The Warrior Mage of Westeros

The rhythmic thud of hoofbeats echoed in the cold morning air, a sound both grounding and ominous as Lord Eddard Stark led his party through the deep woods of Wolfswood. The towering trees, ancient and gnarled, stretched their limbs into the pale sky, their twisted branches forming a canopy that filtered the sunlight into a soft, ethereal glow. The wind rustled through the leaves, the only sound besides the steady movement of the horses and the muffled voices of the men riding behind him.

Lord Stark, his face etched with the stern resolve that had become synonymous with his name, rode at the front, his cloak billowing behind him in the biting wind. His gaze was sharp, piercing the dense foliage ahead, scanning for any sign of movement, any trace of the deserter they were tracking. Beside him, Harry Potter sat tall on his horse, his posture relaxed yet alert, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, Ignis. The blade, forged in the fire of Fawkes, was a symbol of his power, but today it remained sheathed. His wand, hidden within a wrist holster, was the only clue to the arcane gifts he kept secret, even here, in the company of the Stark family.

Behind them, Jon Snow and Robb Stark rode in close formation, their expressions hard with determination. Jon's eyes, always watchful, flicked constantly between the trees and the path ahead, his instincts sharp, as always. Robb, still a young man but with the weight of his house's future resting on his shoulders, held himself with an air of command. His posture was upright, shoulders squared, as though the very weight of Winterfell rested on his frame. His wolf's fur cloak rippled as he moved, a silent reminder of his ties to the north.

Theon Greyjoy, riding slightly behind Robb, was as ever, a mixture of brooding and silent observation. His face, a mask of insouciance, hid whatever thoughts churned in his mind, but Harry knew better than to trust the quiet exterior. Theon was a product of his upbringing, and that kind of unpredictability was often just as dangerous as the most overt of threats.

Bran, riding along at the rear of the group, was much younger than the others, but even in his youth, he possessed a keen sense of awareness. His eyes darted around, taking in the forest with a kind of fascination, though there was a subtle unease in his gaze, as though he sensed something was wrong in the woods. Harry caught Bran's eyes once, offering a small nod, though the young boy's thoughts seemed elsewhere, lost in the mysteries of the forest and the world around him.

The grizzled Stark guardsman leading the party was a seasoned veteran, his face weathered by years of toil in the unforgiving elements of the north. His cloak, black and threadbare, snapped in the wind as he expertly guided his horse along the uneven ground. His sharp eyes scanned the woods as they approached the clearing where the deserter was being held. There was an air of anticipation, the tension palpable as they drew closer to their destination.

Lord Stark's voice, low and steady, broke the silence, carrying easily to those closest to him. "We ride to bring justice," he said, his tone unwavering. "There will be no mercy for men who abandon their posts in these times. The wall is thin enough without deserters."

Jon, riding just behind him, nodded solemnly, his eyes narrowing. "The deserter chose to run. He knew what he was doing," he said, his voice rough but firm. Robb's gaze remained focused ahead, though his jaw tightened as the weight of his father's words hung in the air.

Theon, however, spoke up with a mocking tone, his voice cutting through the quiet woods. "You all talk about justice like it matters," he said, glancing over at Jon and Robb. "Out here in the wilderness, justice is whatever you can enforce."

Robb shot him a glare, the edges of his mouth curling into a slight sneer. "Careful, Greyjoy. The wilderness has a way of dealing with men like you."

Theon didn't flinch, but Harry noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor. Theon always had a tendency to test boundaries, even when it was clear that his words carried weight far beyond his intentions.

Harry turned his attention back to Lord Stark, who had not reacted to the exchange. Instead, Eddard's eyes were fixed forward, the distant horizon in his sight. "We do what we must," he said quietly. "It is never easy, but it is necessary."

There was a certain finality to Lord Stark's words that carried a deep gravity. The responsibility he bore for his house, for his people, was immense, and Harry understood it in a way that most could not. It was a burden Eddard Stark bore with quiet strength, never flaunting it but never shirking it either.

