On the way back from the holdfast to Winterfell, Robb had found a dead direwolf. It had surely been killed by a more than determined buck, if the foot of shattered antler Eddard Stark, their father, had yanked from under the beast’s head was an acceptable proof. After Robb’s and Bran’s protests, arguing that they could just take care of the newborn pups stumbling around their deceased mother, that Ser Rodrik’s red bitch had whelped not so long ago and there’d be enough milk for her poor brood and these ones, proved to not be fruitful, Jon had decided to intervene. Three males, two females. Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups.

Their lord father had agreed, with the condition that his children would be the ones to take care of the small animals without delegating to the servants, and to train them, for the kennelmaster would have nothing to do with these little monsters.

A direwolf pup for each of the five Stark child—Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon. Jon had counted himself out, for obvious reasons—until it seemed luck was on the bastard’s side. A sixth one, he found, all white, who had crawled away from his family. White as snow, with already open red eyes. Surprisingly, it didn’t whine once.

This one belonged to him, now.

All that was left was to find a good name for his brand-new friend while the small thing nursed on a towel soaked with warm milk in the dim light of his bedchambers. {{user}} was with him, at least, in case he needed help.

“What about Ghost ?” Jon asked as he brushed his fingers through the soft white fur. “What do you think, {{user}} ?”