Haden I
His arms burned like fire as he swung the axe down, the blade biting into the log with a satisfying thunk.
Splinters flew, catching the weak winter sun that filtered through the bare branches of the Wolfswood.
He was only twelve, small for his age, but strong enough from moons of this work.
The axe was heavy, borrowed from Bald Jorn's cart, and each swing sent a jolt up his skinny arms.
He paused to wipe sweat from his brow, even though the air was biting cold, his breath puffing out in white clouds.
Bald Jorn grunted as he hefted another log onto the pile, his massive shoulders straining under his woolen tunic.
The man was built like one of the logs himself, thick and rough, with a head as smooth and shiny as a river stone, that's why the men in Wintertown called him Bald Jorn, Haden reckoned. No hair at all, not even stubble. Just skin stretched tight over a skull that looked like it had been polished with a rag.
"Keep swingin', lad," Bald Jorn rumbled, his voice like gravel under boots. "We got three more carts to fill 'fore dusk."
Haden nodded, hefting the axe again.
The forest around them was quiet, save for the rhythmic chop-chop of their blades and the occasional caw of a raven high above.
Snow dusted the ground, but not deep yet, winter was coming, but it hadn't sunk its teeth in full. Still it was all summer snows, the logs were heavy with frost, making them slick and hard to grip.
As they worked, his eyes wandered to the other groups of men scattered through the trees.
There were more than usual today, dozens, axes flashing, logs piling high on sleds and carts. Some were Wintertown folk like him, but others looked like they'd come from farther afield, with ragged cloaks and hungry eyes.
"Why so many men out here today, Jorn?" Haden asked, pausing to catch his breath. "Ain't never seen this many choppin' at once."
Bald Jorn straightened, wiping his hands on his breeches. He spat into the snow, a glob of phlegm freezing almost instantly. "Lord's demand, that's why. Word came down from the castle, more wood for the hearths, more for the forges and more for the men."
Haden frowned, swinging his axe into another log. It split clean down the middle, and he felt a small swell of pride. "But why? We got plenty in the stores already. And all these men... where they comin' from?"
Jorn chuckled, a low, rumbling sound without much mirth. "Smallfolk like us don't ask questions, boy. Lords say chop, we chop. Lords say fight, we fight. That's the way of it. You start pokin' at why, and you'll end up with an axe in your back 'stead of in the wood."
Haden bit his lip, nodding. He didn't like not knowing, but Jorn was older, wiser. He'd been chopping logs since before Haden was born, or so the stories went. Still, it nagged at him, the extra men, the urgency.
Wintertown had been buzzing with talk lately: ravens flying in and out of the rookery, guards patrolling more often. Something big was stirring, but folks like him were the last to know.
They worked in silence for a while longer, the pile growing until the cart groaned under the weight. By the time the sun hung low, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges, Jorn clapped a meaty hand on his shoulder. "That's enough for today, lad. You done good. Here's your share."
He fished into his pouch and tossed a handful of copper pennies, five of them, glinting dull in the fading light.
He caught them, feeling the cold metal bite into his palm. It wasn't much, but it would buy bread and maybe a bit of cheese for Mother and Lora.
"Thanks, Jorn." Haden pocketed the coins, rubbing his sore arms.
"Get home now," Jorn said, already turning to hitch the cart to his mule. "Your mother's waitin', I reckon. And mind the paths, wildlings ain't the only things lurkin' in the dusk."
Haden nodded, slinging the axe over his shoulder and starting the trek back to Wintertown.
The forest path was narrow, winding through skeletal trees that clawed at the sky like bony fingers.
Snowflakes began to drift down, lazy at first, sticking to his lashes. He pulled his thin cloak tighter, the coppers jingling in his pocket like a promise.
Wintertown sprawled at the edge of the Wolfswood, a huddle of thatched roofs and timber walls clustered around the base of Winterfell's looming grey towers.
As Haden emerged from the trees, the town came alive in his senses: the smell of woodsmoke curling from chimneys, the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the blowing of goats in their pens.
Folks hurried about in the fading light: women with baskets of turnips and groundroots from the market, children chasing each other through muddy lanes, men unloading carts like the one he'd just filled.
The inn at the center, the Smoking Log, they called it, spilled golden light from its windows, laughter and the strum of a lute leaking out.
Haden's stomach growled; he could almost taste the stew they served there on good days.
But he didn't linger. His home was on the outskirts, a small croft with a slanted roof and walls patched with moss and mud. Mother would have supper waiting, salt beef soup, maybe, with a bit of salted pork if they were lucky.
Lora, his sister, fifteen and pretty with her long brown hair, would be mending clothes by the fire. She worked as a seamstress for some of the castle folk, bringing in more coin than his logs ever did.
As he approached, his steps quickened because something was off.
Two saddled horses were tied to the wooden railing outside, fine beasts, with Winterfell's direwolf sigil stamped on the saddles. One was a sturdy bay, the other a chestnut with a white blaze.
Haden's heart skipped. Castle horses?
