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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 4: Book 1: Gift Giving
"I, Rickard of House Stark, bid welcome to our noble guests from across the sea."
From atop the steps of Winterfell's Great Hall, his voice carried the authority of the old Kings of Winter. Rickard stood surrounded by his children, dressed in their best furs and finery. Lyanna held herself with barely-concealed excitement. Benjen, ever shy, clung to his eldest brother, who carried himself with uncharacteristic calm.
At the base of the steps stood Rickard's long-awaited guests. Lady Evetta towered over the gathered crowd, striking and beautiful, cloaked in umber and sable wool. She wore a brilliant scarlet scarf, bonnet, and gloves in place of her pale-red adornments. Fresh roses crowned her new hat. Where Lady Evetta found blooming flowers so early in spring, the Warden of the North could not say, but she carried three boxes wrapped in bright-colored cloth between her arms, and Rickard could guess their purpose, if not their contents.
The Hunter stood shorter but not overshadowed by his lady wife. The young lord wore a high-collared overcoat, dark olive and almost grey, with a waistcoat that matched his wife's dress. His attire displayed few adornments save the silver chain on his breast pocket holding what Rickard now knew to be his personal timepiece. Like his wife, the Hunter wore a hat, a peculiar three-pointed thing with edges that resembled raven feathers. Yet all eyes fell upon the Hunter's cane, a solid thing of burnished steel. Rickard had first thought the younger man had run afoul of another bear, but the Hunter's steady gait quickly dissuaded him of the notion. The foreign lord carried the cane the way a knight would wear a sword. A mark of status, then.
All were silent as the Hunter removed his cap and placed his cane in the crook of his arm. The Lord and Lady Fairchild bowed as one.
"We thank you for your invitation and hospitality, my Lord Duke."
Murmurs and whispers arose at the foreign address, the air alive with excitement. Rickard's mind warred between exasperation and relief.
The pageantry on display had been the culmination of many weeks' work. His inner circle had spent many a night planning this day and more time than Rickard would ever admit discussing how the Warden of the North would greet their foreign guests. To await their arrival at the gates would have been out of the question, an honor reserved for royalty. To welcome them on even footing would have marked them as equals, which Rodrik had opposed. The warden had agreed: while House Vileblood was likely a great house, House Fairchild was not. Furthermore, Cyril Fairchild was not an acting emissary of his kingdom or city. And yet, it would have been an insult to await their arrival from the high table, as the warden would a vassal. The resulting compromise had satisfied no one, but it was the price Rickard chose to pay.
Much has happened since he last saw the strange lord and lady of the Old Workshop. The Fairchild's gold had proven an unprecedented windfall. Southern grain would soon make its way north, and House Stark's coffers would be no worse for wear. Rickard had further tasked the maester with cultivating potatoes in a small plot below the Broken Tower. Luwin was confident the first harvest would be ready in time for the spring feast, and if the gods were kind, the foreign crop would find its way into the hands of smallfolk farmers in short order.
Elsewhere, progress had been slow. Though he loathed to admit it, Rickard did not have the means to capitalize on the knowledge the Fairchilds provided. Constructing the foreign plows and seed drills would require steel and craftsmen in numbers Rickard simply did not have at hand and could not recruit without garnering undue attention. Similarly, the formulation of fertilizer required volatile substances in quantities more likely to reenact Summerhall than increase the yield of future harvests. The North was changing, in some ways slower than he hoped; in others, faster than he wanted. Whether it was worth a foreign lord building a townhouse at his doorstep remained to be seen.
A servant approached with bread and salt. Once guest rights were honored, the Hunter and his tall, kindly wife ascended the steps of the Great Hall. Once more, the Lord of Hunters stood before the Warden of the North.
"It is good to see you again, Lord Stark."
Rickard returned the greeting.
"My children," he gestured, pride filling his voice as he introduced his son, "Brandon, my eldest."
The heir of Winterfell studied the foreigner before bowing, one the Hunter returned in kind. Rickard motioned to his two young children, "My daughter Lyanna and Benjen, my youngest."
Despite Benjen's nerves and Lyanna's willfulness, both bowed as they had been taught, and Rickard felt his pride grow.
"My second son, Eddard, is sailing up from Gulltown, due to return within a fortnight."
The Hunter beamed at the sight of the children, but it was Lady Evetta who spoke first.
"You have a lovely family, Honorable Lord." Her voice flowed like a melody, a demure smile forming upon her lips with a joy that reached her eyes.
Benjen stared at the lady in wonder, "So tall," he whispered, only to retreat further into his brother's shadow, realizing he had spoken the words aloud when five heads turned his way.
Not to be outdone by her brother, Lyanna broke away from her family and approached the young lord.
"You're the Lord Hunter," she says.
The foreign lord smiled and offered a nod, "I cannot deny the accusation."
Rickard shared a knowing look with Rodrik, who smiled back. Cyril Fairchild had made the mistake of indulging his daughter and would likely be forced to endure the moniker for the foreseeable future. Perhaps forever.
For her part, Lyanna scrunched her nose at the young lord's reply, staring brazenly up at the Hunter, "Your eyes are very bright," she observed, speaking with the candor only a child could, "Do you have stars in your eyes, my lord?"
The Hunter's voice rang with laughter, "Not today, Lady Lyanna."
Benjen stepped forward, borrowing his sister's courage, "Is it true you've hunted bears, my lord?" he asked as he fought the tremor in his voice.
The Hunted nods, "I have."
"Have you ever hunted wolves?" The boy asked again, half fearful.
"Wolves? No, I cannot say I have," the Hunter assured, "Though I have hunted Paarls."
Benjen gave the Hunter a half-puzzled look, wondering what manner of animal a Paarl was, a sentiment shared by all those close enough to hear.
"I like your hat," The boy offered, voice growing stronger, deciding the Hunter was not one of the storied horrors that kept him curled under his furs at night.
"My hat? That is kind of you to say, Lord Benjen," The Hunter looked down at his feathered cap, "I would happily lend it to you. However, I believe Evetta would much rather you helped her with these presents."
Benjen and Lyanna gasped as Lady Evetta placed the brilliantly colored boxes in their eager hands. Brandon, in turn, accepted his gift with thanks.
"Can we open them?" Lyanna asked, looking up at her lord father with eyes that promised he had no real say in the matter.
"Patience," Rickard insists instead, knowing how well-received a refusal would be. Even then, Lyanna soured at his words but kept silent as her father urged her younger brother to unwrap his gift.
Gift-giving was as much pageantry as everything else this day: It was important for the Fairchilds to be seen offering gifts to the ruling house of the North, just as it was important for those gathered to see the gifts given. Every Stark retainer and servant watched as Rickard's youngest son undid the silk ribbon and bright-colored cloth, opening the paper box within. He gasped and with a look of delight, held up a toy wolf. Intricately forged from metal and masterfully painted, it was a fine gift.
"Thank you, Lord and Lady Hunter!" Laughter rose from the crowd at Benjen's exuberance. Lord Fairchild passed his wife a well-pleased smile before turning back to the young Stark.
