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Chapter Twenty: A Gift from the Gods
The Great Hall of Winterfell buzzed with anticipation, banners swaying gently in the breeze that swept through the open windows. Fires roared in the hearths, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Servants moved swiftly, setting the final preparations for the grand harvest feast.
But before the festivities began, Ned Stark gathered his most trusted bannermen in the council chamber. The long table was filled with lords and ladies whose loyalty to House Stark had weathered countless winters and wars.
To Ned's left sat Robb, unusually quiet, his blue eyes sharp as he observed his father preside over the meeting. Ned had always been proud of his eldest son's strength and courage, but today he saw something different—an emerging understanding of leadership.
To Ned's right sat his brother Benjen, the dependable foundation of their house. His presence, always steady, was a comfort.
Rickard Karstark, Wyman Manderly, Maege Mormont, Jon Umber, Howland Reed, and the chiefs of the mountain clans filled the room, their faces weathered by time and responsibility.
The meeting was going well. Prosperity had spread across the North over the past few years, and there was little to complain about.
Jon Umber, ever boisterous, let out a booming laugh. "Our livestock have grown fatter than ever, Lord Stark. Those Aurochs you bought us were worth every silver stag. Crossbreeding them with our northern cattle was a stroke of genius."
Ned shook his head modestly. "That was my son Jon's idea."
Jon Umber grinned wide, his teeth gleaming through his thick beard. "A sharp mind as fierce as a battle axe! You've raised a fine lad, Ned."
Before Ned could respond, Umber leaned forward conspiratorially. "Speaking of the boy, I've a niece—strong as a bear and twice as clever. I was thinking she and Jon Snow might make a fine match."
Ned opened his mouth to reply, but Wyman Manderly's booming voice cut in.
"Ah, but my two granddaughters are the jewels of White Harbor!" Wyman declared jovially. "Surely one of them would suit the young Snow."
Robb chuckled beside Ned, unable to hide his amusement. He leaned in and whispered, "Jon's never shown much interest in girls, Father."
Ned sighed inwardly, searching for a polite way to decline the offers without offending his bannermen.
Before he could speak, the door to the council chamber opened, and Jon Snow strode in.
The atmosphere shifted immediately.
There was no reason for it—Jon was dressed plainly, his dark hair slightly tousled from the wind, his grey eyes alight with excitement. Yet his very presence seemed to command attention.
Ned noticed how every lord and lady in the room, hardened by years of war and leadership, subtly tensed. It was instinctual, as if they had all sensed the arrival of a predator.
Only Ned, Benjen, and Robb remained unaffected.
Wolfsblood and dragon blood, Ned thought grimly. A potent combination.
Jon Snow was a direwolf among wolves.
"Father," Jon said, his voice steady but tinged with excitement, "the direwolf has given birth."
The lords and ladies visibly relaxed, smiles breaking out at the news. Even Jon Umber grunted appreciatively.
"Good news for the feast!" Wyman Manderly declared, raising his mug of ale.
Ned stood, his heart lightened by the joy in Jon's voice. "Benjen, Robb—come."
Together, they followed Jon out of the council chamber, the cool northern air brushing against their faces as they made their way toward the godswood.
The female direwolf had made her home there since arriving at Winterfell. The kennelmaster, unsure how to care for such a creature, had wisely left her to Jon's care. Not that she required much tending—she was mostly self-sufficient, coming to Jon only when she needed food or companionship.
The godswood was serene, the heart tree standing tall and solemn, its red leaves rustling gently in the breeze. The scent of damp earth and ancient bark filled the air.
As they entered the clearing, Ned saw the direwolf lying on a bed of leaves, nursing a wriggling litter of pups.
Sansa, Bran, Arya, and Dacey Stark were already there, their faces alight with wonder. Arya crouched near the pups, her wild grin mirroring the energy of the young wolves. Sansa sat gracefully beside her, her eyes wide with delight.
Seven pups nestled against their mother, their fur sleek and varied. Ned's breath caught as he counted them: seven.
Exactly the same number as the Stark children.
Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Bran—the children of his blood. Benjen's two, Rickon and Lyanna. And the seventh pup...
Ned's gaze shifted to Jon, standing quietly by the direwolf, his presence steady and sure.
The last pup is his, Ned thought with certainty.
The direwolf lifted her head, eyes gleaming with intelligence as she regarded Ned. There was something ancient in that gaze, something that spoke of the old gods and their mysteries.
Ned felt a chill run down his spine. Was this a sign from the gods?
Dacey knelt beside Jon, her voice filled with wonder. "They're beautiful."
Jon's lips quirked into a rare smile. "She's proud of them."
Ned watched as Jon gently stroked the direwolf's head, the massive beast melting under his touch. The pups wriggled and yipped, their tiny bodies full of life and promise.
Robb knelt beside one of the pups, grinning. "Looks like we've got ourselves a proper pack now."
Benjen chuckled. "A good omen, wouldn't you say?"
Ned nodded slowly, his heart filled with a mixture of awe and gratitude. "Yes. A good omen indeed."
As the pups nuzzled against their mother, Ned couldn't shake the feeling that the gods had indeed spoken.
The Stark children had their wolves.
And Winterfell would never be the same.