As the procession continued, the trees gradually thinned, and the clearing came into view. A small group of guards was standing watch over a man bound to a tree, his head bowed in defeat. The deserter, pale and gaunt, shifted at the sound of approaching footsteps, his eyes flicking up in fear as he recognized who rode ahead.

Lord Stark dismounted first, his movements precise, as he approached the man. "You are here because you abandoned your brothers," he said, his voice carrying a weight of authority that left no room for argument. The man flinched but said nothing, his lips pressed tight as he glanced around, realizing the hopelessness of his situation.

Jon dismounted next, his eyes sharp, but it was Robb who spoke next, his tone hard. "Do you know what happens to those who leave their posts? You left the Wall, and now you face justice."

The man's gaze darted from one Stark to the other, then to Harry, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. Harry studied the deserter for a moment, his mind shifting between the layers of the world he knew and the world in which he found himself. He could feel the unease in the air, the tension of uncertainty that lingered over their actions.

"Enough talk," Theon interrupted, his voice cold. "Do what needs to be done."

Lord Stark turned to Theon, his gaze sharp, as though he had just noticed his presence. "Justice will be done in the way it must," Eddard replied, his voice laced with quiet resolve. "But no man will hurry it, not even you."

The clearing grew still again as each Stark took their place. Harry stood alongside them, watching the scene unfold, a man of two worlds, torn between the duty he had inherited and the one he had chosen.

—

The party's progress through the woods felt almost suffocating. The trees loomed like ancient sentinels, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky as if trying to ward off the unknown. Every step seemed to echo with the weight of impending fate, the air thick with tension. The wind barely stirred, and the silence that enveloped them felt unnatural, broken only by the steady rhythm of hooves on the forest floor and the faint rustling of leaves.

Lord Stark halted his horse at the edge of the clearing, his posture as still and solid as the rock beneath Winterfell's walls. The signs of the struggle were unmistakable—crushed foliage, branches twisted and torn, patches of dark blood congealing in the soil. The unmistakable scent of iron and death lingered in the cool air, mingling with the damp scent of earth that clung to the forest.

Harry's gaze swept across the scene, his eyes narrowing as his mind worked. His hand brushed the hilt of Ignis, a familiar reassurance, though his wand was hidden beneath his cloak, ever-present but unnoticed. The weight of it reminded him that he was no longer in the world he knew, and yet the brutality here felt all too familiar. The wildness of the North, the ruthless justice, the cold—all of it gnawed at him, pulling him deeper into the moment.

Jon and Robb dismounted without a word, their faces drawn, their bodies tense. They were both silent as they moved to inspect the area. Robb's jaw was clenched tight, his normally bright eyes clouded with a hard edge. Jon, ever the observer, surveyed the ground with quiet intensity, scanning the broken earth for any sign that might tell them more.

Theon, ever the outsider, looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he remained mounted. Bran, younger and visibly unsettled, kept his gaze locked on the forest's edge, his pale face reflecting the shadows of fear and uncertainty that haunted him.

The Stark guards spread out, their swords drawn but held low, prepared for anything that might emerge from the surrounding woods. They were a silent, imposing presence, as cold and grim as the land they protected.

Lord Stark's steps were deliberate as he approached the kneeling deserter. Will, bound at the wrists and hunched in the dirt, seemed a far cry from the man who had once worn the cloak of the Night's Watch. His skin was ashen, his face drawn in a twisted mixture of terror and defiance. His eyes flickered up, meeting Lord Stark's with a look of desperate resignation.

"What is your name?" Lord Stark's voice cut through the silence, a low, commanding rumble that made the air itself seem heavier.

"Will, my lord. My name is Will," the man answered, his voice shaky but laced with a tremor of pride.

Ned Stark's gaze hardened as he regarded the deserter, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. "Why did you leave your post? What did you see beyond the Wall that made you betray your vows?"

Will's voice faltered for a moment, a breath catching in his throat as he struggled to find words. "My lord, I saw them. The White Walkers. They came in the dead of night. Their eyes were like frozen stars, burning with death. And the cold—it was like nothing I've ever felt. It crawled under my skin, into my bones, and froze me where I stood. We couldn't fight them, couldn't run. They came through the snow, slaughtering us all."

