Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Thirty-Two: The Brooding White Wolf

The air outside was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of the sea and the lingering smoke from the battlefield. The sounds of the victory feast echoed from within New Castle—laughter, clashing cups, the strumming of lutes. The city of White Harbor was still alive with celebration, its people drinking and singing in the streets, reveling in their hard-fought triumph.

But Jon Snow wanted none of it.

He sat on a low stone wall near the castle courtyard, Ghost curled up beside him, his white fur glowing in the moonlight. The direwolf's ears twitched at the distant noises, but his posture was relaxed, his belly full from the earlier feast.

Jon stared up at the night sky. The stars stretched endlessly, their cold light a quiet comfort.

He wasn't sure why he had left the hall.

Or maybe he did.

The warmth, the praise, the victory—it all felt… distant.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the market. To the moment when the first attacker rushed him. To the way his sword had cut through flesh without hesitation.

And then the battle itself—standing atop the Seal Gate, loosing arrow after arrow, never missing.

It had been no different from training.

No different than archery practice in Winterfell's yard.

Jon had always wondered what it would feel like to kill a man.

Would it change him?

He had watched his father carry out executions since he was young. Would that same weight settle on his shoulders now?

But the truth was, he felt nothing.

He had killed by dozens today. Perhaps more.

And yet, as he sat here under the same sky as yesterday, he felt no different.

Jon turned his head toward Ghost, running his fingers through the direwolf's thick fur.

"Do you think something's wrong with me?" he murmured.

Ghost lifted his head, blinked his red eyes at Jon, then licked his face once, a slow, deliberate motion.

Jon huffed a small laugh, pushing Ghost's muzzle away. "Of course you don't think so."

He had seen Ghost hunt. The direwolf was ruthless, tearing through prey without hesitation. It was instinct. Survival.

"You men kill animals every day and eat them without guilt. Why would it be any different when you kill each other?"

Jon tensed slightly at the sudden voice in his head but didn't react otherwise.

He was used to this by now.

Lyrax had a habit of slipping into his thoughts whenever she pleased.

"It's different," Jon answered.

"Why?"

"I don't know," Jon admitted. "But it is. At least, it's supposed to be."

Lyrax was silent for a long moment, then finally spoke again.

"That is because you are not a man, but a man-shaped dragon."

Before Jon could respond, Ghost let out a low growl, his fur bristling slightly.

Jon didn't need words to understand what Ghost was thinking. The connection between them was strong enough.

"Jon not dragon. Jon is pack."

Jon exhaled, shaking his head.

"Not this again."

Ghost and Lyrax never spoke to each other, but they felt each other's presence through him, and it was clear they had very different views on what Jon was.

Lyrax saw him as one of her own.

Ghost saw him as part of the pack.

And Jon… Jon wasn't sure what he was.

Before the two could start another silent argument, the sound of approaching footsteps drew Jon's attention.

He turned to see Robb, Grey Wind, and Jory Cassel making their way toward him.

Robb was grinning. "Brooding as always, brother?" He smirked, stepping closer. "At least do it inside so some bard can write a song about the brooding White Wolf."

Jon rolled his eyes and continued scratching behind Ghost's ear, ignoring Robb's teasing.

Robb pulled a small cloth-wrapped bundle from his coat and tossed it to Jon.

Jon caught it, unwrapping the cloth to reveal crispy strips of bacon.

"If you won't celebrate our victory, at least let Ghost enjoy the feast," Robb said.

Ghost's nose twitched as he caught the scent, his red eyes gleaming with interest.

Jon shook his head but tossed the bacon to the direwolf anyway. "You keep spoiling them like this, and they'll get fat."

Robb laughed as Grey Wind snatched a piece for himself. "I'd like to see that. Fat direwolves waddling around Winterfell."

Jory smirked. "That'd be a sight. They'd have to be carried up the stairs like pampered cats."

Jon gave a rare chuckle, watching as the two direwolves devoured the bacon with single-minded focus.

Robb's expression softened as he looked at Jory. "I'm sorry you had to stay back with the reserves. I know you would have rather been on the front lines."

Jory shook his head. "No matter, my lord. I had my fill of glory during the Greyjoy Rebellion." He let out a breath. "Battles aren't like the songs, are they?"

Robb's smile faded slightly.

"No," he admitted. "They aren't."

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the feast still distant in the background.

Finally, Robb turned to Jory. "Go on, enjoy the feast. You don't need to stay here for my sake." He grinned, nudging Jon with his elbow. "I have the mighty White Wolf to protect me."

Jory hesitated, then nodded and made his way back inside.

Robb smirks as he turns to Jon. "Wynafryd was looking for you, I think she wants a dance with the White Wolf."

Jon stretched his legs out and glanced at his brother. "You didn't come here just to talk about Wynafryd, did you?"

Robb's grin widened slightly, but then faded.

He hesitated.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke.

"I've been having dreams."

Jon turned his head fully to face him.

Robb's voice was quieter now. "Strange dreams. Vivid. More real than any dream I've ever had."

Jon remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"I see through his eyes," Robb admitted. "I feel what he feels. I run through the woods, the wind in my fur. I smell the blood of prey before I see it."

He looked at Jon.

"It feels real."

Jon held his brother's gaze.

Because he knew exactly what Robb was talking about.