It was the dead of winter when the howling began.
North of Winterfell, deeper into the Wolfswood, the air turned strange—too still. No wind. No birds. Only the echo of silence and the faint sound of snow crunching under weightless steps.
Jon Snow had ridden out with Theon and Robb to track a missing hound.
They found something else.
> Six direwolf pups.
And one more.
While Robb and Theon argued about omens, and Jon cradled the smallest of the litter—a white runt with red eyes—Köinzell watched from a distance, unseen, standing by the trees.
> "An albino," Jon whispered. "He's not like the others."
The pup growled softly in his arms, but didn't resist.
> "He's mine."
The moment Jon made that decision, Köinzell felt it—a strange shift in the air, a ripple in the ether.
> This wolf… is bound to him. Not by blood, but by soul.
Later that night, Köinzell summoned the Aetherbane Fang in secret.
He placed the blade flat against the ground, channeling its sensing field.
The result came back as a sharp whisper through his mind:
> "Old magic. Bound bloodlines. A soul linked to fate."
Köinzell's brows furrowed.
The Wall stirred with whispers from beyond.
Something ancient was waking.
And Jon's soul was beginning to echo with a silent roar.