Prologue

The dark black courser shied away from his grip, Hullen pulled the reins harder.

Three of them, they were. Still in Winterfell's grey courtyard. Lord Eddard Stark's was the grulla steed, with a ruffling shaggy mane and a long snout. The lord's son, Robb Stark had the chestnut mare, a swift thing. Though they were ever obedient when Hullen would lead them back to the stables after a ride, it was the Bastard Jon Snow's mount which relented. So unnaturally dark, not the seal brown like that of Hullen's own son, Harwin, this one was so dark it shined the brightest.

Hullen yanked the reins once more, urging the horse forward. Mud squelched beneath their feet, it had rained the night before, though that seldom set the beasts to worry. In his left hand, he held both the fresh leather straps of the lord's and the lord's son horses, and he was half-tempted to drop the straps in his right and leave the horse to rutting. I shall tell the lord of this, he thought as he pulled again, the thing is wild.

"Easy..." A voice emerged, and soon appeared Jon Snow. In one arm, bundled in a ball of white fur, was one of the direwolves that they had found on their ride back to Winterfell. Hullen did not like the beast's presence, even now, such things should be kept beyond the Wall, where they were sired, away from the realms of men, and him.

Jon Snow took the reins from his hand, the black beasts lowered its neck and fell into line. I won't try that one again, Hullen shrugged and began his way to the stables, the boy began following him, each step trudging in the wet mud.

It was a cold morning, the air seemed to smell of it, and everything had a blue-grey sheen that was cold to the touch and would melt beneath a fingertip. Hullen was more than familiar with the words of the house he served, and when he had watched the Night's Watch deserters head fall to justice beneath his lord's Ice, the air seemed to grow even colder.

"Over there." Hullen pointed to the far post, beside a growing pile of golden hay and a shelf of oaken buckets. It was dim from the shadow of the planks that covered it, and when the horse was left idle it seemed to disappear amongst them.

Hullen brought through the other two mounts and took them to their posts. They were well-fed, as all the horses in his care were, and their posts were neat and clean – as he would tend to them each day if he could find the time. Of late though, he had become busier in his duties within the castle, and so he noticed how the posts had grown dirty. On the morrow then, Hullen told himself, I will clean then come the morn. He would have to bring the horses from their stables, lead them to the courtyard saw he could see to it clearly. Lady Arya would ride her mount with Harwin, as they so often did, and Robb and Jon Snow would go for a hunt. The less of them there was, the easier it would be.

When Hullen turned, he saw the bastard had taken his leave.

The stable was empty but for racks of horses, those of the liege lord and lady, their children. In here, there were the rows for the mounts of the men-at-arms and freeriders, knights and guests of high birth. Though those posts were empty for the moment, they had not had a royal visit since Hullen could remember, and seldom did freeriders and hedge knights take their stay in the north.

Hullen carried the horse's saddles to the bench, where he saw Jon Snow had already settled that of his mount. As he set them down, one on top of the other, the door to the stables swung open with a creak.

"Father?" Harwin called, his voice breathy from running.

"What is it, son?" Hullen turned and made his way past the posts and to the entrance.

Harwin was clad in wool and leather, a fine cloak of green dropped down his back. His face unshaven and cheeks red from the cold.

"We're feasting in the Great Hall, come with."

Hullen was hungry, working always made him hungry. "Once I've finished my work here first. The horses… afterwards, I will come with you once I'm finished."

Harwin gave a sigh, his shoulders slouching. He more often than not remarked how his father was growing less fond of company of late, though Hullen thought that was nonsense. He was master of horse, he had his duties, to those that fed him and gave his son a life to enjoy, he would not fail them.

"Go. I will be there, soon." Hullen waved his hand before he turned back to the posts. He heard Harwin leave, the door swinging and croaking and groaning, the gush of wing that sent the horses to shifting.

The horses needed to be brushed, their hooves cleaned of mud and rocks and dirt. And so, Hullen set about getting to his work.

Lord Starks mount was but easy to Robbs, and the little lords was easy but to the black beast belonging to Jon Snow – Hullen left the mount to the corner, he would have to find the boy and tell him that he must do the grooming himself, the horse bowed to no one but his rider.

His son's horse was a blood bay courser, and Harwin was so well at his riding he even taught the Stark boys at their riding on a quintain, and the little lady Arya Underfoot at her riding about the courtyard. Hullen was sure he would succeed him as master-at-horse when he became too old to perform his duties, though that was not near, yet, horses were an easy duty when you had been doing them as long as Hullen.

