The courtyard rang with the clatter of hooves and the jingle of spurs as Winterfell prepared for the royal hunt. Grooms saddled destriers and palfreys with care, while squires ran to and fro beneath the towering granite walls, half-frozen breath puffing out like mist. Dogs barked and strained at their leashes, their yowls answered by the deep-throated howls of the direwolves pacing restlessly near the stables.
Robb Stark pulled on his riding gloves beside the kennels, the cold biting at his cheeks. He wore a dark grey cloak lined with black bear fur, and a wolf's-head pin. Beside him, Jon Snow buckled his swordbelt, a half-smile playing across his pale face. Jon was glad to be here, so was he, their first true hunt. It had been Arthur who had convinced Father to let Jon ride. Robb was grateful for that. It would not have been right without him.
"You should wear your hair like that more often, Snow," Arthur called from behind, voice smooth as silk. "You almost look a proper lady."
Jon rolled his eyes before turning. "And you, Manderly, look like a peacock ready for court."
Arthur Manderly stood tall and proud, his sea-green cloak rippling in the wind, silver embroidery catching the weak light like spray on ocean water. His doublet was dyed a deep blue, his boots black and polished. A fine swordbelt hugged his waist, and from it hung the Valyrian steel blade Nightfall, its dark scabbard traced with silver surf patterns.
"Don't be bitter, Jon," he said with a smirk. "It isn't my fault I'm handsomer than you."
Robb laughed aloud. "Seven hells, Arthur. Try not to blind the game with your sheen."
Arthur gave a mock bow. "If the stags are blinded, our hunt will be short indeed."
Theon Greyjoy approached then, looking half-dressed and entirely proud, a fox-fur cloak slung carelessly over one shoulder. "I'll wager a flagon of Arbor gold I take the first kill," he declared, voice ringing with challenge.
Arthur gave a short, derisive snort. "I wouldn't stake silver on you, Greyjoy. I've seen you hurl a spear and miss the wood entirely."
Robb could not help himself. "That was two summers ago." He barked out a laugh at the memory.
"The tree hasn't forgiven him," Arthur said with mock solemnity.
Theon flushed. "I can shoot as well as any of you."
"Certainly," Arthur said, swinging into the saddle of his black stallion with a grace that made it look effortless. "But you aim like a drunk whore in the dark."
Jon grinned at that. "That explains their love for him."
Theon cursed, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. Robb smiled with them, but beneath the laughter there was the same unease as ever. Arthur and Theon needled one another like rival hounds, circling, snapping, never drawing blood, yet never far from it either. So, it fell to him, always, to keep the peace.
The company was gathering. Jory Cassel gave orders as Stark guards saddled their mounts, and the Winterfell retainers fell into columns beneath the walls. Lords of the North stood with their men behind them.
The royal party emerged from the Great Keep to trumpet and cheer. King Robert waddled like a bull in heat, his cheeks ruddy with wine and mirth. He wore a sable cloak fastened with a golden stag, his laugh booming loud enough to rattle crows from the towers.
Behind him came Lord Eddard, lean and quiet in a plain grey mantle, his features grave beneath the shadow of the dawn.
Prince Joffrey trotted out on a black gelding, his golden hair bright beneath a hood trimmed in crimson velvet. The Hound followed close behind, grim-faced and silent, his dark helm slung to his saddle. Tyrion Lannister trailed them all, yawning as he adjusted the stirrups of a pony that looked more miserable than he did.
Ser Donnel kept to the rear, his helm beneath one arm, the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He spoke rarely, yet when he did, men listened. Robb found comfort in the way he rode, always watchful, always ready. If Arthur was bold as the sea, Donnel Locke was the breakwater, unmoving and sure.
"Ready?" Robb asked, glancing at Arthur.
Arthur's grin was quick, "Always."
Jon swung up onto his horse, Ghost padding silent as snowfall behind him, red eyes bright. Grey Wind prowled at Robb's stirrup, fur bristling, eager for the run. The wolf's excitement seemed to beat in time with Robb's own heart.