Lord Stark's brow furrowed, his stoic expression betraying a flicker of doubt, but his eyes never wavered from Will's face. The rest of the party exchanged uneasy glances. The words were chilling, but there was something in them—something deeper—that gnawed at their suspicions.

Harry felt the weight of the moment and stepped forward, his mind already reaching for answers. He had learned to trust his instincts, and when in doubt, he trusted his magic. Using Legilimency, he sank into Will's mind, pushing past the surface thoughts, the terror, and the pain.

The memories that hit him were visceral. Snowflakes drifting slowly through the air, the sharp, unnatural cold cutting through everything, even the night itself. The White Walkers were like shadows made flesh, their eyes glowing with death, unfeeling and relentless. The screams of his brothers in arms rang in Harry's ears, drowning out everything else.

When Harry pulled away, he felt a lingering sense of unease. Will's story was not just fear; it was truth. The things he had seen, the horrors beyond the Wall, were not mere nightmares. They were real, and they were coming.

Lord Stark's gaze flickered to Harry, his eyes narrowing slightly as a silent understanding passed between them. They both knew, without words, that the threat Will spoke of was more than just a rumor—it was a warning.

Turning his attention back to the deserter, Lord Stark's voice softened, but his tone remained firm, like iron forged in a furnace. "Do you have any final requests?"

Will, his face pale but his voice steady, looked up at Ned Stark. "If it pleases you, my lord… Tell my parents I died bravely. That I died fighting the Wildlings."

Ned Stark's eyes softened for a moment, a flicker of compassion in them, but it vanished quickly. His duty was clear. He drew Ice, his ancestral blade, the large Valyrian steel sword gleaming coldly under the canopy of trees. The air seemed to grow even colder as the sword slid free from its scabbard, the metallic sound of it cutting through the silence like a death knell.

Jon, standing to the side, his face hard, turned to Bran, his voice low but firm. "Bran, keep your eyes open. Father will know if you look away."

Bran nodded, his face pale but determined. His hand clenched around the reins of his horse as he forced himself to witness what had to be done.

"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon," Lord Stark began, his voice unwavering and full of authority, "King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to death."

The words fell like a stone, final and irrevocable. With a practiced, emotionless motion, Lord Stark raised Ice high above his head. The blade caught the faint light filtering through the canopy, gleaming as it descended in a clean, merciless arc.

The sound of steel biting through flesh and bone rang out with a sickening finality. Blood spurted in a hot spray, painting the ground in a grotesque display of crimson. Will's head tumbled from his shoulders, rolling to the side with a dull thud as his lifeless body collapsed to the earth.

The clearing was still once more, save for the soft trickle of blood staining the dirt beneath them.

Jon's eyes were hard, but he turned away quickly. His jaw was set, and his hand instinctively reached for the pommel of his sword. Robb, his face dark with the weight of it, met Jon's gaze, and for a moment, they shared a silent understanding—justice had been served, but it had come at a steep price.

Bran stood frozen in place, his face pale and his stomach churning at the brutality of it. He had known it was necessary, but that did little to ease the bitterness that swirled in his chest.

As the group began to move away, Bran turned to Jon, his voice hesitant, still trembling with uncertainty. "Do you believe with Will said? About the White Walkers?"

Jon glanced at Harry, his expression unreadable. Harry met his gaze with a quiet, grim look, his silence a weighty confirmation.

With a quiet nod, Jon spoke, his voice carrying the gravity of the moment, "I believe him. There's more to this world than we know, Bran."

As they continued their ride through the forest, the silence was heavy. They all knew, in that moment, that the world beyond Winterfell's walls had changed, and they would never be the same again.

—

The forest, thick with shadows and the lingering scent of wet earth, seemed to draw closer with each passing moment. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches intertwined, blocking out much of the pale sunlight that tried to filter through. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of hooves and the occasional rustling of leaves as the party moved cautiously forward. Harry's eyes, sharp and alert, scanned their surroundings, always attuned to the faintest hint of danger.