"Do you see the wind-up key on top, Lord Benjen?"
The young boy frowned, initially puzzled, but he nodded after spotting the strange handle atop his wolf.
"Turn it. Five rotations should suffice."
Benjen followed the Hunter's instructions and nearly dropped the wolf in surprise, "It's moving!" The boy raised the wolf for all to see, and even Rickard was struck, watching the wolf's legs move in unison with the rotating key. Murmurs arose from those close by.
Benjen turned to his father's guest with newfound wonder, "Is it magic?"
The foreign lord shook his head, "Not quite." He produced his timepiece, near identical to the one gifted to Lord Stark save the Hunter's mark carved into its silver lid.
"This is called a timepiece or pocket watch," Lord Fairchild held it low for the child to see, "Notice the metal gears behind the crystal? When I wind the watch, the gears move, and the arms move with them. The same happens when you wind your wolf; the gears inside turn and its legs move."
The young Stark nodded, even as his face belied confusion and slight disappointment that his new toy was not magic.
The Hunter chuckled, "When we find a table, let us see how far we can make your new wolf run."
The young Stark brightened at the idea. He thanked the Hunter again and stepped back to join his brother. The Hunter turned to Lyanna, who eyed Benjen with thin-veiled envy.
"No need for that, Lady Lyanna," the foreign lord laughed, prompting the young girl to unwrap her own present. Lyanna wasted no time. Ribbons came undone; the cloth unraveled and the box opened.
"Another box?" Lyanna was already frowning as she held up an ornate box just small enough for the young girl to lift with both arms. To Rickard's eye, it was a beautiful thing, inlaid with ivory and nacre that would have been the envy of many a noble lady. A jewelry box, perhaps?
Lady Evetta stepped forward, offering the young girl a silver key with red-gloved hands, "Open it, dear child. Your gift lies within."
Lyanna took the key from the giant lady, disappointment overtaken by growing curiosity. She socketed the key and lifted the lid.
Music.
Music poured from the box, a set of chimes struck by a half dozen hands to a rhythm and melody unlike anything Rickard had ever heard. It should have been impossible. And yet the mesmerizing melody, more complex than anything a minstrel could produce, continued to flow from the box, ensnaring every man and woman in a rapturous spell.
When the music at last came to an end, Lyanna nearly stumbled in surprise. She clutched the box to her chest, desperate to keep it safe.
"An Impromptu Fantasy," the Hunter explained, giving the music name and form, "Is it not beautiful, Lady Lyanna?"
Under his voice, the spell broke. The crowd came alive, whispers and talk of magic filling the silence left in the music's wake. Rickard grew concerned when the whispers bordered accusation, but Luwin chose that moment to step forth.
"Is that a phonograph, my lord?" The maester spoke in a raised voice short of a shout, silencing the crowd as respect was paid to the learned man.
The Hunter regarded the maester with interest, standing much too calm for a man nearly accused of sorcery in Lord Stark's halls.
"You have a good eye. Yes, Evetta and I thought Lady Lyanna would enjoy her own music box. It contains a phonograph cylinder," to the further surprise of many, the Hunter inclined his head, "Maester Luwin, I presume?"
"You presume correctly, Lord Fairchild," The maester of Winterfell bowed low to counteract the Hunter's unprecedented misstep: Lords did not bow before maesters, after all. He then turned to the Warden of the North, voice loud enough for all to hear, "This is a rare gift, my lord. You would be hard-pressed to find a phonograph outside the Citadel."
Rickard recognized the half-truth of Luwin's words and the great service the maester had just rendered House Stark. The murmurs died with Luwin's explanation, accepting the maester's word out of hand. Order had been restored without intervention from Rodrik or his guards. Lyanna thanked the Fairchilds like her brother before her but continued to steal glances at the lady who gifted her the music box. All eyes turned to the last and eldest of the Stark children.
Brandon unwraps his gift without ceremony, revealing a leather-bound book, black with silver lettering.
"Fechtbuch," he read and stared at the foreigner with askance.
"A combat manual," the Hunter explained, earning Brandon's attention, "The author was a swordsman of great renown who served as instructor to many a knight and lord, including the Duke who commissioned this treatise. I was told you have the makings of the finest swordsman the North has seen in a generation. I hope you find this book helpful or at least of interest."
Brandon regarded the foreign lord with a silence Rickard had never known the boy to have. He runs a hand across the book's spine, studying the lettering again before meeting the foreigner's gaze and nodding.
"You have my thanks, Lord Hunter,"
The Warden of the North worried for his son. Brandon alone knew the truth of the Fairchilds, of the map detailing lands beyond the Sunset Sea, now secured in a lockbox guarded on rotation by Rodrik's most trusted men. Rickard thought it only right for his eldest and heir to know his plans, of the talks ahead that could decide the future of the North for generations to come. The boy had been strangely quiet since then, and Rickard feared he had erred. Yet the head of House Stark could not afford to allow fear or doubt to plague his heart. He trusted Brandon to know his duty and honor his word as a Stark, however suspicious he was of his father's guests. Guests who had given his children gifts that would be the envy of princes and kings alike.
"House Stark thanks you for these gifts and the kindness you have shown the people of the North." He gestured the Hunter and his wife into the Great Hall, "You will find welcome here at my table and hearth."
Pageantry had been observed. Guest rights honored and gifts given. It was time for the Fairchild's visit to Winterfell to begin proper and true.
TBC
Author's Note:
Ages of the Stark Children:
Brandon: 15-16
Eddard: 15
Lyanna: 9
Benjen: 8
Age of Cyril Fairchild: None of your business.
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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 5: Book 1: The Wolf Who Challenged the Moon
"There is peerage and pedigree, Maester. But this is beyond the pale."
Luwin chuckled, not looking up from his desk or study.
"House Stark is one of the oldest noble lines in Westeros, likely the world."
"A claim I cannot contest." The sound of a closing book and steady steps alerted Luwin to Lord Fairchild's approach. "A dynasty uninterrupted for eight thousand years…Lord Stark will be pleased to hear there are lineages of self-proclaimed gods who cannot boast half such history."
The maester smiled and found it a welcome thing. To think he had returned to the North with a heavy heart. The third son of a masterly house sworn to Lord Glover, Luwin had thrived at the Citadel, forging a chain longer than many earlier than most. Had he stayed, pursuing an archmaester's mask would not have been out of the question. Thus his appointment to Winterfell had come as most unwelcome news despite the honor. Never had he felt the weight of his chains more than when he first laid eyes on the great Northern fortress and knew it his task to see its people through winter.
He had not failed: Winterfell had stood strong. Most of the smallfolk who sheltered in Wintertown had survived, those who perished usually old or already sickly. Though more than his predecessor could claim in winters past, it had not felt like victory.
