The Hunter and the Prey

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

Also, if you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name to read five chapters ahead of Discord.

Also, warning, there are some rather graphic scenes here.

**************SD**************

17th Day of the 3rd Moon

Lord Eddard Stark

Eddard tiredly rubbed his brow as the raindrops relentlessly pattered the shutter. It would snow during the night, but the days were too warm and turned the snow into rain. He collapsed on the Lord's chair behind the desk and sighed. The waiting had become unbearable, and all he could do was worry while his mind conjured worse and worse scenarios. It didn't help that the king's arrival loomed in the distance, along with all the troubles it would entail. Ned hated dealing with the Southron court and had no desire to see any of it, doubly more so now when he was grieving.

Now with the latest rain erasing the tracks, if his men had not found traces of Jon, then there was nothing that could be done. And worst of all, only so much time and resources could be spent without beginning to gather far too much unhealthy attention. His last hope was to have some of his principal bannermen spot Jon and return him to Winterfell, but the chances were slim.

Jory finally entered the solar, looking tired and sat on one of the chairs.

"Anything?"

"No, lord Stark," Cassel replied with a grimace.

"You're telling me that a sick boy of six and ten escaped his room, direwolf in tow, bypassing the guard at his door, the guard at the entrance of the Great Keep, the guardsmen at the armoury, the kitchen, and those at the gates and walls and left Winterfell unnoticed with the finest garron in my stables, and you have no idea how he did it?!"

"Yes, lord Stark," Jory admitted, and his shoulders sagged.

Ned could feel his head beginning to throb painfully. In moments like these, he wished he was a landless second son with no duties and responsibilities.

"Did you find out what he took from the armoury?"

"A brigandine, arming doublet, chainmail sleeves, greaves, a shield, two quivers full of arrows and a yew longbow, two bastard swords, three daggers, a hunting axe, two hunting spears, our finest tent, and my camping supplies. All of the finest make." The captain looked down, face laden with guilt.

Gods, had Jon taken his favourite fur-inlaid tent with the Myrish silk cot? Ned groaned and tiredly rubbed his brow again. Coupled with all the travelling food missing from the kitchens, it was as if his son was preparing for war.

What had happened at the heart tree?

Why did Jon speak of things that had never happened in his fever?

Why did his boy run away? Jon had never wanted for anything in Winterfell!

How did he manage to sneak away unnoticed while looting the armoury? Jon could have just asked, and Ned would have let him take his pick anyway, just not his favourite tent...

The Lord of Winterfell had so many questions and no answers at all.

"All the guardsmen on duty that night will assist the gong workers with clearing the cisterns and drains for a fortnight," he ordered. Ned could not leave the failure of duty unpunished, but he did not want to flog anyone either. Jon had sneaked around with uncanny skill without anyone noticing, and he'd rather consider it his son's ability than his guardsmen's failure. But still, more steps would have to be taken. "Double the guardsmen on watch, start recruiting more men, and report to Rodrik to intensify the training for everyone."

"It will be done, my lord," Jory promised and quickly ran off.

A long-forgotten desire to lift his sword and strike people not only resurfaced but bubbled angrily in his gut.

It had been a while since Ned regularly trained in the yard, and mayhaps it was time to take it up again. His odd sword practice once or twice a fortnight would no longer cut it. And since he had ordered his guards to train more rigorously, it would be good to join them and lead by example. Robb seemed to have calmed greatly with the help of all the time spent in the yard.

He poured himself a small cup of ale and downed it in one go.

If nothing else, Ned could take solace that Jon had left well-prepared. His boy was an able hunter and a fighter for his age, and with a direwolf in tow, albeit an adolescent one, little could endanger him in the Seven Kingdoms as long as he used his head wisely. But the most worrying part was that Ned had no idea if his son still had his wits about him!

At that moment, the guardsman outside the door announced Rodrik Cassel, and the weary master-at-arms entered his solar. The old knight shed his wet cloak and placed it on the hanger before silently sitting on the chair.

"Nothing," Rodrik glumly reported. "No traces from our trackers and hunters; the wolfhounds found no leads at all."

And now, with the heavy rain, any trail would be lost. Ned found his hand had balled in a fist and took a deep breath.

