PROLOGUE

Jon Snow

Weather in the north always had a certain chill to it, whether in the summer or in the winter, and dawn that day had broke with a higher crispness that foretold the end of summer and the coming of winter. Beneath his furs and leather, Jon Snow shivered, but it wasn't the fault of the weather for he had lived in the north all his life and he had become accustomed to it. Rather, he shivered because of the grim task that they had set out to accomplish that morning, him along with his half brothers Robb and Bran in the company of their lord father Eddard Stark, and his guardsmen, and his ward. Sitting tall and still on his horse, Jon watched with solemn eyes as the man that had been bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall was cut down and dragged before them, before his lord father Eddard Stark, Warden of the north and Lord of Winterfell. His half brother beside him, Bran, second true son of their father, was on a pony fit for his size as a young boy of seven, sat between him and his other half brother, Robb, heir to their father and Winterfell. Robb sat in a similar posture and of similar cadence to Jon - they'd both seen this before, the king's justice being done - but Bran was trying and failing to imitate them being the first time he had been deemed old enough to accompany his father and witness what happened to oathbreakers and deserters of the Night's Watch. Jon felt a little irritated that the nervous excitement that he could read in Bran's posture and face brought him stirrings of amusement for he had long decided that such an emotion was not meant for a place such as this, for a task such as this.

Questions were asked and answered of the man who was positioned on his knees before the Lord of Winterfell. He was a man old and scrawny, around the same height as Robb, had lost a finger and both ears to frostbite, and was garbed in the all black that identified him as a brother of the Night's Watch. Jon paid the interrogation no mind once the first couple of words left the man's mouth. The man had clearly lost his wits, speaking of white walkers and black magic and of things brought straight out of one of Old Nan's fables, and he already knew the man's sentence, as did everyone who knew of Eddard Stark or had spent longer than five minutes in his presence. The man valued honor above all else and had little tolerance of oathbreakers and deserters; straight as an arrow he was, and the deserter had died the minute he had been taken by the lord of Winterfell even if the light had not left his eyes yet. Instead Jon's attention was on his lord father who was even more solemn than he was, long brown hair swaying in the wind, his closely trimmed beard shot with white, and a grim cast to his eyes that made him look far older than he was. Above him flapped the banner of his house, the Starks of Winterfell; a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.

Being the bastard that he was, and the Lady of Winterfell spiting him for being the result of her husband's infidelity, Jon seldom had the opportunity to be as close to his father as his other trueborn sons, and had to be content to observe his family from afar. Still, he knew the face of his father who would bestow a small but kind smile on him when his wife was not around to give spite, who had brought Jon into his home and castle, the seat of his power and acknowledged without shame the bastard as his. Eddard Stark had done this despite his wife's misgivings and jealousy, when other lords abandoned theirs to their mothers who were often whores, and lived honourless lives within the common - that is, if the lords who spurted their seeds were even aware of them at all. But Jon could see no trace of his father in the man that sat upon the horse before the deserter, for Eddard stark had cast off his father's face, and donned his lord's face which was grim and resolute and carved in stone. Jon had always been in awe of his father's ability to look like a kindly man in one moment, and a king of old in the next.

The Lord of Winterfell eventually gave a command, and Jon shifted his gaze to watch as two guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square, forcing his head down onto the hard black wood. Jon's lord father dismounted and his ward, one Theon Greyjoy who had always rubbed Jon the wrong way, brought forth his sword. It was a two handed greatsword, wide across as a man's hand and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, a metal whose sharpened edge compared to none other in all the seven kingdoms; spell-forged and dark as smoke. Lord Eddard Stark peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard, before taking the sword from Theon Greyjoy, holding it in both hands, and saying;

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He lifted the greatsword high above his head and Jon shuffled closer to the youngest amongst them, his half brother Bran.