The horn sounded once, low and clear.
With a creak Winterfell's gates opened, and the hunt poured out like a river. Robb felt the thrill of it deep in his chest, the wind in his cloak, the snort of horses, the fresh scent of pine as they rode into the Wolfswood. The forest loomed ahead, all tangled branches and golden leaves, the trees whispering secrets older than men.
Robb rode with Jon to one side and Arthur to the other. Theon was just behind, already arguing with one of the squires, still bristling from Arthur's jabs.
Robb turned his head toward Arthur. "Why must you always needle him?"
Arthur's smile was sly. "Life's small pleasures. And besides, it is a holy work to vex an Ironborn."
Jon laughed, breath white in the cold. "Careful, you'll earn the Drowned God's curse one day."
"Even they wouldn't weep for Theon," Arthur said, chuckling. Robb grinned despite himself.
The hunt advanced at a steady pace beneath the thick canopy of the Wolfswood. The King and Lord Stark rode at the front of the procession, their heads bowed in quiet conversation. Robb watched his father from afar, trying to read his face, but as always, Lord Eddard kept his thoughts locked tight behind grey eyes. Beside him, King Robert, already chuckling at something only the two of them could hear. Prince Joffrey trotted slightly behind, his features drawn in self-importance as if he alone led the host.
They rode near the middle of the company. The sounds of dogs barking and men shouting faded as the forest thickened around them. Robb tugged his reins lightly, slowing his horse to a gentle canter as Grey Wind padded alongside, silent but for the rustle of leaves beneath his paws.
"They say the stags grow large this far west," Robb said, glancing at Jon. "Farlen thinks we might find one with antlers like branches, old as the woods themselves."
"And the smallfolk claim wolves too," Theon put in from behind, voice quick and eager. "One man swears he saw a shadow the size of a pony watching from the ridges."
Jon snorted, "Or we'll ride half the day and find nothing but rabbit droppings and broken tracks,"
"Ever the optimist, Snow," Theon drawled, rolling his eyes. "I pray the stories are true. I'd love to hunt some wolves."
Grey Wind's ears pricked at that, his yellow eyes glowed, fixed on Theon with a look that was near enough to human.
Then came another voice, dry and cutting, from a pony struggling to keep pace with the taller horses. "Or perhaps we'll stumble upon a dragon," said Tyrion Lannister, grinning up at them from beneath. "You've found direwolves, haven't you? Why not dragons next?"
Robb's smile faltered. He felt Jon stiffen at his side. But Arthur only turned in the saddle, his sea-green eyes alight with mischief. "If that's the case, Lord Tyrion, I hope you've come armed with more than wit. You may be our only hope. The Dragon-Slayer of Casterly Rock has a ring to it."
Tyrion chuckled. "Provided the beast can be slain by words alone, I shall be the deadliest man in Westeros."
"I've heard you've already put your tongue to deadly use," Arthur said smoothly, "though perhaps not on dragons."
"Well, not all of us has a famous sword like you, now, do we," Tyrion said with a wry grin, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement. "So one makes do with what one has."
"Still, my lord you must be cautious," Arthur replied with a grin, "That tongue of yours could kill certainly kill someone."
"You might just be the first man to make me feel tall, lord Manderly," Tyrion said with a hearty laugh.
"Careful, my lord Lannister," Arthur replied smoothly, "I might take that as a compliment."
Robb watched the exchange with quiet appreciation. Arthur had always had a way of making people feel at ease. Whether among lords in a hall or with grooms in the yard, he spoke in that same even tone. His charm won them over like an old song remembered.
"You know," Arthur went on, brushing a lock of fair hair from his brow, "if we do find a dragon, I claim the wings. They'd look well enough mounted in my hall."
"I'd take the fire," Theon said, grinning. "Imagine the Iron Islands warmed by dragonflame."
"Might even make Pyke smell less like shit," quipped Tyrion Lannister.
"Even dragonfire has its limits," Jon muttered. They all laughed, well, all except Theon.
