Chapter 7: The Black Stallion

The practice clock stood under a slatted ash cover at the end of Winterfell’s family table. It ticked steadily enough in the warm hall, but had lost nearly a quarter of an hour overnight. Jon had been adjusting it since before dawn. He spread butter on his oatbread while Robb crouched beside the horn dial.

“It is slow again.”

“I moved the lead weights too far out.”

“Move them back.”

“Half as far. Olyver is trying it after breakfast.”

Sansa leaned over her stewed apple, the white napkin tucked into the neck of her blue gown. An auburn curl brushed the spoon, and she pushed it impatiently behind her ear. “Does it know when breakfast is finished?”

“It will when I do,” Jon said, drawing his plate nearer.

Robb grinned through the gap left by his front tooth.

At the high end, Eddard and Catelyn were smiling. She was cutting Sansa’s cheese into smaller pieces and listening to Vayon Poole murmur about the morning’s stores. Arthur ate at Jon’s right hand. Wylla came from behind Jon with a jug of small beer. She touched the back of two fingers to his neck, then frowned. “You were up before the kitchen fires,” she said.

“I wanted to see what the cold did to the oil.”

“And now you have seen it.” Wylla drew a pale lock back from his eye and filled his cup. “There is more bread if you want it.”

Jon took another spoonful of porridge. The oats had grown thick while he watched the clock, but the honey was still warm. Arthur pushed the bread nearer and began peeling his boiled egg.

The little hammer lifted and struck its thin bell with a mournful clink. Robb winced. “It sounds like Tobben’s burnt porridge.”

“Porridge is quiet,” Sansa said.

“You have never heard Tobben swear at it.”

Arthur wiped his knife and rose. “The colt will be waiting.”

Robb looked up at once. Eddard gave the knight a reproachful glance, then set down his cup.

“I meant to show you after breakfast, Jon. Hullen has brought him into the yard.”

Robb was off the bench first. Jon caught up at the door, still fastening his cloak. In the yard a black colt stood at the end of Harwin’s lead rope.

He was not beautiful. Not yet. His hindquarters had grown higher than his withers, his knees looked borrowed from a larger horse, and rain had roughened the yearling coat into black-brown whorls. Mud dried grey upon both hocks. A chip marred the outer wall of one rear hoof. He chewed the rope, lost it when Harwin pulled it away, and reached for it again.

The ungainly colt brought back a picture from a book on Alexander: a great dark horse with its head turned towards the sun. Jon had spent a pleasant afternoon arguing that picture’s finer points with a fellow enthusiast who knew horses better than painters. He knew perfectly well that the animal before him was a yearling with muddy hocks. He liked the name nevertheless. “Whose is he?” Robb asked.

Eddard stood beside Hullen under the stable arch. His long face was solemn, but the grey eyes had warmed. “Jon’s.”

The colt found Harwin’s sleeve and pulled. “Mine?” Jon said.

“A late nameday gift. Hullen sent back the first three offered.”

“Two ponies and a barrel wearing a mane,” Hullen said. The master of horse took the wet sleeve from the colt’s mouth. “One foundered, one cow-hocked, one stuffed with feed to hide a poor frame. This one is not ruined yet.”

“His breeding?” Jon asked.

“The dam carried a Barrowton knight until a cart lamed her. Part garron, with good bone. The dealer named a Ryswell courser as sire.” Hullen snorted. “Horse traders know more fathers than septons.”

Eddard’s gaze remained on Jon. “Do you like him?”

Jon looked at the untidy black colt, the hay in his forelock and the bright eye following every movement in the yard.

“Yes,” he said. He stepped closer, smiling despite himself. “Very much.”

Eddard crouched beside him, one hand resting on the back of his head. “He will have grown into those legs by the time you can ride him.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The colt tugged at Harwin’s sleeve again. Jon laughed and went to untangle the cloth from his teeth.

Robb hurried towards them with both hands out. Hullen caught his shoulder before he reached the colt’s face.

“Slowly, my lord. He is still strange here.”

Jon stood beside Harwin and held out the back of his hand. The colt’s ears flicked between the boys. His nostrils widened over Jon’s fingers, warm breath stirring the cuff, before his whiskered lip brushed the healing cut beside Jon’s thumb.

“He likes you,” Robb whispered.