"Keep the pony well in hand," he advised in a whisper. "And don't look away. Father will know if you do." Jon had never looked away himself and was glad to sense that Bran heeded his words and gripped his reins tight, and never looked away. The sword descended in a swift, sure downward stroke and suddenly a head was lopped off, bouncing and rolling on the ground like orange that fell from a tree only morbid, and grisly. Blood spurted and sprayed out across the snow, the endless white of cold drinking in the warm life liquid like a man who had been thirsty for a fortnight. The rolling head came to a stop near Greyjoy's feet, the dead man's head staring up at the Pyke heir with his face forever frozen in an expression that spoke of fear so overwhelming that the man had been dead to the world before the stroke of the lord father's blade. Theon - the lean, dark youth of nineteen who always found amusement in everything like there was an inside joke at the expense of the world that only he understood - gazed down at the bodyless head for a split second and, probably recognizing the fear in those dead eyes as Jon had, split his lips in a wicked smile, laughed, and snapped a kick at the dead head.

"Ass." Jon couldn't help himself, but muttered it low enough that Greyjoy did not hear. Something was really wrong with that one. He leaned over and put a hand on his brother's shoulder, drawing Bran's gaze away from where it had been fixated on the bloodstained snow. "You did well." He remarked honestly. Jon was fourteen, and he was an old hand at the king's justice, but he himself had flinched the first time and his younger brother hadn't.

Jon's mind was oddly blank the ride back to Winterfell, thinking of nothing and everything all at once. The wind had died by then though, and the sun was higher in the sky. He rode with his brothers Robb and Bran, well ahead of the main party, Bran's pony struggling to keep up with his and Robb's horses.

"The deserter died bravely." Remarked Robb, big and broad and growing by the day. The heir of Winterfell had his mother's coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. He was the same age with Jon, though they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast, and he had the long solemn face of the House of Stark, unlike Robb. Jon often took consolation from the fact that he resembled his father more than anyone of his trueborn children. "He had courage, at the least."

"No." Disagreed Jon Snow quietly, his mind pulled from its peculiar state of everything and nothing to focus on the image he remembered of the dead man's head, staring up at Greyjoy. "It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark."

"The Others take his eyes." Robb swore, unimpressed. "He died well." He insisted. "Race you to the bridge?"

"Done." Jon said, immediately kicking his horse forward, choosing to let the matter go. After all, it didn't matter if the man was dead with fear or courageous till the end. Dead was dead, and the way he died could do nothing for the man now. He could hear Robb's bellowed curse behind him as he followed hastily and the sound of it brought a small smirk to his face as they galloped off down the trail, kicking up showers of snow as they went.

They raced for a while, Robb laughing and cursing and hooting, Jon silent and intent and smirking, and Bran and the main party fell far behind them.

"You craven cheater." Bellowed Robb behind him as Jon put more and more distance between them, little by little. They came upon the bridge and Jon flattened himself against his horse, urging it forward, anxious to land the beast's hooves on it and beat his brother at his own challenge. That was before his eyes spotted something down at the riverbank though, a colored patch of snow that reminded him suddenly of the deserter's blood, spilt on ironwood. Jon halted, squinting at it, trying to see more clearly through the snow. Robb galloped past him, heedless of the reason for his bastard brother's sudden actions, drunk on victory. The heir of Winterfell touched hooves to bridge, and cheered for himself before turning back and noticing Jon's intense staring.

"What is it?" He asked, galloping back, turning his head to follow Jon's gaze. "I'm not sure," admitted the bastard before urging his horse in a slow trot. "Come on, let's go see."

They cantered over beside the bridge, calming and urging their suddenly nervous and rearing horses carefully through the snow, for the ground was uneven, and footing shaky. After a while, they came upon it and both boys were filled with awe.

"By the gods." Exclaimed Robb, and Jon could only nod in agreement, saying dumbly:

"A wolf." And indeed that was what it was. Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. It had ice in its shaggy grey fur, and it smelled of death and blood and rot, the stench of which would have been undoubtedly worse but for the snow. Its blind eyes were crawling with maggots and worms, its gaping maw filled with sharp yellowed teeth, and it was bigger than any wolf Jon had ever seen. In fact the bastard would go as far as to call it horse sized, and he knew at once what it was; a direwolf.

