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Jon Snow
Behind him, Jon could hear the others: Dacey Mormont on her own mount, Robb keeping pace, and four of Winterfell's guards whose names Jon had made sure to learn before they left. Jory Cassel led them, one of their best soldiers. The others—Harwin, Heward, and a young guard called Wyl—rode beside them, looking happy, and looking at the sights.
Jon didn't need to look back to know they were watching him. Wondering. They'd all heard some version of why they were out here—Lord Jon had a dream, wants to check the forest—and Jon could practically feel their skepticism.
The sound of hoofbeats quickened behind him, and then Dacey was pulling her horse alongside his. She'd tied her dark hair back in a practical braid, and her grey eyes looked at Jon with a glint in her eyes, a glint that hadn't been there before.
"So," she said, sounding amused. "Let me make sure I'm hearing this correctly."
Jon glanced at her. "Go ahead."
"You had a dream." She said with a smile. "A dream about a dead woman in the woods. And now we're riding through the Wolfswood looking for her."
"That's about right."
"Jon." For a moment, she sounded like she was talking to a child, but then she coughed. "Even if this woman is real, she could be anywhere in the North. The North is half of Westeros."
"I'm well aware of that," Jon replied with a slightly cutting voice. "The place I saw was familiar," Jon said, looking at the trees, the land, and the hills. He was looking for landmarks from the dream. "I've been through this part of the forest before. With Derek, during my training, while the Greyjoy rebellion was happening."
"Ah yes, the famous training." Robb's voice came from behind them. He urged his horse forward until they were riding three abreast, the trail just wide enough to allow it. "Tell Lady Dacey about your time at Breakstone Hill, Jon. The parts where Great Grandfather tried to kill you."
"He didn't try to kill me," Jon said. "He was just... testing my survival instincts."
"By dropping you in the wilderness with nothing but your clothes and a knife," Robb supplied helpfully. "That sounds like attempted murder to me."
Dacey's eyebrows rose. "Is that true?"
Jon felt his face warm slightly despite the cold. "More or less. I was six. Lord Anden said I needed to prove I could survive like a Flint. So one morning, Derek and a few guards took me deep into the mountains, gave me a hunting knife, and told me to find my way back to Breakstone Hill."
"And make sure nothing ate you," Robb added with a grin. "Don't forget that part."
"Right. That too."
Behind them, Jon heard Harwin chuckle, and Jory called out, "How long did it take you, my lord?"
"Three days," Jon admitted. "Three very long days."
"Tell them the details," Robb encouraged. He was enjoying this entirely too much.
Jon sighed but still smiled at his brother. "The first night was the worst. I knew the general direction—south and east—but the mountains all look the same when you're six and scared and the sun's going down. I ended up sleeping in a tree, wedged between branches, terrified I was going to fall or that something was going to climb up after me."
"Did anything try?" Dacey asked. She'd shifted in her saddle, clearly interested now.
"A shadowcat passed underneath around midnight. I could hear it moving in the dark, smell it. I didn't sleep at all that night—just held onto that tree branch until my arms went numb and prayed to every god I could think of that it wouldn't look up."
The forest around them seemed to press closer as Jon spoke.
"The second day I found a stream and followed it downhill. Managed to catch a few fish with my hands—small ones, barely worth eating, but I was so hungry by then I ate them raw." Jon could still remember the taste. "That night I made a shelter from branches and pine needles, and made a fire, if anyone tried to approach. I would use the fire to burn them."
"What did you eat besides fish?" Wyl asked. He was the youngest of the guards, maybe sixteen, and he was listening to Jon as if Jon were his god.
"Bitter roots that Derek had taught me to identify. Some early berries that tasted like they'd been left out in the sun too long. I found a bird's nest with eggs on the third morning—that was the best meal I had." Jon paused, remembering Derek's face when he'd finally found him. "Derek tracked me down late on the third day. I was maybe five miles from Breakstone Hill by then, following a ridge I recognized. He said I looked like I'd been dragged through a thornbush backwards, but he also said he was impressed I'd survived."
"And your great-grandfather?" Dacey prompted.
"Looked at me, nodded once, and said 'Adequate.' Then he made me do it again two months later."