Once he had finished the horses, he removed his doeskin gloves and riding boots, changed into fine green wool and made for the Great Hall. It was not a large feast, he knew, they seldom held large feasts when without guests. Though the guards would often have their meals within the Great Hall, as Lord Stark granted, and Hullen would always be a part of them.

Hullen pushed open the doors with a groan, his shoulders aching. Inside, torches were lit on every pillar and the trestle tables about the corners were stacked and pushed against the walls. Three of them were placed in the middle, each one seized by guards and those who had their duties within the castle.

Platters and bowls, full with meat and bread and stew were rowed along each bench, setting Hullen's mouth to watering. Those eating took their share and sat and jested with those around them. On the third table, Hullen spotted Arnol with his woodharp, singing The Bear and the Maiden Fair.

"Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair! Her hair! Her hair!"

Hullen took his seat beside his son, smiling and reaching for a bowl of bread and meat stew.

"Finished with the horses?" Harwin asked him, waving his bread around in one hand.

"Yes, though that was the fourth deserter our lord has had to give the King's Justice, it won't be the last, I say."

Harwin shrugged. "Well, enjoy your meals. You think far too less of yourself, father."

"Or perhaps you think t'much."

Hullen dabbed his white bread into the stew and brought it to his mouth, the taste was sweet and hot. His son passed him a goblet of wine and he drank that too, the red flaming through his chest like fiery tendrils.

"The bear! The bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!"

The doors pushed open, and in came Jory Cassel, the captain of the guard. He took his seat across Hullen.

"You heard?" He asked, Hullen had no incline to what though.

The master of horse shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, Jory took a bowl of stew and a goblet of wine.

"Robert Baratheon is on his way, on a visit. He comes with a large party, Queen Cersei and her brothers."

"Why?" Harwin asked.

"The Hand Jon Arryn has died, in the capital. You know, he was the one who fostered our Lord and Robert at the Eyrie? The Lannister's had their bit in that, I'd say, you can never trust them."

Robert Baratheon would not come far north just to grieve in the arms of his friend, he had plenty in the capital, Hullen had heard.

He means to offer Eddard Stark the position of Hand.

Jory took a bite from his bread, swallowed and said. "I'm to form a riding party, and meet them on Kingsroad. An honour to our guests, what do you think, Hullen?"

That caught him off-guard. Hullen dropped his wooden spoon and shook his head. "I don't have the time, myself." He took his son by the shoulder. "Though my Harwin does, he should go with you."

Jory looked to Harwin, awaiting an answer.

"Yes, I'll go." Harwin smiled and returned to his food, just as Arnol finished his song and moved to sing The Dornishman's Wife.

It was a pleasant time, Hullen ate and sat and listened as Arnol finished The Dornishman's Wife, then he listened as he sang the song of Her Little Flower and then Milady's Supper, Bessa the Barmaid and A Cask of Ale, Arnol would have to remember these well for when Robert Baratheon took to feasting, he had a love of songs, he'd heard.

When Hullen finally took his leave, the sky was dark and the air freezing.

He had his own hut, beside the stables. I fine thing it was, he had enough space for what he kept, a feather bunk for him to sleep him, and should the horses cause a stir then he was quick to check up on them; a simple place for a simple man.

Though Hullen passed the stables now, his hut and his bunk. He had been deep in his cups, and so the softness of his bed was heavy on his mind. But, there was something else too, someone, someone more important. Hullen arrived at the East Gate, doing his best to hide the slouch of his feet through the wet mud. The moon was high and crescent thin like the blade of a knife, yet it still shone down its bright eye on those below.

Owen and Arren were at duty on the East Gate, clad in rusting iron halfhelms and boiled leather, with sharp-tipped spears rising from their hands. Hullen knew the two of them well enough, often tending to their horses when they would request.

"Hullen, coming from the feast?" Owen had a short-trimmed beard, brown flecked with grey. His black spear was rested over his shoulder as he stood duty, bouncing as he talked.

"Aye," Hullen told him, steadying himself. "Though I must be on my way to Winter Town, duty, you see."

Owen smirked. "As you will." Him and Arren moved aside, their boots squelching in the wet mud. Hullen passed without a second glance, that smirk had left him feeling uneasy.

Winter Town was without its full extent of people, but full enough. It took its name for a reason, and summer still stood as yet, when winter hit the North hard, the homes of Winter Town would fill with those seeking the warmth and protection of the looming castle above.