They broke their ride at a small glade where a brook gurgled lazily over mossy stones and the shade was thick beneath tall ironwoods and towering sentinel trees. They unwrapped bundles of bread and cold meat, and skins of wine and mead passed from hand to hand. The trackers melted into the deeper woods, bows strung, eyes searching the leaf-mulched ground for spoor.
Robb sat on a fallen log beside Jon and Arthur, his back straight, arms braced on his knees. Theon flopped down in the grass and drained half a skin of wine in one long gulp, then tossed the rest at Robb. "You'll need your strength, Stark," he said. "Wouldn't want prince shit-fucker showing you up."
Robb caught the skin one-handed and grinned. "I'll let him spear a squirrel. I'll be happy with a stag."
Jon fed Ghost a strip of dried beef and said. "You'd be the envy of every hall."
"And it'd make for a fine supper," Arthur added with a grin.
"Better than these cold slices of rabbit and old bread." Theon added, spitting a crumb into the grass.
"Don't insult the bread," Tyrion Lannister sauntered into their little circle, dust on his boots and sweat darkening his brow. He had a small clay cup and a thin wedge of cheese. "This might be all that stands between us and starvation when you boys miss every beast in the forest."
Jon arched a brow. "Think you'd fare better than us, my lord?"
"Of course!" Tyrion declared, his voice dripping mock grandeur. "My spear never misses. Tell me, though how did you chance upon those beasts?"
Robb glanced at Jon. His brother gave a small nod, so Robb answered, voice even. "Not long before the King's party arrived. We found them just north of Winterfell."
"Six pups," Theon added. "Eyes still shut."
Jon said. "I thought they were meant for each of the Stark children."
"Meant for you too," Robb said with a smile. Jon's smiled faintly and nodded.
Tyrion studied Ghost as the white wolf licked Jon's paw. "And none of them turned on you? Or your horses?"
"They're bonded to us," Robb said, scratching behind Grey Wind's ears as the direwolf. "More loyal than any hound."
Tyrion looked thoughtful. "Direwolves… It's no wonder half the realm think you northmen are wildlings in lord's clothing."
"We're First Men," Jon said proudly.
"Which brings me to something I've long wanted to ask," Tyrion went on, taking a measured sip from his clay cup. His gaze slid past Robb, landing on Arthur. "They say your lot in the North has a peculiar taste for justice."
Arthur shrugged. "Not peculiar, just old."
"It's our way. The true way." Jon added.
"The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. We don't pass judgment lightly," Robb shifted on the log, straightening his back. "If you take a man's head, you owe him to look into his eyes first."
Tyrion tilted his head, studying him. "And the Manderlys follow the same grim rite?"
Arthur smiled, though thinly. "Some did. My father, for one. I learned the same at Winterfell. I keep to it."
"Have you passed judgment yet, my young lords?" Tyrion asked, his lips quirking into a sly half-smile.
Arthur's hand stilled on his knee. "I took my first head a few moons past. A poacher. He'd raped and killed a fisherman's daughter." His voice had lost its usual brightness.
"And did you feel righteous?" Tyrion pressed, as though the words were knives to prod at tender flesh.
"I felt cold," Arthur said softly, eyes fixed on the brook.
Silence lingered a heartbeat, broken only by the water's murmur.
Tyrion's eyes flicked to the longsword at Arthur's side. "That's Nightfall, is it not? A sharp edge to do the deed. A lucky man, that poacher, might not feel a thing."
Arthur's fingers brushed the hilt absently. "Death hurts, no matter how clean the cut. Even in sleep, it stings. Yet there's no sense in living in fear of Death. It comes for all, no matter how much one tries to avoid it."
"A cheerful thought," Tyrion said dryly. Then he chuckled. "Spoken like a man who cut down an assassin before he lost his milk teeth. Six years old, wasn't it?"
Arthur gave the smallest shake of his head. "It was luck, nothing more."
"Luck and a kitchen knife," Jon said.
Tyrion's brows shot up. "And for your trouble, they placed that sword in your hand. A Valyrian blade, for a child still small enough to hide beneath a table. My father was positively livid, I hear."
