John and the other hunters set to work on the carcasses. Twenty-one deer weighed heavily, and even a dozen strong men could not carry them all at once.
Two of the largest males were left lying on the ground, their sheer bulk making them seem immovable.
An adult reindeer could weigh over two hundred pounds, some even reaching four hundred. These two were massive — one easily over two hundred, the larger pushing three hundred.
Harwin Redmoor watched the men struggle, noting who strained the most, who hesitated, and who looked to him for guidance. He allowed them to struggle for a moment, letting subtle frustration settle in — a lesson in reliance and hierarchy. Then, with a slow, deliberate shrug, he strode forward, adjusted his gear, and hoisted both massive carcasses onto his shoulders as if they were feathers.
"Glory to our chieftain! Oh-ho-oh!" Jon roared, eyes wide at Harwin's effortless display.
Harwin's lips curved in a faint, controlled smile. Let them see his strength. Let them admire it. Every awe-struck glance was a tool he could wield.
"Alright, lads, back to the village! Let your girls and wives taste fresh venison and steaming blood today!" Harwin called, his booming voice both command and performance.
"Oh, come on, Harwin, you don't even have a woman. Deer blood is wasted on you!" Jon said casually, smirking.
"Ha-ha-ha! Virgin Harwin! Glory to our virgin Harwin!" the hunters jeered.
Harwin's mouth twitched, but inside, his mind raced.
He knew Jon was just making jokes because he and him had been subordinates for a long time.
So, he decided to ignore his jab and shouldered the deer and quickened his pace, letting his jab fall flat he knew every one of his mans: endurance, strength, what they take pride in , and their weaknesses.
He let it pass this time but next time he won't.
The hunters pressed on, meeting woodcutters hauling boards on an ox cart. Delighted, they loaded their catch and pushed the cart toward the village.
Harwin supervised, subtly steering the placement of the deer and men to test obedience and initiative.
By midday, everyone had returned. Villagers began unloading: carcasses were taken into homes to be skinned and cut, hides sent to the workshop, fresh meat set aside for stew.
Blood was collected in barrels, some divided among the men, the rest stored or salted. Harwin watched all of it, noting efficiency and competence — storing mental notes on who could be persuaded, who could be manipulated.
By late afternoon, hunters and woodsmen gathered in Harwin's longhouse, drinking bitter northern ale.
Smoke rose from chimneys as the aroma of stewed venison filled the village.
Barrels of congealed blood were carried in; Harwin took a portion first, letting the men notice his vigor and composure.
Every act, every gesture, was calculated to inspire admiration, respect, and subtle influence.
When women brought in bowls of stew, bread, and mashed potatoes, Harwin made a point of serving the guests first — Harris and Hill — demonstrating attentiveness and honor, a calculated show of loyalty and generosity.
"For our labor, which brought us this abundance!" Harwin raised his tankard, eyes sweeping the long table.
"To our valiant chieftain, Harwin Redmoor!" Jon chimed, mug aloft.
"For the valiant Harwin!" the others echoed.
…
"Lord Harwin… Lord Harwin…"
The longhouse door swung open, and Little Johnny, John's son, ran in.
"What's the matter?" Harwin asked curious.
"There are two knights at the gate," the boy panted, pointing. "They have a banner… a wolf."
"The wolf banner!" Harwin froze for a fraction of a second — only House Stark bore that sigil. His mind immediately weighed every outcome. Winterfell men could mean opportunity, risk, or leverage.
"John, come with me," he said smoothly.
"Should we take weapons?" John asked.
"No need. If they're Stark men, there's no danger… for now," Harwin replied, masking anticipation with calm authority. He knew every detail of this encounter could be turned to his advantage.
Approaching the knights who had dismounted, Harwin bowed respectfully.
"How may I serve you, my lords?"
"Are you Harwin?" the one holding the banner asked.
"Yes, I am." Harwin inclined his head.
"We are not lords. We serve Lord Eddard Stark. I am Harris Moran, and this is Hill. We bring Lord Eddard's orders."
Harris handed him a folded piece of paper.
"I summon Harwin Redmoor to Winterfell to take his grandfather's place and join the guard of House Stark. — Eddard Stark."
Harwin's lips curled into the faintest, calculating smile.
An official order — and an opportunity.
Every step from here was a chance to manipulate, influence, and climb. He folded the paper deliberately, giving no hint of the wheels turning in his mind.