"A green boy of six and ten avoids my best guards, sneaks out of my keep, makes a fool of the North's finest, and we have no idea how or why?" The Lord of Winterfell slumped on his chair again, feeling defeated. He was not sure if he should feel proud of his boy or furious.

"None of this were the actions of a green boy," Cassel hesitantly countered. "Pardon me, my Lord, but only a cunning and seasoned veteran could pull this off. While Jon himself is cleverer than he shows and is intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of Winterfell, I wouldn't expect it from him. But I think I know how he managed to run away."

"And why did you not say anything about it so far?!"

"It's all a conjecture, and I have no proof," the old knight supplied with a grimace.

"Well, it's better than what we got so far, so spill," The Lord of Winterfell urged with a sigh.

"I think the boy climbed down the shutter of his room," Rodrik began slowly. "The window is large enough for someone slim to slip through and was left open. It would be close enough to the ground floor, so it's not impossible. Jon could have sneaked into the armoury while the guardsmen changed shifts during the night. It's also possible that they were asleep on duty. Mayhaps one or two, but not all of them."

"Indeed," Ned acquiesced with a grimace. "But he never showed a penchant for climbing before. That didn't explain how he managed to sneak past the walls with a horse."

"Jon's always been a resourceful and observant lad, and he did climb all over the trees in the Godswood as a child," Cassel countered as he pulled on his grey whisker. "He could have worn a direwolf livery and simply ridden out before dawn when the guardsmen are laxest. The main gate always stays open in peacetime, and the men guarding it are far more stringent on who enters than who leaves. But as I said, this is only a conjecture of mine."

Ned's mind came to a grinding halt for a short moment. His boy might have played his guardsmen for fools, but Ned knew Jon very well; his son did not have a malicious bone in his body. But the possibility alone sent cold shivers down his back, and his mind began conjuring worse and worse images again. If it was not Jon but someone hostile and experienced enough, his whole family could have had their throats slit during the night. Someone familiar with Winterfell's layout could do much harm if they put their mind to it.

"It seems that I've grown too lax. This cannot continue," Ned murmured to himself before raising his voice. "From now on, every soul entering and leaving Winterfell will be carefully checked. I've ordered Jory to double the guard and recruit more men-at-arms. You're to increase the training of everyone in Winterfell. Wait for me in the yard in an hour, I require some sparring myself."

The master-at-arms nodded and quickly headed out of the solar, leaving Ned Stark alone with his thoughts.

He sighed and forced himself to stand up and head to his chamber to change into something more suitable than silks for the yard.

Just as he was putting on his training tunic, Winter paddled over to him, scroll too large for his small frame comically clasped in his jaw.

"Where did you find that, boy?"

The direwolf didn't answer but insistently butted his shin with his tiny grey head. Ned chuckled softly, petted the eager furball, and picked up the scroll. The Lord of Winterfell slowly unfurled it, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. A single glance almost made him drop it; the letters were written not in ink but in blood.

'Dear uncle,

Mayhaps I am truly mad, and I hope that I am, but I feel that I must give you a warning. I beg of you to read it till the end, no matter how fantastical it sounds-'

Ned paled, and his heart began to hammer like a drum; how did Jon find out!? Ned had been cautious not to mention anything. And only Howland knew, but his friend had never left Greywater Watch since the Rebellion. He fought off the urge to quickly toss it into the crackling hearth with gritted teeth and forced himself to continue reading.

'I hope I am mad, and it's all something conjured by my addled mind, but just in case it's not, I'm writing this letter. I'd rather this all be a bad dream and be your bastard son instead of Rhaegar's, but one rarely gets what one wishes for. Some things have changed, but most seem to have remained the same. Beware...'

**************SD**************

23rd Day of the 3rd Moon

Jon Snow

Jon fed a piece of dried jerky to Ghost, who happily devoured it in one bite. Nearby, Shadow, the newly-named pitch-black garron, grazed a few tufts of grass sticking out of the snow-covered ground. Being in the wilderness seemed to agree with his companion, as he looked far happier and had grown half the way to his knees now. At the start, Jon had hunted some smaller game like hares, squirrels, and the such, nothing that be considered poaching and catch the attention of the local outrider patrols.