Suddenly, he reined in his horse with a jerk, his hand raised to signal the others to halt. The group obeyed, their horses shifting nervously beneath them. Harry's eyes locked onto something in the underbrush, a subtle gleam that caught his attention.

"Over there," he said in a low, commanding voice.

The others followed his gaze, and what they saw sent a ripple of shock through them. A massive Direwolf, its blood dark and sticky against the pale undergrowth, lay twisted and broken on the ground. The creature was impaled by a stag's antler, the sharp point protruding from its side with grotesque precision. The blood pooled around it in a sickeningly large mass, staining the earth dark crimson.

Robb's hand instinctively moved towards his sword, his face a mix of awe and disgust. "What in the Seven Kingdoms is that?" he asked, his voice tight.

Harry approached the carcass slowly, his eyes scanning the scene with a mix of revulsion and curiosity. The Direwolf's once-mighty frame now lay defiled, the sight of its broken body turning his stomach. The antler had pierced deep into its ribs, and its massive, fur-covered body seemed almost dwarfed by the brutality of the kill.

"It's a freak!" Theon spoke.

"It's not a freak," Robb snapped, glaring at Theon, who had spoken with disdain. "It's a Direwolf, Theon." His voice, usually calm, had a sharpness to it now, a reflection of his growing frustration with his friend's flippancy.

Theon sneered, but there was a momentary flicker of recognition in his eyes. He had never seen such a creature up close, and the enormity of it seemed to sober him, if only for a moment. "Right, a Direwolf," he muttered, looking away.

Lord Stark, his expression clouded with concern, dismounted to examine the creature. "There are no Direwolves south of the Wall," he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. The implication was clear: this was an anomaly, something that shouldn't exist in the south. Something far darker was afoot.

Jon, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the surroundings, suddenly pointed toward a thicket of trees. "Father, look!" he called, his voice both urgent and filled with wonder.

Lord Stark followed Jon's gaze, and for a brief moment, the hardened lines of his face softened. There, nestled among the thicket, were five small Direwolf pups, their fur pale as moonlight and their eyes wide with fear and innocence. They were trembling, no older than a few days, and yet their presence seemed to offer a strange sense of hope amidst the death around them.

"There are Direwolf cubs," Jon said softly, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and sorrow. "Five of them."

The sight of the pups seemed to pull at something deep within Lord Stark. His gaze lingered on them, a fleeting softness in his eyes before the hard edge of reality took over once more. He was the Warden of the North, and the responsibilities of that role weighed heavily on him.

Theon, ever impatient, scowled at the pups. "Hand them over," he said, his tone hard and commanding, his hand drifting toward the dagger at his side. His eyes were cold, the lives of these creatures inconsequential to him.

But before Jon could respond, Bran's voice rang out, firm and clear, cutting through the tension. "Stop!" he ordered, his young voice surprisingly strong for one so young.

Theon turned sharply, his face a mask of scorn. "I take orders from Lord Stark, not from a bastard," he sneered, the words laced with venom.

Jon's expression darkened, his jaw tightening at the insult. His eyes met Theon's, unflinching and unwavering. Harry, sensing the rising tension, shot Theon a hard look, a silent warning in his gaze. The air between them crackled with unspoken challenge, and for a moment, Theon seemed to hesitate. The weight of Harry's gaze, cold and unyielding, caused him to back off, a reluctant truce forming in the silent exchange.

Bran, his eyes filled with determination, turned to Lord Stark. "Father," he pleaded, his voice soft but insistent. "We can't leave them here. They'll die without their mother."

Lord Stark's face softened, but only for a moment. "Direwolves are not pets, Bran," he replied, his tone firm, yet there was a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. "They belong in the wild, not in Winterfell."

Bran's face fell, and for a moment, the weight of his disappointment seemed to hang in the air. But Jon, ever the voice of reason, spoke up again, his voice steady with resolve. "Father," he began, his eyes searching Lord Stark's face, "there are five pups. Three male, two female."

Lord Stark looked at Jon with a raised brow. "And what of it?"