Robb drew his attention from inspecting the beast with another exclamation.

"By the gods there's more!" Glee was in the voice of the heir of Winterfell, and it was like he was again a child. Jon went around to see, and his eyes widened at the sight of Robb Stark knee deep in snow cradling wolf pups to his person like a sellsword in Lannister treasury. His hands couldn't contain them all, and two slipped through to the snow. Together with the three in Robb's arms, Jon counted five direwolf pups, and like that the bastard's mood was dimmed.

It seems the gods are forever against me, thought Jon Snow bitterly. Five direwolf pups for the five trueborn children of House Stark, and yet again the bastard is set aside. None of his bitter thoughts were on his face however, but his expression had transformed from the rare wonderment to his usual calm solemn look, just like his lord father.

"You should alert our lord father." He told Robb his half brother calmly. "I'll stay here with the pups." Robb nodded eagerly, placed the pups down, and hurriedly mounted his horse, wheeling around and hurrying for the lord of Winterfell as quickly as he dared. Once he was gone, Jon hurriedly alighted from the saddle and went down on the snow to feel the pups as his half brother had done, and he could not help the sincere, joyful smile that bloomed on his face. There seemed to be a magic in the pups that banished his bitterness away and even the grim work of the morn and the likely eventuality that he would own none of these pups could not keep the smile away from his face for long. He caressed them all, then took one with him and clambered back onto his saddle, looking calm for when Robb would arrive with the main party. It was stupid, he knew. If the snow that caked his breeches did not give the game away, then the pup in his arms definitely would, to Robb at least. But Jon Snow found that he did not care, and so he sat on his saddle, and stroked the pup as it searched his furs for milk, and waited.

They came soon enough, Robb ahead of them all, the heir of Winterfell alighting by the bridge and making the rest of the way on foot before going to his knees beside the rest of the pups, and gathering them in his arms again.

"They're coming." He told Jon. Then Lord Eddard Stark arrived with the rest, and they picked their way through the snow to meet them. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach them, and Jon savored their reactions with a smirk on his face. Greyjoy's horse went out of control, and the boy struggled to control the beast even as he fumbled for his sword. "Gods." Exclaimed Theon, and Jon's smirk widened. Joke's on you now Greyjoy, he thought.

"Robb, get away from it!" Called Jory Cassel, sword already in hand as his horse reared under him.

"She can't hurt you." Grinned Robb, looking up from the bundle in his arms. "She's dead Jory."

Jon could almost taste the curiosity from those behind them who could not see properly, but his lord father made them all dismount by the bridge before continuing forwards. Jon was in control of his horse, but he dismounted all the same, and by the time his foot touched snow, Bran was twenty paces away, scrambling towards them in the way only little boys could.

"What in the seven hells is it?" Greyjoy was asking.

"A wolf," replied Robb.

"A freak," retorted Greyjoy in disagreement. "Look at the size of it."

Jon smirked inwardly at his discomfort, turning his eyes to Bran who was doing everything humanly possible to wade through the thick snow to his brother's side, brimming with excitement, and wanting to know what all the fuss was about.

"It's no freak." Jon countered Greyjoy calmly, returning his gaze back to him. "That's a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind."

"There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years." Theon Greyjoy disputed, his eyes flicking between the great dead beast and her very much alive litter. Jon could almost see the cogs of his brain putting two and two together. Those things are one day going to be as big as that, his expression seemed to say, oh gods help us. Jon took secret pleasure in his apprehension and replied:

"I see one now."

The cry Bran gave made it evident that he had finally noticed the pups in Robb's arms, and Jon watched as he moved closer. The boy reached out hesitantly.

"Go on," urged Robb. "You can touch him." Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, and Jon decided to pass on the one in his arms also before he became too attached.

"Here you go. There are five of them." And Bran held the two pups in his arms. The boy sat in the snow, and hugged them to his face and Jon almost smiled at the look of him.

