The King of Winters

Chapter 48

Andrew

He found Ghost atop the hill, as he thought he might. The white wolf never howled, yet something drew him to the heights all the same, and he would squat there on his hindquarters, hot breath rising in a white mist as his red eyes drank the stars.

"Are you watching the stars again?" Andrew asked, as he went to one knee beside the direwolf and scratched the thick white fur on his neck. He pointed to his family looking down upon them from the night sky. "You see that? There's father and mother and we both are there." Ghost licked his face, his rough wet tongue rasping against the his cheeks where Joy had once kissed everyday. What would've she said if he'd shown her Ghost? he wondered. She would've loved him, he thought. It was not in Joy to hate anyone, even those who hate her. "Ghost," he said quietly, "It's time. It's time to get our justice for mother and father and Joy. There's no steps here, no cage-and-crane, no way for me to get you to the other side. We have to part. Do you understand?"

In the dark, the direwolf's red eyes looked black. He nuzzled at Andrew's neck, silent as ever, his breath a hot mist. Old Nan might've called Andrew Stark a warg, but if so he was a poor one. He did not know how to put on a wolf skin, the way men in her stories had with the birds of the sky and creatures of the deep. Once Andrew had dreamed that he was Ghost, looking down upon the Wolfswood and hunting alone, and that dream had turned out to be true. But he was not dreaming now, and that left him only words.

"You cannot come with me," Andrew said, cupping the wolf's head in his hands and looking deep into those eyes. "Stay close to Winterfell. Do you understand? Winterfell. Once I'm inside and had my chance I'll open the gates for you. I will meet you again at Winterfell, but you have to get there by yourself. We must each hunt alone for a time. Alone."

The direwolf twisted free of Andrew's grasp, his ears pricked up. And suddenly he was bounding away. He loped through a tangle of brush, leapt a deadfall, and raced down the hillside, a pale streak among the trees. Off to Winterfell? Andrew wondered. Or off after a hare? He wished he knew. He feared he might prove just as poor a warg as a son and a lover.

A wind sighed through the trees, rich with the smell of pine needles, tugging at his white jacket. Andrew could see the grey walls of Winterfell looming high and dark to the south, a great shadow blocking out the stars. The rough hilly ground made him think he must be somewhere between the Great keep and armoury, and likely closer to the fight. For days they had been wending their way around Winterfell, hiding between trees and fresh fallen snows that covered the forest floors, while flint ridges and pine-clad hills jostled against one another to either side. Such ground made for slow riding, but offered easy concealment for those wishing to approach Winterfell unseen.

Beyond those grey walls lay Winterfell, and everything he had held dear once. He had been born the firstborn and only son of King Eddard Stark and Queen Ashara Dayne, had grown up as their son until Rhaegar Targaryen took them away from him, and by rights he should be up there fighting for it against those who sullied his home. He should be raising the banners of the north to rouse his people to arms. He might go to them, castle after castle, to the Umbers, the Karstarks, the Manderlys calling them to fight, but what would that accomplish? No one would hear him. They might laugh straight to his face at that. His father had once said that every road in the north will lead to home. That had been true once, when his father and mother was still alive. Then every place they went there had been people to offer their homes and hospitality. It had felt home. But without father and mother even the familiar Wolfswood did not feel so familiar now. He felt as if he did not belong here even in the north where his father once ruled, as if he did not belong anywhere.

I should have killed Rhaegar Targaryen in Braavos, even if it meant my life. That was what father would have done. But Andrew had ran for his life that day, and the chance passed. And what did you get for such a bold act? The death of Joy, the woman you loved. He told himself that he was only biding his time, that when the moment came he would raise the north in his father's name. The moment never came.