Game of Clans

Summary:
There are many Clans in the land of Westeros. Too many to count. The High Clans of the realm are StarkClan, LannisterClan, TargaryenClan, TyrellClan, GreyjoyClan, TullyClan, FreyClan, BaratheonClan, ArrynClan, and MartellClan. The Clans are all ruled by BaratheonClan, who sit on the Grey Throne. Unrest is circling around the Clans. When the king asks the leader of StarkClan to be his Paw to the King, he accepts and goes South, and the game begins.

Prologue
“Patchfur! Please slow down!” Patchfur turned to wait for Shrewfoot and Gooseheart to catch up with him. He bounced on his paws, the snow burning his pads slightly. Shrewfoot emerged from the underbrush, shaking snow off of his pelt. Gooseheart padded after him, his old bones creaking like grand trees. The white tom looked down his nose at Patchfur. “Well? What did you find?” Patchfur flexed his claws. “Many wildling bodies, sir,” he said. “Arranged in a peculiar pattern. Almost like a spiral. There was a dead kit by a tree.” Shrewfoot looked over at Gooseheart, his eyes shining. “Sir, we must report back to Ser Crowheart,” the brown tom said in a rush. “He’ll want to hear about this—“ Gooseheart shook his head, cutting Shrewfoot off. “No. We’re not leaving until I see Patchfur’s discovery for myself, with my own pair of old eyes.” Patchfur’s tail dropped to the snow. He had been beginning to think that the old cat had begun to trust him — to believe him. Gooseheart wasn’t one to trust many, though. The old white cat looked over at Patchfur. “Lead the way.” Patchfur nodded and turned, leading his two companions back to where he had found the bodies of the wildling cats. He stepped into the clearing, looking back at Shrewfoot and Gooseheart. “Look, sir. Doesn’t it look like a spiral?” Gooseheart snorted. “It looks like a normal clearing to me.” Patchfur whipped around, his eyes widening in horror. The bodies had disappeared. “They were right here!” Patchfur cried, scrambling around in the snow. “I swear! I swear on the Seven! I wouldn’t lie to you, Gooseheart!” The young tom turned to the older cat, his eyes pleading. Gooseheart’s face betrayed no emotion. Instead, his gaze flicked over to Shrewfoot. “Search the area,” he barked. “Maybe we were just a little ways off.” Patchfur sat down, looking defeated. He had been so ready to prove to Gooseheart that he was a good Brother of the Night’s Watch. He wanted a promotion so badly — he wanted to take on the heart in his name. Brothers who had performed a heroic act or had been with the Watch for half of their lifetime could take on the heart in their name. Ser Crowheart had been with the Night’s Watch for years, and he had defended the Wall from many a wildling attack. He deserved his heart. Gooseheart had been with the Watch since he was an apprentice. He’d been there even longer than Ser Crowheart. “Hey, I found something,” Shrewfoot called from the other side of the clearing. Patchfur looked up and padded over to him, his paws sinking deep into the snow. Shrewfoot had something hooked on his claw, and he was balancing on three paws. Gooseheart walked over and sniffed it, shaking his head. “A bloody pelt,” The white cat murmured, looking over at Patchfur. “Perhaps Patchfur was right.” Patchfur’s heart lifted. Maybe he wasn’t useless? His good mood was cut off as a large looming figure appeared behind Gooseheart, and plunged its claws into his neck. Gooseheart fell limp in front of Patchfur, and he screeched, bouncing back a few steps. Shrewfoot, who had been standing next to Gooseheart, flattened his ears and took a few steps back, looking up at the huge figure in horror. The shadowy cat lunged at Shrewfoot, and the brown tom’s cry for help was abruptly cut off. Patcher scrambled backwards and plunged into the forest, running as fast as his paws could take him. He emerged into a clearing that looked similar to the one he was just in, minus the two dead cats and shadowy death figure. The clearing wasn’t empty, though; in the middle stood a little mottled brown kit. Patchfur’s breath got stuck in his throat. It was the same kit as before, the one whose sightless amber eyes had stared up at the dark sky, never to blink or cry or smile again. But as the kit turned around, very much alive, and honed in her gaze on Patchfur. Her eyes. Her eyes were electric blue. With a scream of fear, Patchfur bolted away, into the forest, and away from the Night’s Watch forever.