[There are two characters, Jamie Lannister and Theon Greyjoy about whom I am still undecided. And I want my readers to give their opinion regarding this. Do you want both these characters to have some sort of redemption?]
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The entourage reached the hills where the deserter of the Night's Watch had been captured. The man was in a pitiful condition and had almost gone insane. He had lost a few of his fingers and one of his ears to frostbite. He neither resisted his capture nor tried to save himself from execution.
"White Walkers! White Walkers!" This was the only thing the man would mumble.
Jon remained silent. He knew the man was speaking the truth. White Walkers were a reality that were coming to bite the world very soon.
But Jon made no move to save the deserter. He was hardly mentally stable, and given how badly the cold had ravaged his body, it would be impossible for him to ever live a normal life.
Melisandre, too, probably knew the truth. Although Jon had never spoken with her about the White Walkers, he had his reasons to believe that she was aware of them. The prophecy she believed in was most likely linked to this.
The man's head was pressed down against the block.
"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 the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die," Ned said.
He lifted the greatsword high above his head, and with a swift swing of the massive Valyrian steel blade Ice, Ned beheaded the man. The head rolled and came to a halt right in front of Theon's boots. The Greyjoy let out a cruel grin and kicked the head away.
"We should go," Ned said, handing the bloodied sword back to Jory Cassel.
They mounted their horses and began their journey back to Winterfell. They were travelling in a heavy silence, which was eventually broken by Ned Stark.
"Are you well, Bran?" He asked, not unkindly.
"Yes, Father," Bran told him.
"Do you understand why I did it?" Ned questioned after a moment of pause.
"He was a wildling," Bran said. "They carry off women and sell them to the Others."
"Old Nan has been telling you stories again," Ned replied. "In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile."
"But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it?" Ned said.
Bran had no answer for that.
"King Robert has a headsman," he said, uncertainly.
"He does," Ned admitted. "As did the Targaryen kings before him."
"Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."
"If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."
Ned then spoke to Bran of the future, of the day he would stand as Robb's bannerman and the heavy duty of delivering justice that would one day fall to him. Of the great responsibility she would have on her shoulders. But Jon's mind was far from the conversation beside him. A few moments later, they reached the sight he had been anticipating for so long.
A massive beast lay sprawled in the centre of the road. Blood pooled from a fatal wound beneath its neck, and another deep gash tore across its stomach. Huddled beside the dead mother were tiny, squirming shapes, pups with grey fur and their eyes still sealed shut. Five of them.
Jon's gaze swept the scene, but he did not immediately spot the white pup. If fate had not been altered, his direwolf would be trapped beneath the mother's immense corpse.
"Gods!" Theon exclaimed. "What is that?"
Their horses whinnied and did not remain steady given the scene and the size of the beast before them. Only Jon's and Melisandre's mounts remained perfectly steady.
Jon did not wait for the others to process the sight. His patience had finally run out. He spurred his horse and shot forward.
"Jon!" Ned bellowed, but Jon did not stop.
Ned spurred his own horse in pursuit, with the rest of the party quickly following suit. Bran, too, pushed his pony to its limits, desperate to see.
"What in the seven hells is it?" Theon questioned as they got closer.
"A wolf," Robb replied.
"A freak," Theon countered. "Look at the size of it."
"It's no freak," Jon said calmly, dismounting from his horse. "That is a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind."
"There has not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years," Theon remarked.
"I see a few now," Jon replied.
He bent down and picked up two of the pups. Robb and Bran closed the distance while Ned and the guards halted a few paces back, realizing the mother was dead and posed no threat.
Robb gathered the remaining pups, and handed them to Bran who wrapped them in his cloak. Jon passed the two he held over to Robb.
While Ned, Robb, Theon, and Jory argued over the fate of the pups, Jon stepped closer to the mother's massive body. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, thumping with a fierce anticipation. The last time he had felt such a surge of emotion was when his dragons had hatched. He knelt in the blood and frost, peering beneath the mother's bulk.
There he was. A tiny ball of white fur, pressed tight against the cold corpse. A quiet sigh of relief escaped Jon's lips. Yet, he still did not reach for him.
He turned his attention back to Robb and Bran. They were losing the argument. Theon was standing with an unsheathed knife in his hand, ready to snatch a pup from Bran to do the bloody work. Easy and quick death instead of pain and suffering because of the harsh climate and other predators of the wild.
Bran was near tears, pleading with his father. Robb too appeared hopeless. It seemed fate still required Jon to give a gentle push for the Stark children to claim their wolves.
"Lord Stark," Jon said.
All eyes shifted towards him. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. Even Robb's eyes had turned hopeful.
"There are five pups," Jon said. "Three male, two female."
"What of it, Jon?" Ned questioned.
"You have five children," Jon said. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."
Ned remained silent, but there was a shift in his expression. He finally let out a deep breath. He had relented.
"If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?" Ned questioned.
Bran nodded eagerly, a look of pure, genuine joy forming on his face. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licking at his cheek with a warm tongue.
"You must train them as well," Ned continued. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that."
"And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, 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?" He questioned, letting the gravity of his words settle.
"And if they die, you will bury them yourselves," he added.
Though Bran and Robb shuddered slightly at the mention of pups' death, they both nodded eagerly. The sheer delight radiating from their faces could not be dimmed.
"We should go," Jory Cassel prompted.
Ned nodded, and the rest of the party began to turn back toward their horses. Jon, however, did not follow. Instead, he stepped back toward the fallen beast.
"Jon!" Ned called out, pausing when he saw the younger man lingering.
Jon did not reply. He knelt in the snow and reached beneath the massive, unmoving body and pulled the final pup. White as snow. Ghost.
The pup opened his eyes. They were deep, piercing blood-red. He instinctively pressed himself against Jon's chest, snuggling into the warmth of his arms. A profound and unexplainable sense of satisfaction settled over Jon. The myriad of emotions he was feeling now was hard to put in words.
"It seems I have found one for myself," Jon remarked softly, cradling the white ball of fur.
A rare, genuine smile blossomed on Ned's face.
"You have Stark blood in your veins as well," Ned said gently.
Jon did not voice a reply, merely offering a brief nod before turning to carry his newfound companion toward his horse.
"Lord Aeos," Melisandre's voice halted him in his tracks.
Jon turned around to see the red priestess kneeling at the head of the massive direwolf. Her pale hands were wrapped around the jagged, splintered stag's antler that was deeply embedded in the beast's neck.
"She still lives," Melisandre remarked, her crimson eyes lifting to meet his eyes. "The mother is alive."
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