“He is looking for food.” Jon stroked the dark neck. Under the rough yearling coat he felt warmth and lean muscle. The colt stretched towards his sleeve, and Jon moved it out of reach.

Eddard asked, “Have you a name for him?”

“Bucephalus. It belonged to a king’s warhorse in an old eastern tale.”

Robb tried the name twice and swallowed a different half each time. “Boose-falus. That is too much name for one horse.”

“Bucephalus,” Jon corrected. Eddard asked which king, and Jon felt Arthur’s pale eyes settle upon him. “The king’s name was lost in the telling. The horse was remembered.”

Jon hoped no one would ask him to find that eastern tale in Luwin’s books. Eddard rubbed the colt’s damp forehead. “Bucephalus, then.”

Hullen took the rope. “He will answer to the grain scoop sooner than that, my lord. You can begin handling him now, but he will need another two years before you ride him. Perhaps three.”

“I will come down tomorrow.”

“Harwin will have a brush ready.”

“Did you brush your own horse?” Robb asked Eddard.

“When Hullen could catch me.”

“He preferred the riding,” Hullen said. “Your uncle Brandon was worse.”

Eddard laughed and rose from beside Jon. The knees of his grey wool were wet, and a strand of damp hair had fallen across his brow. Jon kept one hand on the colt while his father showed him where the coat would shed first as the weather warmed.

* * *

At dawn Jon helped Harwin carry water to the tack-room trough. Even half a bucket slopped over his boot. Harwin showed him the smaller one behind the door for next time, then Hullen put a currycomb into his hand and opened the stall beside Bucephalus’s.

“Moonsong. She taught your father.” The old grey mare had one clouded eye and a near foreleg that eased as she moved.

“I have Moth.”

“Moth walks to the feed bin and back. You are ready to learn more than that.”

Jon found no heat in the mare’s legs. She stood patiently while he helped Harwin brush and saddle her, much taller than Moth.

Robb came to the fence with half a honey cake. “Can you reach?”

“There is a block.”

“Father did not need a block.”

“Your father is taller,” Hullen said. “He needed one at your age.”

Harwin steadied the far stirrup while Jon mounted from the block. The saddle was much higher than Moth’s, and he took a moment to settle his feet before gathering the reins.

“Do you need me to lead you?” Robb asked.

“Finish your cake.”

At a walk Moonsong answered readily. Jon took her round the yard, finding the longer stride, then brought her back towards Hullen. The master of horse asked for a few strides of trot. Harwin brought Bucephalus out to the fence while Hullen watched the mare.

The change jolted Jon hard against the saddle. He kept his hands low, but one foot slipped from its stirrup and he had to bring the mare back to a walk to find it.

Robb laughed so hard that half his honey cake fell into the mud. Bucephalus, standing beside Harwin at the rail, stretched down and took it before either could move.

Jon looked over his shoulder. “You dropped something.”

Robb stared at the colt chewing. There was nothing to be done about it.

On the next circuit Jon managed the trot for longer. Hullen showed him when to rise, and he began to find the rhythm before his legs tired. He walked Moonsong back to the mounting block and let Hullen take her. By then Robb was asking for his turn.

After Luwin’s sums Arthur put a wicker shield on Jon’s arm and an ash sword in his hand. Across the yard Robb waited with Rodrik, walking stiffly after his own ride. Jon caught Arthur’s first cut, stepped in and took a touch on the ribs where his shield had drifted wide.

“Keep it with you as you step.”

On the third pass Jon no longer needed the reminder, but he lost the next blow trying to answer before his feet were set.

“Dead,” Robb called.

Rodrik promptly tapped Robb’s unguarded belly. Jon grinned across the yard, then turned back to Arthur.

By the time the afternoon light reached the armoury doors, two stable lads had stopped at the rail. Jon repeated a turn Arthur had shown him only once, and the elder nudged his companion. Arthur saw. He changed the attack, then changed it again, making Jon think until the wicker rim knocked against a shaking wrist. He called a halt. Jon could see the opening he had missed, but his arm ached too much to try again.

Eddard came down from the gallery as Jon returned the wooden sword to its rack.

“Are you coming to dinner?”

“Aye. Olyver is keeping the clock’s count.”

His father waited while he unbuckled the shield strap. “How did Moonsong carry you?”

Robb called from behind, “She stopped when I wanted to trot!”

“She has kept the trick all these years,” Eddard said.

