Author's Note:
I do not own Game of Thrones.
This is a direct sequel to Snow's Pack and part of the Brother of Wolves series, which is being crossposted from AO3.
The journey through the Wolfswood to Deepwood Motte would take them a week and a half if all was well, and almost two weeks if all was not, then the sea journey to the Iron Islands longer. And already Ned was hating the trip. His only consolation was that he was still in the North for now. Soon enough he'd be heading south again. To war. Again.
He groaned and rolled over in the wagon, swinging himself from it. If only he could ignore this damned summons of Robert's. He'd feel much more comfortable at Winterfell with Cat and the children. And those ghosts of Jon's, who had never quite gone away.
He couldn't walk too far from the camp, even with the howls of wolves far from them, but he took a few steps and stopped to sit on a log and polish Ice. Perhaps it might calm him long enough for him to get some sleep.
After some time, the cracking of undergrowth broke him from his thoughts, and he raised his head to scan the trees. "Who's there?"
A small black nose poked from the bushes. Ned stood as the wolf stuck the rest of its head out and peered up at him with amber eyes. They rarely came this close, usually. This one looked young, not fully grown, though it seemed nearly there, lanky and lean, and reaching nearly to his waist, with a pelt of black fur.
"I've nothing for you," he said, sheathing Ice at his side. "Go on, away with you."
The wolf did not away.
Indeed, it followed him back to camp, and lay down beneath the wagon when Ned lay down again. Perhaps he ought to kill it, but he'd never known one this tame, and it was doing no harm.