Jon met his father's gaze without hesitation. "You have five trueborn children," he said, his voice unwavering. "Three sons and two daughters. The Direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."

For a long moment, Lord Stark was silent, the weight of Jon's words sinking in. He glanced at each of his children, and then back at the pups. His gaze softened, but the decision still weighed heavily on him.

Bran's eyes shone with pride and hope, while Robb and Sansa exchanged a quiet look of understanding. Arya, her usual mischievousness tempered by the seriousness of the moment, stood with a quiet resolve.

Lord Stark's eyes finally moved back to Jon. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" he asked quietly, his voice soft but pointed.

Jon's response was simple, yet profound. "The Direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," he said. "I am no Stark, Father."

An unspoken understanding passed between them, and for a brief moment, Jon's humility and his willingness to put his family's needs before his own spoke volumes. His loyalty was unwavering, even if it meant sacrificing his own desires.

Lord Stark's gaze softened just a touch, but his voice was firm when he addressed his children. "You'll train them yourselves, you'll feed them yourselves, and if they die, you'll bury them yourselves."

The responsibility was now theirs, and each Stark child felt the weight of that command settle upon their shoulders. They understood the seriousness of what was being asked of them.

Bran's gaze never left the pups as he nodded resolutely, "We'll protect them" he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

—

The forest was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the air cool as it wrapped around them like a cloak. They had already found five Direwolf pups, each one a symbol of their House's strength. But as they readied to leave, Robb's sharp gaze drifted over the ground, scanning for anything else that might have been missed. His eyes narrowed, and his voice carried the concern of a leader, yet with the tenderness of an older brother.

"There," he said quietly, pointing towards a nearby stream. His hand trembled slightly from the emotion behind it.

The others followed his gaze, and there, near the water's edge, was a small, albino cub. It lay unmoving on the rocks, its body weak and frail. The fur that should have been a majestic gray was instead ghostly white, and its eyes, red as a raven's wing, seemed lifeless.

Theon's face twisted with uncertainty as he took in the sight. He had always been a pragmatic man, but even he couldn't ignore the helplessness of the little creature. His voice was rough when he spoke, edged with genuine concern.

"Looks like he's in bad shape," he muttered, his eyes following the pup's barely perceptible movements.

Bran, ever the sensitive one, couldn't hide the tightness in his chest. His heart ached for the pup's plight, an instinctive sense of responsibility overcoming him. He moved closer to the stream, kneeling in front of the frail creature. His voice was quiet but firm as he spoke, as though speaking to the cub itself.

"We have to help him," Bran insisted, his face creased with worry.

Ned Stark, his expression grim yet calm, watched his sons, his steady presence grounding them all. His voice, when it came, was as commanding as it was empathetic.

"Not all things can be saved," he said quietly, but with a weight of sadness. "But we'll do what we can."

Robb, his brow furrowing as he considered the little cub, didn't hesitate. He scooped the pup carefully into his arms, supporting it with gentle hands. His eyes met Jon's as he approached, the bond between them unspoken but clear in the trust that passed between the brothers.

"Here, Jon," Robb said, his voice softer than before, yet still full of authority. "It's yours."

Jon hesitated for only a moment before taking the fragile creature into his arms. The warmth of the pup's small body seemed to give him strength. He looked down at the albino cub, his brow furrowing with both concern and determination. It was a heavy responsibility, yet one Jon didn't shy away from. This was more than just an animal—it was a promise, a legacy, and a part of his family's future.

Theon, never one to miss an opportunity for a jab, smirked and crossed his arms, his voice sharp.

"Looks like you got the runt of the litter, Jon," he teased, the words meant to provoke, but a hint of bitterness lingered behind them. Theon had always fought for his place, for recognition, and Jon's quiet strength had often made him feel insignificant in comparison.

Jon didn't rise to the bait, his focus solely on the pup. But Harry, always quick to defend, stepped forward without a word. His hand came up with a swift, practiced motion, slapping the back of Theon's head with a resounding crack.

"Keep it up, Greyjoy," Harry said, his voice low but dangerous. "You're on thin ice."

