Bran(12)
The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. “Easy to say, and harder to do. I willnot have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed themyourselves. Is that understood?”
Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.
“You must train them as well,” their father said. “You must train them. The kennelmaster willhave nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglectthem, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at akick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sureyou want this?”
“Yes, Father,” Bran said.
“Yes,” Robb agreed.
“The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”
“They won’t die,” Robb said. “We won’t let them die.”
“Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It’s time we were back toWinterfell.”
It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet airof victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ridehome. Bran was wondering what to name him.