By the time the sun climbed high enough to burn the last of the morning mist from Winterfell's fields, Gadriel had made the small room feel like a place of business. He stripped off the boiled leather and iron he had worn for the duel and packed the Ebony Blade back into his enchanted satchel. No use for it among the huntsmen.
For the hunt he dressed simply: soft animal skins, a fur-lined jerkin, sturdy boots that would not betray him on rough ground. It was practical garb, meant to keep him warm and quiet rather than mark him out as anything other than another hunter. From the bag he drew a long, serviceable spear—plain ash haft, iron tip—more useful at close quarters with a boar than a sword. He also took a keen knife and a whetstone, the blade whispering sharpness when he ran the stone along its edge. It was not the glamour of a named sword, but it would skin, gut, and feed a dozen men if called to the task.
He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, eating the jerky he had dried himself, reading over the neat lines in his journal: observations of plants, a few sketches of bow stances he wanted to show Bran later, and a short note on the duel—what he had done, and why he had chosen to make the match a show. He rolled the page shut and swept up his gear when a gentle knock tapped the door.
"Come in," he called.
A young servant girl entered, cheeks flushed from the cold. "My lord said to fetch you for the hunt. Meet the party at the gate, please."
Gadriel nodded, shouldered his pack, and followed her out into the yard. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, bright with the promise of a clear day. At the gate Lord Eddard stood, Robb at his side; both looked ready in riding leathers, their faces composed in the way of men who knew the North.
"My lord," Gadriel murmured, inclining his head and falling into the formality he had learned to carry.
"Gadriel," Ned said, a brief nod that meant more than ceremony. "We were waiting for the king." His voice held no impatience. "He'll be with us presently."
Gadriel answered nothing more than a quiet, "Very well," and fell into position beside the Starks. They stood a small company—stewards, a few men-at-arms, and the party of Winterfell—waiting as the road yawned open beyond the gate.
It did not take long. The king's party thundered up the path, banners snapping, horses steaming. Robert rode at the front, broad as a ship's hull, his face flushed and laughing. Close by, Prince Joffrey lurked—a boy with a curl of annoyance already set about his mouth. The king's greeting was exactly as Gadriel had watched before: frank, loud, and full of old ease.
"Ned!" Robert boomed as he reined his horse to a stop. He swung off his mount with a wrestler's motion and clapped Eddard on the back so heartily that Ned rocked a fraction. "Gods, the North has been good to you—looks like you fed well on the winter bread." He slapped his knee and laughed at his own joke.
Eddard's reply was dry and mild. "It has kept the wolves from the door."
Robert grinned at that and turned to take in the other hunters. His gaze fell on Gadriel with the same blunt curiosity that had followed him since the duel. "And who is this? The man who knocked my Hound nearly senseless?" he called, voice rolling across the clearing.
Gadriel stepped forward and bowed. "Gadriel Dovahkiin, my lord. It is an honor to join the hunt."
Robert's laugh was a great thing to hear. You showed teeth yesterday. I'll not soon forget it." He looked then to Ned. "Get on with it, Ned. Let's kill something before my belly starts to complain."
Ned inclined his head. "Aye," he said. "We should be off."
They rode out as the king led them into the forest. The air closed around them—pines and the scrub of the northern wood. Gadriel kept pace near Robb, while Joffrey lagged between them, acting as if the world offended him in its very greenness. The king rode with ease, telling a string of tales in the way of old soldiers: boasts of sieges, dead friends raised as jokes, war recounted as if it were a parade of excellent food.
Curiosity pulled at Gadriel, and when a convenient silence opened, he asked, "My lord—what will we hunt? Any particular quarry?"
Robert's eyes brightened with a childlike hunger. "Anything with horns or bristles, so long as it bleeds. Deer, boar, elk—if we find it. A hunt is a hunt." He slapped his thigh. "Better yet, make a game of it. See who can take the most in an hour. The King and Eddard Stark against —Robb, Joffrey, and you."
The idea struck him with the neatness of a plan. Gadriel considered Robb beside him, the boy's mouth already set with the stern concentration of a young lord, and glanced at Joffrey's sulk. "If it pleases Your Grace," he said, "I would suggest that. Make it more sport than hunting for trophy. We meet back at this gate in one hour."
Robert's laugh thundered. "A fine notion! A wager without coin—just pride and the carcass. You've spirit, lad. I like that.
With that they split: Gadriel, Robb, and Joffrey to one side of the track; Ned and Robert on the other.
