Benjen Stark had always trusted instinct more than steel. Instinct told him where to look for tracks in new snow. Instinct warned him when a shadow shifted wrong, or when silence wasn't silence but the breathing of something hidden.
And right now, instinct should be screaming.
A full-grown direwolf—a creature out of songs and children's tales—was leading him deeper into the white wilds north of the Wall. Alone. Dusk falling. A storm not far behind.
This was madness.
And yet... he followed.
Not just followed. Willingly. Step after careful step. No blade drawn, no threat bristling in his bones. He felt wary—of course—but not afraid. Not even tense.
Why aren't you afraid?
The question gnawed at him more than the cold did. His fingers curled tighter around the grip of his sword. Not drawn yet. But close.
"You're a fool," he muttered to himself. "Following a bloody wolf like it knows the way to supper."
The direwolf glanced back once, eyes catching his with that unnerving calm, then continued on—its form nearly melting into the snowstorm that brewed ahead.
Benjen cursed under his breath but kept walking.
There were no prints behind the creature. No deep indentations in the snow. The only reason he could even track it was the flash of silver-gray fur and golden eyes flicking between tree trunks and frost-shattered stone.
Soon, the terrain changed.
The trees grew thinner, barer. The wind eased. And then, between two dead trees, the wolf disappeared behind a low, icy ridge.
Benjen reached the top and froze.
Below him, tucked into the curve of a shallow hollow, stood the weirwood tree again—or at least, another. Smaller. Younger. Its leaves still clung, though frost-rimmed. The red sap from its carved eyes had frozen into long tears.
And at the base of the tree, nestled between two bodies—a direwolf and a human child.
Benjen blinked, as if snow had tricked his eyes.
The first direwolf—the one that had led him—was already back in the hollow, now nuzzling a smaller wolf pup that curled protectively around something swaddled in furs.
No—not furs.
Cloth. Blankets. Linen. Human cloth.
A baby.
Benjen stepped forward slowly. The snow muffled all sound but his breathing. The large direwolf looked up at him again—silent, still. Protective. But not aggressive.
"You're not going to like this," he whispered. "But I need a closer look."
No reaction.
He took one step, then another.
The mother wolf stood like a statue, her pup tense beside her, but neither made a move to attack. The cold burned his face, the wind catching on the bare skin of his cheek where the scarf had fallen loose.
And yet... something warm hung in the air.
Is that even possible? he thought. Warmth. Out here?
He knelt, slowly, one hand open, unthreatening.
The baby didn't cry. Its cheeks were flushed from cold, but not blue. Not frostbitten. Alive. Somehow—still warm. The pup at its side licked its tiny hand once, as if to soothe it. And the babe moved. It reached up, fingers curled, eyes fluttering open for the briefest moment.
Dark eyes. Not northern gray.
Benjen exhaled a long, slow breath.
He looked at the mother direwolf. She didn't move. Her breath steamed softly from her muzzle, rising like a mist toward the weirwood's face.
"Where did you find this child?" he asked.
Silence.
But his gut told him the answer wasn't far. Not in distance, but time. Recently. Whoever left the baby had meant for it to die—or had no other choice. But the wolves... they had stayed.
Protected it.
The mother wolf stepped back slightly now, almost as if giving him permission.
Benjen reached down and lifted the child, gently. It was heavier than he expected. Breathing. Fragile. Alive.
The moment he touched it—something shifted.
Not around him. In him.
Like a thread had tightened between his heart and this tiny, nameless soul.
He swallowed.
There were rules. He knew them well. The Night's Watch took no wives, fathered no children, raised no babes. They were men of the Wall, not fathers of the realm.
And yet...
He looked into the baby's face and knew.
I can't leave this one behind.