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Melisandre continued to tend to the direwolf's grievous injuries long after Ned and the rest of the Northern entourage had disappeared in the horizon towards Winterfell.
She meticulously cleaned the deep wounds, poured medicinal liquids on the wolf's wounds from her steel vials and applied a thick paste of bundled herbs on the torn flesh. There were fleeting moments when the massive beast's body would shudder and twitch, but aside from those involuntary spasms, she showed no real signs of life or improvement. But it was still a ray of hope that the wolf was still alive.
Jon, meanwhile, was sitting quietly against the thick roots of an ancient and a very massive tree. Though he had a calm and neutral expression plastered on his face, his heart was chaotic and churning almost violently with anxiety about the direwolf's condition.
Ghost was huddled tightly against Jon's legs. Though the white white pup was playful at times, he remained surprisingly subdued and not overly chaotic for a newborn creature. Occasionally, the tiny wolf would wander over toward his mother, but upon seeing Melisandre working diligently over the bloody snow, he would let out a soft whimper and scurry back to the safety of Jon's boots.
"Lord Aeos," Melisandre finally spoke, wiping her bloodstained hands on a cloth. "I have done all I can. The injury to her neck was deep. Though the antler miraculously missed her vital organs, she is grievously wounded. She has lost far too much blood."
"My treatments have bought her some time," she continued, her voice soft but absolute. "But whether she survives this night depends entirely upon fate and her own will. If she fights hard enough, if her spirit is strong enough to keep her in this world, she might pass through the phase and live."
Jon did not respond. Melisandre let out a weary sigh and gracefully settled onto the cold ground beside him.
She reached out and patted Ghost a couple of times, which the white pup obediently allowed. But when she attempted to stroke his fur a third time, he let out a ferocious little snarl, baring his tiny teeth at her. Or, at least, it was meant to be ferocious. To Melisandre, it was entirely cute and endearing.
"My, my," she chuckled in gentle amusement, pulling her hand back. "Aren't you a dangerous little thing?"
Even so, she respected the direwolf's boundaries and did not tease him further.
"Fate? Huh," Jon muttered under his breath, breaking the long silence.
Melisandre turned to look at him. The expression on his face had not changed, but her keen instincts told her that a heavy current of thought was pulling at his mind.
"What do you mean, My Lord?" She questioned quietly.
Jon did not reply. Instead, he got up and approached the direwolf. Melisandre watched him intently in complete silence. She was wondering what he was trying to do?
Jon knelt on the ground just next to the wolf and placed his right hand on her soft but bloody fur, stroking through it. He could feel the slight tremble of her stomach with every breath the direwolf was taking. A few moments later, he closed his eyes and concentrated.
"Trying to warg inside her?" Melisandre mumbled with raised eyebrows to herself. "What are you trying to achieve?"
Jon, meanwhile, was inside the direwolf's mind. He could not see anything. Her eyes were closed in her unconscious state.
He could only feel the tremendous amount of pain and agony that the wolf was undergoing. Warging did not actually make him feel the physical pain that the direwolf was feeling, but it allowed him to fully comprehend what she was experiencing.
And she was struggling. She was trying to hold on to whatever strength was left inside her to fight off the death that was clawing at her. Jon was able to feel everything. And she was not winning the battle. She was losing. She was succumbing to her injuries, and death was slowly creeping toward her.
Jon did not know why, but something snapped inside him at that moment. He had warged inside her with the intention to flare up her will to live. To help her come out of this tumultuous time.
It was a sudden, instinctive realization. He did not know what he was doing or why he was doing it. He was just acting on it. It was a call from his bloodline.
The gifts he had received from that unknown entity had granted him access to his bloodline powers. But for whatever reason, he had not yet been able to access the full extent of his Stark heritage.
At the start, he had only been able to access warging from the Stark lineage. Then, when he fought the chief warlock at Qarth and his life had been in danger, he accessed the power to wield the ice magic of the Starks. But even then, he had not been able to unlock the power of greenseeing.
But now, that very lineage, that ancient bloodline, was calling out to him. But it was not the power of greenseeing that was awakening or he gaining control of. It was something else.
A layer of frost began to emerge from his hand that had been stroking through the fur of the direwolf. The layer of ice was very thin, and it began to spread along the body of the direwolf.
Melisandre, who had been merely watching in silence, stood up abruptly. An expression of shock, nervousness, and fright was plastered on her face, and her eyes widened.
"Lord Aeos," she called out, rushing towards Jon.
"What are you doing?" She questioned, her voice filled almost with horror. "This will kill her. Her body is already suffering from a fever. And even if she is a direwolf, an animal of the cold and chill, if you encase her in ice, her body will burn even more and she will succumb."
But Jon was in a trance. He did not hear what she was saying. He was lost within himself. And though Melisandre wanted to pull Jon's hands away from the body of the direwolf, for whatever reason, she did not do so.
Lord Aeos was the sort of person who could come up with an unconventional method to achieve anything. Even so, she watched everything in a very tense silence.
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