"Lord Tywin offered to buy it, didn't he?" Theon piped up, smirking.
"He did," Robb said, remembering the letters that came. "And Arthur refused."
"Know this, whatever he offered, I'll double it," Tyrion said grandly, raising his cup as though swearing an oath. "Sell me the sword, and I'll ride to Casterly Rock as Father's favorite son."
Arthur laughed softly. "I thought you already were."
"Only in my dreams," Tyrion said, his smile bitter and brittle.
"Then best you stay asleep," Jon muttered under his breath.
"O, but what a dream it would be," Tyrion sighed dramatically. "To stride into court with Valyrian steel at my hip. The whispers, the stares, Father smiling at last… gods, even Jaime might turn green."
"You'd trip over your own sword," Theon said with a bark of laughter.
Arthur leaned back on the log, folding his arms. "Nightfall doesn't come cheaply."
"Nor should she," Tyrion replied at once. His eyes lingered on the dark hilt as though he meant to drink it in. "She's more beautiful than half the women I've known."
Arthur smirked faintly. "Then you've been keeping poor company."
The laughter broke loud and easy among them. Even Jon's mouth twitched, though he tried to hide it. Tyrion drained the last of his cup, chuckling to himself.
In the distance, a horn blew, the hunt began again. Far ahead, the king and his entourage followed the trail of what the trackers swore was a great stag. But Robb held back, as did Arthur and Jon, the three of them falling into an easy rhythm behind the greater procession, letting their horses cool their pace in the quiet.
Robb stole a glance at his half-brother. "You're truly going to do it, then?"
Jon's gaze stayed fixed ahead, hard as the ironwoods. "I am."
The words settled heavy in Robb's chest. He frowned. "The Wall… It's a life of cold and thankless duty. You could stay in Winterfell, Jon. I'll speak with Father. When I'm Lord of Winterfell, I'll grant you a holdfast. A proper place. You deserve more than frozen bones."
"You're not Lord of Winterfell yet," Jon replied, voice low. "And you shouldn't make promises you may not be able to keep."
"I will be one day," Robb pressed, too quickly, too firmly. "And when I am, I'll do it. You'll have a hall of your own, with men to serve you."
At that, Jon turned to him, grey eyes catching his own."I don't want lands or keeps, Robb. I don't want to sit in some hall and be called Snow to my face and Blackfyre behind my back. Not by your mother. Not by anyone."
That struck deep. Robb said nothing. He could not deny it. Lady Catelyn had never once called Jon by his name when she didn't have to. And she never had to. He had always hated that, but hating it had not changed it.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, his throat tight.
Arthur shifted in his saddle. "You want to throw yourself into the cold for honor's sake. Fine. But there are other paths, Jon. Come to White Harbor. Join my navy. Be an adventurer. Sail south past the Summer Isles, east into Yi Ti, further still. You could make your name a hundred times over. Glory. Riches. A life worth songs."
Jon's mouth twisted. "And what purpose does it serve, Arthur?"
Arthur raised a brow, calm as ever. "You could be the first man to sail west past the Sunset Sea. Or the one who finds lands older than Valyria. To chart unknown waters. To bring songs and stories back to halls that have grown too used to the same old tales. There's purpose in that."
"But no honor." Jon shook his head. His tone left no room for argument. "Not the kind I seek. The Wall is where I belong. My blood is half noble, half shadow, and I'd rather use it to serve something greater. It's decided. You won't change my mind."
With that he dug his heels and moved ahead, Ghost darting pale and silent through the trees beside him.
Robb let out a breath he had not known he was holding. "Stubborn as a mule."
Arthur gave a short laugh. "You Starks all are."
The sound of hooves came behind them. Benjen Stark came up between them, his black cloak tucked against his side, a faint smile on his wind-chapped face. "I heard the end of that," he said. "Thank you both for trying."
Robb grimaced. "We failed."
"No, you didn't," Benjen said. "You said your piece. And so did he. Jon always had a hard knot in his heart wound too tightly. It was only a matter of time before he acted on it."