They moved deeper into the wood. Robb proved quick with his eyes; his movements were measured where Joffrey's were careless. The prince grumbled and stamped often, but his feet found the track well enough. Gadriel rode with easy balance—speared slung across his back, spearhead sheathed just below it, knife at his thigh. He listened to Robb speak in short turns between pushing brush aside, learning something of the elder Stark's mind—how he watched the weather, how his hand found the bow's string with steadiness. The talk was spare but honest; Gadriel liked the boy's temper as much as his aim.
Joffrey said little except to snap a remark now and then, eyes darting with irritation. He seemed more focused on the convenience of being seen to move than on the hunt itself.
They found tracks within the half hour. Fresh hoofprints plunged into soft earth—big, and heavy. They followed the tracks and found the stag. Robb halted and pointed, drawing his bow with long practiced hands. He loosed, and the arrow flew true; the buck stumbled and fell, struck through the chest. Robb's face eased into something like satisfaction. "Eleven points," he said quietly, as if stating a fact. He dismounted deftly and ran to his quarry.
It was a fine stag—tall, big-antlered and still warm. The weight of the antlers told the story of years. Robb's arrow had done the work, but the care with which he approached it—kneeling, whispering a few curt words—was the mark of a true hunter.
They pressed on. The wood grew thicker and the understory tangled, and with the scent of blood in the air their mouths grew dry. Joffrey's steps carried him haughtily through, but it was Gadriel who found the boar. He heard rather than saw it first—a snuffle and a grunt, then the crash of a snout through bracken. The beast charged, a black, bristled mass of anger and power.
Gadriel braced. Spear in hand, he let the boar come—the beast's shoulder slammed into the haft, wood shuddering. With a steady foot and a hard drive he planted the tip through hide and into the heart. The boar's body convulsed; it reared and spun, tusks flashing, but the spear held. Gadriel twisted the shaft, kept it steady while Robb closed tin finish the kill. The animal fell with a heavy thud, the forest briefly still save for the rattle of leaves.
"Good work," Robb said, clapping him on the shoulder once. Joffrey watched from a step back, face pinched, as if some small indignity had been done to his pride by Gadriel's competence.
They carried the boar and the stag between them, a task that slowed them but did not wear them out. Gadriel took his share of the weight, though it would have been less work for him than for most. He kept his effort even, saying nothing, letting Robb and the others talk while he listened.
On the return track they spotted another pair of kills—Ned and Robert had taken an eight-point buck and a doe. The king grinned as they came into view, his voice already loud with congratulation and mock complaint.
"By the Seven, you all did well!" Robert roared when he saw their trophies. "Won't you show me how you got it, eh? Robb—teach this stranger to shoot like you."
Robb inclined his head, modest but firm. Joffrey fumed at the attention given to Gadriel and Robb, but the day was theirs. For a moment the clearing smelled only of leather, blood, and woodsmoke—the honest scents of effort.
"Count them up," Robert said, rubbing his hands together. When the numbers came, the king clapped and howled with laughter. "Ha! The Northerners win today! Well fought. You've earned your meat, and my thanks."
Joffrey lingered in the shadows of the trees and watched as they began the work of gutting and skinning. He did not step forward to help; pride kept his hands empty. Gadriel, Robb, and the others set to, working with quick, practiced motions. Gadriel found the knife useful—clean strokes, efficient hands. When the work was done, they shouldered the cleaned meat and began the slow trek back toward Winterfell.
The animals were heavy in their arms and on their backs. The walk back was not quick; the sun dipped toward the west, casting long fingers of light through the branches. Gadriel matched Robb's pace and when Robb lagged for a moment to breathe, Gadriel kept his voice low and even.
"You did well," he said simply.
Robb glanced at him, surprised into a quick, open smile. "You helped a lot," he answered. "You have a good hand with a spear."
They carried the bundles in silence then, the world narrowing to the scrape of leather and the crunch of leaves beneath boots. When the gate of Winterfell rose out of the dusk they were tired but unshaken. The yard lights winked as they passed beneath the stone, and the people at the gate fell back to let them come through. Joffrey remained by the rear, distant as ever, his face still folded with annoyance and some small jealousy.
They had beaten the king's party by one stag and a boar. Robert stamped his heavy boot and shouted something about a feast to come, his voice echoing off the walls as they carried their prizes into the keep.
Gadriel felt the simple satisfaction of a day spent as a hunter should spend it—hands dirty, lungs warm, the taste of earth in his mouth. He had come north to find a life not tied to the breath of prophecy; for an hour, at least, the world had been simple and true.