The morning after the duel dawned clear and crisp. Gadriel stirred from his bed, rolling his shoulders as the stiffness of the night faded from his muscles. His thoughts went back to the fight in the torchlit training ground, to the Hound's furious strikes and the crowd's roaring approval. It had been no true contest—at least not for him—but he had made it into a show, and that seemed enough for the king and the gathered lords.
Rising, Gadriel crossed to the small table where his gear lay neatly arranged. He removed the short iron sword he had carried for the duel and slid it into his enchanted satchel, the blade vanishing into the unseen space within. From the same bag, he drew forth the Ebony Blade. Its long, black edge gleamed faintly in the morning light, its presence dark and heavy in his hand. He studied it for a moment, weighing the decision. Dawnbreaker, radiant and unmistakable, would draw far too many questions. But the Ebony Blade, sinister though it was, could pass as little more than a foreign sword.
He fastened it to his hip, the weight settling familiarly against him. Then, reaching for his cloak, he pulled it over his shoulders, concealing most of his armor. He chose to remain in his lighter leather-and-iron armor rather than donning his dragonbone plate; the latter would turn too many heads in Winterfell's yard. Better to remain unassuming.
Stepping out into the courtyard, Gadriel turned toward the archery grounds. The morning air was cool, the sky streaked with pale blue and soft gray clouds. He picked up one of the training bows left propped against a rack, drawing back the string experimentally. The wood creaked beneath the pull, but it was serviceable enough. He nocked an arrow and loosed it toward a straw target, watching the shaft strike wide. He wasn't here for his own practice, after all.
Bran would not arrive for some time, and so Gadriel passed the hour shooting idly, observing how the crude bows of the North differed from the finely made ones he had seen in Skyrim. His arrows struck true when he cared to focus, but more often he let them drift, lost in thought.
At last, he spotted Bran hurrying across the yard, bow in hand, cheeks flushed from the morning air. The boy's eyes shone with excitement.
"Gadriel!" Bran called as he came closer. "You were incredible last night! I've never seen anyone fight like that. Even Robb said you were quicker than he thought possible."
Gadriel smirked faintly at the boy's enthusiasm. "I thank you, Bran. but today, you are here to practice." He tapped the training bow against his palm. "And that is what matters."
Bran straightened, a touch sheepish, but nodded. Gadriel led him to a smaller target set farther down the range, one rarely used by the other boys.
"You've done well hitting the nearer marks," Gadriel explained. "Now we test your eye and your patience. This one will not fall to chance. Steady hands, steady breath."
Bran bit his lip, raising his bow. His first few arrows flew wide, clattering into the dirt or skimming past the target's edge. But slowly, shot by shot, he drew closer. After some time, an arrow struck the very outer ring of the straw circle. Bran exhaled a sharp breath of triumph, only to find the next several arrows stubbornly landing in the same place, never closer to the center.
By the end of the hour, his arm trembled from the strain, his brow damp with sweat. He lowered the bow at last, discouraged.
"I can't do it," he muttered. "No matter how I aim, it won't go where I want."
Gadriel knelt beside him, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Bran, listen well. You struck the target. Not once, but many times. That is skill. A lucky shot to the bull's-eye teaches nothing, but consistency—" he tapped the boy's bow "—consistency is the mark of a true archer. Be proud of that."
Bran's expression brightened, a smile tugging at his lips. "Do you really think so?"
"I do," Gadriel said firmly. "You've done well enough for today."
The boy thanked him, his spirits lifted, before scampering off toward the keep. Gadriel watched him go with a small smile of his own, satisfied.
As he turned to leave, a voice called out. "You are Gadriel, I presume?"
An old man approached, his long gray beard swaying against the heavy chain draped about his neck. The chain's many links glinted in the light, each of a different metal.
"Yes, I am Gadriel," he replied. "And who are you, if I may ask?"
"I am Maester Pycelle," the man said, bowing his head slightly. "Lord Eddard Stark has requested your presence. If you would follow me, I shall lead you to him."
Curious, Gadriel fell into step beside him. "Tell me, Maester—what exactly is your station? And do you know why Lord Stark wishes to see me?"
Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A maester is a servant of the realm, sworn to counsel lords and keep knowledge, to heal, to advise. Each link in my chain marks a discipline studied and mastered at the Citadel. As for Lord Stark's summons, I cannot say. But I doubt it is anything untoward."
They walked on in silence for a few moments, Gadriel filing away the explanation with interest. Soon they arrived at a quiet chamber in the keep. Pycelle bowed once more before departing.
Gadriel knocked.
"Enter," came Eddard Stark's voice from within.
He stepped inside. The Lord of Winterfell stood at a table strewn with maps and papers. He gestured for the door to be closed, and Gadriel obliged.
"I must congratulate you on your duel," Eddard said, his tone steady but not without the faintest curve of a smile. "Few expected you to stand against Sandor Clegane, let alone to bring him down."
"It was a fluke," Gadriel replied with a shrug. "I was lucky."
"Perhaps," Eddard said, though his eyes betrayed the faintest trace of amusement. "Yet striking the Hound unconscious, even briefly, is no small feat. You have earned more notice than you may realize."
"My thanks, my lord," Gadriel said, inclining his head with the courtesy expected of him.
"The king," Eddard continued, "was greatly entertained. He insists on rewarding you. He has asked that you join his hunting party when he rides out later today."
Gadriel paused, surprised, then inclined his head again. "I would be honored."
"Good," Eddard said simply. "A servant will fetch you when it is time."
With that, Gadriel bowed, then turned and left the chamber.
As he stepped back into the corridor, the thought of the hunt lingered in his mind. He had not loosed an arrow in true pursuit since leaving Skyrim. The prospect stirred something in him—a mix of curiosity and anticipation. Perhaps this reward would be a welcome change.
And with that thought, Gadriel made his way back to his quarters, awaiting whatever the day might bring.