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Jon Flint felt the sun on his face, greeting him. He pulled the blanket away and looked at his paws...
No. Not paws. Hands.
He sat up slowly, the furs sliding from his chest. His room in Winterfell. His bed.
Jon could still remember what he saw in Godswood. The endless white forest. The little wolves beside him. His new mother. And the corpse. The woman's face turned up to the black sky, her dark hair spread across the snow like roots, her lips blue with cold.
And the hunger. Gods, the hunger.
Jon swung his legs out of bed and pressed his palms against his face. Jon could still remember the hunger he felt, the hunger to eat human flesh, and Jon felt sick in the stomach.
What am I?
He dressed quickly. The kukri sat heavy at his hip.
The castle was stirring around him, but slowly. Last night's feast had run late, and most of Winterfell would sleep in this morning, nursing sore heads and full bellies. Jon was grateful for the quiet as he made his way through the corridors toward the library.
He needed answers. He needed to understand what had happened to him in the Godswood, what was still happening now, even awake. Because part of him was still in that forest. Part of him could still feel the snow beneath his paws, could still smell the corpse rotting in the clearing.
The library was in the oldest part of Winterfell, tucked into a tower that had stood for thousands of years. Jon climbed the spiral stairs carefully.
The heavy door stood slightly ajar, and Jon could see candlelight flickering from within. He pushed it open slowly.
Maester Luwin sat at his usual desk beneath the largest window, surrounded by towers of books and scrolls that threatened to bury him entirely. He was bent over a ledger, quill moving steadily across the page, muttering calculations under his breath.
Jon cleared his throat softly.
Luwin looked up, and his weathered face split into a warm smile. "Jon!" He set down his quill and pushed the ledger aside. "Come in, come in. Though I must say, I'm surprised to see you so early. I'd have thought you'd be sleeping off last night's celebrations."
"Couldn't sleep," Jon said, stepping into the library and letting the door swing shut behind him.
"Ah, the burden of youth. Too much energy, even after dancing half the night." Luwin's eyes twinkled with amusement. "I saw you with Lady Dacey. Very well done, that. Your grandmother would be proud."
Jon smiled a little. He had enjoyed the dance with her and wouldn't mind another dance, maybe more. "Thank you, Maester."
"Are you here to discover something else innovative? Though I must warn you, the ice houses aren't even finished yet. Perhaps you could wait before inventing something new and giving me more mathematics to verify."
Jon chuckled. "Not today."
"Then what brings you to my humble library at this ungodly hour?" Luwin leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "And please don't tell me you're here just for the pleasure of my company. You have that look about you. The one you get when you're chasing an idea."
Jon thought of keeping it a secret for a moment, but Maester Luwin has always been happy to help him whenever he had questions, and a dream that he was a wolf in the forest, while strange, he had no reason to hide it.
"I have a question," Jon said finally. "A strange one."
"Those are often the most interesting kind." Luwin gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. Ask."
Jon sat and leaned a little closer.
"Is it possible," Jon said slowly, "for someone to dream that they are an animal?"
The scratching of Luwin's quill stopped. "That is indeed a strange question."
"I know. I just..." Jon trailed off. "Is it possible?"
"You mean, truly dream it? Not simply dream about animals, but dream that you are one?" Luwin looked thoughtful. "Dream through their eyes? Feel what they feel?"
"Yes," Jon said. "Exactly that."
Luwin was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the desk. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I must confess, Jon, I don't know much about such things. The Citadel teaches us to value what can be measured, tested, proven. Dreams are... slippery things. Difficult to categorize."
"So there's nothing? No records? No histories?"
"I didn't say that." Luwin stood, his chain clinking softly as he moved toward the shelves that lined the walls. "I said I don't know much. But that doesn't mean there's nothing to know." He ran his fingers along the spines of the books, searching. "The maesters of the Citadel would call such things superstition, old wives' tales, the fever dreams of simple folk. But..."
"But?" Jon prompted.
"But the North is old, Jon. Older than the Citadel, older than the Faith of the Seven, older than recorded history itself. The First Men lived here for thousands of years before the Andals ever crossed the Narrow Sea. They had their own beliefs, their own magic." Luwin pulled out a thick volume bound in cracked leather. "If there are answers to your question, they won't be in the texts the Citadel approved. They'll be in the older books. The ones about the Age of Heroes. The histories of the Kings of Winter before Aegon's Conquest."