Robb clenched his jaw. "It's my lady mother's doing. She never gave him a chance."
Arthur tilted his head. "It is the way of the world, Robb. No lady would take kindly to another woman's son at her table. Some would turn colder still. Jon was never hers to love, and you could not fault her for it."
Benjen chuckled dryly. "You've known many women, have you, Arthur?"
"I've known enough," Arthur replied, smirking.
Robb bristled but could not find the words to argue. He looked down at his gloved hands, leather creaking as his fingers tightened on the reins. "It still wasn't right."
"No," Benjen agreed. "But it was done. And Jon's chosen his path. As we all must."
Arthur straightened in his saddle with a smile, "Come, my lords. Enough mourning. Let's see if Prince Joffrey tumbles from his horse again."
Robb's mouth curved into a grin despite the heaviness in his chest. Even Benjen's solemn face cracked at the thought. Together they spurred their mounts, leaves scattering behind them as they rode to join the hunt.
The scent of blood drifted through the green canopy, sharp and musky, and the stag's cries had gone thin. The hunt had come to its end. Robb rode with the others to the clearing where the beast lay dying. Tall and proud no longer, its flanks pierced by arrows, foam and blood streaking its muzzle. Men gathered about it like carrion birds. Farlen held the dogs at bay, and squires ran with spears and bows.
Robb sat stiff in his saddle, his bow still in hand. He had loosed one of the last arrows, the one that had struck true beneath the creature's ribs. But he felt no elation. Beside him, Jon was quiet, lips pressed in a tight line. Even Arthur looked less than pleased.
The king dismounted with a grunt, red-faced and sweating. "Ho!" Robert Baratheon bellowed, clapping a meaty hand on Eddard Stark's shoulder. "She gave us quite a chase, Ned, but your boy brought her down true. That arrow through the gut, fine shooting, Robb!"
Robb dipped his head, eyes lowered in respect. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Robert roared again, turning to his son. "Take a look, Joffrey. That's a real kill!"
Joffrey's pale face flushed, but he said nothing. Sandor Clegane loomed behind him, expression unreadable beneath his helm.
"Bring me my dagger!" the king barked.
A servant rushed forward and offered up the heavy-bladed weapon, its hilt crusted with old garnets.
Robert knelt beside the dying stag, muscles straining, and with one great breath drove the blade into its heart. The creature shuddered, quivering, then lay still. Robert rose, chest heaving, triumphant, blood smeared across his hands and tunic. "Now that," Robert declared, raising the bloodied dagger for all to see, "is how you gut a stag!"
Scattered cheers rose around him. Men clapped and called the king's name.
Robb looked to Jon and Arthur, feeling hollow. All the work had been done by others, and now Robert claimed the glory with a single thrust. This wasn't the hunt he'd dreamed of. A low growl cut through his thoughts. Grey Wind's hackles rose. Horses whinnied, hooves striking the earth in alarm.
A roar shattered the clearing.
From the underbrush beyond the fallen stag, a massive shape burst forth, brown and furious. A bear, thick with muscle and scarred with old battles, charged straight into the chaos, its jaws snapping and eyes wild with fury.
Men stumbled back. Dogs barked madly. "Gods!" shouted someone. "A bear!"
Arrows flew haphazardly in panic, clanging off the beast's hide or burying in bark and soil. The bear tore through the line of men like a storm, striking one unfortunate squire torn apart with a swipe of its paw. The king stood his ground dagger raised and cursed as if challenging the bear. While Joffrey shrieked and tried to flee, tripping over his own cloak.
Robb's fingers fumbled at his bow, heart hammering, eyes wide. He wanted to act, to shoot, but fear clutched his chest.
Arthur was already moving. Dismounting like a shadow, he unstrung his bow in one smooth motion and loosed three arrows before his feet even touched the dirt. One found its mark, striking the bear in the left eye. The beast roared, half-blinded, wild in agony, crouching toward the king.
Arthur dropped the bow, and in one fluid motion, Nightfall was in his hand, black steel catching the sun. He ran straight toward the beast.