Hullen followed a narrow mud path, leading him through crenels and alleys between wooden buildings that leant against each other like drunken lovers. All the way to the center square, where markets and stalls now stood empty. Selling was frequent in the light of the day, but now those sellers either tucked their goods and turned away from Winter Town, or retreated to other places to bed down and come to sell again come the day. He came to a stop outside a building of three stories, the light from inside breaching the windows and large cracks in the planks. The noises within could be heard from the outside, talking, laughing, shouting. Hullen entered.

Mereya's brothel was lit up with light from the scones upon the wooden beams and walls, fires were lit in tripod braziers and cackled away softly. Whilst drunken men and women and whores danced and drank and jested. It had been six whole years since his Elayna had died, mother to his own Harwin. He had gone five of those without the company of a woman, so much so he had forgotten them, the brothel was the only way.

He saw a whore seated upon a man's lap, his hands fumbling down her bodice. He was drunk too, as most were, you could almost smell it in the air. In the corner, beside a guttering black hearth, two women had their mouths sealed against one another, their hands fumbling down each other's dresses.

Hullen was not here for any of that, Mereya knows that, he thought as he saw the owner approaching.

"What can I get, milord?" She always called him milord, just because he was master of horse. Many here took their duty within Winterfell, or beds when they decided not to visit this place.

Hullen knew who he wanted "My red beauty." He said.

Mereya smiled and took his hand, her palm as soft as new leather, unlike his grungy own. She led them up narrow steps, each placing of the foot causing a creak as if it was about to break, though Hullen knew better, he had made this walk many times before. She left him outside a small wooden door, black with oldness.

He opened it slowly, and inside waited his beauty of red.

Red hair, she had, so red it shone in the light of the brazier. She was spread amongst the large featherbed of the room, as small as they were, the beds were always large enough for two or even three.

Her skin was pale and naked, save for a red silk sheet that rose from behind her shoulders, passed through the gap of her full breasts like a red river, and snaked out again from between her legs.

"I've missed milord." She called him milord too, Anera was her name. And his was Hullen, he often told her that, but she never seemed to listen. "I was waiting for you, see."

Anera swept a graceful hand down the red silk, causing ripples in his drunken mind and stirrings in his breeches. Such as she often did, Hullen would never have another woman.

He reached into his pocket, finding the golden dragon there and then flipped it to her. She was a whore still, no matter how beautiful she was, that even made her a better whore, but Hullen did not care anymore. A golden dragon was far more than what any whore deserved, and Hullen had earnt that through hard weeks of work, but he had to show her his appreciation – she was all he had dear, her and Harwin. And Hullen was not good with words of thanks.

She tried to catch the coin but missed, the golden dragon landed near her head, coming to a steady atop of the white sheets.

Anera seized it quick enough, nevertheless. She placed it down upon the wooden stool beside the bed and brought her hand back to the red river of silk, as red as her hair, her hair!

She pulled the silk away, revealing the red thatch on her mound. Hullen gasped a breath and unlaced his breeches, the rest was as it always was.

Come the morning, he was still in that dusky lit room. Though his red beauty was gone, and it too the golden dragon, he had fallen asleep after he had spent his seed inside her, drunken and sweating, he was older now.

No clientele was allowed to sleep within the rooms, but the golden dragon spoke more words than what he could, and so no gruff man or Mereya had come to wake him during the night. Hullen gathered his clothes from the floor, putting them back on as quick he could, nobody knew what duty he had in Winter Town, well, Hullen hadn't told a soul, yet it seemed everyone did know. The way Owen had smirked…

… it was Harwin learning of it that Hullen feared. Harwin loved his mother, as Hullen loved her too, he did not want to shame her memory for his own son.

A moon passed before Robert Baratheon arrived, in a party three hundred strong. Hullen stood amongst the lines ready to greet him in the courtyard of Winterfell, behind the Lord Eddard Stark, then Ser Rodrik Cassel, wrapped in a grey dappled fur cloak and leather tunic and breeches. Watching as the band streamed in, a collection of bannermen and knights, sworn swords and freeriders who may have joined mid-travel. The crowned stag of Baratheon streamed through the air, a proud standard, then came the lion of Lannister, Hullen caught sight of a joint banner where the two wear facing one another, that was held high beside Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer, Jory had said that the Queen's brothers were attending them.

And so was the other brother, the Imp Tyrion Lannister. Astride his small gelding, Hullen would have to tend to that horse, tend to it for him. It was a relief compared to the others, each mount he caught site of made him want to sigh, the stables would be full, though he would have others to help him in his duties, it would be a lot more work. He would have to have Hodor help him more importantly.

