The familiar smell of hay, leather, and horseflesh filled my nostrils as I stepped into the stables. It was a good, honest smell, one that took me back further than almost any other scent in the Rills. "Hullen," I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the large, raftered space.

A grizzled figure emerged from the depths of the stable, his face a web of wrinkles and his hands as rough as a winter branch. Hullen had been with my family longer than I could remember. He'd seen me take my first steps, fall from my first pony, and break my first bone. I'd inherited him with the lordship, and the thought of anyone else tending to our horses was unimaginable. "M'lord," he grunted, a respectful, yet familiar, acknowledgment.

“Tell me of the new foals, old friend," I said, walking past the stalls. My gaze swept over the proud, bronze-and-black banner of my house that hung above the main entrance, a reminder of our lineage and our devotion to the steed. "Has the dark one out of Lady's Lament shown any promise?"

Hullen nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. "Aye. He's got his mother's fire, that one. But he's calm, too. Takes to the bit as easy as you please. Needs a name, though."

“I'll think on it," I replied, my hand trailing over the smooth wood of a stall door. "And the grey one? The one that was so sickly?"

“Stronger now," Hullen said. "Takes a bit of coaxing, but he'll be a fine mount, given time. Needs a steady hand, a gentle touch. Like as not, he'll be a fine warhorse, but he'll need to trust his rider." Hullen's pride in his work was evident, a silent testament to his long service.

I nodded slowly, reflecting on his words. A rider's trust in a horse, and a horse's trust in a rider, was a bond forged over many seasons. A sudden clang of a bucket being dropped pulled my attention toward the entrance, where one of my sons stood. It was Rickard, his face flushed with irritation. He stomped further into the stables, leaving the bright autumn sun behind.

“Father," he said, his voice curt. "I need a horse."

I turned to face him, the easy camaraderie I'd shared with Hullen instantly replaced by a more formal, lordly mien. "Need? You need a horse to what, Rickard? Go chasing after some tavern wench? The one with the apple cheeks?" I remembered Jorah’s report. Rickard's cheeks reddened further, a clear confirmation of my suspicions. "You'll ride a more seasoned animal, not one of the new stock. Hullen, give him the bay."

“But Father, the bay is too slow!" Rickard protested. "I want a new one. A fast one. You know how the others mock my banner." The old joke about the Ryswells having different colored horseheads for their banners had chafed him and his brothers for years.

“The bay is sure-footed and reliable, and that is what you will ride," I said, my tone brooking no argument. "Leave the fancy stock for those who will put them to better use. Now, go."

Rickard muttered under his breath, but knew better than to defy a direct order. He stomped towards the designated stall as Hullen pulled the bay from its stable. I watched him go, a familiar weariness settling in my bones. My sons were ambitious, quarrelsome, and far too concerned with appearances.

I turned back to Hullen, the warmth returning to my face. "He'll learn," I said softly, as if speaking to myself as much as the old stablemaster. "The hard way, perhaps, but he'll learn."

Hullen gave a knowing nod, and together, we watched as my son, so full of bluster and pride, led the placid bay out into the autumn sunlight.