"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," muttered Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it not." As I expected, thought Jon, superstitious frozen hearts who would sooner butcher the pups than have them brought back to Winterfell. Jon however had no intention of letting any ill be done to the pups. He stayed silent and watched his lord father, and listened.

"It is a sign," said Jory which brought forth a frown from lord Eddard Stark.

"This is only a dead animal, Jory." Remarked the Lord of Winterfell, but his bastard son could recognize the slight unease on his face. He moved forwards, snow crunching under his boots, and asked:

"Do we know what killed her?"

"There's something in the throat. There, just under the jaw." Robb told him, and there was a modicum of pride in his voice to have found the answer before his father had even asked. Jon felt mildly irritated with himself for not having the mind to do the same.

Lord Eddard Stark knelt and groped under the beast's head with his hand. Then he yanked, and held it up for all to see; a foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood. Jon froze along with the rest of the party. He was not a superstitious person but no one could have missed the significance of the antler, a stag's antler, and a crowned stag was the sigil of the house of Baratheon, of Robert Baratheon, first of his name, and king of the seven kingdoms. It seemed a significant omen though no one could say just what it might mean, and his father tossed the antler aside and cleaned his hands in the snow.

"I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp," said the Lord of Winterfell, his voice breaking the spell.

"Maybe she didn't," suggested Jory. "I've heard tales... maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came."

"Born with the dead, worse luck." Another man put in. He sounded like Desmond, and Jon could have hit him.

"No matter," said Hullen. "They be dead soon enough too." Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay at that.

"The sooner the better," agreed Theon Greyjoy, all too happy to get rid of them. He drew his sword and Jon would have liked to draw on him too but for the fact that he knew doing so would do him no favors. "Give the beast here Bran."

"No!" Bran cried out fiercely, the little thing squirming against him as if it understood. "It's mine." Declared Jon's brother.

"Put your sword away Greyjoy," Robb said, sounding as commanding as their lord father himself. "We will keep these pups." He decreed.

"You cannot do that boy," protested Harwin, who was Hullen's son.

"It be a mercy to kill them," supported Hullen, Harwin's father.

Faced with such opposition, Bran turned his head to the only one that he could for rescue; their lord father, but he only got a frown, a furrowed brow.

"Hullen speaks truly son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation."

"No!" Cried Bran, looking away to hide the tears now welling up in his eyes.

"Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week," insisted Robb stubbornly, who was not about to see any ill befall the pups. Jon watched, and waited, and listened. "It was a small litter," continued Robb, "only two live pups. She'll have milk enough."

"She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse." Replied their father, unconvinced, and Jon knew he had to step in.

"Lord Stark," he said formally. " There are five pups, three male, two female."

"What of it, Jon?"

"You have five trueborn children, three sons, two daughters." The bastard pointed out. " The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have this pups, my lord." Jon saw his father's face change, and knew he had him.

"You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" asked Lord Eddard Stark softly. Of course I do, thought Jon, instead he said:

"The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark, I am no Stark, Father."

Jon was regarded thoughtfully by his lord father, and Robb leaped to fill the silence.

"I will nurse him myself, Father," promised the Winterfell heir, " I will soak a towel with warm milk and give him suck from that."

"Me too!" Bran joined in, the full weight of his puppy eyes against their father's resolve. Lord Eddard Stark weighed all three of them carefully with his eyes, but Jon could see that he had broke.

"Easy to say, and harder to do." He said finally. " I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves is that understood?" Robb and Bran nodded eagerly, and Bran's pup licked at his face.

"You must train them as well," continued their father, "you must train them. The kennel master will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And gods help you if you neglect, or brutalize or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, father." Echoed Robb and Bran.

"The pups might die anyway, despite all you do."

"They won't die." Robb said. " We won't let them die."

"Keep them then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups, It's time we were back to Winterfell."

They mounted, and began on their way, and Jon allowed himself a small smile of victory. Halfway across the bridge however, Jon heard the sound of something peculiar, and pulled up suddenly.