Now, Ghost had started hunting on his own, and quite successfully at that, if the connection in his mind was to judge. He now always knew what his direwolf was doing or where Ghost was. A shroud of snow had covered the land last night, making Ghost incredibly hard to spot, especially with his silent steps. He had to make do without any fire when he approached the Bolton lands, lest it attracted undue attention, but the weather felt warm compared to the freezing cold that he had grown used to.

Ghost quietly darted into the snowy forest to scout ahead, leaving a thoughtful Jon alone. He could slip into his companion's mind, but the direwolf was smart enough to deal with things on his own. Over the years, Jon had become an able ranger and tracker, but he still struggled to compete with Ghost in the forest. His thoughts slowly drifted towards certain decisions of his. Gods, now that the numbness was gone, he felt like a child again, plagued by indecision and all sorts of pesky feelings. Feelings that were very pleasantly muted after Melisandre's cruel resurrection were now back with a vengeance.

A fortnight later, he still felt craven for avoiding his family. Were they even his family anymore? Gone were his brothers and sisters, and cousins had taken their place. Alas, Winterfell was a place of ghosts for him. Deep down, he had wanted to become the Lord of Winterfell, and when his darkest desire came true, it tasted like ash on his tongue. His kin slain, and the North torn apart, facing enemies from within and without.

Jon had yearned dearly to reunite with his siblings, and now that they were here and alive, not only had they turned out to be cousins instead, but he found himself with nothing to say. They were the children of summer, young and joyful, but he was no longer the same innocent boy of four and ten but a weary, battered, and broken shell of a man, kept together only by duty and vengeance. And now both the duty and vengeance were gone, vows or oaths no longer bound him, yet he found himself walking down a similar road again.

Everything else felt meaningless as long as the darkness gathered and the white winds began to blow.

The endless struggle amidst the snow was the only thing he knew now.

As for why he left so quickly?

Jon knew that a letter written in blood from a missing son would be far more striking than the mad ramblings of a bastard with addled wits. Or worse, Eddard Stark would believe him and keep him confined to his rooms. And Jon did not think he could set his eyes on Greyjoy without gutting the traitorous cunt open, which would create a myriad of problems. Last but not least, it was necessary to leave because nobody else could deal with the Others as well as he could. Nobody else knew how!

But no matter how much he repeated that in his head, it didn't make the bitter feeling disappear.

Hopefully, Bran's direwolf would follow his instructions. He did not expect to be able to connect to its mind almost as easily as he could with Ghosts'. Jon also knew that the Lord of Winterfell's hands were tied without proof, and he wondered if Lord Stark would listen and follow his ideas. The North, the Watch, and the Free Folk were all as stubborn as they came; despite their differences, words would do little to convince them. Even after all three were bent and broken into pieces, on the verge of death and with a common enemy, Jon had struggled greatly to bind them to work together, and even then, it was only a part of them and not without trouble.

Having the Night's Watch, the North, and the Fre Folk work together without being broken first was nothing but a pipe dream.

Words were wind. There was only a single way any of them would listen and work together.

Violence.

Jon shook his head with a sigh; he prayed his uncle would at least heed his warnings.

Not that Jon knew exactly what had gone wrong in the South. But at least he knew the broad strokes of it.

Nobody in the South is to be trusted. There were no friends there, only plotters and schemers who would stab you in the back at the first opportunity.

Mayhaps he was wrong, but all his efforts to squeeze out some help from below the Neck had been in vain. Vague promises of future aid that would never come to pass in return for the North's thinning number of swords and obeisance. As if he would bend his knee to those who beheaded his father or break bread on a table with those who plotted his kin's demise. Most would see him killed just for being the 'son' of Eddard Stark. He had suppressed his burning desire to tear into the South, killing everyone that wronged his family - they were far too numerous the North's strength had waned greatly, and he was far too busy battling the Others.

But the South was not his concern now, no matter how dangerous it seemed. He was just a bastard again, and the North was ruled by the Lord of Winterfell, not Jon Snow. He had aided his uncle in every way he could, and now it was out of his hands. No, the bigger threat lay to the far north.

But first, he had to deal with one final pesky problem before heading beyond the Wall.

A small smile appeared on his lips as he felt Ghost nudge him through the link. The gods were smiling upon him today; he had expected to wait and stalk here for nearly a moon, yet it was scarcely the second day. He slipped his mind into the direwolf, only to be greeted by a gruesome sight. At a small clearing in the distance stood two ugly, cruel-looking men wearing the Flayed Man heraldry, surrounded by a handful of hounds.

