Chapter Text
It was cold the day they rode out into the wolfswood.
No colder than usual, because Winter is always coming in the North, but cold enough for Jon to pull his furs tighter around himself when he urged his horse to match the fast pace of Robb's. It chilled down his spine when Robb pulled pup after pup from under the corpse's mass, and froze his veins when Theon made some jape at his expense.
"It's fitting, isn't it? No wolf, only snow for a Snow!"
Theon flung a loosely packed snowball at Jon's chest, but the ice that hit his face felt ike fire compared to the one that settled into his bones.
At least Robb was able to notice his half-brother's sudden silence. Jon was quiet, always had been, but this wasn't like the polite silence he kept when Lady Stark was in the room. He was staring down at the direwolf carcass, looking more solemn than anyone could ever be when holding two wriggling pups in his arms.
Robb plucked one of them up and set it into Bran's eager embrace.
"We should head back," he said, with the lord's voice he'd recently begun to practice.
He carefully mounted his horse (but not before he smacked the back of Theon's head), determined to not crush the the smoke-grey wolf he cradled against him.
Jon followed his example, not bothering to look up from the yellow eyes of the wolf—the smallest of the litter—he had in one arm. She did not fight his grasp, as the black pup that Theon carried did, when he pressed his legs into the side of his horse and sped ahead of the others. She nuzzled against his chest as his steed galloped, pressing her warmth into where he needed it most after being reminded, again, that he was not a Stark and never would be.
Arya was right at his side by the time he'd dismounted and handed the reigns to a stableboy. Their Lord father wasn't far behind them, and the wolf he held out to his youngest daughter drew her away from Jon before she could ask if the one he was holding was his. He could've said yes, could've claimed that she was his and that he really did have a place among the Starks, but anyone could tell that the gentle little pup was meant for the eldest Stark daughter.
Sansa stood a polite distance away—for everything about her was polite—but she moved closer than she ever had before to him when Jon set the wolf into her arms.
"Oh," she sighed in wonder, "Thank you, Jon. She's beautiful."
Sansa looked up from the newly-named Lady and flashed him a smile, the first genuine smile he put on her face. Jon stared at his boots in silence and clenched his fists, willing himself to fight the urge to snatch the wolf out of her arms, to take back the warmth that was already seeping out of him. Lady leaned out of Sansa's embrace to lick his hand, and the wetness against his skin after she pulled away left him the coldest he had ever been.