But the Old Gods had deemed his service sufficient, for he had been rewarded beyond his imagination, now privy to secrets from beyond the Sunset Sea. He had glimpsed knowledge and works of research that would humble the Citadel. For the first time in decades, he felt like an acolyte, intimidated, overwhelmed, and altogether enthralled with the work ahead. The future discussions between House Stark and Fairchild would be immortalized in history, and Luwin had a vested interest in ensuring the talks went well, if only so he might raid the latter's library.
The foreign lord in question had absconded to the Library Tower after the midday feast, trusting his lady wife to entertain the Stark children. He had settled himself beneath the largest window, deeming the incoming draft was a small price for proper light. Cyril Fairchild devoured books as readily as a Stormlander drank wine. A clear student of history, he was currently making an admirable attempt at deciphering text written in the Old Tongue.
"The faith of the Old Gods…an animistic faith that has enjoyed over ten thousand years of worship by the First Men and so-called Children of the Forest." Another book found its place in the growing collection Luwin had lent the lord, "Yet its pantheon remains nameless. Tell me, Maester, do you believe this always the case? Or is the current faith what remains of something greater?"
"It is hard to say," Luwin offered, turning over several texts in his mind. He motioned his guest to the chair across his own, "All things change with time, my lord. The First Men adopted the Old Gods from the Children of the Forest. The interactions between the two–if they indeed happened–predate written history. Though the smallfolk would tell you otherwise, the Children were likely a primitive people who skirmished and later assimilated with the First Men, they themselves the third people to inhabit this continent."
Cyril Fairchild deposits himself in the offered seat, "Preceded by the ominously-named Others?" He taps the desk between them, "Am I safe to suppose they were yet another group of indigenous peoples hostile to both the Children and the First Men? Perhaps even an allegory for the Long Night, an unprecedented winter that necessitated cooperation between both parties to ensure survival?"
The maester twirled his quill, choosing his next words with care. "A sound theory, one most maesters would find agreeable. However, there happens to be a wall of ice two thousand hands high and ninety leagues across that casts doubt on so mundane an explanation. Though I have little mind for warfare, the Wall strikes me as quite the defense against wildlings unable to forge iron, never mind steel."
Even as he spoke, the maester wondered how much he believed his own words. Luwin was well aware he risked being dismissed out of hand by a foreign lord of great import–Lord Fairchild's attempt to downplay his influence had fooled no one. There was also the possibility he could discredit the entire Order of Maesters in Lord Fairchild's eyes. While Luwin would sooner take the Black than shame the Citadel, the young lord struck him as a scholar, one unlikely to discount a theory, however fantastical, if the reasoning was sound. Moreover, House Fairchild and the city of Yharnam remained very much a mystery. The young lord's reaction alone would prove telling of how commonplace magic was across the Sunset Sea.
His guest hardly batted an eye.
"I cede your point." The young lord reached over the clutter and helped himself to a bowl of candied walnuts Luwin had prepared for the occasion, "That said, I feel this is a rather radical interpretation of your history."
Lord Fairchild offered the maester an amused smile, accepting Luwin's tale regarding monsters made of walking winter and living ice without a hint of skepticism. Gods be good, just what lay beyond the Lonely Light?
The maester of Winterfell hid his unease behind laughter. "Folklore and history have the poor habit of bleeding together in the absence of written records. You will find that my fellows, particularly those native to the Reach, are not quite so taken with the old legends. Most would decry magic as dead and gone from the world."
"But for something to die, it must have lived."
Luwin nods in agreement, "Just so. Many forget that living dragons flew these skies little over a century ago."
The answer seemed to satisfy Lord Fairchild, who returned to his work on First Man runes. The maester continued to study this strange, young lord. Contrary to what many would believe, the Citadel had its fair share of lackwits, second and third sons shipped off to Oldtown to keep them out of trouble, or at very least keep said trouble far from home. Such fools would never forge a chain, instead becoming scribes, bookkeepers, and personal aids through family influence.
Lord Fairchild was no such fool. A hair shy of brilliant, perhaps, but Luwin recognized the young man as a unique talent. The maester of Winterfell was surprised to learn the young man had in fact forged a chain–a doctorate–as the title of 'Professor' evidently translated to archmaester, not maester. He had served a junior appointment–a lecturer, he had called himself–before becoming a Hunter. For a man who looked younger than thirty to forge both a chain and knighthood, that was a rare sort of man indeed.
"This is a wondrous country, Maester," Lord Fairchild breathed after a time, the title spoken with a deference Luwin found unfamiliar, "It is a shame there are so few books on the First Men and their faith."
The young lord sounded almost wistful, and Luwin shared the sentiment, "The worship of the Old Gods has long been an oral tradition. The First Men carved their runes into heart trees, and thus much of their history has been lost. Books were very much an Andal invention. In fact, no text pertaining to the First Men predates the Andal migration."
"And with them came the Faith of the Seven, a monotheistic faith of a seven-faced god."
"The Seven Who are One," Luwin kept his voice judicious, having known too many good men to speak ill of the Faith, "The Citadel places the migration sometime between six and four thousand years ago, depending on the source. It is said that Hugor of the Hill, the High King of Andalos, was promised a kingdom west of the Narrow Sea by the Seven themselves."
His guest arched a brow, "And this mass migration had nothing to do with the founding of the Valyrian Freehold and its subsequent expansion into western Essos?"
Luwin laughed. As a lord, Cyril Fairchild chose his words with care, displaying the even temper of an older man. As a scholar, the man was frankly brazen.
"None at all. Most records claim the Andals invaded Westeros only after their missionaries were poorly treated. But seeing as most recorded accounts were written by the Andals themselves…"
Lord Fairchild helped himself to another nut, "I must say this sounds like blasphemous talk, Maester Luwin."
The maester smiled and shrugged, "And what is a bit of blasphemy among scholars and friends?"
The younger man laughed quietly and without joy.
"Indeed, faith never tested is a brittle thing."
The words struck Luwin as strange, "Are you a godly man, Lord Fairchild?"
Cyril Fairchild paused at the question. A candied nut fell back into the bowl, uneaten.
"In a manner speaking, Maester Luwin. The Church of God shares much with your Faith of the Seven." His voice echoed low and contemplative. The library suddenly felt dimmer, the winds outside dying as The Hunter spoke, "You must understand, the Church pervaded every aspect of life on the Great Isles, and its influence has not waned overmuch with time. Our priests served as both septons and maesters. After the Age of Fog claimed the now-nameless kingdoms of antiquity, it was the Church that preserved literacy and the written word. Most all prestigious universities of the modern era have their roots in the Church."
The young lord looked past the maester, as if reliving a memory. "It feels like an age ago, but I still remember Father taking our family to service on the Lord's Day. I recall the sound of the belfry during my brother's wedding, how the morning sun illuminated the old cathedral, and the sharp taste of communion wine." A somberness pervaded the room, "But Yharnam has a way of tarnishing memories and pleasant dreams."
Luwin sets his quill aside, all interest in his work lost, "Lord Stark spoke of it briefly. A city known for its healing arts?"