He set the book on the desk with a heavy thud, then returned to the shelves for another. And another. Within minutes, Jon was surrounded by a small mountain of ancient tomes, their pages yellowed and brittle.
"These are the oldest books we have in Winterfell's library," Luwin said. "Some of them were old when my predecessor's predecessor walked these halls. They speak of things the Citadel would dismiss as myth. Giants. Children of the Forest. Men who could change their skins and become beasts." He paused, his eyes meeting Jon's. "Is that what you're looking for? Stories of skinchangers?"
Skinchanger. He'd heard the term before. Men who could slip into the minds of animals, who could see through their eyes, who could run on four legs instead of two.
"Maybe," Jon said quietly. "I don't know what I'm looking for. But I need to find it."
"Then I'll leave you to your research. I have accounts to finish before the steward has my head." He returned to his desk, but before he sat, he added, "Jon? If you find something... something important... you can tell me. You know that, yes?"
"I know. Thank you, Maester."
Luwin settled back into his chair, but Jon could feel the occasional glance. The maester was too clever not to realize that Jon was searching for something more than academic interest.
Jon opened the first book carefully. The pages were filled with cramped, archaic script that was difficult to read in the dim light. He had to lean close, tracing the words with his finger to make sense of them.
The History of the North, as Recorded by Maester Wyllis in the Reign of King Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt.
Jon skimmed through the pages. Battles and treaties, marriages and successions. The dry recitation of facts that maesters loved. He found nothing about dreams or animals or anything that might explain what had happened to him.
He set the book aside and reached for another.
Chronicles of the Age of Heroes.
This one was older, the pages more fragile. Jon handled it like it might crumble to dust in his hands. The language was different here, more poetic.
He read about Brandon the Builder raising Winterfell from nothing. About the Long Night and the Others and the last hero who rode out to face them. About the Pact between the First Men and the Children of the Forest.
But still, nothing about dreams. Nothing about wolves.
Jon's frustration grew with each passing hour. The morning light strengthened and then began to fade again as noon approached. His eyes burned from reading cramped text by candlelight. His back ached from hunching over the desk.
He was beginning to think he'd find nothing when he opened a small, leather-bound volume that looked like it had been forgotten at the back of a shelf.
The Kings of Winter: A Collection of Tales and Observations.
Jon turned the pages carefully. This wasn't a formal history. It read more like someone's personal notes, observations gathered over a lifetime. Stories about the Stark kings of old, their victories and defeats, their strengths and weaknesses.
And then, three-quarters of the way through the book, he found it.
It is said that some of the Kings of Winter were so close with their direwolves that beast and man were as one. King Rodrik Stark, called the Wandering Wolf, was known to ride south of the Neck without fear, for his direwolf Grey Fang ran always at his side, and what the wolf saw, the king saw also. Even when leagues separated them, Rodrik knew where his companion hunted, knew what prey it stalked, knew when danger threatened.
The smallfolk whispered that Rodrik could slip into Grey Fang's skin, could run on four legs and hunt with tooth and claw. They said that sometimes, when the king slept in the Great Hall, his direwolf would be seen miles away, hunting in the Wolfswood, yet the king would wake knowing exactly where the beast had been, exactly what it had killed.
The maesters of that age dismissed such talk as superstition, but it is worth noting that Rodrik Stark never lost his direwolf to blade or age. The two died on the same day, in the same hour, though the wolf was in the Wolfswood and the king in his bed at Winterfell. Some claimed they shared not just a bond, but a soul.
Jon read the passage three times.
What the wolf saw, the king saw also.
Could slip into the wolf's skin.
Shared not just a bond, but a soul.
This was it. This was what had happened to him. He hadn't been dreaming some random, meaningless nightmare. He'd been in a wolf. He'd seen through its eyes, felt its hunger, shared its fear.
But if that was true, then the corpse was real too.
Jon remembered Ross's words about someone killing people in the forest, hunting them down.
Jon quickly pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and copied the passage word for word, his hand moving fast across the page.