Theon winced, a brief flash of anger sparking in his eyes. But the underlying fear of Harry's quiet fury made him hesitate. He muttered something under his breath, retreating a step.

Ignoring Theon's muttering, Harry turned to Jon with a look of understanding, his expression softening. His eyes settled on the albino pup in Jon's arms.

"What will you name him, Jon?" Harry asked, his tone now warm, almost affectionate.

Jon met Harry's gaze, his eyes full of resolve. He turned his attention back to the pup, his hands gently stroking its fur as it stirred faintly, as though it had heard him. The little creature's red eyes flickered up at him, silently asking for a name, a claim, a future.

"Ghost," Jon said firmly, the name coming easily to him. "I'll name him Ghost."

There was a reverence in Jon's voice, as though the name had been waiting for him to say it all along. The others, all standing close, felt the significance of the moment. The name seemed to echo in the stillness of the woods, carrying the weight of something ancient, something powerful. The pup's pale fur and spectral appearance made it the perfect fit, and Jon's connection to it was undeniable.

Robb, who had been watching the exchange with a somber pride, gave a slight nod. His gaze softened as he looked at Jon. "It suits him," Robb said quietly.

Bran, still kneeling by the stream, smiled faintly, his heart swelling with pride for his brother. "Ghost," he echoed softly, the name falling from his lips like a promise.

Ned Stark, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, nodded approvingly. His voice, when it came, was a reminder of the weight of their family's history.

"Now, we see this through," Ned said, his tone resolute. "The pups are under our care now. It's our duty to see them grow strong. And we will."

The weight of his words settled over them like a cloak, binding them together in their shared responsibility. Each Stark child knew the significance of the animals they now carried with them—symbols of their House, but also of their duty to protect what was their own.

Jon, still holding Ghost close, glanced at his father. A deep understanding passed between them, one that required no words. He would carry this responsibility with honor, just as his father had before him.

And so, in the quiet of the forest, the Stark family was bonded not just by blood, but by the oath they had taken to care for these creatures, these symbols of their House's legacy. And as they mounted their horses once more and began the ride back to Winterfell, Jon Snow held his new companion close, a silent promise forming in his heart that no matter what the future held, he would always protect Ghost, just as he would protect his family.

—

As they crossed the drawbridge and entered the heart of Winterfell, the familiar sight of the stone walls and cold winds surrounding them felt both comforting and weighty. The great courtyard was as bustling as ever, with guards shifting around and servants moving about their duties, but everything seemed to slow when they approached the central courtyard. The six direwolf pups, nestled in their arms or nestled close on horseback, made quite the spectacle, each one a living symbol of House Stark.

Ned Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, rode at the head of the group, his presence commanding respect. The wind tugged at his cloak, and his gaze was steady, unflinching. Robb Stark, his eldest son, followed closely behind, his expression stern, though his eyes occasionally flickered toward Jon Snow, walking beside him on foot. Bran, his younger brother, rode beside Robb, his curious gaze filled with both wonder and excitement at the pups they carried.

Theon Greyjoy, still uneasy with the weight of the moment, kept pace but remained slightly apart from the Starks, his gaze flicking between Jon and the direwolves with a mixture of disdain and bewilderment.

As they reached the center of the courtyard, the cold wind biting at their faces, the tall figure of Lady Catelyn Stark stood waiting at the foot of the stairs leading up to the hall. Her red hair, tied neatly back, seemed almost fiery against the grey sky. The moment her sharp eyes settled on the six pups, a flicker of tension crossed her face. She held her ground, but her mouth thinned with displeasure.

"Lord Stark," Catelyn began, her voice low but clear, "What is this? Wild creatures? These beasts do not belong here."

Ned, his face set with that familiar calm determination, did not immediately respond. He dismounted and strode forward with purpose, giving Catelyn a steady look as if to prepare her for what was to come.

"Catelyn," he spoke, his voice rich with the weight of authority and tradition. "These are not just any wolves. These pups are a gift, from the Old Gods."