"Famed beyond peer. But nothing is without its price, Maester. Even in the Great Isles, Yharnam was a secluded land of strange customs, people, and–to put politely–a nondenominational faith. But it was known as a city where a man, however ill, could abate death. To enter Yharnam was to see another sunrise."
The Hunter tapped the table again, and it sounded through the room.
"Sadly, the city was also plagued by great beasts found nowhere else on the continent. These were not packs of roaming wolves to be kept at bay by strong gates and stronger walls: Yharnam was built upon the ruined labyrinths of old Pthumeru, an ancient people from whom Evetta's family claim direct descendants."
The Hunter rose from his seat, rounding the table in a seamless motion. Luwin heard wood creak as a hand rested upon his chair, "Would you care to guess where the most fearsome beasts made their home?"
"Gods…"
The Hunter nodded.
"Sunset saw the sewers and aqueducts of lower Yharnam come alive in the worst of ways. Beasts would prey on men, and Hunters would hunt beasts. They did not call it the Night of the Hunt in jest."
Luwin felt his pulse quicken. Distantly, he realized this was more than he had ever hoped to glean from the young, guarded lord. But the thought could not have been farther from his mind, not when he was drowning under the weight of the Hunter's words.
"I went to Yharnam prepared for this reality. I thought dying to monsters a better prospect than wasting away abed, passing death and disease onto friends and family.
Imagine my dismay when I arrived, only to find Yharnam amidst a plague that humbled even the fabled city of healing."
Luwin found his throat dry, "How many were lost?"
The Hunter did not answer, and the maester dearly wished he had not asked. The younger man made his way back to his seat and sank deeply into the chair.
"I never prayed much. No more than the common man, before my illness or after. But I prayed during those early nights of the Hunt, prayed until I grew used to the silence. I prayed a while after that." The Hunter spoke, every word a confession, "In the end, I forgot what I was praying for."
The Hunter finished his tale, and Luwin found the courage to stand, reaching for a small pitcher of water. He returned to the table and set a coarse wooden cup before his guest.
"Did you think your God cruel for his silence?"
The younger man's face twisted with wry amusement.
"If men stopped believing when prayers went unanswered, there would be few believers left in the world, Maester. What need would man have for faith if gods walked the earth, granting wishes like jinn?" The Hunter sipped from his cup, "No, I entered the city willingly. There I witnessed the greatest failings of human greed and hubris and was forced to contemplate how truly accountable gods are for human misfortune."
Luwin moved to the window, avoiding the young lord's gaze. A crisis of belief was not a crisis of faith. Whichever ailed the younger man, Luwin doubted he could help.
"The North is accustomed to hardship, my lord. Despite what the septons may tell you, death is no stranger to these lands or its people," and Luwin was proud to count himself among them, "It is not uncommon for the old to embrace death so the young might live. Some curse the gods for it, others do not. The Old Gods inhabit the rocks and rivers, the very land itself. But they did not make the world, or the men living within it. We pray to the Old Gods for counsel, for they are older and wiser than we could ever hope to be. But they are not beholden to our prayers. We give thanks when they answer, but we will survive their silence for the world demands no less."
His words were neither an agreement nor rebuttal, and Luwin felt almost cowardly for the fact. But he offered his truth, and prayed that the younger man would find peace, whatever that meant for him.
The Hunter joined Maester Luwin at the window.
"I am not the young man who entered Yharman all those years ago, but part of me wishes to honor his memory. For all his fears and flaws, the fool had his faith and family's love."
Excited shouts and the clashing of steel suddenly broke the silence of the tower. It seemed young Brandon was working off his midday meal in the yard and drawing quite the crowd. The bustling sound of life below drew a smile from the young lord.
"I would like to believe it was that young man and not the Hunter he became that won Evetta's heart."
Benjen trotted alongside the tall lady. He didn't want to. Well, he liked the lady well enough. Maybe even a lot. She and the Lord Hunter had given him a new toy. He just didn't think it was very lordly for a Stark to trot, but the lady's legs were just too long. He even had to stop holding her hand because he had to reach too high to grab it and his arm had gotten sore. Her fingers were also very bony.
"Are you alright, Little Lord?"
"I'm not little," He protested. And he wasn't. He would be nine next year. Old Nan had to sew new clothes because he kept growing.
They were coming back from the godswoods. He and Lyanna had decided to show Lady Evetta the weirwood, accompanied by a maid and two of Father's guards. The heartree had rustled violently when they approached, but Benjen thought it was just the wind. Even spring was windy in the North.
"No, you are not as small as the Little Ones," the lady said, "Take heart, Little Lord. You will be tall in time."
It made Benjen happy to hear the tall lady agree with him, even if her words left him a little confused, "Little Ones?"
"Yes, the Little Ones, Messengers of the Hunter's Dream," the Lady said, as if her words explained everything, "Most cannot see them, but they guard the Hunters as they sleep, caring for their weapons and tools. They can deliver messages farther than any man or raven."
Benjen stared at the lady with wide eyes, "Are they magic? Like the Children of the Forest?"
The tall lady paused and considered his words, "I cannot say. The Good Hunter and I will find time to meet them. Have patience, Little Lord. We will have answers for you."
The maid and guards acted strangely to the Lady's words, but Benjen didn't care. He stared at Lady Evetta in wonder. Maester Luwin had said the Children had disappeared, and Lyanna had told him they were hiding in the Lands of Always Winter, where no one could reach them. Yet the lady said she could find them so easily.
"Are you a witch, Lady Evetta?"
The lady smiled, and Benjen could not tell if he was relieved or disappointed when she shook her head, "I am a doll, brought into the waking world by the Good Hunter."
"A doll?"
"Benjen, she's teasing you." Lyanna sighed. His sister had been quiet. Benjen thought she was still thinking about her music box, which Father had forced her to leave in her room. Now she was chiding Benjen as if he had missed something obvious.
"Oh." He felt embarrassed, but Lady Evetta continued to smile, so Benjen ventured another question.
"Is the Lord Hunter a witch, then?"
Lyanna's sigh told him he had said something foolish again.
Luwin followed his guest along the battlements towards the yard, drawn to the growing sound of clashing steel. The maester dreaded the report he would have to make to Lord Stark. Cyril Fairchild was unlike any man he had ever known. The young lord was a scholar of no small talent, and Luwin would wager his Valyrian link that he was likewise a warrior of no small skill. By all accounts, a Hunter sounded like a dangerous enemy, more bloodied and seasoned than most peacetime knights, to say nothing of the young man who once headed their order.
There were also the man's relations to consider. Lord Fairchild had married into a great house with a history as storied as any worth the name. That they laid claim to a city that rivaled Volantis in wealth and Asshai in horror brought the maester no comfort. The city had suffered a plague, but Luwin was confident that it had recovered and recovered well if the luxuries the Hunter had on hand were any indication.
However kind and pleasant he appeared, the available information marked Cyril Fairchild as a dangerous, dangerous man.
