I always thought that being called a god was hyperbolic. I was born into the peasantry, one of a dozen brothers expected to either die young or work the fields until I was old enough to be sent to war to die slightly less young. Every year as harvest wound down, a call would be sent out by our lord, calling for healthy men of fighting age to march against our neighbours in the south. This is how it had always been, and this is how I believed it would always be, so long as the Sun encircled our world. One by one, I watched my older brothers leave. When they returned, they might have lost a limb or an eye. And if they hadn't lost anything too valuable, they would go again the following year, and the year after that, and the year after that, until they eventually lost enough to be a liability, or failed to come home at all. Speak of me as the cold-blooded deity of death that so many believe I am, but I have never long mourned any of my brothers. It was just as expected.

The summer before my own enlistment, I turned 17. In the morning, before working the fields, my father took me aside and handed me a crude ring of iron tied to a cord of leather. It was the first and last thing he ever gave any of his sons; a lump of iron shaped on the day we were born, gifted to us when we became eligible to die by another man's hand. He barely said a word before grunting, then reached up to slap the back of my head lightly as he walked towards his work. I placed the cord around my neck, where it has stayed ever since (bar a few nights when I was held captive - I got it back eventually).

I was assigned to the front lines. They took one look at my height and build and decided that I would make an excellent meat shield. I was allocated a sword, a bedroll, and an empty rectangle of floor space. We were to be trained for two weeks before we marched. All around me, the other young men were either anxious and quiet, or very anxious and loud. I had not seen any of my brothers; the veterans were barracked elsewhere. I would never see my older brothers again.

The whispers and the legends have embellished my first battle to be some sort of monumental victory against overwhelming odds. They say I charged alone into the enemy lines and slew a whole platoon of men, breaking their defences so we could wedge ourselves in. But that is hardly the truth. My first war, I survived. That is only impressive if you also knew that more than half my regiment perished. But my squad survived, almost unharmed though we had stood at the centre of the frenzy. I have no doubt that my latent talent for warfare, activated by sheer survival instinct, had protected us. Even so, I merely survived.

But survival was enough for me to be recruited into the standing army. Instead of returning home, I followed along as the lord's corps of soldiers marched to the capital, where I was assigned to a squad meant to serve in vanguards. I had been a shield, now I was to be the sword. I was allocated armour, a rough blanket, and a thin straw mattress. I was eventually sent east, to fight an enemy I hadn't known existed; I had believed my entire life that we only fought our neighbours to the south. Then west. Then north, where we boarded ships to participate in combat. In every battle, I distinguished myself. Though I cannot recall these battles, I know that in battle, I seem to notice every minute detail. I can tell if the man behind me is friend or foe by the sound of their footsteps and their breath, I can see the injuries my enemies are hiding behind armour and clothes by the positioning of their bodies. I rose through the ranks almost as quickly as my legend spread.

Even as I became an officer, a man deemed too important to die, I fought at the front. I had an innate understanding of warfare, but my mind did not function the same behind maps as it did on the battlefield. I had special armour made to distinguish me on the battlefield. It served multiple purposes. Firstly, I would always be visible to my men, so they always had a rallying point. Secondly, it was a distraction, a bright target for the enemy to latch on to; even when you're meant to focus on what's in front of you, shiny objects in your peripheral vision still catch your eye. Thirdly, I wanted them to know. I wanted them to know I was here, and that I was coming for them. A soldier in fear is a smart soldier. A soldier in terror is dead.

The first time I remember being referred to as the god of war, it was said in jest. A colleague of mine, drunk, referred to me as such to the new recruits. And when they saw me in action, they believed in a new deity. To many, it was a nickname for a fearsome warrior. To others, a divine entity that descended upon battlefields to turn the tides of war. To my enemies, a vengeful god of death and destruction. To me, it was a joke that had grown legs and run off before I could rein it in. Slowly, as the years crept on, my divinity only grew in the eyes of the people. They had syncretised my name with a minor god and raised us through the pantheon to sit beside the king of the gods. I could do nothing to stop them. The belief had taken root. Not even my eventual, inescapable meeting with death (and it was inescapable, for I am still mortal) will have any effect. They have formed a canon that ensures that whatever death I experience, it will fit with their prophecies. So be it.

If you happen upon my likeness these days, you will doubtlessly find that I am accompanied by a great direwolf. A beast that we humans both love and fear. I understand why they have represented us in that way, but I must say that they embellish her even more than they do me.

Nearly a decade ago now, I stood in a field of war, the verdant green of the grass painted in chaotic brushstrokes by the slick crimson of human blood. The human bodies that had crowded around me an hour ago now only crowded the floor. I stood with the fraction of my men that was left. Our enemy had lost a much greater fraction of their men, but their massive numbers still dwarfed us. We were between waves of enemies now, and the rhythm of war had slowed. I knew this moment well. Their commanders were anxious despite their numbers. The soldiers were hesitant to charge. They had all seen what we had done to their comrades. At these moments, I have repeatedly employed a simple tactic to break the enemy's morale further. When you see a small force of killers so skilled at what they do, it is human nature to be afraid of them for what they can do to you. But if you see them triumphant in their killing, boastful and eager to face more, their association with "human" slips.

I suppose I am somewhat to blame for my reputation.

I glanced at my men, who seemed to pick up on the cue almost as though drilled, though we have never planned for this outside the field of battle. I drew in a large breath, ready to bellow a challenge, to invoke my divine reputation to turn these walking men into dead men walking, to fortify my troops' confidence that I was ready to die alongside them, to terrify their commanders into abandonin-

"YIP!"

The planned battlecry came out as a choked question.

"YIP!" came the noise again.

I looked down to see a little brown ball of fur, barreling across the plain towards me, never slowing.

"YIP!"

It jumped at me and I caught it in my hand.

"YIP! YIP!" she barked.

I laughed. A genuine, bellowing laugh. I do not believe I have ever laughed as hard or as genuinely as I did that day. The little dog, with her beady eyes and massive ears and bared teeth, was growling and snapping her jaws, trying to get at me. I laughed again.

"YIP!"

"Yes, yes," I said. I looked back at my squad. Good soldiers who had been with me for years, with fresh faces repopulating the squad periodically. I scanned the faces and found a suitable candidate.

"You," I said.

"Yes, sir!" he replied immediately. He was one of the fresher recruits. Not even a year since induction. I tossed the chihuahua at him. He caught her lightly against his chest, though she immediately started snapping at his face. He held her at arm's length.

"Keep her safe. Stay towards the rear," I instructed, using my most commanding tone of voice.

"Yes, sir!" he answered. There were no joke orders in my squad. They trusted my commands with their lives.

"Now let's finish this," I said, turning back towards our enemies, who seemed oddly more terrified than they had before. We did not lose that battle.

I took care of the dog after that battle. She had likely been one of the many pets that had been brought onto the battlefield by sightseeing nobles, who thought of war as something to spectate with as many luxuries as possible. This little one had run off, and I doubt they noticed. She was fierce and fearless, and once she settled, ceaselessly loyal. I came to find more joy in her companionship than I have found anywhere else in my life. Still, for all her qualities, I struggle to understand how she had become a massive direwolf in the consciousness of the people.

I thought of our first meeting now, nearly a decade later, at our final goodbye. On my estate, under a great oak, I put her to rest in a hole I had dug myself. I said a quiet prayer, then scooped a handful of dirt into the hole, over my companion. I stopped before my second handful. I reached towards my neck and pulled off my iron ring. I held it in my hand for a long, silent moment, then dropped it in to rest with her.

My first and last gift to you, I thought to myself as I filled the grave.