"What is it Jon?" asked his lord father.

"Can't you hear it?" Jon barely paid his father any mind, roving his eyes over the snow below, searching for the source of the sound. He spied a hint of something white and small moving in the snow a ways off from the dead direwolf and felt an elation from deep down.

"There." He said, and swung his horse around, and galloped back across the bridge, dismounting and going to his knees on the other side of the dead direwolf, straining his eyes. He spied it again, small and white and silent as a ghost, lapping and tugging with its mouth at something in the snow. A big grin bloomed to life on Jon Snow's face. He moved over to it and knelt, and picked it up, a white furred direwolf with blood red eyes, beautiful and silent. It sniffed his thumb and lapped at it, and Jon's grin widened.

"A very sneaky one you are." He told it, stroking its fur. He was about to leave when he spied what the pup had been lapping at in the snow, a flash of something familiar that he couldn't quite place. Curious, Jon knelt back down, and brushed away the snow.

A hand revealed itself to him and the bastard stared, sorry for whoever it was. Then it twitched, and Jon startled so badly he fell on his butt.

"What?" He gaped, and slowly, went closer and started brushing off more snow. Above, he could hear the main party begin to make their way back, doubtless his jump had been noticed, but Jon payed them no mind. He cleared thick mounds of snow, and cleared and cleared, and all the while the hand kept twitching, and so Jon cleared faster, the pup at his side momentarily forgotten.

"Jon," yelled his lord father as they made their way to him on foot. "What's down there?"

"I'm not sure father." Jon yelled back without looking, and when he was done brushing snow he had the form of a man lying face down in the snow and the white so much caked him that Jon could not even tell the color of his hair. Staring at him, Jon once again doubted that he was not seeing things and the man was alive, but the hand twitched again, this time accompanied by a low groan which put an end to his doubts.

"Gods be good." Muttered Jon Snow as he gripped the body and heaved with all his strength to turn him over onto his back. What he saw once again startled him so badly he reared back. The snow beneath was dyed red with frozen blood, and the battered state of the body he had rolled over made for a sight even more morbid. The face had a single closed eye; the other eye had been slashed so badly, the eyeball was lost. And it wasn't an old wound either, doubtless if not for the snow, it would have been leaking blood, and even through the snow on the man's face, Jon could still make out a horrible grisly wound like dried red pulp, where the eye should have been.

Then the good eye snapped open, and Jon was suddenly staring face to face with an abomination in the snow with a manic glint in his eye. Fear gripped him, and made him scramble to put some distance between them. It was that fear that saved his life.

From out of nowhere flashed a three foot blade caked in snow and glowing like sun kissed bronze, and it would have found purchase in his head had he been a tad slower in backtracking. Others take it, swore Jon Snow, fumbling for his sword. The thing, as if the sight of another living being had poured life anew into him, rose to his feet like an abomination from the depths of some frozen hell. Snow clung to every part of him and Jon could still not make any distinct features apart from his missing eye, but he was over six feet tall, broad shouldered, and he held a leaf shaped blade in his right hand, the sword shining like a blade that never left the forge. He took a step towards Jon, his motions jerky and stiff and it was clear that he was weak, yet his image looked so eerie that the bastard backtracked. Then he took another step, and Jon backtracked again. Then another, and another, brandishing the blade all the while - trying to, at least. On the fifth step however, the man fell flat on his face, trapping his arms and weapon beneath him from when he'd tried to break his fall. There was a muffled thud and snow was displaced beneath his weight and Jon hoped the man was down for the count, or better still, that he had speared himself upon his sword. Something brushed Jon's leg and he almost leapt, but he found it was only the white direwolf, coming upon him like a ghost. He sighed in relief, bent to scoop the pup to his chest, and stood there waiting for the party to catch up to him. He was no craven, this bastard son of Winterfell, but there was no way in hell he was nearing that thing again without backup.

Gods be good, Jon Snow prayed again.