The winter dawn was slow to break over Winterfell. Elias walked the perimeter of the inner ward, the crunch of snow beneath his boots the only sound in the dim morning. Thin threads of smoke rose from the chimneys, and the air smelled of ash and pine resin from the night's fires.
Two guards at the gate dipped their heads as he passed. Elias nodded back, noting how one shifted his weight to stamp warmth into his feet. Beyond the wall, the pale outline of the Wolfswood loomed under the faint light.
At the kennels, a pair of wolfhounds raised their heads as he approached, tails thumping against the straw. "Quiet," he murmured, slipping each a strip of dried meat from his pocket.
Inside the stables, the stablemaster was berating a boy for letting the straw go thin in one of the stalls. When the boy spotted Elias, he blurted, "M'lord, I saw something strange last night—by the wall. Looked like a hare, only it was perched up on the stones, staring down at me. Then it jumped, and… and it didn't land—it flew off."
The stablemaster snorted. "Boy's been dreaming on his feet."
But Elias only said, "Which wall?"
"The north side, near the old watchtower," the boy said, eyes wide.
Elias stored the information away.
Later that day, near the smithy, he caught part of a conversation between two hunters just returned from the Wolfswood.
"…swear it was a hare at first," one muttered. "Then the damn thing flew off. Wings and all."
His companion laughed. "Snow in your eyes. Or too much Manderly ale."
Two separate sightings, two different sources. The hare-hawks were ranging further than he'd thought.
That night, after the evening meal, Elias crossed the darkened yard under a sky streaked with pale clouds. The cold bit deep, stiffening his fingers inside his gloves.
The hollow in the outer wall was hidden behind a tumble of stone. At his low whistle, two shapes emerged—silent, golden-eyed, moving with uncanny precision.
The hare-hawks looked strong, their fur thick against the cold, their wings neat and sleek.
From a pouch, Elias scattered meat scraps. They reacted instantly—bursts of copper-fed speed carrying them to the food before the other could blink. Tossing the meat into the air, he watched them leap and catch with unerring accuracy.
He pushed the test further—hiding food behind drifts, forcing them to track it by sound, throwing from awkward angles to test mid-flight corrections. They adapted quickly. The quartz embedded in their skulls had made them sharper, more responsive.
And always, they moved as one—two bodies, one mind.
Two days later, Robb barged into the library, cheeks red from the cold.
"You'll never guess what Jon and I saw!"
Elias didn't look up from the map he was studying. "Try me."
"Two hares—only they had wings. Jon swears one looked right at us."
Jon entered more slowly. "They were watching."
Elias closed the map. "Strange things live in the Wolfswood. You probably saw an owl and a hare together."
Robb shook his head. "No. It wasn't like that."
Jon's eyes lingered on Elias a moment too long before he said nothing more.
By the month's end, rumors reached the Great Hall. Hunters spoke of "snow spirits" darting through the trees. Trappers swore they'd been followed by gold-eyed shadows. Servants whispered of omens from the Old Gods.
Then a raven came from White Harbor.
At supper, Maester Luwin read aloud:
"Lord Manderly reports strange sightings near his lands—winged beasts unlike any known in the North. He asks if you have heard the same."
Ned frowned. "Likely a trick of the snow. Still, keep the men alert."
Catelyn's eyes flicked toward Elias before she looked down at her cup.
That night, Ned called Elias to the solar. Catelyn was already there, arms crossed, the firelight sharpening her features.
"You've been in the godswood more often than anyone I've known," Ned began.
"I've always been there," Elias said evenly.
"More than before," Catelyn countered. "And now strange beasts are being seen as far as White Harbor. That is no coincidence."
Elias's tone stayed calm. "Do you believe I have the time or the means to place creatures from here to the coast?"
"I believe you're capable of more than you show," she said sharply.
Ned's gaze moved between them. "Enough. Elias is my son. I will not have him treated as an intruder in his own home."
"A lord's home should not keep secrets from its lady," Catelyn shot back.
Elias met her eyes. "Then perhaps this one should."
The silence that followed was heavy. Ned exhaled slowly. "Whatever truth there is, it ends here. No more talk beyond these walls."
A week later, a merchant caravan from the south arrived with goods and gossip. Passing their fire in the courtyard, Elias caught a fragment of conversation.
"They say the Starks have new hawks," one man said, "but these ones don't eat meat—they eat snow. And if they look you in the eye, your soul's theirs."
The other laughed, but glanced at the walls with unease.
That was when Elias understood the danger. The truth didn't need to spread—stories would carry it faster.
That night, at the hollow, the hare-hawks came at his whistle, wings half-spread.
"You're ranging too far," he murmured. "The North isn't ready for you. The South would cage you."
He spent the next hour drilling them—teaching them to sink into the snow, fold their wings tight, and vanish at his signal. They learned fast, disappearing into shadow and frost as though they'd never existed.
When he finally left, the cold had seeped deep into his bones.
Back in his chambers, Elias lit a candle and spread fresh parchment on the desk. His sketches covered the page—hare-hawks mid-flight, designs for water-dwellers, burrowers, and night hunters.
The first creation had proved he could do it. The next would prove he could control it.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, the Child of the Forest's voice whispered again: Some will walk with you. Some will feed the roots.
He didn't yet know which fate awaited the hare-hawks. But he knew this—it would be his choice.