That drew a round of laughter from the guards, and even Jory was laughing.
"We have something similar on Bear Island. When you turn twelve, you go on your first bear hunt." Dacey added after the laughter ended.
Jon turned to look at her fully. "Twelve?"
"Twelve." She nodded. "It's a ceremony. They gather groups of children—usually four or five—and send them into the forest with bows, arrows, and one adult watching from a distance. Your task is to track a bear, find where it sleeps, and kill it. Doesn't matter if it's a small bear or a big one. What matters is that you work together, that you succeed, and that afterward you skin it yourselves."
"And the skin?" Jon asked, though he thought he already knew the answer. He'd noticed the patch of fur on her cloak—dark brown, thick enough to turn a blade.
"Gets worked into your clothing. A badge that you've proven yourself." Her hand drifted unconsciously to touch the fur at her shoulder. "Everyone on Bear Island who's completed the hunt wears their bear."
Jon thought immediately of Alysane. He'd seen her at breakfast this morning, still nursing her hangover from the feast, and he couldn't remember seeing any bear fur on her clothing.
Jon didn't mention it. Some wounds were too personal to poke at, especially in front of near-strangers.
"Was yours big or small?" Robb asked, and Jon could hear genuine curiosity in his voice.
"Big. A male, maybe eight feet tall when he stood on his hind legs. We tracked him for two days before we found his den. When we tried to take him while he slept, he woke up angry."
"What happened?" Wyl asked, leaning forward in his saddle.
"I had the bow and the best shot. Put an arrow in his eye as he charged. The others used their arrows after—we all had to contribute to the kill for it to count. He bled to death from a dozen wounds, roaring the whole time." She said with a big smile, a smile of pride in herself. "We skinned him together. Took us the rest of the day. By the time we were done, we were all covered in blood and too exhausted to walk straight."
"Seven hells," Harwin muttered.
"The Bear Islanders don't do things by half," Jory observed, respect clear in his voice.
The conversation continued as they rode. Jory told them about his first ranging beyond the White Knife, when he'd been barely older than Wyl and thought he knew everything. Harwin described hunting elk in the mountains west of Winterfell, and how one had nearly gored him when he got cocky. Even quiet Heward offered a story about getting lost in a snowstorm and finding his way back by following a raven.
Jon had gone quiet.
He was looking for the place from his dream. The clearing with the corpse. The trees that had seemed to stretch up forever.
And then Dacey suddenly raised her hand, and they all stopped.
"Wait," she said, already swinging down from her horse. She dropped to one knee in the snow, her eyes fixed on something Jon couldn't quite see from his saddle.
Jon dismounted quickly, his boots sinking into snow that came up past his ankles here where the trees broke the wind less effectively. Robb and the guards followed suit, and they all moved toward where Dacey knelt.
"Tracks," she said, pointing. "Wolf tracks. From the size of their paws, it must have been a mother with cubs."
Jon crouched beside her, and his heart started hammering against his ribs. The prints were clear in the snow, clawed paws bigger than his hand spread wide. He could see where they'd walked, where they'd paused, where one had circled back to check something before continuing.
"How old?" Jory asked, his hand resting on his sword hilt now.
"Fresh," Dacey replied. "Within the last day, maybe less. The edges are still sharp—if they were older, the snow would've started filling them in, or the sun would've melted them down."
She looked up at Jon, and he saw the question in her eyes. Is this it? Is this your dream?
Jon looked around. To their right, the forest opened up slightly, and Jon could see a clearing maybe a hundred yards ahead through the trees.
"There," Jon said, pointing toward the clearing. "We need to go there."
"Are you sure?" Robb asked quietly. He'd moved up beside Jon.
"I'm sure."
Dacey stood, brushing snow from her knees. "These tracks lead that way anyway. The pack was heading toward that clearing."
They left the horses tied to trees and moved forward on foot. The snow got deeper here, reaching mid-calf, and the trees pressed closer together. The tracks were easier to follow now, a clear path beaten into the snow by paws and hunger.
Jon's breath came faster as they approached the clearing. This was the place. He knew it like he knew his own face in a mirror.