At dinner, Jon fell asleep with a spoon in his fist. He woke upon Eddard’s shoulder halfway up the stair. Torchlight moved across the grey stone. His cheek rested against rough wool that smelled of smoke, rain and horse. “The crown tooth catches,” he murmured.

“Tell Olyver in the morning.”

Jon meant to answer, but his eyes closed against his father’s shoulder.

* * *

Voices woke him later. His chamber door stood open a finger’s breadth. Firelight crossed the rushes in the outer room. Wylla had undressed him and put him beneath two wool blankets; his riding breeches hung over the chair, one knee streaked with stable dirt.

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“Hullen had him trotting today,” Arthur said outside.

“I saw how he walked at dinner,” Eddard answered.

“He takes a correction faster than boys twice his age.” Arthur paused. “And I should have shortened the yard lesson. We will give him an easier day tomorrow.”

Jon turned beneath the blanket and the rubbed skin along his thigh burned. He made a small involuntary sound. Wylla opened the door at once.

“Awake?” She set a steaming cup beside him. “I have salve, if you will stop wriggling long enough.”

Eddard followed her in. He sat on the bed while she eased the blanket back and examined the raw patch.

“The saddle caught him,” she said. “Nothing torn.”

Jon caught his father watching Arthur. “I wanted to do both.”

“You may want things your legs cannot manage yet.” Eddard brushed the hair from his damp forehead. “Mine have given me trouble enough after a long ride.”

“You sat a saddle all the way from Dorne.”

“And complained every night. We rode hard, with few days’ rest,” Arthur said.

“Was it worse than this?” Jon asked.

“Your father may prefer not to answer that,” Arthur told him. Eddard gave the knight a weary look.

Wylla warmed the salve between her fingers. “Hold still now, love. This will sting.”

Jon hissed as the ointment touched the raw skin. Eddard held his hand until it eased.

“Why were you in such a hurry?” Jon asked Arthur.

“We had no wish to be stopped.”

“You rode as though the king himself were behind you,” Wylla said.

“He might have been.” Arthur looked at Eddard, who kept his hand around Jon’s.

Jon watched them both. “Did he want you back in King’s Landing?”

“He would have liked it,” Eddard said. “There was much still to be settled.”

“Did you not want to stay?”

“I wanted to bring you home.”

Aemon. Jon could still hear the name through the confusion of those first days. He had been called something else before Eddard brought him north. He kept the memory to himself, and his father waited only for an answer about Winterfell.

“I am glad you did.” Jon tightened his hold upon Eddard’s hand.

Eddard drew him gently against his side. Arthur stood at the foot of the bed, looking at neither of them for a moment. Then he brought the cup within reach.

“Tomorrow,” Wylla said, “you can tell me whether Bucephalus has learned to keep his teeth out of Harwin’s sleeve.”

“No.” Jon drank. “He likes Harwin.”

“An unfortunate way of showing it.” She stayed after the men left, rubbing the remaining salve into her own work-cracked hands. Jon fell asleep with his head against her knee.

* * *

Over the next twelve mornings Jon became a familiar presence in the stable. He came with his cloak still fastened against the chill, before sunlight reached the high windows. The horses stood in a warm haze of breath while boys shook out fresh straw and Hullen measured their feed. Harwin kept the soft brush on a shelf low enough for Jon to reach.

Bucephalus learned to stand for it and to follow him to the paddock without snatching at his sleeve. Jon worked down the long black neck, watching an ear turn towards the sound of his voice. Loose hair came away in soft clumps. He had to reach to brush the top of the shoulder; by the time he had finished both sides, his own shoulders were warm beneath the wool.

Harwin remained close when Jon worked about the colt’s feet. The young horse could be quiet for half an hour, then fling up his head at a swallow in the rafters. On those mornings Jon waited beside the stall door until the groom brought him round again. Once the colt pressed his nose into Jon’s chest and stood there breathing through the cloth. Jon scratched beneath the mane until Hullen called that Moonsong was saddled.

Jon practised the stable hitch on a spare length of rope. He knew the knot, but it was awkward to tie above his own head. When Harwin lifted him to the ring, he caught the groom’s shoulder.

“Hold still.”

“I am trying, my lord.”

“You are laughing.”

“Beg pardon.” Harwin steadied him until the rope lay right.

