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Jon had not thought that he would miss the bitter cold of Winterfell and the lands of the North. He had thought that summer would feel good on his skin, thaw out the ice from his veins. But like any Northman, any Stark--even if not in name, the winter called to him. Going south had made him restless and he had sensed some kind of foreboding. He had dismissed it, and he had prayed to the old gods and made his way South.

He wasn't even sure how much time had passed, just that it felt like years but could only be months. Eddard Stark, his father, was dead. He was just a b*****d, but that didn't mean he didn't love his father--as much as Robb did. Ned had treated him right--at times Jon thought he would have done more.

He felt the passing of his father keenly, though everyone expected that Robb felt it more. All eyes from Winterfell would be looking at him. He was their lord now, fresh and young--but a stallion now. No more colt's play at blunted swords.

He'd seen the change in his brother as Ned had ridden south, farther south to a place some called "King's Landing" but carried many other names in the Soquilli lands.

Robb had begun carrying around a sword, and so had he. But when news had come of their father's death, it had fallen to Robb to be strong--to be Lord of Winterfell.

But they weren't in Winterfell, they had come to this...this herd to train at their father's urging. Their siblings to the south and north of them, and rumours abounding of their fates that made his stomach roil .

At night, he wanted to take to hoof and head further south and kill the Lannister's for what they'd done to everything. But Robb was determined to see the training through, and he would stay with his brother for now.

Jon looked out over the warm meadow in front of him. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." He said it over and over again, it was what kept him here with his brother--he couldn't leave him now. Even if his heart was in the south and in Winterfell. He had made a committment to see this out, and then Robb would raise Winterfell.

Already, he was earning a name for himself, "The Young Wolf" and he was "the b*****d". It rankled him more than he liked to let on. They're just words. He kept telling himself. Just words.

"Ghost! To me!" He watched the lanky wolf come back to his side, licking the blood from his nose. He walked back to the camp with the wolf loping at his side. Never before had the words of the Starks seemed more fitting.

The future was uncertain, Bran and Rickon rumoured dead. No idea where Sansa or Arya were. The pack had to survive, his place was here. But even as he thought it, he could feel a chill wind that had no kin to summer.

He'd not expected to learn the meaning of the words so soon. "Winter is coming," he breathed them out letting the wind carry them away.

And it had come, how long it would last was anyone's guess.