They stepped through the last line of trees, and there she was.
The woman from Jon's dream, lying in the snow exactly as he'd seen her. Her dark hair spread around her head like a crown of shadows, her face turned up toward the grey sky. Her skin had gone waxy and pale, for the tears in her clothing where scavengers had fed, for the frozen blood that stained the snow around her in patterns like dark flowers.
Behind Jon, he heard someone—maybe Wyl—make a sound of horror and disgust, and then he heard him vomit.
Jon stood there, frozen, while Wyl retched behind him. All he could see was her—the woman from his dream, lying exactly where he'd seen her. Exactly how he'd seen her.
The dream was real. Which meant Jon had really been the wolf. Which meant...
"Gods," Harwin muttered, making a sign against evil. His weathered face had gone pale. "What could've done this?"
"Wolves killed her," Wyl managed between heaves, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. "Had to be wolves."
Jon shook his head. "No. In my dream, she was already dead. The wolves were just... feeding."
Robb turned to look at Jon, and Jon saw the look of disbelief in his eyes. "Jon, how could you possibly know that from a dream?"
Jon wasn't ready to answer it. There was only one possible answer: he was a skinchanger, but that was not something he wanted to bring up right now.
"Maybe she froze to death," Robb suggested. "Got lost in the forest, couldn't find her way back. It happens."
But Jon saw that Dacey didn't seem to agree with Robb. She knelt beside the body, and Jon watched her eyes move over the woman's form.
"Something's wrong here," Dacey said after a moment. "Look at the tracks. The wolves started feeding, but they didn't finish. They just... left."
Jory moved closer, his hand still resting on his sword hilt. "Maybe they got spooked. Heard us coming."
"We're too far away for that, and too recent." Dacey's fingers traced the air above the frozen blood without quite touching it. "These tracks are from yesterday, maybe the day before. The wolves fed, then abandoned the body. That's unusual behavior. Mama wolves don't leave food behind when they have cubs to feed. Not unless something scared them off."
"What could scare off a wolf pack?" Heward asked quietly.
"Another predator. A bear, maybe." Dacey leaned closer, examining the woman's clothing. "Or people."
She carefully pulled back the torn fabric of the woman's skirt, moving with the kind of respect you'd show to someone sleeping rather than someone dead. Jon saw her eyes narrow, her jaw tighten.
"Here," Dacey said, pointing. "On her leg. See this wound?"
Jon stepped closer; now he could see what Dacey was pointing at. The wound was visible now that Dacey had exposed it—a puncture in the woman's calf, the edges frozen and dark with dried blood.
"Arrow wound," Dacey said flatly. She traced the injury with her gloved finger, following the angle of entry. "Shot from behind and above. She was running, and someone put an arrow in her leg to bring her down."
The clearing felt colder suddenly.
"Someone killed her," Dacey continued, her voice hard as iron now. "Shot her, probably chased her through the forest until she collapsed from blood loss or exhaustion or cold. Then left her here to die."
"Bastard," Jory spat.
The guards all turned to look at Jon then, waiting. Jon had seen that look before in guards of House Stark, the look they gave Lord Stark; they were waiting for him to tell them what to do next.
But this was not his land, this was not Breakstone Hill, and he was not Lord Stark, nor his heir.
Jon turned his head slightly, catching Robb's eye. His brother looked back at him, and Jon saw understanding dawn in Robb's expression. Robb knew what Jon was doing.
Robb straightened, his shoulders squaring in a way that reminded Jon suddenly of Father. "We should bring her back," Robb said, trying to sound like their father, too bad he was 13, not 33 years old. "We take her to Winterfell, find out who she was. Someone in Winter Town will know her. And then..." Robb's jaw clenched. "Then we find whoever did this and hang them for murder."
"How do we transport her, my lord?" Harwin asked.
"Make a sled," Jory suggested, already scanning the nearby trees. "We can use branches, lash them together with rope from the horses. It won't be comfortable, but it'll keep her from dragging through the snow."
The guards moved to obey, grateful for something practical to do, something that didn't involve staring at the corpse and imagining how she'd died. Jon watched them work, selecting branches, testing their strength, weaving rope through the wood to create a makeshift carrier.
