“Glasses” and “Chicken… cat… thing” had come up in the descriptions, and had been reasonably helpful, but it isn’t enough to go on until he’s sure there’s only one of them, and he spots the man who fits the rest of the description. The only people he has ever known who have wolves like his were his brothers and sisters, but most of his siblings and most of the wolves are gone now. Yet, in the camp, Ghost is no longer unmistakable. It stands to reason that a chicken-cat might not be, either.

As for Ghost, he is not close by. That’s probably for the best, but if Price has noticed Jon before, he’s also probably noticed that a big white direwolf is sometimes with him.

The way the creature cocks its head at Jon puts him in mind of one of Maester Aemon’s ravens… or, now that he is gone, and the Starks have retaken Winterfell, Wolkan. Both gentle men who fed the birds the raw meat that was needful.

He offers his arm to clasp in greeting, knowing that most people will take his hand to shake: a difference in expectation, but one that doesn’t matter much, when both can mean friendship. “I’m Jon Snow. I’m sorry to say, I’m seeking your aid.”