Author's Note:
I do not own Game of Thrones.
The wolf followed them all the way through the Wolfswood.
Or, perhaps more accurately, it followed Ned all the way through the Wolfswood, because it rarely left his side, even for a moment. During the nights it lay down beside the wagon to sleep. Ned never even saw it leave to hunt, and took to offering it scraps of his own meal. Some it accepted, but others it declined. Picky creature.
"Reckon it's chosen you!" proclaimed the Greatjon. "Be good times ahead now!"
"I like it not," declared Rickard Karstark. "It's a wrong beast."
Perhaps it was a sign from the Old Gods – but of what? Was this a sign of victory in the Iron Islands, or a warning not to go?
After all, the direwolf was the sigil of his House.
When they arrived at Deepwood Motte he looked down at the wolf. It wagged its tail.
"You can come no further," he told it. "Go on now, away with you."
It whined softly and continued to follow his horse as he perhaps should have expected. Ned sighed and directed a few of his men to divert it and steer it back into the woodland until he was through the gates of the Hold.
Already a ship awaited them, the Dawnbreaker, bobbing on the water of the current. Ned stood at the foot of the gangplank for a long, long time.
The direwolf had not followed him here.
Wolves belonged in the North, not fighting Southern battles.
It wasn't too late to turn around–
And have his honour questioned for fleeing at the last moment.
He boarded the ship.
And later that night, roars of laughter and surprise found him in his cabin as he was sighing over Robert's latest raven. A knock came at the door.
"Who is it?" Ned called.
"It's me," Jory replied.
"Enter."
The door swung open and Jory stepped inside, confusion splashed all over his face.
"What is it?"
"Well, ah–" Jory glanced in the direction of the deck. "You're not going to believe this–"