Jon could now trot a full circuit on Moonsong without losing his stirrups. Hullen had him alternate the rein hand while Robb copied from the rail until Rodrik called him away. After beef and mustard, Jon went to the clock room. The crown wheel ran through half a small sandglass before slowing; lifting the hammer let it recover. Mikken polished the pivots and tried a thinner arbor while Olyver counted. They would reduce friction before adding weight.

Bucephalus could offer no such steady improvement. One morning he let Jon lift his forefoot, then snatched it away as Harwin handed over the pick. Jon released it before the hoof struck beside his boot and left the cleaning to Harwin, rubbing his wrist.

The following morning Jon felt angry before he reached the stall. He had slept well and eaten hot bread, ham crisp at the edges and soft eggs, yet the swallows rasped above him and Harwin’s breathing irritated him beyond reason. Arthur was waiting by the open door, and Hullen was measuring oats in the aisle. Bucephalus flinched beneath the currycomb. A fly settled on the colt’s belly, and Jon felt its bite on his own skin.

He put down the comb. “Harwin, stand back. Something is wrong.”

The groom reached towards him, meaning to help him through the half-door. Jon recoiled. For a moment he wanted the hand, the walls and the whole low roof gone.

“Do not touch me!”

His shout sent Bucephalus rearing against the half-door. Harwin stumbled over the broom and struck the manger as he moved aside. Arthur caught Jon beneath the arms and carried him out. Hullen took the colt’s halter, opened the door wider and brought him into the aisle. “Out, Harwin.” The groom crawled clear while Hullen led the horse on towards the yard.

Hullen walked with the colt until the lead slackened and his head dropped. Jon’s anger vanished as abruptly as it had come. Harwin stood rubbing blood from one knuckle.

“I frightened him,” Jon said.

“You frightened me,” Harwin answered. “Then the broom finished it.”

Jon looked at the fallen broom, then at the cut hand. “I am sorry.”

Harwin nodded. Hullen pointed towards the tack room, and Arthur took Jon there before the colt could hear another raised voice.

Among the saddles Jon told him about the fly’s bite and the swallows shrilling inside his skull. Arthur waited until he finished.

“Like the raven?”

“I did not see through him. I felt him.”

“Has it happened since the raven?”

“Not like this.” Jon rubbed the place where he had felt the fly bite. “I will stay outside the stall until I can touch him without being pulled in.”

For the next few days Jon stayed outside the stall, talking to Bucephalus while Hullen handled him. He could still feel the memory of the fly bite, but the anger did not return. Arthur told Hullen that Jon had been troubled by a headache. Hullen accepted that, though he kept a closer eye on both boy and colt.

* * *

A moon later, Jon was leading Bucephalus across the yard when the rail holding the washline tore loose behind the tack room. Hullen walked beside him, his hand on the lead above Jon’s. Harwin was at the colt’s shoulder; Arthur stood near the gate. Beyond the paddock Robb rode Moonsong beneath Catelyn’s eye.

The crack came sharp as a branch breaking. Jon did not hear it first. Bucephalus did. The colt’s left ear snapped back, and Jon turned with it. For one instant the yard remained stone, cloud, grey mare, black coat. Then the world struck him through nostrils wide enough to drink the wind.

Old straw. Oiled leather. Mud. Mare. Men’s salt fear. A white cloth billowed around the wall. It had no head and no living scent, only a great pale belly that leapt and cracked. Run.

Four legs gathered beneath him. The black body hurled itself backward. Jon’s heels dug into the stone, his knees folded, and Arthur caught him.

Being lifted made the panic worse. The ground fell away. Jon kicked for hind legs that were not there and struck Arthur’s thigh. “Down!”

Arthur dropped to one knee and held him there. Behind the knight, Hullen gave ground with the colt while Harwin caught the loose cloth and dragged it clear.

“Jon. Look at me.”

The horse’s panic crowded out the voice. Jon felt four feet scrape for purchase; his own knees bruised against the stone. He caught Arthur’s collar with both hands and forced his eyes up to the familiar face.

“I have you,” Arthur said.

Jon could feel the wool between his fingers. He held it tighter. The yard slowly settled around him: two knees on the ground, Arthur’s arm across his back, blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue.

Jon spat blood into the mud. At the paddock Catelyn held Moonsong’s rein while Jory reached for Robb. Two grooms stood between them and the colt. “Take him inside,” she ordered.