The familiar one, with blotchy pink skin, wormy-looking lips, and pale, soulless eyes, was forcing himself upon a bruised and naked maiden while the second, all sorts of blisters and spots covering his skin, watched from the side with delight. Jon broke his connection, quickly strung his yew longbow and followed his companion's direction, trying his hardest not to produce a sound while stepping only on rocks and roots. He could recognise the repulsive face of the bastard of Dreadfort anywhere; although he was not sure who the other man was, it mattered little. He, too, would not see another sunrise. Thankfully, the snow was thin and soft enough not to crunch with every step. The moment the sun peaked over the clouds, it would melt the snow away.

It took him nearly half an hour, but he finally reached where Ghost stood as still as a statue amidst the snow and did his best to approach from the direction of the wind. Jon looked at the clearing and felt his guts clench at the sight. The maiden now lay unmoving on the ground amidst a pool of blood; chunks of flesh were missing from her body, and he could see blood dripping from some of the dogs' snouts. That was far from the worst he had seen, but the loathsome sight made his stomach churn. Gods, he felt like a green boy again! He shook his head and cleared his mind.

The uglier man who looked like he belonged in a pigsty was forcing himself upon the cold corpse while Ramsay watched from the side, fleshy face twisted grotesquely with sadistic glee shining from his pale, lifeless eyes.

Jon carefully measured the distance and thanked the gods again. Hopefully, the direction of the wind wouldn't change, so the hounds would not yet smell him or Ghost. But a hundred yards was too far; Jon was unsure he could aim true at this distance. If he missed here, things could get ugly.

Slowly but steadily, Jon crept forward, praying for the beast of a man not to finish his vile deed just yet. Two painful minutes later, he was less than sixty yards away, and the raper was still rutting the cold corpse.

An arrow was quietly notched, and he drew the yew bow and aimed towards Ramsay.

The arrow flew, and before it found its mark, Jon quickly drew a second one from the quiver and instantly let it loose towards the second man. The first one struck true and buried itself straight into Ramsay's eye, making him collapse like a sack of rocks. Sadly, the bastard's companion twisted, trying to see what had happened, and was only struck in the shoulder.

Jon cursed while the man cried in pain and turned to run and quickly let loose a third and a fourth arrow. The third and fourth ones impaled his back, and he tumbled on the ground. The uneasy hounds seemed to have pinpointed Jon's location and mindlessly rushed his way, barking up furiously. He barely managed to order the reluctant Ghost away; his direwolf was too young and small and would be easily killed by the bigger savage dogs. Arrows flew from his bow one after another, but he only downed two by the time they approached. When they were ten yards away, he tossed the bow away and quickly unsheathed his bastard sword in his right hand and a dagger in his left.

The five hounds directly went for his feet, but he lunged towards the reddish one on the left and lopped off its head with a single strike. The body tumbled on the ground, spraying blood everywhere while the head rolled to the side. The other four couldn't turn instantly, and after two short heartbeats, he found himself facing four pairs of eyes.

Even though the hounds were large and vicious, he did not fear them. He was faster, stronger, and just as vicious and had fought far more dangerous and numerous foes. Their hide couldn't halt the edge of his sword. Just as he prepared to slay them, he could feel something wiggle on the back of his mind.

Suddenly, their growls turned into pitiful whines; they all rolled on their backs, exposing their bellies, and he-

-found himself looking at the dangerous two legs with savage grey eyes.

**************SD**************

28th Day of the 3rd Moon

Roose Bolton

The Lord of Dreadfort dismissed the servant after she filled his chalice with his favourite spiced wine.

"So where is he?"

Roose took a small sip and languidly looked at the captain of the guards.

"Ramsay's dead, my Lord," Walton reported.

A pity his bastard son had been shaping up to be… useful. But now, he was faced with a new quandary.

"And how did that happen?"

"Found him and Reek along with some woman in the forest where he liked to hunt or what little was left of them. Bears, wolves, and crows had feasted generously. Their eyes were pecked out, and they were mauled so badly they wouldn't have been recognised had it not been for the torn coat of arms," Steelshanks dutifully explained. "Seems like they died about five days ago, but all the traces were destroyed by hungry beasts, the snow, and the rain."