They were careful with her when they moved her onto the sled. Jory covered her with his own cloak before they secured the ropes, hiding her ruined face and torn clothing from view.
"Let's go," Robb said quietly. "Before it gets dark."
They walked back to where they'd left the horses, the sled dragging behind them through the snow with a soft whisper of wood on ice. No one spoke.
Jon found himself walking beside Dacey as they led the horses back toward Winterfell. Robb had taken the lead, navigating by the tracks they'd left on their way in, and the guards flanked the sled like an honor guard.
They walked in silence for several minutes, just the sound of their boots in the snow and the horses' steady breathing.
Then Jon asked quietly, "Big bear or small bear?"
Dacey glanced at him, clearly puzzled by the sudden change of subject. Then understanding crossed her face.
"Big," she said. "Very big. Male, probably twelve or thirteen years old. He'd killed two men the year before, so they were going to hunt him anyway. Mother decided it would be good training for us."
"You said you shot him in the eye."
"While he was charging, yes." She said smiling. "The arrow didn't kill him, though. Just enraged him. The others had to use all their arrows to bring him down. Twelve arrows total before he finally fell."
Her voice grew harder. "Whoever killed that woman wanted her to suffer. The arrow to the leg wasn't meant to kill—it was meant to cripple. To make her slow enough to catch. To prolong the hunt."
"Maybe it was wildlings," Jon suggested. "They come south of the Wall sometimes. Raid farms, kill travelers."
Dacey considered this, then shook her head. "Wildlings reaching this far south, this close to Winterfell? It's rare. Very rare. And I've dealt with wildlings on Bear Island. They're brutal, yes, but they kill quickly. For food, for survival, sometimes for revenge. They're not the type to hunt people for sport, to make them suffer for pleasure."
"Wildlings are wildlings," Jon said, his voice cold like ice, making Dacey look a bit frightened for a moment. "Animals hunt to protect themselves and to feed themselves. Wildlings are worse than animals, they kill without cause,"
Before Dacey could respond, before she could ask questions Jon didn't want to answer, a sound made them all freeze.
A whimper. Soft and high-pitched and very close.
Jon turned slowly, his hand dropping to the kukri at his belt. Robb noticed Jon had stopped. "What is it?" he asked, and the others stopped their hoses too.
Then Jon saw it.
A direwolf pup stepped out from behind a snow-covered log, maybe twenty feet away. It was tiny—couldn't have been more than a few weeks old—with fur as white as fresh snow and eyes the color of blood. It looked at them with those red eyes, tilted its head, and made another sound. Not threatening. Almost... questioning.
"Seven hells," Robb breathed. "That's not a wolf. That's a direwolf."
"We weren't tracking wolves," Harwin said. "Where did it come from?"
"Probably from the pack," Dacey said, though she sounded uncertain. "The mother we were following. But I have never seen a direwolf south of the Wall, how did it get here?"
The pup took a tentative step forward, its oversized paws sinking into the snow. It looked directly at Jon, and Jon felt the feeling of familiarity; it felt like he was looking at an old friend.
Without thinking, Jon dismounted from his horse and started walking toward it.
"Jon, what are you doing?" Robb called. "That's a wild animal!"
But Jon kept moving, slowly, carefully, like he was approaching a frightened child rather than a predator's offspring. The pup watched him come, those red eyes never leaving his face. When Jon was close enough to touch, he knelt in the snow.
The direwolf pup sniffed Jon's outstretched hand, then pushed its nose against his palm with a soft whine.
"What are you going to do with it?" Dacey asked from behind him.
Jon looked down at the pup—at its white fur and blood-red eyes, at the way it leaned into his touch like it had been waiting for him all along. He thought about the dream, about being the wolf, about the mother and her cubs in the endless forest.
This one had been left behind. Abandoned or lost, separated from its pack. Alone in a world that would kill it before it had a chance to grow strong.
Jon knew exactly how that felt.
"Father might not be happy," Jon said, gathering the pup into his arms. It was surprisingly light, all fur and bones and not much else. "But this one's coming with me."
.
.
Note: The other Direwolves will also be part of the Story.
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