What were they doing here?
He dropped the axe by the door and burst inside, the warmth of the hearth hitting him like a wall. "Lora? Mother?"
The room was small, cramped with a table, a few stools, and the loom where Mother wove blankets in better times.
Garren, a Winterfell guard Haden knew from the gates, tall, with a bushy beard and kind eyes, stood by the fire, helmet under his arm.
Beside him was a young boy, maybe ten or nine, with red hair and a solemn face. He wore a fine cloak trimmed in fur, boots polished to a shine. He had seen him before, from afar, the Stark boy, Robb.
Lora sat at the table, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed with tears. She looked up as Haden entered, her lips trembling.
"What's happened?" Haden demanded, stepping between the men and his sister, his small chest puffing out. "Lora? Why are you cryin'?"
Robb stepped forward, his voice calm and solemn, like the septons when they spoke of the old gods. "Haden, is it? You've been summoned to the castle."
He blinked, doubt flooding him.
Summoned? Him? For what? He opened his mouth to ask, but the words stuck like ice in his throat.
The world blurred then, a whirl of voices.
Garren untied the horses outside, murmuring something about haste.
Lora grabbed his hand, her grip cold and tight, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Robb mounted his horse, gesturing for them to follow on foot.
The walk to Winterfell was a haze, snow falling thicker now, the town lights fading behind them, the castle gates looming like the jaws of a great beast.
Bald Jorn's words echoed in Haden's head as they trudged up the path. Smallfolk like us don't ask questions... Lords' doings are lords' doings.
But questions burned in him now, why the summons? Why the tears? Why the Stark boy himself coming to their door?
The yard of Winterfell was vast, a sea of packed snow and stone under the torchlight.
Guards patrolled the walls, their cloaks snapping in the wind. In the center, near the heart tree's red leaves that never fell, lay a shape covered in a grey cloak.
Lora let out a wail and ran forward, dropping to her knees. She pulled back the cloak, revealing Mother's face, she looked small, smaller than he remembered, her face pale as milk, lips blue from the cold.
Lora knelt beside her, clutching the shroud, tears streaming down her cheeks in silent rivers. She rocked back and forth, whispering words Haden couldn't hear over the buzzing in his ears.
Questions. So many. Why was Mum here? Why wasn't she at home, stirring the pot or scolding him for muddy boots? Bald Jorn said not to ask about lords, but this... this wasn't about logs or lords. This was Mum.
He stared, the world tilting. Nothing made sense. His mother, strong, always smiling even when the soup was thin, gone. How? Why?
Lora clutched the body, sobbing. "Mother... oh gods, Mother..."
Robb stood beside a woman Haden recognized as Lady Stark, tall, with auburn hair like her son's, her face kind but stern.
She approached Lora slowly, kneeling in the snow despite her fine gown.
"Child," she said softly, placing a hand on Lora's shoulder. "I'm so sorry. The maester says the cold took her in the night. She wandered out... perhaps in fever, we found her at dawn.""
Lora nodded through her tears, words choked.
Lady Stark spoke low, comforting, promising help, food, coin, a place if needed.
Robb approached Haden then, his grey eyes steady, he stood frozen, gazing at his mother's still form.
The snowflakes landed on her cheeks, melting like tears she could no longer shed.
"Haden," Robb said gently. "The cold of the night took her. They found her in the snow this morning. I'm sorry."
He blinked, the words bouncing off him like pebbles on ice.
Sorry? What did sorry mean?
His mother was gone. Just... gone.
"The castle will handle the funeral expenses," Robb continued. "And you're welcome to train in the yard. Become a guard at the keep. To support your family. It's good work, steady. You'll have a place here."
He pressed a pouch into Haden's hand, leather, heavy with coin.
Haden took it numbly, fingers closing around it without feeling.
Train? Guard? Family? Nothing registered.
It was like the world had cracked open, and he was falling through, but his feet stayed planted in the snow.
Lady Stark rose, brushing snow from her skirts.
"Ser Wolan," she called to a knight nearby, a burly man with a dark beard. "Take the siblings and their mother's body back to their home. On a cart. See they're cared for."
Ser Wolan nodded, his face somber.
"Aye, m'lady." He approached Lora, helping her to her feet, murmuring sympathies. "Come now, lass. We'll get her home proper."
Haden let himself be led, the pouch clutched tight.
They loaded Mother's body onto a cart, wrapped in the cloak, gentle as if she might wake. Lora climbed up beside it, still weeping and he followed, sitting with his back to the wood, staring at nothing.
As the cart rumbled out the gates, Ser Wolan walking alongside, Haden felt the weight of it all crash down. Shock numbed him, nothing registering, not the cold biting his fingers, not Lora's sobs, not the creak of the wheels.
His mother was dead and he was summoned to the castle for this? For a dead body and a pouch of coin?
The snow fell heavier, blanketing the world in white silence.
He clutched the pouch, feeling its weight, but inside, he was empty.
They left the castle without a mother, the gates closing behind them like the end of a tale he didn't understand.