Ghost was getting old.

He knew that was the bloody truth; When he rose with the sun, it was with pain in his joints and an ache in his spine. He would be stiff-legged 'til mid-day, when the warm sky above would ease his ailments, when the wind in his fur would breathe life back into his old bones.

But there was no getting around it.

He was old. He'd outpaced a natural wolf's years by decades, at least, but it was hard to measure such things. His only gauge was the people around him, the dragons that flew and circled Silver Dany's Keep. This island had been their refuge, when the pressures of ruling were too great, and though he'd never admit it, he preferred these craggy shores.

The cold was too great for him, now.

He needed summer sun, and the shrieks of Sweet Aly's children, or middle son Torrhen, the little wolf boy, and his passel of pups, or even last-born Benjen, who'd already fathered two children of his own.

He could do, most days, without the screeching dragons above. Not Drogon, or Rhaegal, of course. They were his pack, his blood, his dearest companions. They were apart of him. But those blasted eggs, those *special* eggs, that Drogon had hoarded to herself for five years had hatched an age ago, and brought upon them all several *more* dragons. Three more, to be precise, one each for Jon and Silver Dany's babes.

The gold was Sweet Aly's, a beast named Dreamfyre, though for Ghost the little shit had been more of a nightmare, when the scaly little treasure had hatched. Now, he bore her presence, but sometimes he resented the graceful, lovely creature.

She always ended up taking Sweet Aly away, after all.

The blue and silver was Torrhen's, and the dark-haired boy with the Northern looks but the fiery temper had named his dragon Silver Spear. He liked Jon's second pup, the one who reminded Ghost most of what Jon had been like, in his younger days, his temper quick, his smiles slow but lasting.

But like his nest mate, Silver Spear caused an ache in Ghost's heart, as well. He was mindful of the wolves that roamed, but he, as well, ended up ferrying off one of Jon's pups, to parts unknown, and it was hard to bear the sadness when that happened.

Benjen's beast was a red terror named Smoke. A simple name, for a vicious animal, one who was as touchy and prickly as his master was kind and easy.

They were family, yes, but in his heart of hearts, Ghost sometimes missed those simpler days, when Jon's three little whelps were small, and would bury their sticky hands in his fur (those who didn't have wolves themselves, yet).

All three pups had wolves, by the time they were grown, and dragons as well, but the same could not be said of their children. Some had one or the other, some none at all, but they were, by in large, a happy group, and Ghost supposed that was enough. It was more than most had, at least. They had each other, just as Jon had once told him. They were a pack, and they would care for each other, long after man and wolf were gone.

Sweet Aly was Queen, now, and Ghost did not have to go to the city anymore. Bear was gone, with her mistress, but that was alright, too.

Jon had told him, many times, that pups didn't remain. They weren't meant to, they had to grow, lead their own lives, determine their own fates.

Children didn't stay children forever.

That was true, Ghost knew. And at least he knew, in those moments by Jon's side, when Jon would sip his ale, his hair long gone a snowy white that near matched his Queen's, that they still had each other.

But not for much longer.

Ghost knew this was true, as well. He couldn't be certain how, but he knew, and so did Rhaegal.

On Dragonstone, these days, it was the five of them, just like old times. Drogon had laid no more eggs, after that first clutch, but she seemed content enough, though both she and Rhaegal had grown so massive that sometimes Ghost feared the sun had gone away completely, when they flew overhead.

Rhaegal was not so content, because he could feel what was coming.

Death was creeping close, for their brother. And Ghost began to wonder, if this time, it would claim him as well.

He'd only brought it up to the green dragon, his brother hewn from scale and flame, only once, and the creature had begun to weep so violently that Ghost thought Drogon might finally roast him alive, for upsetting her mate so.

But Rhaegal knew, he was sure of it.

Ghost had started to think that Silver Dany did, too, and her sorrow, the wolf thought, would be a far greater and more terrible thing than her dragons could ever be capable of. It might even match his own.

Jon grew thinner, and lost his appetite, and eventually, he did not leave his rooms at all.

Silver Dany did not leave his side, no matter how her children, or grandchildren, urged her to visit with them, or walk the grounds, or fly on her great black dragon.

She would not be moved by their pleas.

"He needs me," she said, and held tighter to Jon's hand.

Ghost understood, what the others could not comprehend.

He stayed by Silver Dany, letting her rest against him when she grew weary. She would read stories aloud to her mate, or simply smooth her hand along his hair, tucked into his side in their large bed.

