Disclaimer: I do not own the Books of the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' saga nor the characters displayed in this story.
The Dying Wolf
The wolf was paddling through the murky waters, paws searching for solid ground. In its eyes, each glinting like a freshly minted coin of gold, only determination.
When it finally reached the shore, dark water ran in rivulets from its fur. The light made the wolfs gaunt shape visible, each rib and muscle in stark contrast.
Then it shook itself, flinging water from its coat, each droplet glowing red like blood. The drying fur was standing away in spikes, hiding its famished shape.
The wolf was hunting, moving in this world of shadows, stone and water. But its prey were neither deer nor hare but men. And it killed them by the dozen, old and young, big and small. And the wolf ripped them apart and feasted on their flesh. But instead of gaining weight it grew thinner with every kill. The fur started falling out and at last its white bones were visible.
And when there was finally only the skeleton remaining, still hunting and feeding on men, it looked at him. In its eyes, each grey like the coming storm, only death.
Bran woke for the first time in weeks, screaming. In his eyes, blue as the cloudless sky, only fear.