The King himself was flanked by two of his Kingsguard, long white cloaks streaming from their shoulders. Robert Baratheon was sat atop a great warhorse, though the seal brown mount held more appeal than the King, in Hullen's eyes. The man seating that saddle did not look worthy of it, he did not look like the fabled warrior who had taken the Iron Throne, the Demon of the Trident.

He was fat and red faced behind his beard. Yet he swung down ably from his warhorse with a bellowing roar and stalked over to Lord Stark, crushing him in a hug.

Hullen was three rows behind, though with everyone beside him quiet, he could hear their words. "Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours." The King took a step backwards, then laughed. "You have not changed at all."

You must have, though.

Of course, Hullen did not voice his thoughts to any of those around him, whether they took it for a jest or not. The Hound was coming to dismount his huge black stallion; Sandor Clegane had donned his great dog of a helm.

Eddard Stark finally replied. "Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."

Many of the pride was dismounted by now, the Queen Cersei Lannister came forward on foot with those young children of hers, a prince and princess that Hullen had never actually seen. He'd never seen half of these people.

She was a beautiful woman, though. That, he had heard. Like he had been told of the gallant Robert Baratheon, though only the Queen seemed to give truth to the tales. His Lord knelt and kissed the Queens ring, whilst the King embraced his lord's lady like a long-lost sister. Then there were the children, offering their shy greetings. Hullen could not see past Jon Snow, who stood a step in front, though he heard the muted talking.

Once the formalities were over, the King looked to Eddard again and said. "Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects."

He'd never been down the crypts, it was a Stark place, and he would never go against them or their rules. But Lord Eddard could not deny the King entrance, but what would he want in the crypts? There were no Baratheon's down there, Hullen knew, perhaps another kind gesture.

The Lord called for a lantern and they began their way, the Queen had protested until her golden brother took her by the arm, and then she said no more.

Those about the yards began to move, breaking the stone from the statues they had become. Hullen paced for the stables, he would have to show room for the new arrivals. Those around him paid no heed as she shuffled through, through the gap of two Kingsguard knights, past bannermen and those grasping the crowned standard, when he finally arrived at the stables, he was surprised to find it empty.

… save for a Hound.

He was tying the great courser to a black wooden beam, though Hullen suspected that the horse could as easily rip itself free.

"Watch this one." Sandor Clegane said when he caught Hullen staring. "He'll kick your teeth out."

He already had Jon Snow's horse in the stables of his, that dark thing of a mount, now this stranger of a mount. It would be a tough time, it would. The Others take them both!

The Hound's snarling face smirked under his helm, and he stood towering over Hullen until the prince called him away.

As it was his duty, Hullen stood by the stables as the row of freeriders, bannermen and knights brought forward their mounts. He was able to store most in the posts, those that had the space at the darkened section by the back. With some, he was able to fit two or three in a single post, though that was only a certain some – he didn't want to be awoken as he slept by the rustling of the horses, it was best to keep them in a single post.

All the while he kept his distance from the Hound's steed, and so did the others. It would kick and groan if any other came near, man and horse alike.

It was Harwin who came to him again when the sky had grown darker and scattered with stars, Hullen was wiping his riding boots. As expected, Winterfell was hosting a large welcoming feast in greetings to the King. Unlike the one he had a moon ago, with Arnol singing his stream of songs on his woodharp and no one but him and the guards, this feast would have proper singers, and proper attendants, too.

Hullen would not catch the eye in there, but he followed his son eagerly.

He was right about that, there was a singer with a high harp reciting ballads, and Arnol was scarce to be seen. Banners of gold and white and crimson draped the walls, still and proud. Hullen couldn't hear exactly what the singer was singing, though. Not over the clangor of cups and plates, cackles of the hearths and low mutterings of conversations.

The trestle tables were full to breaking, and so the master of horse could not get on with his son, instead he took a hesitant place on a far back table, seized by younger squires and the bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow.

It was not a surprise that he was not seated beside the royal children, beneath the raised platform for the Lord and Lady Stark. A bastard among them may offend their visitors, and Jon Snow did not seem to mind. He was taking a long drink of his wine when Hullen had finished filling his plate, and when that goblet was empty, the boy filled it fresh from a nearby pitcher and drank again.

Seated amongst the younger squires was not such a challenging thing as he had thought, they recalled tales of battle and bedding and the hunt, and eventually began to look to Hullen to tell them his own stories.

