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"Have courage, they won't harm you," pipes Bran as he takes his cousin's hand within his own and tows her along behind him, his infectious joy making her smile. "They are still young – but have grown big. It's a shame there are only six, else you could have had your very own."
"My very own direwolf?" quips Adela, smiling still. "That would have spoiled me, little Bran, I think I'll take enough delight in watching you with yours."
"Yes," he agrees, nodding. "Summer is the best of the pack, you'll see. He's big and grey with golden eyes – "
"You forget how big Ghost is, Bran," calls Jon Snow from somewhere far behind them in the courtyard. Judging from the clash of steel interrupting his shout, he and Robb must be duelling, as is their morrow's custom.
"And Grey Wind!" rejoins Robb, his call ebbing into a flurry of sword.
"What of the girls' wolves?" asks Adela as they head through the final twists of courtyard and cobbled walkways, emerging out through the inner wall of the castle and turning toward the godswood nestled between the outer and curtain walls. "Arya's and Sansa's, what are they like?"
"Nymeria is Arya's wolf," replies Bran. "She's as stubborn and boyish as Arya." Adela cannot hide her smile. "And Lady is . . . delicate and pretty just as Sansa is." He shakes his head in dismissal. "But she's weak, more of a dog than a direwolf."
They walk in silence through the godswood and come to a halt before the great white tree. The leaves seem to whisper to her of her uncle's words the previous night. His blood, she muses, and I am in his pack, my pack now. A pleasant thought, and a brief glimmer of joy surfaces in her heart.
"Remember they will not hurt you." Bran breaks her silent thought and releases her hand to turn and look at her. She puts her hands on her hips and smiles.
"Master Bran, I can sew and sing and smile – and I can wield a sword and bow and mace just as well as your brothers. I have fought many beasts and bears in my northern home of Stratheart." She taps his nose. "I am not afraid of your wolves."
He grins delightedly and raises his fingers to his lips. His whistle rings sharply through the still trees and after a while the eerie echo of a wolf responds. His smile changes to one of excitement and soon there is a dim rustling from the shrubs left of them, and suddenly a huge direwolf bursts out, weak sunshine glinting off its light grey fur and illuminating eyes as sharp and clear as gold coin. It bounds toward them and presses Bran to the ground with one lofty paw to his chest, showering the boy's face with its tongue.
"Summer?" asks Adela to the boy in the leaf-mould. Bran nods and struggles to his feet. The grey direwolf pads lightly around her skirts, sniffing at her through the silk and finally he rubs his head tentatively against her thigh. She lowers her hand at Bran's nod and gently caresses the soft fur between the wolf's eyes.
"He likes you, see?" says Bran triumphantly, as the wolf gives a deep sound something like a purr. "He doesn't normally let people touch his head." He makes another whistle, and finally the bushes shudder again and in order of size Grey Wind, Shaggydog, Nymeria and Lady rush over to join their brother. Summer growls at them, head still rested on Charmeia's leg as she continues to stroke him. She counts them silently.
"Rickon's is here, and Robb's, Sansa's and Arya's," she says softly. "But where is Jon's wolf? Ghost, isn't it?" She looks about her, and sees nothing.
"He's over there, you see?" Bran motions to the line of trees behind the row of shrubs the other wolves ran from. "He's like Jon, a lone wolf, very self-sufficient. He doesn't join in with the other wolves most of the time." Bran's voice is softer now, and his eyes are dark. "I think he's so angry he's sad."
"Is he vicious?" asks Adela. "Will he bite me if I go to him?"
"No," murmurs the boy. "He'll likely run off – but he'd never hurt you." He calls Summer to him, and the large grey wolf reluctantly obeys.
Adela approaches the gnarled twists of the trees, and the white direwolf pacing amongst them looms up as she nears, a great bloom of moonlight hidden in the sun of day. His eyes are almost red in their depth, and they follow her anxiously as she approaches, his great paws striking the beaten earth as he walks to and fro. He has the same quiet look of his owner, and Bran's words ring through her head as she stops before him. He's so angry he's sad. The great direwolf is taller than the others, even the black shadowy Shaggy, yet he is timid, too, just as Sansa's silky bitch is. She stretches out her hand, fingers uncurling slowly, and the white wolf lowers his muzzle in question almost, his great red eyes seeking hers. She feels extraordinary courage as she dips to her knees and extends her hand further, her eyes level with this huge hunter. The beast makes no move only continues to stare at her, almost in puzzlement.
Far off from the scene between the lady and the wolf, Robb and Jon clatter noisily into the clearing beside Bran and his mill of wolves. Bran does not raise his eyes to acknowledge him and Grey Wind barely nuzzles Robb as he greets him.
"What's the matter?" he asks, both to his wolf and his brother. Bran makes no reply. "And where is – "
"Hush!" says the little boy sharply. And in answer to his question, points toward the trees behind the shrubs.
Jon turns his gaze too and sucks in his breath at the sight of Adela knelt before his great white direwolf, whose eyes are burning brightly into hers. As he watches, Ghost finally takes a step forward and sits on his haunches a hand's width from the girl, feathering her outstretched hand with a single pink lick. Jon feels the touch like a jolt through his heart and almost staggers back at the force of it.
In the distant gloom of the godswood, Adela raises her head slowly and looks toward Jon. Their eyes meet almost at once, their stare potent and full of fire. Another jolt. Jon staggers back this time.
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