"Seven hells," Robb breathed. Ser Donnel Locke's voice cut through the shouts, telling Arthur to stand down.
Arthur did not heed. With fluid grace he vaulted forward, leapt high and landed atop the bear's shoulders. Nightfall plunged downward, sinking through ruined eye and deep into the bear's skull. A roar burst from the beast's throat, half-rage, half-death rattle, and then it collapsed, limbs splaying like a tree felled by axe. Arthur stayed astride, riding the dead weight to the ground as though taming it even in death.
For a moment, no one breathed. Then came the roar of cheers. It rolled like thunder, from the lords and bannermen, from the guards and squires, from Jon, Robb and Theon too.
"Seven Hells!" King Robert bellowed, his laughter booming louder than horns. "Did you see that?! Did you bloody well see that?!"
Arthur stood beside the still-twitching corpse, Nightfall painted with blood back in his grip. He looked calm, barely winded.
Lord Eddard reached him first, eyes wide. "Are you wounded, boy?"
Arthur gave a short nod. "I'm fine, my lord."
Ser Donnel followed soon after, his gauntleted hand firm on Arthur's shoulder. Donnel checked him as a father might inspect a son after a fall, worry etched on his face. Arthur inclined his head at some quiet word Robb could not hear.
Robert barreled forward and pulled Arthur into a one-armed embrace, nearly lifting him off the ground. "By the gods, lad, you've got stones the size of Mammoths! That was a kill worth a dozen hunts. We'll skin the beast, mount its head above the hall, and we'll feast tonight in your honor!"
"My thanks, Your Grace," Arthur said, voice even, politeness masking any thrill. "But such praise is more than I deserve. I only did what any man would."
Robert roared with laughter. "Any man? Hah! No man I've seen could dance like that with a bear!"
Tyrion Lannister, astride his shaggy pony, his eyes gleaming. "I've never thought the tales of knights slaying monsters could be true. Might I pen your saga myself, Ser Arthur?"
"I fear it would bore your readers," Arthur replied, wiping Nightfall clean. "Monsters die easily when they can't see."
"False modesty only endears you further," Tyrion said, "I hate you." Arthur laughed heartily.
"Get him a wine cup!" Robert shouted. "Get him three! Seven hells, someone find me a bard and make sure this tale's sung in every tavern from here to Sunspear!"
The camp was abuzz with motion now. The men began to drag the bear's carcass away, barking orders, preparing fires for the stag and skinning tools for the beast. Robb glanced at Arthur, still standing amid the gore, his fine cloak stained with blood.
"That," Robb said, awe thick in his voice, "was the finest thing I've ever seen."
Arthur sheathed Nightfall and gave a wry smirk. "And now I'll never hear the end of it."
Theon rode up, flushed and breathless. "Manderly. You stole all the glory again."
Arthur smiled sideways. "Did you miss the tree again, Theon?"
Theon's face turned red as fire. "I didn't last time!"
Jon chuckled, Ghost brushing against his legs. Robb laughed with them, heart pounding, warmth rising through his chest.
The ride back to Winterfell was merry, filled with the tang of pine and blood, the cries of men and hounds, the laughter of friends. The stag and bear were tied to the rear of the hunting column. Songs of brave knights and monstrous beasts, of bears and fair maidens, began to rise from the men.
King Robert laughed the loudest, wine sloshing from his cup even on horseback. "I tell you, Ned, that boy of yours might've loosed the stag, but it's William's boy who stole the bloody day! Gods, how William would've laughed to see his son put down a bear like that."
Lord Eddard rode quietly beside him, though a faint smile played at his lips.
But as they approached Winterfell's gates, the air shifted. The songs, the laughter, the scent of pine and blood. All of it scattered like autumn leaves in a sudden gust. Maester Luwin waited at the gatehouse, robes flapping, face pale as snow.
"Lord Stark," the maester said, voice tight, almost breaking, "there has been… a fall."
Lord Eddard's horse shied as if sensing the change. His body went still, rigid as stone.
"Who?"
"Bran."