He thoughtfully twirled the wine for a few moments before taking another small sip, the spices making his tongue tingle pleasantly.

"What of his hounds?"

"Found a few torn limbs all over the forest and two half-eaten dogs, my Lord."

His bastard at least had the sense to perform his indiscretions in the more secluded parts of his lands. This time, the boy had ventured out only with Reek in tow, leaving Skinner and Grunt in the Dreadfort. But Ramsay's willfulness seemed to have worked against him this time. Usually, nobody dared to do anything under the banner of House Bolton.

A peaceful land, a quiet people.

Ramsay did hide his proclivities well enough and had not made any enemies Roose knew of. But the bastard, with a man-at-arms and a couple of hunting hounds by his side, should not have been easy to kill, especially by wild animals. Yet, the boy had always been reckless with little self-control; it would not surprise him if Ramsay tried to bite off more than he could chew. What a foolish death; Roose couldn't help but wonder if the gods simply deigned to punish his kinslaying bastard for striking down his trueborn brother.

Not only were his bastard's activities unsavoury, but his origins were as well. Roose never really acknowledged Ramsay as his officially, especially since he was a fruit of partaking in the now-forbidden right of the First Night.

Eddard Stark was just as dangerous as his father and wouldn't hesitate to lop off Roose's head if his misdeeds were found out.

"What do you think of this, Walton?"

"Well, if it was done by men, they certainly knew how to cover their tracks. But not a single thing was looted from the corpses, and it's hard for a large number of men to hide their tracks well, even with the rain. Methinks Ramsay got a little too brave and ran afoul of an angry cave bear from the nearby hills."

It was certainly possible; the bastard's hunting skills wholly relied upon his savage enthusiasm more than anything else.

It mattered little now; Roose had far greater problems than a dead bastard boy with far too much daring and too little wits.

"Double the patrols around the border and question anyone suspicious," he finally ordered.

"And what should we do with Ramsay's bones?"

"Leave them to the wolves," the Lord of Dreadfort impassively decided before dismissing Steelshanks. There was no need to bury a bastard in the crypts, where only the trueborn Bolton lay.

As the clinking of the captain's steel greaves quietly faded in the distance, the Lord of Dreadfort took another sip and found himself in a dilemma.

Roose was sorely lacking an heir. His heir-apparent was Harwin Slate, the second grandson of the current Lord. A Bolton's daughter married into the Slates five generations ago. That would simply not do; the Dreadfort would never pass on those fools.

Ramsay could have been taught with time and maybe legitimised as his sole son, but now he had to look for a third wife. But it was not as simple as picking out a daughter from any House, big or small. House Bolton had an unsavoury reputation; many Northern Lords would hesitate to wed their daughters to him, especially after the odd demises of Roose's previous spouses. He had to negotiate with Rodrick Ryswell for nearly two years before managing to arrange the marriage to Bethany. Sadly, his first two marriages had hardly borne any fruit. Out of eight births, only Domeric had survived beyond the cradle. Roose now needed a third, more fertile wife, preferably one that would grant him a decent alliance.

He was not getting any younger, and it was time to review his options and begin negotiations.

He rang his bell, and a wiry serving girl entered, trying to mask the fear on her face but failing.

"Fetch me Maester Tybald."

**************SD**************

3rd Day of the 4th Moon

Cotter Pyke, Eastwatch by the Sea

"Now, now, now, what do we have here?" Cotter Pyke asked with a wide smile, looking at the smuggler dragged in by the two burly rangers. He could recognise a Tyroshi cunt with their bright clothes and painted hair anywhere, and this one smelled like loot. By the Drowned God, it's been only three moons since they bagged their last Tyroshi smuggler.

"We caught this one tryin' to sneak south after selling steel to the wildlings," Darlan explained with a toothy smile while he kicked the man down.

"Ah, this is a mis-"

Gormon smacked the smuggler's head with the flat of his blade, and the man flopped on the ground out cold. Everyone hated the greedy fucks tryin' to arm the wildlings just to earn some coin. The better armed the savages were, the more deadly were the rangings north of the Wall.