Catelyn's eyes narrowed with disbelief. "A gift? From the Old Gods?" She gestured sharply to the pups. "Wild wolves, running loose in my home? You know nothing of what these creatures can become. They are dangerous, Ned."

The pups, one by one, looked up at her with curious eyes, but there was no malice in them. Ghost, in Jon's arms, looked particularly serene, his pale, near-transparent fur and red eyes striking in the dim light. But to Catelyn, these creatures were nothing more than a threat, a symbol of the untamable forces she feared might one day overwhelm her home.

Jon, standing by his father's side, felt the weight of Catelyn's gaze on him, sharper than any blade. Her eyes flickered to him—always to him—and Jon, despite his years in Winterfell, still knew that look. She saw him as a reminder of her husband's infidelity, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never erase that judgment. Her lips twisted into a thin line as she turned toward him, her voice cutting through the air.

"Do you think it wise, boy, to bring such beasts into my household?" Her voice carried that cold edge she always used with him, never once calling him by his name. She had never accepted him, and that had never changed. "You know what these creatures are capable of. What will you do when they turn on my children?"

Jon bristled at the word 'boy,' but he remained silent, his jaw tightening. He glanced at the small albino wolf in his arms, its red eyes meeting his. The bond between them, silent but clear, was stronger than anything Catelyn could understand. He wanted to tell her that these wolves weren't a threat, that they were meant to protect the children, to protect Winterfell, but he knew it would do no good.

Ned moved forward, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder, his large frame offering him silent support. "These pups are meant for all of my children, Catelyn," he said, his voice steady as iron. "The Old Gods have chosen them, just as they chose our House to carry the direwolf as our sigil. These creatures are part of the Stark bloodline now."

Catelyn's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. "What of the boy?" she spat, her gaze flicking to Jon once again. "Will he be the one to tame them? To raise them, like some… some wild thing?"

Jon felt his stomach twist, but he said nothing. He didn't need to. His father's words were enough.

Ned's voice softened, but there was a quiet power in it. "Jon will care for his own pup, as will Robb, Bran, and the rest. The wolves are a sign, Catelyn, just as the raven is for the Night's Watch. This is their birthright, a responsibility. They are meant to walk alongside them."

Robb, ever the steady and protective son, stepped forward now, his voice carrying the same calm authority that his father had. "Mother," Robb said, his tone even and respectful. "We will care for them. They will not harm the children. We will train them, just as we would any other companion."

Bran, his eyes bright with a child's innocent enthusiasm, stepped up beside Robb. "They'll help protect us, Mother," he said with a smile that lit his face, "Just like the stories."

Catelyn turned her gaze to Bran, her expression softening slightly, though her words remained hard. "This is not a story, Bran. These are real creatures, not tales from the hearthside. You must not let them grow wild."

But Bran, who had always been more attuned to the Old Gods and the mysterious ways of the North, didn't see wildness in the pups. He saw purpose. "They will grow with us," Bran insisted. "They are meant to be part of the family, just like we are."

Ned placed a firm hand on Bran's shoulder, a silent show of approval. "Let them be. The pups are part of Winterfell now."

Catelyn looked from one to the other, and for a long moment, the silence between them was thick with unspoken words. But Catelyn knew she would not change her husband's mind. He had made his decision, and the pups would stay.

Still, she couldn't help herself. Her gaze shifted to Jon again, and for a fleeting moment, the emotion in her eyes was almost pitying, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. She turned away, her voice tight with control. "Let it be then. But remember this—do not let them get too close to my children."

Jon felt a spark of defiance, but he swallowed it down. He nodded in silent agreement, knowing that no matter what, these pups would not only be part of his life but a part of the Stark legacy. Ghost's red eyes met his once more, a quiet understanding passing between them.

As they moved toward the great hall, the weight of Catelyn's displeasure lingered, but it was nothing compared to the bond Jon now shared with his wolf. And in the cold winds of Winterfell, a new chapter of Stark history began.

---

Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!

I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!

If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!

Click the link below to join the conversation:

https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd

Can't wait to see you there!

If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:

https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007

Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s

Thank you for your support!