildings is a far better reason than being pissy about his commander demanding he change back into the uniform after a Wildling woman mended his shredded cloak using red fabric. While I can appreciate the man's dedication to style - I too detest all black outfits - I cannot see an ounce of human nobility in the people beyond the Wall.

Maybe Mance can pull off uniting the Free Folk. He certainly has the wits and sword arm for it. In fact, the Wildlings might unite faster than they did under the threat of the White Walkers - an effort that took many years of effort by Mance. I do pose an existential threat and I am easier to understand than the Others.

Of course, such a fractured people are more likely to produce a fractured response. Not only had a number of Wildlings led me to their neighbors, our forces dealt with a half dozen major attacks during our stay in the Haunted Forest. A more intelligent and organized leadership might have managed to pull these people back until an appropriate response force was mustered, but instead hundreds of warriors lost their lives for little gain, crushed against the steely discipline and steely steel of a more advanced people.

And the survivors frequently lead us back home. We took hundreds of thralls by following defeated foes home, and even found a woman claiming to be an Umber with five kids trialing behind her. The Norreys promised to take her to Last Hearth, as they are the closest neighbors to the Umbers in the Federation. From her reaction, the woman might really be the stolen daughter of Mors Umber.

Overall I give raiding the Haunted Forest five out of five stars. It's atmospheric as can be, rich resource nodes spawn everywhere, enemy density is high and varied with a great mix of humans and diverse animals, overall it's a great place to farm crafting mats and exp. Plus I took a big titty goth GF on this raid. What a diamond in the rough.

Now if only life was like a video game and I didn't have to haul all this stuff away. A really nice set of testicles has proven itself over time as a wondrous super power, but sometimes a man can dream about commanding a space bending inventory.

It's okay to want things even when you have something else that's good. You just have to remember to appreciate what you have. Just like I appreciate having the Norreys around to deal with the Umbers. How annoying would it be if I was the one who had to deal with those loud mouth ill tempered quasi-savages?

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