They would whisper to each other of what had been, and what still might be, and every so often she would manage to coax a laugh from Jon. But those grew fewer and farther between, as well.

Sometimes she cried, quietly, trying not to wake him, but Jon still knew. He could hold her as best he could, grousing that reaching the age of seventy years made every bloody bone in his body hurt, but he would wrap his arms around her and let her cry against his chest.

Sometimes, sadness would take hold of Ghost, hard, and he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only lay and watch the rise and fall of Jon's chest in the night. He was afraid to sleep, on those nights, certain that if he did, then Jon would be gone, when he next opened his eyes.

For months they existed like this, in the same dimly lit chamber, in the grip of misery, until, finally, the end came.

"Ghost," came a whisper in the dark. The sky had begun to silver, the sun not yet risen, but these were things the wolf only barely noticed. It was the hoarse whisper of a man dying, the slowing heartbeat that seemed to pound in his ears, as he crept towards the bed.

He nudged at Silver Dany with his nose, hoping to wake her, seeing her lashes flutter before he focused on the brother of his blood, his heart, his soul. And though he could not cry as the humans did, he felt a mournful howl build in his throat, only kept back by the slight motion of Jon's gnarled hand, bidding him closer.

"Good boy," his brother breathed out. "Come, lad, closer still." Ghost did as he was asked, would do anything for Jon, wished he could take this death from him, as he had the last. He had carried Jon's soul once, long ago, but this time, he knew, would be different.

Then Jon's eyes opened, and with effort, he turned to Ghost, gray eyes meeting red. "Stay with her," Jon croaked, even as Silver Dany roused completely, finally becoming aware of what was happening. "Don't leave her. You can't leave her. I'll find you again, I will, I will."

Slower, his heart beat, and Ghost could hear it, knew the man was waiting, though he was certain Jon knew that he understood. They had no secrets. He knew what Jon wanted.

Silver Dany could not bear this loss, not alone. He must stay with her, now, be her strength when Jon could not. Protect her, until she left as well, to be with him again. And though he rarely spared a thought for the Old Gods who'd made him, and given him to the old King who lay abed, dying, he prayed that they would listen.

He prayed he could stay, and then, when it was Silver Dany's time to pass, he prayed they would take him as well.

He was tired of living, some days.

Ghost groaned quietly, as Silver Dany began to cry, and licked at Jon's cheek, where a tear had escaped. "I love you," Jon whispered, as Dany's cries grew louder. "I'm not tellin' ya goodbye. I won't."

"Don't leave me," his mate sobbed, tears soaking the bed linens, and Ghost wondered if her tears would ever dry, after this. "You can't leave me. No, Jon. Don't!"

"Not leavin'," Jon wheezed, as his breath began to falter. "Waitin' for you, love. Always here."

Then that steady rhythm, the drum beat that had been a companion to the beating of Ghost's own heart, stuttered, and stopped. Ghost felt a sharp, horrible tearing, from within himself, as if his soul was split into two, leaving behind only ragged tatters where Jon had once been.

And then he was gone.

Silver Dany let out a scream, a terrible sound, that filled Ghost with unbearable agony.

Outside, Rhaegal screamed as well, a great and awful trumpeting cry, because he felt it, too.

Three brothers had become two, and Ghost climbed into the bed, laying beside Jon one last time, as Silver Dany tightly fisted a hand in his fur.

She lasted a year, Jon's Silver Queen, once he was gone. An awful, painful year, each turn of the moon showing another sign of her decline.

But she had Ghost, and he had her, and sometimes, when the moon was the highest, and a cold wind would whistle through the stony Keep, he thought he could hear the echo of Jon's boots along the corridor.

Eventually, she had to be helped out of doors, but she insisted, and men would carry her, with Ghost shuffling behind, out to the grassy cliffs. And then they would scurry, and Ghost would feel a flicker of amusement as Drogon landed, ready to curl her warm body around her mother and the wolf, so they could sit, for hours, protected from the chill.

Winter was coming, that's what the people said, and Ghost knew that was true.

But he didn't think he or Silver Dany would be there to see it.

Rhaegal was still on these shores, still bound to Ghost's soul, but even that bond had been tempered, in the wake of Jon's death. For Jon's grandson, a boy of fourteen, a lad of Benjen's, had come to stay, had refused to return to the city, and finally, after months, Rhaegal had let the lad ride him.

They were brothers, still, but the dragon had a new purpose.

Silver Dany was leaned against Drogon's warm scales, dozing in the midday sun, when the dragon voiced her concerns.

