Lyon dreamt that night, of his father and one of their excursions in Winterfell. He remembered it was a hard winter; the snow fell heavy and at an angle, and Dram had been forced to set up a small shelter before he could light and raise a decent flame. The trees were ominous and foreboding, with shadows so dense that Lyon could have sworn he heard whispers inside, calling out for him. His father assured him it was the wind – and it was blowing harsh that night.

The man had set out a small pot he often took with them on their trips, but even the smell of dinner could not lift Lyon's spirits. His horse had fallen; "Too cold for it," Dram had said, "That little foal had no business being up here. I shouldn't have insisted you take it."

"I'm cold," Lyon stammered. His teeth were chattering so hard that they hurt. His father quickly passed him a steaming cup of strong-smelling soup.

"Eat this," he instructed, "Keep your strength up."

"What about you?" The cup was hot and he hugged it close to his chest, cradling it as though it were the most precious of diamonds.

"The father sacrifices for the son." Dram picked out a much smaller cup from his satchel. "Once the storm's settled, I'll find us a real dinner. Until then, you eat before I do."

Lyon made to protest, but his father shushed him.

"Eat," he told him. The boy did not refuse him, and when he sipped his soup he found himself more ravenous than he thought. It was made of rabbit; a tough and sinewy creature Dram had hunted on their journey. Lyon had always preferred rabbit to deer and pig meat.

There was silence, apart from the wind that hammered against the shelter and the hiss of snowflakes falling into the fire. The boy winced with every noise. Dram watched as he curled into what little warmth his cup provided and frowned.

"The river's too cold here. When we find a village, we'll find you a real bath. Even boys need soap and hot water on occasion."

"Is there one close?"

"Not close – a few days ride, less without the foal, more if the weather doesn't settle down. But there's no need to fear, son. Thestra will plough through whatever the path throws at us."

Dram's horse – the proud shire called Thestra, strong and powerful and majestic to the eye – was laying off in some small alcove of trees, mostly protected from the wind. His ears flicked off the clumps of snow that fell from the branches overhead and every now and then he huffed, his hot breath curling in the night air. Lyon had always admired him; he had even asked his father once for a shire just the same, and the man had laughed and told him, "Someday."

"Come," he said after a stretch of quiet, "It's late. We should share a bedroll tonight; we'll need to share each other's body heat if we want to keep our toes."

He had slept that night, curled up in his father's arms, and despite the harsh weather and the noises of the forest Lyon had felt safe. When he awoke in his bed in King's Landing, warm and secure and well-fed, he had a sudden and intense longing to be back in that cold Winterfell storm with the man he had idolised.

The warrior sighed and sat up. It was another day – and he had decided he was going to find himself a shire horse.

Lyon went to the stables with his son, who stared wide-eyed at the enormous steeds of the capital. Raskel was used to horses – to learn how to ride one was his first lesson as a Yesh-born – but these were all prized animals, well-fed and primed for noble owners, their manes coiffed and styled and their tails braided with yellow ribbons.

His father urged him through the rows of thoroughbreds as though he were searching for something. When the pair came across a great beast of a horse, Lyon stopped and smiled.

"Do you remember what this breed is called, Raskel?" he asked as he approached it. The creature rose its head when he reached up, but the moment his father's hands touched its muscled neck the horse let out a little huff of breath and slowly lowered it again.

"A shire?"

"Yes!" he replied, "My father had a horse just like this when I was your age. He called him Thestra."

"Thestra?" Raskel approached the shire cautiously, and did not go further than his father's side. "That's a weird name."

"He liked weird names. Perhaps I'll give this one a weird name. Corolla? Krest?" he said, half to himself and half to his son. As Lyon patted that shire's ebony flank, he was filled with memories of Thestra and their adventures together. "Zephyr."

"What?" asked Raskel. He had been admiring the horses on the other side of the stable, and had only caught the tail-end of what his father said.

"Zephyr. That's his name."

"Are we buying him? If we are, can I have Ariella?"

"Ariella was a wild horse once, son. She can be very temperamental with new people. I'm not certain you're ready for a horse that wasn't born in captivity."

"My horse is at the monastery," he pointed out, "We have to leave with Prince Oberyn soon and we can't go and get her. I need a new horse. Please?"

Lyon looked down at his son, at his pleading face and doe eyes, and chuckled. He remembered once when he had done the same to his father.

"Alright," he said, "but I want to teach you how to properly calm her first. She has a temper and I don't want you on the receiving end of a kick one day."

Ellaria came to find Lyon in the Red Keep stables some time in the afternoon, where he had been since he returned with the impressive Zephyr. She found him in the furthest stall from the door, tucked in a corner as he brushed his new shire. The warrior was murmuring softly to him while he groomed.

"It's a long road to Sunspear," he said as Ellaria approached. She had not realised he had heard her quiet footsteps on the hay. "Zephyr will need some decent care before we leave. We need to bond if he's not to bolt off at the first sign of trouble."

"He's quite the stallion," she noted.

Lyon set aside his brush and pat the side of Zephyr's long neck. He was enamoured with him, and Ellaria could see an almost boyish spark in his eye when he shook his mane or flicked his tail.

"He's beautiful," he said after a beat. "If I ever have another horse, Zephyr will always be my favourite."

"What will you do with your other horse?"

"Ariella will go to Raskel, though I'm not sure it will be a perfect match. As fine as he is on a horse, he's never ridden one that wasn't born in the monastery – and Ariella is a firebrand if ever there were one."

Ellaria laughed and touched his arm. The warrior smiled at her, then turned and hoisted a bucket of water to sit on the old stool beside him. He prepared a cloth as he spoke to her.

"Forgive me, but the stables don't seem somewhere you would go for a leisurely walk. What do you need me for, my lady?"

"Oberyn wants to see you tomorrow, at dawn. He didn't mention why."

"Then I shall be at his room for dawn. Thank you, my lady."

The woman nodded and started on her way. Before she left his little stall, however, she turned and clutched his shoulder, murmuring something quiet and secretive in his ear before departing on her way. Lyon watched her with a cocked eyebrow, smiling.