Chapter Text
Soft snow drifted down lazily, the flakes dancing in the wind. It wasn’t an uncommon sight in the cold North but seeing it from his bedroom window filled Hother Umber with a sense of contentment.
As steward of Last Hearth, he was dutifully at his desk, checking numbers of their supplies. With an amused chuckle, he realized this would be the first time, he did not have to subtract the amount given to the Free Folk, so not to raise any suspicion.
He glanced down at his feet, smiling at the slumbering direwolf who was kicking his feet as he dreamt, just as he had when they were boys.
Hother smiled with a touch of melancholy, remembering how he and Elm had tried hiding Mors under their bed, refusing to let him be forcefully sent to the Night Watch. They had not faulted him for running away, with Elm preparing to smuggle his brother to Essos. But Mors had not returned to them, not until decades later, with a pack of his own.
Greatjon had been Lord then and Hother had feared he would not be like his father and would condemn Mors. But his nephew had laughed and said, “I may not be a wolf, uncle, but that does not mean I know nothing of loyalty to one’s kin. Besides, you’ve heard the rumors of the She-Wolf of Dreadstark. If Eddard Stark ignores that flagrant subversion of the old laws, why should he be angry at a broken oath made at sword point?”
And the farce went on, with Hother sending false reports of raids, never mentioning they were led by his “estranged” brother and that the supplies stolen were always in the same place, neatly arranged so they were easier to be transported beyond the Wall.
Ned Stark never said a word, although the pained look on his face spoke volumes. After the Others invaded, the old laws were appealed, and Mors was given Queenscrown as an apology for the wrongdoings of the past.
A new era, Hother Umber noted as he reached down to scratch his brother behind the ears.
Ravanna Dreadstark licked her chops, relishing the taste of fear she could smell on the wind. Oh what a lovely gloomy day. The skies were a magnificent shade of grey. The air was crisp and cool. And her prey had soiled himself. How wonderful.
Feeling rather playful, she let out a howl, knowing it would alert her prey and cause him to flee like a skittish deer. She did love a good chase. She would of course give him a five-minute head start; it was only fair. These were her lands after all, and she knew them intimately.
Ravanna got into position as she counted down. Once she got to zero, she broke out into a sprint, her tongue lolling out of her great jaws. It seemed that her prey had become tired because he did not run as far as his victim had to get away from him.
I’m ruined, the woman had wept. My father has thrown me out. He says that I’m worth nothing now.
Never, dear child, never, The Lady of Dreadfort had comforted, drying her tears. You were wronged and I shall make it right.
Since her ancestor Roose Dreadstark had avenged his older brother and was rewarded this keep, justice had been the life blood of Dreadstark. Those who dared to cause harm to their subjects would suffer greatly for their misdeeds.
As she stalked closer to the now crying and begging mouse, Ravanna bared her glistering white fangs. She took the justice a bit further than most of her kin. She would tear off the offending appendage so the guilty could never use it to cause harm again.
The screams of her prey were music to her ears.
What a positively lovely way to spend the morning, Ravanna declared.
Ned remembered four pups playing together. Brandon and Lyanna would wrestle on the ground, nipping and yipping as Benjen and Eddard chased each other. They were blissful days, filled with laughter and love.
Then Ned went to the Vale, Harrenhal happened, Lyanna disappeared, Brandon and their father were murdered, Lyanna died, and Benjen went to the Wall. Ned was left alone, a lone wolf in the metaphorical sense as well at the literal sense, remembering those days long gone with wistful sorrow.
When his children grew older, Ned indulged more in his wolfish nature, unable to resist running around and playing with them like he had when he was their age. He also found whenever he felt his loving wife was neglecting him, all he had to do was lay his furry head in her lap and look up at her with big mournful eyes until she caved and lavished him with kisses and belly rubs.
Now the pack had expanded and they were thriving. Never since the days of the old was Winterfell so full of wolves. Catelyn tried to act annoyed at this especially when it meant her brother seemed to be in no hurry to leave for the Riverlands anytime soon. But Ned would see her smiling fondly at her grandpups running around, bits of snow stuck to their fur. Nor did she seem too upset to have three fully grown direwolves lying in the bed with her.
(“I might be crushed to death one day,” she grumbled as she tugged Ned closer to her. “Well, I suppose it would be worth it.” )
So much change had happened, not just to the North, but Westeros as a whole. New laws and new governments were being established. Everything was different now and Ned was pleased for it. He just hoped that his family could rest now with no new surprises would occur.
(“Strange ships from across the Sunset Sea?” Ned repeated, as he gazed at the missive. His eyes widened, blanching. “It can’t be.”
“Ned, what is it?” Catelyn questioned, growing alarmed.
“The people of Lonely Light heard howling coming from the ships and the sails had the badge of direwolves.”)