And so he did, and they listened eagerly. Jon Snow, though, he was focusing on something below the table, perhaps that white beast that he had brought back, it shouldn't be allowed into a full Winterfell's Great Hall, but his Lord and Lady did not seem to notice.

That was when the brother of the Night's Watch approached, Benjen Stark wore costly black velvet, high leather boots and a wide belt with a silver buckle. About his neck a heavy silver chain looped and bounced slightly as he walked.

Hullen was across the table to them, and a seat down, he could hear them nonetheless.

"Is this one of the direwolves I've heard so much of?" Benjen asked, Jon turned and looked up happily as his uncle ruffled his hair. Perhaps Hullen should not have been watching, but he did.

"Yes," Jon replied. "His name is Ghost."

One of the squires etched to their side in order to form space for the man to sit, ceasing his bawdy story.

Once sat, Benjen took the wine cup out of Jon's hand, Hullen's was empty, he would have to call one of the serving girls for a refill, the pitcher near him was empty. "Summerwine," he said after a small taste. "Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had Jon?"

If the boy replied, Hullen did not hear it over the roar of the fire and a hundred drunken conversations, though he saw a long smile that he offered.

Benjen returned it and laughed. "As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you-"

A serving girl tapped Hullen on the shoulder, urging him to raise his cup to be refilled. He did so, licking his lips drunkenly as the wine fell, then returning to listening.

"A very quiet wolf." Benjen Stark observed.

"He's not like the others," Jon began. "He never makes a sound. That's why I named him Ghost. That, and because he's white. The others are all dark, grey or black."

Ah, the direwolves, Hullen thought again, the things. He had little interest in discussing them, or even listening to others do so. And so he drank at his cup in long gulps, ending his listening to the conversations of those across him. His mind was beginning to swim, perhaps he had drunk too much already that night.

But Hullen emptied his cup two more times before his drunken array was interrupted.

"I will never father a bastard." Jon Snow suddenly said, his tone louder. "Never!" His words dripped and screamed with boyish determination.

The table had grown awfully quiet all of a sudden, the squires interrupting their tales to look back at the scene the boy was causing. Through the firelight, Hullen could see a wet shine begin to glisten on the boy's eyes. Jon Snow rose.

"I must be excused." He said, as if courtesy was cared for so far away from the raised dais, or perhaps it was to save what dignity he had left. Though, that was quickly lost when he stumbled into a serving girl on his way out, sending a flagon of spiced wine crashing to the floor.

Hullen couldn't help but laugh, as did the others, some even on other trestles. He hadn't seen his Lord Eddard sweeping past, not until a second glance, the man followed the boy swiftly, out and through the door.

Then the wine rose to meet his mouth again.

Eventually, it was his own son that awoken him from his drunken stupor. Hullen was resting his head upon the table, arms outspread and goblet empty. The last that he could remember was a serving girl on his lap, then it was black.

Winterfell's Great Hall was mostly empty now, the stone floors and oaken trestle tables scattered with food and spills and remains of what the night had been. The fires still cackled away, softly now though, though the air was thick and musty with the lingering smells of a feast. Harwin led him to his bunk by the stables, as drunk as he was, he made sure that Hullen got to bed down properly. And Hullen welcomed his sheets eagerly.

Hullen seldom dreamed, and tonight seemed all the same. His hut would often rattle in the winds, waking him, though the air was cold tonight the winds did not blow so heavily.

His own bed was where he wanted to be, and come the morn it would take all his effort to lift himself to face the duties of the day.

He was indeed soon awoken, though not by the rattle of his hut from the harsh winds outside, or the prodding of the horses nearby, it was a few firm taps on his shoulder.

Hullen opened his eyes, blinded by the open door shining in the light of the morning, in the dawning light was red…. two orbs of blood.

The direwolf!

He jumped back in his bunk, wood creaking, eyes wide. Jon Snow loomed over him, clad in riding leathers and thick fur cloak. The beast was at his heel.

"What? What do you want?"

Jon Snow had a look of concern about his face. "Don't worry," he said. "He won't hurt you, not whilst I'm here."

Hullen calmed his breaths, through the open door a cold air entered, crawling up his skin. Though beyond he saw that the courtyard was empty, the castle still slept.

"Go back to bed, boy." Hullen said, clutching his own sheets.

Jon Snow straightened himself. "I can't," the last Hullen had saw of him was when he left the Great Hall, with tears in his eyes. He looked the same sad now, though reserved. "I will require a saddle readied, with my arms and armour. It seems I must take my leave."

With a long wait and a sigh, Hullen did as he was asked.