The Direwolf Named Ghost I was recently separated from him, another ghost left beyond the wall to search an endless white abyss. A ghost, drifting, alone with the ghosts of murdered Wildlings and Crows, their bodies unburned. Blood stains the dead wood around me but it cannot touch me, it cannot stain a ghost. I think about my owner, the first moment I saw him I could tell he was a ghost, and I think he knew I was too, both of us the ghosts of our kin, unseen, undetected. He calls me this, “Ghost.” I even have the pigment of ghosts as I blend with snowfall. He hides it better in appearance, but his name tells what he is, “Snow.” “Ghost,” we are one and the same, cast out to hunt alone, Valyrian steel, Direwolf fangs, we hunt alone as ghosts, always waiting and watching until the moment we strike, my prey seeing only ghostlike floating red eyes before I bite. A bite from a ghost, normally not deadly but after all I am a different kind of ghost, my bite is lethal, my bite is fatal. 12
The final draft of my first chapbook, submitted for my college poetry course.