“I want Jon,” Robb said, twisting against Jory’s arm.

“Go with Jory. I will see to him.”

Jon tried to reassure Robb, but the words came thickly around his bitten tongue. His brother saw the blood and began to cry. Jory lifted him from Moonsong and carried him towards the keep.

Catelyn examined Jon’s head and the skin behind his ears. Her touch was careful; she did not gather him against her as she had Robb.

“Were you struck?”

“No, my lady. I bit my tongue.”

Hullen had held the lead when the colt shied; Harwin had been after the cloth and had not seen Jon fall. Catelyn turned to Arthur. “This has happened before. In the nursery, with the raven. Luwin called it a fit.”

“Aye.” Arthur wiped Jon’s mouth with his sleeve. “He needs to sit.”

“And the headache?” Hullen asked. “Was that the same?”

“The beginning of it, perhaps. I should have told you.”

Hullen glanced at his son beside the torn washline. “Aye, ser.”

Catelyn sent Harwin for Eddard and Luwin. The maester was beside Jon on the mounting block when his father arrived at a near run.

“Robb said the horse had kicked you.”

“No. Arthur caught me.”

Luwin showed Eddard the bitten tongue and asked if Jon had felt faint before the horse moved. “I cannot tell,” Jon said. The mare’s smell was still impossibly clear across the yard; he kept that to himself.

Hullen made him promise to surrender the rope if he felt faint again. Eddard left the colt in the horse-master’s hands and ordered Robb’s riding moved to the other yard.

Wylla arrived with Jon’s cloak. At the blood on his collar she stopped so sharply that Harwin had to step aside.

“His tongue,” Luwin told her. “He bit it.”

She knelt, looked at the torn place and drew the cloak about Jon’s shoulders. Her hands shook as she fastened it.

“I am all right,” Jon said.

“Let me look.” She felt along his ribs until he shook his head, then let out a long breath. He leaned against her, and her arm tightened about his shoulders.

Catelyn went to Robb while Hullen and Harwin took the colt to his stall. Upstairs in the little solar above the tack room, Luwin examined Jon in the window light. His head ached, but the latch stood out clear against the sky, and his legs obeyed when the maester asked him to stand. Eddard kept a hand on his shoulder; Wylla stayed within reach.

“Rest this afternoon,” Luwin said. “Soft food until the tongue heals. Call me if he is sick again.”

He left for the rookery. From below came Hullen’s voice and a scrape of hooves, and Jon turned before he could stop himself.

“The horse is well,” Eddard said. “You may leave him to Hullen for an afternoon.”

“I will.” Jon took the water Wylla offered and swallowed carefully, favouring the bitten side.

A bowl scraped against the door outside. Arthur opened it and found Robb with honey custard in both hands, his head suspiciously close to the wood.

“I was bringing this,” he said.

“With your ear?”

“Both hands were full.” He gave the custard to Jon, who could scarcely swallow it with his swollen tongue. Robb ate half in brotherly assistance.

Later, when Eddard had taken Robb back to lessons and Wylla went to fetch clean linen, Jon caught Arthur’s sleeve.

“I was in the horse,” he said quietly. “I could not find my way out.”

Arthur sat on the bench beside him. “I thought so.”

Arthur looked towards the shutter. “And the man in your dreams?”

“I see him sometimes. He has told me very little since the raven.”

“Has he shown you how to leave the horse?”

“No. I shall ask him, if he comes again.”

“If he tells you how to come back, I need to hear it too.”

“You shall.”

Arthur stayed beside him until Wylla returned. She found Jon asleep against his arm, the empty custard bowl still upon the bench.

In sleep, Bucephalus stood among the white roots. His halter hung empty. Jon could feel the horse’s unease before he saw the pale man beneath the tree.

“You have a warg’s gift and no more sense than the beast you enter,” the man said. “You might have broken your neck.”

Jon glanced at the empty halter. This man had taught Bran to use the gift. “How do I keep the horse out while I am awake?”

“You carried his fear back with you.”

“Yes. And I could not find my own body. Tell me how to leave him.”

The red eye narrowed. “You are in a hurry to choose the lesson.”

“You know what happened. Give me your name.”

“Brynden Rivers.”

“Will you help me, Brynden Rivers?”

The roots stirred between them. Jon reached for the arm he could feel beneath his cheek and woke upon the bench.