The sound of steel grew louder, and Luwin soon found the Hunter overlooking the sparring ring with interest. Young Brandon was putting on quite the display, fending off two men-at-arms, perhaps three if the downed man nursing his ribs was anything indication. The bout ended quickly enough: One man misjudged a swing, and the Stark heir answered with a blow to the gut and helm that sent the man sprawling. The last man–Donall, if Luwin recalled–accounted for himself well but ultimately found the tip of Brandon's sword at his throat. The heir of Winterfell basked in his victory and the cheers of the crowd. Even to Luwin's untrained eye, it was clear the young Stark had benefited from Lord Dustin's tutelage.
Applause sounded through the yard as the cheers died down. The heir of Winterfell followed the sound to the Lord Fairchild, clapping politely at Luwin's side.
"Enjoy the show, Lord Hunter?"
The young lord smiled, "It was an impressive display."
The heir of Winterfell frowned at his words, "Impressive? How so?"
Brandon's voice carried an edge of challenge, and Luwin's blood ran cold. The Hunter carried on without a care. "Your hands move fast, and you strike hard. Mind your footwork, and I doubt many can claim to be your equal, much less your better, in a few years time."
The heir of Winterfell stepped out of the ring, "You speak as if you know the blade well." Brandon raised the point of his sword at the Hunter, "I would ask for proof."
Murmurs and whispers rose from the crowd, but Luwin could hear nothing over his hammering heart. That daft boy!
The smile did not leave Lord Fairchild's face, "I am a Hunter, Lord Brandon. My enemies are beasts, not men."
Despite the Hunter's obvious warning, Brandon did not relent, "And yet you claim to have never hunted a wolf. I offer you the opportunity to prove yourself half the Hunter you claim to be."
Panic overtook Luwin's mind, "Lord Fairchild, I apologize for –"
"Maester Luwin," The Hunter's voice cut through his plea, and Luwin knew he had failed to avert disaster, "I believe you best go inform Lord Stark."
The heir of Winterfell watched as the foreigner divested his coat, folded it with care, and passed it over to the nearest guard. Murmurs arose from the crowd when the Hunter declined the offered tourney sword or padded armor, entering the ring with only his cane.
"I must warn you," the Hunter held his chosen weapon aloft, "This is made of Workshop steel, a rather weighty thing."
Brandon acknowledged his opponent's words with a nod and readied his blade in a low guard while the Hunter's cane fell to his side.
"Ready, Lord Hunter?"
"At your leisure, Lord Brandon."
The heir of Winterfell frowned, "It would be more sporting if you assumed a stance."
His opponent had the audacity to look amused, "If that is your assessment, I must advise caution: Hunters seldom stand and await an enemy." A smile played upon his lips, "The ones that do are frightening indeed."
He interpreted those words as an invitation. The heir of Winterfell lunged. Were he wielding live steel, he'd have lanced the man through, but the Hunter stepped back. Brandon advanced, pivoting into a cross-body slash, again rending air. He redirected his blade to strike at the Hunter's knees but hit nothing. He withdrew then, guarding against a counterblow that never came. The young Stark considered the exchange, if it could be called that.
The Hunter had mimed his movements, retreating as Brandon advanced, evading his blade by a hair each time. Brandon frowned, unimpressed. The Hunter was fast, but his retreat had wasted movement and breath, giving him no advantage over his foe. Better to block, bind, and counter. Brandon saw the Hunter was no skilled knight, and it set his blood aflame to see the foreigner stand at perfect ease, that damned cane still hanging from his hand, as if Brandon had blown candle smoke in his face and not attacked with a naked blade.
The heir of Winterfell adopted a high stance. He charged with a roar, shoulder leading a downward strike that would have dented plate. Again, his sword missed, but that was no surprise. He leveraged his forward momentum to deliver a blinding series of strikes, aiming high then low, blows that would have turned the Hunter's cane into a necessary—and permanent—crutch had any connected.
But none did.
The Hunter retreated with sure, steady strides. A slight shift of the shoulder to avoid a thrust, a backstep to evade a swing. But most galling of all was the look in his too-bright eyes. It was not a warrior's gaze, the heady mix of focus and fear that made men brave, but rather the look Maester Walys–now Luwin–wore when studying a book. A cold, calm, calculating gaze that regarded Brandon not as a warrior or even a man, but as a puzzle to piece together. A problem to pull apart.
Already he could hear the jeering of the crowd, dissatisfied by the lackluster display. Their shouts fueled the smoldering thrum of his blood. That this foreigner remained so calm and altogether uncaring was too much to bear.
"Stand and fight, Hunter!" He heard himself shouting, "Had I wanted to dance, I'd have called upon your wife! Perhaps I still might!"
The jeers grew, and a ring of laughter swelled around them. The Hunter hardly seemed to mind. He turned his back to Brandon, and for a moment, Brandon's opinion of the foreigner sunk to new depths. Would the man not even fight to defend his wife's honor? But then the Hunter faced him again, ten paces now between them.
Cyril Fairchild beheld the young Stark with a far-off gaze, the ghost of a smile clear for all to see.
"Guard your shoulder, Lord Brandon."
"What?"
"Your left shoulder, Lord Brandon. Guard it." The Hunter repeated, "Do you understand?"
Something on Brandon's face must have served as a reply because he was not allowed another word.
"Good."
There was the vague sensation of an impact. The barest registration of pain. And the noise…it was as if his face had been pressed against an anvil as it was struck. The reverberations sounded through his head, through his teeth. His vision blurred, and through the ringing in his ears, he struggled to stay upright. His breaths came short, and he realized he had raised his sword on instinct and had it near-driven into his shoulder.
The world refocused, and Brandon looked down at his hands, not believing his eyes. His blade was warped. Though blunt, it was still castle-forged steel. House Stark had spared no expense arming its men, never mind its heir. The now-ruined sword hung uselessly from his hands as the Hunter loomed over him, cane held in a half-finished swing.
Pain followed, an unseen fire licking up his shoulders, arms, and back. Just keeping his hands aloft came with a horrible, unfamiliar strain. The force of the blow, the sheer weight behind the cane…Brandon could not believe such strength belonged to a man. The gambeson he wore suddenly felt like no protection at all.
The ringing stopped. Only now did Brandon realize he was surrounded by silence, the shouting and jeering that once drowned out his thoughts had gone like ghosts. His eyes met faces painted with shades of fear and awe. Already three guards had approached the ring, swords ready to defend the son of their liege, a clear display of loyalty that made Brandon burn with shame.
His opponent paid him no mind, instead pointing his cane to the nearest guard.
"Lord Brandon needs a new sword." The Hunter spoke, voice low but deafening in the newfound silence, "Please lend him yours."
The man froze under his attention.
"Your sword, please." The Hunter repeated, "Unless you would have him fight unarmed."
Brandon found himself speaking before his mind could comprehend the words, "Hand me a blade, Donall. I'm not done."
If the Hunter smiled at his reply, Brandon pretended not to see. It took more effort than he would ever admit–from both his burning arms and hammering heart–to accept the offered weapon. How strange. Mere moments ago, he had wielded a tourney sword and felt like a king. Now he held live steel and felt like prey.
