Snow had begun to fall again, soft and soundless, as Jacaerys Velaryon rode through the dense pinewood at the edge of Winterfell’s northern forest. His breath fogged before him in the fading light, and beside him, Lord Cregan Stark sat tall and silent in the saddle, his furs dusted white, as much a part of the North as the trees that surrounded them.

Their hunting trip had been fruitless, or perhaps deliberately slow, Jace could not tell. These northern rides were often more about words left unsaid than the prey they never caught. Still, he found Cregan to be a quiet, steady presence, unlike the oily courtiers of King’s Landing or the proud lords of the Vale and Reach. And in the weeks since he’d arrived, Jacaerys had grown used to the Northern lord's cold silences and occasional sharp glances, they said more than most men's speeches.

He’d expected to stay for a night. Two, at most. Secure Lord Stark’s fealty to Queen Rhaenyra, then return to Dragonstone on Vermax’s wings. But Cregan had not given him an answer. Not a yes. Not a no. Only, “Stay a while, Prince.” And so he had.

That night, the forest was unnaturally quiet. Jacaerys slowed his horse suddenly, frowning. He raised a gloved hand, signaling to stop. Behind him, Cregan turned in the saddle. “What is it, my prince?”

Jacaerys said nothing at first. Then he tilted his head, sharp as a hawk listening for prey. “I heard something,” he muttered.

Jace had already dismounted. He stepped through the thick brush, snow crunching underfoot. He parted the leaves. There, curled beside the gnarled roots of a pine, was a small creature cloaked in snow and blood. Pale-grey fur, matted and damp.

“…That’s a direwolf,” Jacaerys breathed. he knelt slowly, removing his glove. His hand, bare to the cold, extended gently toward the creature.

The direwolf stared at him, wary and wild. Then, after a long breathless moment, it touched its nose to his palm. Just once.

In that instant, something unseen stirred. Not just between man and beast, something older. Deeper. A breath across time. A memory not his own.

The direwolf let out a trembling exhale and leaned into his touch. Jacaerys looked down at the creature. Its flank bore a shallow wound, the blood already darkening in the cold.

He smiled faintly. “its a girl. And She’s hurt. But she’s strong.” Cregan just nodded slowly.

Weeks had passed since Jacaerys brought the direwolf back to Winterfell. She had healed well under his care, though she remained wary of most others, except him. She would sleep by his feet every night, her fur warm against the cold stone floors of the ancient keep.

In the prince’s chamber, the fire still burned. Its flame danced softly in the hearth, casting shadows on the walls, but its warmth was faint. Jacaerys lay in his large, cold bed, wrapped in furs, the direwolf curled as always at his feet.

Everything was as it should be. Or it should have been. Until that sound came. Rustle… rustle…

Soft. Like the quiet steps of something light. Jacaerys stirred, eyes opening halfway in the haze between sleep and waking. The sound could’ve been the fire. Or perhaps his direwolf’s breath.

He shifted slightly. Then opened his eyes fully. And his heart nearly stopped.

The direwolf was gone. Not by the corner of the bed. Not anywhere in the room. No sign of her, not even tracks on the cold stone floor. And no blood. No violence. Just... absence.

And worse, he was not alone in the room. A thief. Or so Jace thought.

He saw her. A girl, slim and pale-skinned, with wild, ash-grey hair that fell over her bare shoulders, barely concealed by a blanket hastily wrapped around her form.

Jacaerys sprang up from the bed. His hand reached instinctively for the dagger by his bedside, but it wasn’t there. His eyes remained locked on her.

A quick glance around the room. Still no sign of the direwolf. Her absence was more frightening than the strange girl’s presence. What had this intruder done to his direwolf? “Who are you?!” His voice was rough, hoarse. “How did you... get in here?”