Arthur was still there. Wylla had taken the bowl away, and the door was shut. Jon told him the name, then repeated what the man had called him.

“Bloodraven,” Arthur said. “He vanished beyond the Wall.”

“He is there when I sleep.” Jon sat up carefully. “He still has not told me how to come back.”

Arthur listened until he had repeated every word he could recall.

* * *

For three mornings Jon remained outside Bucephalus’s stall.

On the third afternoon he went with Eddard to the godswood. His father left his sword belt upon the bank and knelt before the heart tree. Jon sat beside him, drawing his feet clear of the pool.

Moss darkened the cuts beneath the tree’s eyes; a beetle crept through one furrow and disappeared. Jon had seen white bark in his dreams, roots closing about a man who knew when he slept. Here the leaves stirred overhead and Eddard prayed with his eyes shut.

Jon had no prayer to offer. He watched a fallen leaf turn upon the water and wondered whether Lyanna had sat in this same place, trailing her fingers in the pool. He knew so little of her beyond the things that had killed her. Whatever else the dreams might be, the gift that troubled him belonged to her side of his blood.

He kept his questions to himself beneath the carved eyes. Bloodraven could be listening; Jon knew no way to tell whether he was.

Eddard opened his eyes at last. He seemed easier here, with the hall and its petitioners beyond the trees. When he rose to buckle on his sword, Jon held out a hand and let his father pull him up.

On the fourth morning Jon returned to the stall, Arthur beside the door and Hullen holding the colt. Warm breath passed over his hair. He listened to the ordinary stable sounds, then brushed the shoulder and withers until the bristles clogged. Nothing drew him away. For all the fright, he remembered the strength of that other body and wanted to understand it. Harwin stood within reach of the hooves. He would make no attempt here.

They led Bucephalus quietly to the paddock. Outside, Eddard waited beside his saddled grey; Robb was already on Apple, with Jory holding the lead.

“The kingsroad is dry enough to the first watchtower. Will you ride?”

Jon glanced at the clock room window and handed Harwin the brush. “Aye, Father.”

Hullen lifted him behind Eddard. Arthur mounted his bay, and Wylla called from the steps that they must return before the beef pie went cold. Bucephalus watched them until the turn of the road hid him. Beyond the gate, Eddard’s grey kept to the crown between rain-filled wheel ruts. Jon held his father’s waist while Robb complained whenever Jory’s lead went taut.

“Woods tells me you want another apprentice,” Eddard said.

“Two, eventually. Olyver can make the wheels, but he cannot do all the work once people begin buying clocks.”

“Do you expect many buyers?”

“If it keeps good time. A lord will want one when his neighbour has it.” Jon could picture the orders more easily than the hands needed to fill them. “I will need men I can take to Dragonstone.”

“Will Woods part with him?” Arthur asked. His bay drew even along the firmer verge.

“I shall ask them both before I make any promise,” Jon said.

Robb twisted in his saddle. “I can teach them to count the teeth.”

“Provided they do not eat the peas,” Jon said.

“They may use stones.”

Eddard laughed. Jon felt it through the wool at his back and rested his cheek there while Robb told Jory about the wheel with one tooth missing.

At the watchtower they dismounted. A guard came down with bread and a jug of ale for his lord, apologising that he had nothing finer. Eddard took a piece, asked after the road and listened while the man described a fallen beech farther north. Robb walked round the tower with Arthur, looking for a stair to the roof. There was none outside. He came back to ask whether the ladder within was as high as it looked.

“Higher when you are coming down,” Arthur said.

Jon sat beside his father on the low wall. From here he could see the smoke above Winterfell without seeing the castle itself. A breeze stirred the white hair at his temple, and he tucked it behind his ear to keep it out of his mouth. Eddard broke the bread again and gave him the softer middle.

Robb returned with a pinecone which he maintained had been nibbled by a wolf. Jory suggested a squirrel. Robb appealed to his father, then Arthur, without finding a more satisfactory answer. Jon took it and pointed to the small paired bites. Robb examined them, disappointed for only a moment before deciding there might still be wolves beyond the next ridge.

They rode home with the pinecone in Eddard’s saddlebag. Jon was hungry by the time the gates came into sight, and his legs had grown stiff from sitting behind the saddle. Wylla’s beef pie still steamed beneath its brown crust. Robb put his find beside his trencher and told Sansa that they had nearly gone looking for wolves.