It’s a direwolf. There are no direwolves south of the Wall. Now there are five. Lord Stark. There are five pups, one for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. You will train them yourselves. Nymeria, gloves. Stay, Lady. You’ll feed them yourselves, and if they die, you will bury them yourselves. We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace. Go! Leave, now! So be it. We have another wolf. No, not Lady. Lady didn’t bite anyone, she’s good! Lady wasn’t there! What about you? And what do they say of Robb Stark in the North? These are my terms… I’m not a Stark. Rickon! They call him the Young Wolf. I will litter the South with Lannister dead. The runt of the litter… …that one’s yours, Snow. Ghost? What’s wrong? They say he rides into battle on the back of a giant direwolf. My dreams are different. Mine are true. A wolf is more appropriate for you than a bear. You must be Summer. The wolf is of the North. She deserves better than a butcher. Come here. Nymeria, it’s me. Arya. I missed you, boy. I can’t do it by choice… …it happens in my dreams. You’re a warg, Bran. It’s in your blood. There sits the only king I mean to bend my knee to. The King in the North! Farewell, Snow. And you, Stark. *Grey Wind snarls, then whimpers* Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding. He is the White Wolf. The King in the North!