Author's Note
I do not own Game of Thrones.
In the morning, Lordling snuffled around the wagon containing the wounded direwolf, cautiously wagging his tail. Ned had his men check the surrounding area to look for the not-Jon, but as he expected, nothing was found of the child.
It seemed the gods favoured him this trip.
They made a detour to one of the small villages dotting the Wolfswood to have the direwolf's wounds properly cleaned and tended to. The smallfolk there met his wolves with wide eyes and breathless whispers, and only the boldest of the children came forward to pet Lordling's shoulders.
By the third day, the adult wolf – another male – could hobble on his own four legs, though he still limped.
And stayed close to the men.
They fed him of their supplies, and with every hour that trickled past he grew more comfortable with them.
Though it might be some time before he would play ball as Lordling did.
Still, the men whispered even as more left for their own homes, and no doubt word of Lord Stark's wolves was soon going to be across the North.