Once he was done. Jon carefully closed the book and stood, gathering the parchment with his copied passage. His legs were stiff from sitting so long, and his head spun slightly as he moved toward the door.
"Jon?"
He turned. Maester Luwin was watching him with those sharp, knowing eyes.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"I think so. Thank you, Maester."
"You are always welcome here, Jon. Winterfell is the House of Starks, but a Library is the House of Knowldge, and people who seek it." Jon smiled a little before leaving.
He left the library in a hurry.
If he was right—if the dream was real—then he needed to find that body. He needed to prove to himself that he wasn't going mad, that he had this gift, and to find out who this dead person was.
Jon found his father in the Lord's solar. He seemed like he was reading something, a letter that had arrived, and started writing something down.
"Jon. I didn't expect to see you this morning. I thought you'd still be abed after last night's feast." A hint of amusement crept into Ned's voice. "Or perhaps nursing a sore head and sorer feet."
"I couldn't sleep, my lord." Jon closed the door behind him and approached the desk, and decided to ignore the teasing in his father's voice.
"Too much wine or too much dancing?" Ned showed a rare smile; his father rarely smiled, but when he did, it was a sight to remember. "I saw you with Lady Dacey. You made quite an impression."
"Thank you." Jon managed a small smile, but his mind was elsewhere, still caught on the image of that corpse in the snow. "Father, I need to ask you for something."
Ned gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. What do you need?"
Jon sat.
"I need the help of Lady Dacey Mormont," Jon said, the words coming out in a rush. "I need to take her into the Wolfswood. To find something."
Ned's eyebrows rose—both of them, which meant he was genuinely surprised rather than just mildly curious. He leaned back in his chair. "Lady Dacey Mormont. You want to take Lady Dacey Mormont into the Wolfswood."
"Yes, my lord."
"To find something." From his voice, it felt like his father thought he wasn't being sincere with him. "What, exactly?"
"Someone." Jon caught himself, realizing how that sounded. "A body. I think there's a body in the Wolfswood, and I need to find it."
Ned went very still.
"A body," Ned repeated slowly. "And how do you know there's a body in the Wolfswood?"
Jon's throat felt tight. This was the part he couldn't explain, not properly, not without sounding mad. "I saw it. In a dream. Last night, in the Godswood, I... I dreamed I was a wolf, and the wolf found a dead woman in the snow."
His father's eyes widened a little, but much to Jon's surprise, he didn't seem worried, or looking like he didn't believe him.
"A wolf," Ned said quietly.
"Yes," Jon said. "I know how it sounds. But it felt real, Father. Not like a normal dream. I could smell things, taste things. I could feel the cold in my—in the wolf's paws. And the woman was there, dead in the snow, and I need to know if she's real or if I'm..."
He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.
Ned was quiet for a long moment, and Jon was sure he heard him mutter something under his breath. Just like her...
"You spent two years training in the mountains at Breakstone Hill," his father pointed out. "Your great-grandfather taught you to track and hunt in conditions that would kill most men. You're quite a decent hunter yourself. Why do you need Lady Dacey?"
"Because I'm not sure what I'm looking for is really there," Jon admitted. "It might be nothing. Just a dream, just my mind playing tricks. But if it is something... I need someone who knows tracking, who can read signs I might miss. And she's from Bear Island. Everyone there is a hunter—it's how they survive."
"So you want professional confirmation," Ned said, understanding lighting in his eyes. "Not just your own word."
"Yes." Jon leaned forward. There was another reason why he wanted Dacey there, but his father didn't need to know that part. "If I go out there alone and find nothing, I'll never be sure. I'll always wonder if I just couldn't find it, if I missed some sign. But if Lady Dacey helps me search and finds nothing, then I'll know. One way or the other."
"And if you do find a body? A murdered woman in the Wolfswood?"
"Then we bring her back. Give her a proper burial. Find who killed her." Jon's voice hardened on the last words, and he tasted something bitter in his mouth. "Justice. The way it should be done."