"Blackbird n' Talon caught his ship's loaded with weirwood, furs, ivory, some silver nuggets, n' few swords n' axes of poorer steel," the ranger added while Cotter whistled inwardly. The smugglers had gotten fucking silver! "Woulda chopped his head off on his own deck, but fuckers like this are too good for me sword."

Well, if nothing else, it would give Cotter one more ship under his command! Though, it would take a lot of dye to paint the sails black.

"This would make a hefty coin, enough to buy proper booze for everyone for half a year," Maester Harmune drunkenly muttered from the side, making Gormon snort with amusement.

Gods, he was tempted to toss Harmune down the Wall sometimes; the fucking Citadel had sent the most useless cunt for their maester. But alas, should he do that, he risked having an even more useless cunt come over.

"Hang him and all of his crew," Cotter ordered as the rangers dragged the man over to the middle of the courtyard.

"But what do we do with the galley slaves?"

"They can take the Black or hang with the smugglers," he waved it off. "We can always use more men."

Rangers, builders, stewards, there were never enough.

Just as he turned to return to his quarters, one of his men barely intercepted him from the docks beyond the makeshift gate.

While the castles on the wall were supposed to have no walls or defences to the south, a few braver wildlings had sailed around and attacked them during the nights before, and thus, a simple wooden palisade was raised to at least hold off raiders.

"Commander Pyke, a woman is looking fer ya," old Maekar hoarsely rasped out, trying to catch his breath.

The steward looked extremely thin; his eyes were sunken, and his sparse white hair looked dry, sticky, and as if it would fall off any moment. Cotter didn't give him more than a few moons before he went to sleep and didn't wake on the morrow, and even that might be generous. Maester Harmune, whose sole redeeming feature while sober was his two silver links in medicine, had declared that nothing could be done for the man.

"Is Kevan tryin' to smuggle his whores in again cuz he's too lazy to go to Hollowtree's whorehouse?" He asked tiredly.

"Nay, this one's some weird Essosi priestess dressed all in red from the ship from Gulltown," the old man added, coughing and wheezing sickly.

This sounded suspiciously like those annoying red priests. What in the Drowned God's name would one of the fire-loving fucks want to do with him?

"Lead me to her," Cotter said with a sigh.

The Commander followed the hobbling man and soon left the dilapidated wooden gate and was onto the dreary docks. He blinked, unsure if the eyes were not deceiving him. Cotter was faced with a gorgeous pair of teats and an alluring face with an unhealthy obsession with the colour red. The red-haired, red-eyed woman in question was dressed in a rather thin crimson dress, yet the cold did not seem to affect her. Her unused travel cloak was crimson, and her small travel bag was dyed red. Cotter could see many black brothers looking lustily at the woman, but she seemed unbothered.

Definitely a red priestess, that one.

"You've been looking for me, lady…?"

"Melisandre of Asshai, devout servant of the Lord of the Light," she supplied with an alluring smile.

While unaffected by her melodic voice, Cotter shuddered at the mention of that accursed place. He'd seen a man that returned alive from Asshai, and the hardened sailor had become a drooling, quivering mess that had taken a leave of his senses and could only bumble like a lackwit and could not even control his own bladder.

No matter how much he wanted to bury his face into the ample bosom before him, his ma's warnings about witches ran like a death knell in his head.

"What brings a red witch all the way here?" He bluntly asked, hoping to send the vixen away as soon as possible.

Preferably before the Black Brothers lost whatever little control they had or before she decided to do her foul magicks here.

"I require a horse and a passage beyond the Wall," she stated.

"I can give ya a garron for a dragon, Malindre," he offered after mulling for a few moments.

He would normally order her searched if she tried to smuggle something to the wildlings, but another look at her scarcely covered curves dissuaded him from that… no matter how tempted he was to do the search himself.

By the drowned god, he had seen courtesans in pillow houses wearing more than the woman before him.

"It's Melisandre, commander," she corrected with another sweet smile, but her lips thinned somewhat. "And I shall take the horse."

"But if you want to go beyond the Wall, none of my men will accompany you."

"I only require a passage; R'hllor will light my path," the red woman assured him.

"Fine!"

Well, if the crazy priestess wanted to kill herself, Cotter was not going to stop her. A pity for the poor horse, he would make sure Norrey picked some older gelding that would not be missed.