It would have been easier if the Hunter had circled him, like the supposed beasts he claimed to hunt. But he did no such thing. The Hunter stood as he had before, ten paces away, looming over Brandon like a monolith. Brandon could not remember ever feeling so small.
"Strange, is it not?" The Hunter whispered in a voice that all could hear, "Fighting an opponent so quick to retreat, so reluctant to block, yet able to strike with force enough to break a man with but a blow. Such is the doctrine of my mentor, Gehrman, the First Hunter."
The silence stretched as men and women alike hung upon Lord Fairchild's every word.
"Tell me, Lord Brandon, would you trust your armor to shield you from a horse's charge? Your sword to stop the claws of a bear? Because a beast of Yharnam will outpace the first and make a meal of the latter." The words formed in his mind, intrusive thoughts Brandon could not will away, "A Hunter who stands still the Night of the Hunt will not see another Yharnam sunrise."
The Hunter raised his cane again, and the crowd tensed.
"Another attack is coming," The words left Brandon cold. "Ask yourself, 'What will I do?' 'How will I survive?' 'What will I sacrifice to see the morrow?'"
Time passed. A moment or an hour, the heir of Winterfell could not tell.
"Guard your shoulder."
That was all the warning he received.
Brandon could not perceive the Hunter's strike any better the second time. But he knew where it would land. Blocking from the left, letting the Hunter's blow glance off his blade and over his head would have been wiser. Safer. But that only meant survival. Even now, wounded and rattled, his wolfsblood demanded victory. Brandon thrusts his sword out and leftward to meet the Hunter's cane, catching the blow where his blade met the guard. The steel in his hand screamed as Brandon did the same. Something in his arms tore from the impact. But he had bound the Hunter's weapon. He stepped forward, controlling the bind, rendering his opponent's swordarm useless by digging his crossguard into the Hunter's wrist. At the last moment, he brought his weapon over the Hunter's own and sent it crashing onto his head.
"Well done."
Brandon was on the ground. How he got there, he did not know. But everything hurt. Again, he had struck nothing, unable to so much as touch the Hunter.
A pair of hands helped him to his feet.
"That was most impressive. Were you not your father's heir, you would have made a fine Hunter."
Brandon forced himself to meet the Hunter's gaze, eyes filled with quiet amusement. His praise felt like poison. "I can still fight," he heard the words and, for a moment, wondered who he was trying to sway.
"You could," the Hunter agreed, voice awash with strange approval, "But then you would need quite some time to recover. No need for that. Have Maester Luwin see to your arms."
The Hunter turned to leave while Brandon fought just to stand. Every breath burned. The crowd bled away in a sea of faces and his pounding heart drowned out the world a din of noise. Winterfell itself melted into a monochrome of whites and greys. All he could feel through the pain was the weight of the ruined sword in his hand. All he could see was the Hunter's back.
His thoughts faded in a moment of clarity.
He did not remember moving. He barely recalled raising his blade.
"BRANDON!" His father's voice filled his ears. Then a hand was over his eyes. The world turned. Fingers like iron held his face in a vice, the back of his head a hair's breadth from the ground.
"None of that now," The Hunter chided, voice no less gentle, eyes no less bright, "Go see Maester Luwin, Young Stark," Again, Cyril Fairchild helped Brandon to his feet and turned his back without care, gazing up at the battlements where the Lord of Winterfell now stood, "I will have words with your father."
Rickard Stark sat in his solar, head in clasped hands. He prayed, not to the Old Gods but his wife, begging forgiveness.
'I have failed, Lyarra.'
Rickard's mind was a storm. Again and again, he asked himself where he had gone wrong. Brandon had always been brash and prideful. But it had been pride hard-fought and well-earned against lords and men-at-arms twice his age. He had been dutiful, the elder brother Eddard looked to for guidance, the eldest sibling Lyanna and Benjen sought for stories about a mother neither could recall.
And Brandon was no stranger to defeat: Over the years, he had challenged many visiting lords and was bested handily by Joer Mormont and Greatjon Umber, among others. Each time, Brandon committed himself to his training. Never had he responded with bitterness, much less treachery.
And now, the legacy and honor of House Stark hung by a thread.
The day had started well: The Fairchilds had given his children gifts befitting royalty. Benjen had spent the midday meal trying to make his toy wolf run the full length of the trestle tables. Lyanna would not put down her music box and refused to give the Hunter a moment's rest once she learned there were other songs it could play. Rickard's heart had warmed to see his children happy after a winter that had given so little cause for laughter and cheer.
A pleasant calm had fallen over Winterfell after the feast. Lord Fairchild and Luwin had retreated into the Library Tower, never to be seen again. Lady Evetta had followed Lyanna and Benjen into the Godswoods, no doubt earning great favor from the already grateful smallfolk.
Then Luwin had come running, warning Rickard that his son had challenged Lord Fairchild in the yard. The Warden of the North and his sworn sword had arrived in time to hear his eldest son insult the Hunter by way of his wife. What happened afterward had nearly made Eddard heir of Winterfell and would forever haunt Rickard's waking dreams.
He wanted to throw blame at the Hunter's feet, but try as he might, Rickard failed to muster the anger. Luwin had expressed in no uncertain terms that Brandon publicly questioned Lord Farichild's skill at arms. Wyman Manderly would have answered such a challenge. And how Cyril Fairchild had answered: It was one thing to know the man hunted prey that proved risky quarry for well-prepared hunting parties, it was another altogether to see the man fight. The force needed to bend castle-forged steel…how many warriors could claim such strength?
In the end, Rickard's heart settled on gratitude. Despite his son's insults, the Hunter had shown restraint: Brandon would have died had the Hunter not pulled his first blow. And though his son had not noticed, the Hunter had slowed his second strike, giving him time to counter.
And what had his son done? Tried to stab Lord Fairchild in the back. For the first time in remembered history, guest rights had been broken in Winterfell. Highborns have been banished and Houses damned for far, far less. The Wall might not take a man after such a crime.
The damage had been done. Half of Winterfell had witnessed the fight. The other half would hear by nightfall. Lord Fairchild's gold would have to be returned with interest. Of that, there was no question. What came after, Rickard dared not imagine. What would be the price for peace–not friendship, for that was impossible–but peace? If pressed, what was he prepared to cede? He dreaded the thought and willed himself not to contemplate the consequences. Rodrik stood solemnly at his side. His old friend was silent, knowing the Lord of Winterfell would be deaf to his words.
A knock broke the silence. One of Rodrik's men opened the door, announcing the Hunter's arrival. Lord Fairchild stepped into the solar, escorted by Fane Poole. As the steward went to stand beside his liege, Rickard studied the young man his son had so gravely wronged. Cyril Fairchild stood with his overcoat draped over an arm, not a hair out of place. Rickard noted the conspicuous absence of a cane. Probably for the best. After the recent display, the Lord of Winterfell doubted Rodrik would have allowed the younger man into the solar armed with a spoon.