"She's slipping away, Ghost. I'm losing her." It was the saddest the wolf had ever seen the dragon, but he understood. For Drogon, Silver Dany was her mother, the one who had given her life, and meaning. They had conquered kingdoms and won wars, but this was one enemy that could not be fought.

'Death always wins', Jon used to say, though the madman had certainly cheated it once in his lifetime.

"It's what they do," Ghost answered tiredly. "People die, you silly beast. They don't live as long as dragons."

There came a miserable chirp, and Drogon shifted. "I know," she whispered. "There is another who will ride me, when she is gone." With a morose sigh, that large black muzzle rested against the grass, and he was staring into a large, amber eye. "You are leaving, too. I can smell it on you, pony dog."

Ghost chuffed, and licked at his paw, arching his neck and wincing at the stiffness. "Wolves die, too." There was something unbearable about how the dragon was looking at him, something that made him itch under his skin. "But I'm not dead yet, you overgrown lizard, so stop eyeing me like I'm a meal."

Drogon huffed, pretending to be offended. "You'd taste terrible. Look at you. Skin and bones, now." She clucked under her breath. "How dare you even suggest it, you nasty ball of fur?"

Ghost chuckled, and nudged his nose against her snout. "Don't tell Rhaegal this, but I always liked you best."

He shifted, to rest against Silver Dany's side, and her hand dropped against his fur in her sleep.

"Naturally," Drogon replied, but she sounded so melancholy that he had to look away. "You've always been a wolf of excellent taste." A tense silence fell, then the dragon spoke again. "You stayed for mother, didn't you?" Ghost didn't respond, wasn't sure how, but Drogon persisted. "You could've gone with Jon, but you stayed."

Ghost sighed. "Aye. He begged me, you see. And you know I never could say no to him, the old fool."

The dragon was quiet for another long moment, staring at the sky, and had he not been listening so closely, he might've missed her next words. "You're my favorite, too, you disgusting little beast."

Fondness warmed him from within, and he pretended to glare at the black beast, even as he gave a panting smile. "For now. You'll forget me, soon enough. You scaly fuckers live forever, don't you?"

The light in Drogon's eyes dimmed, just a bit, and she sighed, settling again. "Perhaps," she murmured. "But it won't be the same. Not without you."

Ghost let his eyes slip shut, intent on taking advantage of another nap, on a day full of them. "I know," he sighed. "I know."

That night, as Ghost settled beside the bed Silver Dany had shared with Jon, he knew it was here, finally. He could smell the creep of death, that sour, bitter smell, could hear the beginning rattle of the Queen's breath as it left her lungs.

He whined, until she let her hand fall over the side of her bed, her fingers just brushing the top of his head.

"I'm ready, Jon," she whispered, to the ghosts that filled the room. "I'm ready."

And in the quiet, as the Queen died, he felt that bond flare to life again, and let his own agreement trickle and flow along that thin thread. He was ready, too.

He shut his eyes, never to open them again.

The next thing he knew, his next moment of awareness, found him in a familiar wood.

He knew these lands, that had birthed him, that had delivered him, that had been his home, and the home of his ancestors, as well.

He knew, if he kept along this snowy, treelined path, what he would find.

He loped along, thrilling at the cold chill in the air, feeling more alive than he had in a very long time.

Then, he began to run, towards the white-barked Heart Tree, with it's leaves of blood and weeping eyes.

Because two figures were there, and as he neared, he saw that on this day, the tree did not weep. What cause was there to weep, anymore, when his soul finally felt free?

Jon sat, with his Queen, his head tucked against hers, night against day, fitted perfectly against her.

But when he saw Ghost, he stood, and now Ghost could not stop the howl that arose in his throat. There was no need to, anymore.

The sound he made was joyful, and glad, full-throated and echoing through the wood, and Jon laughed, waving a gloved hand, young and proud in his leathers and furs.

"C'mon, lad!"

When he joined them, and Jon threw his arms around the wolf's neck, he felt whole, complete. He felt as though the years had melted away, and now they stood, the best versions of themselves, the true versions.

Silver Dany's laugh was like a bell, and it only grew louder when Ghost twisted his head around to lick at her face wildly.

Jon hugged him tight, thrusting his face into the wolf's neck, breathing deep. "What a good lad you are, Ghost. Such a good boy." He wriggled in Jon's grip, trying to get closer, contentment settling into his bones, as the snow crunched under the pads of his paws. "The very best boy."

And Ghost thought that whatever this was, whatever came next, it seemed to him that so long as they were together, it would be a grand adventure, indeed.