"Alright. You can take Lady Dacey. But—" He held up a hand as Jon started to stand. "But you must ask Lady Maege's permission first. Properly. Dacey is her daughter and heir to Bear Island. You don't just ask a young noblewoman to ride into the forest with you without her mother's consent. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord. Of course." Jon nodded quickly, a charming smile on his face that made his father roll his eyes. "I'll ask Lady Maege directly, and reassure her that this is an innocent ride, and simply need her daughter's help—"
"And you'll take guards," Ned continued, completely ignoring what Jon said. "At least four. The Wolfswood isn't safe, Jon, even this close to Winterfell. There are Bears. Shadowcats. And worse, there are men, wildlings who've come south of the Wall, bandits, gods know what else. I won't have you riding out there with just Lady Dacey and hope for the best."
"I understand. Guards. I'll take whoever you think best."
"And Robb."
Jon blinked. "Robb?"
"Your brother." Ned reminded him as if he needed a reminder. "He should go with you. He needs the experience, and frankly, I'd feel better knowing he's with you. Two heads are better than one, and Robb has good instincts."
"Yes, my lord. Robb can come."
"If there is nothing else, you can go." His father dismissed him and Jon turned and walked towards the door.
Jon squared his shoulders and went to find the she-bear of Bear Island.
Barbrey Dustin
The guest chambers that House Dustin occupied in Winterfell were warm, Winterfell was always warm. Barbrey Dustin sat at the small writing desk, reviewing correspondence from Barrowton. Her husband lay in bed, propped up against pillows, his scarred throat visible above the collar of his sleeping shirt.
"You're... quiet," Benjen rasped, watching her with those Stark grey eyes. "Is not...good when...you are quiet."
Barbrey set down her quill and turned to face him fully. "I'm thinking about your nephew's proposal. These ice houses and his concern for the Night's Watch."
"Good... plan," Benjen said slowly. "Helps... everyone."
"Does it?" Barbrey stood, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "Benjen, I don't believe for a moment that Jon Flint is sending food to the Wall purely out of the goodness of his heart. That boy doesn't breathe without calculating three moves ahead."
Benjen's expression softened with something like fondness. "Like... someone... I know."
"Exactly my point." Barbrey's fingers drummed against her knee, a habit she'd never quite broken when her mind was working. "He's thirteen years old and already playing politics like a man twice his age. The candle guilds, the ice houses, now this arrangement with the Night's Watch...it feels like he is a spider."
"You... see... bad... in... good," Benjen managed, reaching for her hand.
"I see reality," Barbrey corrected, but she took his hand, her thumb tracing the calluses on his palm. "The boy is brilliant, I'll grant you that. And ambitious. That combination can be dangerous or valuable, depending on where his loyalties truly lie."
"Family," Benjen said with certainty. "Always... family."
"Is it?" Barbrey's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Or is it himself, and family just happens to benefit? There's a difference, Benjen."
Her husband was quiet for a moment, his breathing slightly labored from talking so much. Finally, he shook his head. "You're... wrong. Saw... his eyes. When... talking about... Wall. He... believes. Jon...he is....a Stark at Heart...my nephew...he is....a good kid."
"Perhaps." Barbrey wasn't entirely convinced, but she knew when to let an argument rest. Benjen tired so easily these days, and she wouldn't exhaust him over Jon Flint's motivations. "Speaking of family and future plans—I want to visit White Harbor before winter sets in properly."
Benjen's eyebrows rose in question.
"For Arthur," Barbrey clarified. "Lord Manderly has two granddaughters—Wynafryd and Wylla. Both intelligent, well-bred, and positioned to inherit significant influence in White Harbor. Either would make an excellent match for our son."
"Manderly... wants... Stark," Benjen pointed out. "Winterfell... Stark."
"Our son is a Stark." Barbrey's tone sharpened with frustration. "He has your blood, your name. He's as much a Stark as Robb, even if he won't inherit Winterfell."
Benjen's face showed gentle disagreement. "Not... same. You... know... it."
"Because Ned sits in Winterfell and we sit in Barrowton?" Barbrey stood, pacing to the window. The courtyard below was quiet in the evening darkness. "Arthur has Stark blood. He has the northern look. He's intelligent, well-trained, and will inherit Barrowton. That should be enough for Wyman Manderly."
"Should," Benjen agreed carefully. "But... won't... be."
Barbrey pressed her lips together, knowing he was right even as she resented it. Lord Wyman Manderly was practical above all else—he'd want the closest possible tie to Winterfell itself, not to a cadet branch in Barrowton.