"Lord Stark, thank you for seeing me," the Hunter bowed, continuing to observe doctrine after all that occurred, "Do forgive the delay."
The words should have dripped with scorn, but Rickard detected neither derision nor mockery from the younger man. It unsettled Rickard to see the injured party so composed. Rickard would have preferred anger: Anger he could understand; anger he could predict.
"There is nothing to forgive, Lord Fairchild." The irony of the words was not lost on him. Rickard made an effort at courtesy, his face a mask of calm even as his mind warred with dread, guilt, and shame. He motioned to the empty chair before him as if naught were amiss.
The Hunter passed the offered seat, instead making his way to the lockbox containing the books and map he had lent the Northern lord.
"When you left the Workshop, you looked as if you had a head full of questions, Lord Stark. I hope you found these helpful." Lord Fairchild's voice carried the fondness of a man meeting an old friend, "Please let me know if anything in particular caught your eye. I admit the Workshop has its secrets, but my library is always open to guests. There are few things more important than satisfying a curious mind."
All were silent as the Hunter rounded the room, at last taking his seat.
"Sadly, l am not here to discuss books."
Rickard nodded. He found strange comfort knowing that, whatever the outcome, this matter would soon be behind him.
"I apologize for my son's action." The words tasted of ash and damnation, "What he attempted to do…there is no excuse."
"Whatever do you mean?"
The question stopped Rickard short. The Warden of the North had already imagined this exchange half a hundred times, dreading what the Hunter would demand as recompense. Nothing prepared him for the half-puzzled expression passing over the young lord's face.
The Hunter stared at the Stark Lord with a furrowed brow, "Your son thought he was fighting for his life. All things considered, he accounted for himself well."
Silence followed. The Lord of Winterfell looked to his advisors, their dumbstruck expressions the only assurance he had not imagined the Hunter's words.
"He stabbed you in the back."
There was nothing more to say. The weight of Brandon's crime should have hung in the air, yet the Hunter's good-natured laughter left Rickard lost.
"You have been fretting over this."
The Hunter's eyes shone with amusement as he regarded his host.
"I am a Hunter, Lord Stark." The title was spoken as though it explained everything, "My enemies struggle to carry on polite conversation, nevermind abide knightly conduct."
The Hunter waved his hand absently, attempting to part the tension in the room as if it were smoke.
"Put it out of your mind, Lord Stark."
In that instance, Rickard struggled between hearing and comprehension, unable to believe the words that reached his ears. He stared at the Hunter, a man prepared to overlook an attempt on his life, ready to ignore a breach of guest rights while demanding nothing in return. The Warden stared at the young lord, wondering which of them had gone mad.
He took in a long, drawn breath, gathering his wits.
"That is kind of you to say, Lord Fairchild. How I wish I could." He felt like a drowning man offered a hand and the promise of air. "But Brandon is my son, not a beast, and he must be held accountable as such."
The words felt like poison on his tongue as he defended and condemned his son in the same breath. But they had to be said: Brandon's actions had dishonored them all. His thoughts went to his three other children. The Warden of the North spoke, praying his words would not spell Brandon's ruin and brand him a kinslayer, "What he did was an affront to gods and men alike. He will be judged in the eyes of both. The gods are oft silent, but men will not be."
The Hunter's smile grew strangely at his words, but he nodded without protest, "I understand. The heir of House Stark cannot be seen committing a grave crime. Nor can he be seen shirking responsibility and punishment by way of his name."
Cyril Fairchild interlaced his hand and leaned back in his chair, giving the problem a moment's thought but no more.
"Very well, as the injured party," The Hunter seemed humored by the term, "Allow me to propose a compromise: Have your son come by the Workshop thrice a week for the next year. That should give me enough time to teach him something worthwhile."
Three sets of eyes stared at the young lord, puzzlement and disbelief carved into every face. The Hunter paid them no mind, already lost in his thoughts.
"Of course, young Brandon need not learn to move quite like a Hunter. Overmuch in a battle between men, I would think. But to strike as a Hunter does…there might be some value in that."
"You would have him as a foster?" Fane Poole ventured the question, the word 'hostage' went unsaid.
The Hunter frowned, a flash of panic forming behind his eyes. "Who do you intend to punish, Lord Poole? I am the spare son of an earl. I would rather not be held accountable for the upbringing of a duke's heir. Besides, Brandon is only a scant few years from his majority.
I have no need for a squire as I am no knight, and I do not intend to take a formal apprentice so early into my retirement. But the responsibilities of a private tutor…yes, I believe I will be up for the task."
The Northerners remained silent, unable to articulate a reply. The Hunter tapped his chair and continued his musings.
"In another life, your son would have made a fine Hunter. I see no issue with cultivating such talent, even if there are no beasts on this side of the Sea. A Hunter is a dangerous foe, and learning to fight like or against one is not a bad skill to have. If nothing else, it would keep your son much too occupied to pursue further mischief."
Cyril held out an open hand.
"What do you say, Lord Stark?"
Rickard struggled to speak. And when he did, he was no longer sure he was of sound mind.
"The members of your order will not protest the training of an outsider?" The words sounded absurd to his ear, but Rickard needed to focus on the banal and mundane. He needed to know the Hunter's offer was not a false hope to be dangled above his head only to be ripped away.
The younger lord replied with a smile. "Not if I give my approval."
There was a certainty to his voice that resonated danger and finality. At another time, Rickard would have wondered just what manner of man he had welcomed into his home. But all he could muster was a shake of his head and a huff that kept him from the edge of hysteria.
"My son breaks guest rights, and you would have him study under a warrior of great skill as punishment. Many would consider that a reward."
The Hunter chuckled, "Great skill? Though I am sure Gehrman would have disagreed, it is kind of you to say. But yes, many would think it a strange punishment for a crime. With time, those with good sense and sound minds might naturally conclude there was never a crime at all."
The implication was not lost on Rickard, and once more, he was forced to shake his head. "You would help salvage Brandon's honor and House Stark's reputation after his blunder." The Lord of Winterfell met the too-bright eyes of the Hunter, "You need not do this."
'Why are you doing this?'
Cyril Fairchild waved his hand dismissively, "This costs me nothing, Lord Stark. Clearly, you have tormented yourself well enough without my help, and I am long past taking offense to attempts on my life. I also confess I have missed the opportunity to be an instructor."
Madness, mercy, and good sense perfused every word. The young man was mad, for no sane man could afford such mercy. The Warden of the North had expected to be assailed with demands of gold, land, and blood. Instead, Brandon had earned himself a sword instructor. Madness. But if it was madness that would save his family and son, so be it.
Before his steward, maester, and sworn sword could protest, the Lord of Winterfell dipped his head to the Hunter.
"House Stark cannot thank you enough."
If the Hunter was uncomfortable with his display, he hid it well.
"Let us put this matter behind us. I believe our time would be better spent discussing the original issue that brought me here:
My rent."