Benjen struggled to sit up straighter, and Barbrey moved quickly to help him, adjusting the pillows. When he spoke again, his damaged voice was thoughtful.
"Sansa... or... Arya."
Barbrey turned sharply. "What?"
"For... Arthur," Benjen explained. "My.. nieces. Ned's... daughters. Marry... Arthur... to one. Ties... family... closer."
Barbrey stared at her husband. Arthur and Sansa. Or Arthur and Arya. Either would bind House Dustin even more tightly to Winterfell, would give their son an undeniable connection to the main Stark line.
"Sansa is only nine," Barbrey said slowly. "Arya even younger."
"Betrothal," Benjen rasped. "Not... marriage. Not... yet. But... promise... for... future."
"And you think Ned would agree?"
Benjen's smile reminded her why she loved him. "Family. He... values... it. And... Cat... wants... good... matches. Dustin... is... good."
Barbrey moved back to the bed, sitting beside her husband. "You're cleverer than you let on, husband."
"Married... you," Benjen pointed out, the rasp almost making it sound like laughter. "Had... to... be."
She took his hand again, considering. A betrothal between Arthur and one of Ned's daughters would solve multiple problems. It would secure Arthur's future, strengthen House Dustin's position, and—if she were honest with herself—give her some measure of satisfaction after all these years of feeling like a lesser branch of the family.
"Sansa would be the better choice," Barbrey said, thinking aloud. "She's being raised as a proper lady. She'd know how to manage a great house, how to move in noble circles. Arya is... wild."
"Like... Lyanna... was," Benjen said softly.
Barbrey was surprised to hear her name from his lips. She knew Benjen still blamed himself for what happened to her. The two were always close.
And Lyanna reminded her of her first husband, whose bones would never see their home, whose bones were buried far away from the North. All because of Eddard Stark, but she refused to let her anger grow in her. She was married to a Stark now, after all. She could not allow herself to hate her brother-in-law.
"Yes," she agreed quietly. "Like Lyanna. Which is why Sansa makes more sense. Arthur needs stability, not chaos."
"Or," Benjen countered gently, "needs... someone... who... challenges... him. Makes... him... think."
"He gets enough of that from me."
"Exactly... my... point." Benjen's eyes sparkled with humor.
Barbrey wanted to argue, but she found herself smiling instead. "You're infuriating when you're right."
"Often," Benjen agreed, his rasp almost smug.
She leaned forward, kissing his lips, and he kissed her back with passion. "Rest now. We'll discuss this more later. Both the Manderly visit and the possibility of approaching Ned about a betrothal."
"Barbrey?" Benjen caught her hand as she started to rise.
"Yes?"
"Jon," he rasped. "Trust... him. He's... good... boy. Reminds... me... of... Mother."
"That's what worries me," Barbrey said quietly. "Lyarra Stark is one of the most formidable women in the North. If Jon truly takes after her..." She trailed off, then shook her head. "But you're right. He's family. And family we support, even when they make us nervous."
"That's... my... wife," Benjen said with a smile.
Barbrey watched him for a moment longer, then returned to her desk. But instead of picking up her correspondence, she stared into the fire.
Jon Flint was playing a deep game, whether Benjen wanted to see it or not. The Night's Watch arrangement would buy him influence at Castle Black, gratitude from the brothers in black, and a reputation as a lord who cared about the North's defense. All while costing him nothing—House Dustin was providing the fish, after all.
Clever. Very clever.
And Arthur would need to learn to navigate these sorts of political waters if he was to succeed in holding Barrowton and managing their relationship with Winterfell. Perhaps watching Jon work would be educational for her son.
As for the marriage... Barbrey pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began to write. She'd need to approach this carefully, feel out Ned's thoughts without seeming too eager. And she'd need to determine which daughter would truly be better for Arthur—Sansa with her propriety and southern dreams, or Arya with her wildness and northern heart.
Either way, House Dustin would be bound even more tightly to Winterfell. And that, Barbrey knew, was worth more than all the fish in the North.
A Marriage between Arthur and either Sansa or Arya would tie the family closer, and Barbrey knew that Family was important in the North. Even to Jon Flint.
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