The guards would not look at him. The servants would not meet his gaze. The gravity of his actions had not struck him until he sat in Luwin's study. Now he walked the halls of Winterfell, right arm in a sling, a stranger in his own home. It still did not feel real: Breaking guest rights…there was no greater crime short of kinslaying. The most savage of wildlings upheld guest rights. Evidently, that was too much a task for the heir of Winterfell.
He walked in the direction of his father's solar, guided by the sound of the maester's chain. Brandon had half a thought to walk himself to the block and save his family the trouble, but his feet led him to his father's study.
He waited for a time as the maester announced their arrival. The doors opened; Rodrick and Fane stepped out alongside the last man he hoped to see.
"Lord Brandon," the Hunter spoke with the same calm amusement that vexed Brandon to no end, "How are your arms?"
"Sprained, but not broken," he paused, "My lord."
The courtesy came out strained and stinted, but the Hunter paid no mind, "I am glad to hear. We will be seeing more of each other in the coming days." He offered no further explanation when Brandon looked on in askance, "Have you compensated that guard for his sword?"
The question caught Brandon off guard, but he managed to shake his head.
"Then my next destination is clear." As he did before, the Hunter dipped his head to the maester, who bowed deeply in turn.
"Oh, and Brandon." The Hunter spoke as he turned his attention back to the heir of Winterfell, "Refrain from speaking ill of Evetta. Such words make me question your father's role in your upbringing."
The Hunter said no more as he left. The heir of Winterfell opened the door and stepped through. Maester Luwin did not follow. Brandon found himself alone with his father. He made his way to the center of the room, head bowed.
"You know what you have done."
Brandon stilled. This was not his father's voice. This was the voice of Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, sitting in judgment of those who violated the laws of gods and men. "I will have your reasons."
Brandon stared intently at the floor, unable to form a reply.
"Look at me."
He raised his head but found it a difficult thing. His father sat at his desk, eyes shadowed, deep furrows set in his face and brow. Brandon had not seen his father look so weary, not since the day after Benjen's birth, when his father had sat with their mother until her last breath, spending the hours after comforting him and Ned before returning to the Great Hall to carry out his duties as Warden in the North. That was the measure of the man Brandon had disappointed.
"Never have guest rights been broken within Winterfell. Never have we Starks betrayed that most sacred of oaths. Never."
His father's gaze was damning.
"Why have you shamed us?"
It was a question he struggled to answer. Had he been angered by his defeat? Undoubtedly. Had he been furious when the Hunter all but toyed with him? Without question. But it had not been anger or fury that drove him to treachery.
"After he helped me stand and turned away," The words were hard to find, his mind grasping for coherent thoughts even as he spoke, "I saw his back, and I thought it my only chance to stop him."
"Stop?" His father's tone took on a hard, cold edge.
"Not kill." He implored his father to believe him, and he would swear before the weirwood if the Old Gods still welcomed him, "Only stop."
His father searched his face for deception. That his father felt the need to do so, that Brandon had given him every reason to doubt…his veins ran with more shame than blood.
He heard his father sigh, and it was a horrible, defeated thing, "What could you have hoped to stop him from?"
"Anything." He uttered, "From doing anything. Perhaps everything. Whatever he wanted." The words spilled from his mouth, and Brandon prayed they held sense.
"I looked at his back and knew that if I did not stop him there, no one could. Good or bad, I didn't know. And it didn't seem to matter. If I didn't stop him, I knew he would go on to do whatever he pleased, and we–everyone–would have to watch."
He tried to turn thoughts into words and knew he was failing.
"The way he moved, fought, the way he looked at me after…Father, no man should be that strong."
Brandon stared at his father, begging him to understand. He didn't dare ask forgiveness. For the longest time, Rickard Stark said nothing. The silence stretched, growing heavy as Rickard regarded his son with tired, grey eyes.
"Lord Fairchild said you had fought for your life." There was no question in his father's voice, and Brandon had no answer to give. The Warden of the North sighed again, "Why did you challenge him?"
Brandon gathered himself, "I wanted to help." The words came no easier, but he pressed on, "I saw what he was doing to you, Father. You have been here every night for the past moon, burning so many candles we could smell smoke from the halls. You would join us each morning looking more weary than you did during winter. All because that man intruded on the North, our land, our home."
Brandon drew in a shaky breath, "I thought if I bested him in the yard, others would think less of him, that it would make things easier for you."
He had thought a victory at arms would have allowed his father to talk terms from a position of strength. Instead, he had found himself fighting for his life.
The Warden of the North rose from his seat and stood before his son. Brandon knew he was tall and broad for his age, but he remained very much in his father's shadow.
"You foolish boy," the words cut deeply, "What father worth the name would have his children fight in his stead?"
Brandon bowed his head, unsure what else he could do or say.
"You should not have insulted a man grown, trained, and titled." His father sighed again, tired and defeated, "And I should never have given you the chance to do so."
Brandon suppressed a shudder. His father was apologizing, attempting to share the blame for his crimes. Gods, he did not want that.
"Father–"
Strong, callused hands gripped his shoulders.
"He could have killed you."
Brandon heard his father's voice waver, and it made him ill. In the depths of his heart, he could admit he feared the Hunter. But the sight of his father vulnerable, the knowledge that he was to blame, he feared that more.
"He could have killed you and been in the right. What would you have me do then?"
The heir of Winterfell had no reply.
"Because I would have killed him, Brandon. Justice be damned. Honor be damned."
'The North be damned.' The words went unsaid but hung in the air.
"You, your brothers, and Lyanna are all I have left of your mother. If harm came to you, how would you have me face her?"
Father and son stood in silence. Brandon felt the weight of his actions and knew it was not something he wished to share with his father or family.
"Am I being sent away?"
"No, but you will be punished, and Lord Fairchild, whom you have wronged, will see to your punishment."
Were it any other misdeed, Brandon would have protested. The wolf in his blood would have howled in defiance. But what was there to defy? He could not touch the man he had thought his enemy. His father's words alone told him the Hunter had not demanded his life or attempted to beggar the North, and Brandon knew that was more than he deserved. The heir of Winterfell nodded, accepting his father's judgment. He had shamed his family. Come what may, he would not do so again.
TBC
Author's note:
Happy New Year!
This chapter was a doozy.
Also: Lecturer=UK equivalent of an assistant professor
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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 6: Book 1: A Sword Without a Hilt
"Dammit all."
The words came out as a curse, however measured he kept his tone. Rickard Stark sat beneath the heart tree, Ice resting over his knee. He ran a hand along the ancient Valyrian blade in a well-practice motion that brought him calm, if not comfort. The Warden of the North had sought refuge in the godswoods after a silent sham of a supper where Brandon had refused to meet Lyanna's glare or Benjen's gaze. The Fairchilds had left the evening before, and they had taken a piece of his family with them. For all they had given in gifts and gold, for all that House Stark would benefit if the Hunter kept his word, it had not felt a fair trade.
Brandon still lived and remained at Winterfell, but his son was lost to him. The previous day's panic had left his body, and his gratitude had bled away with it. Rickard felt it strange to find himself so close to hating a man who had done him no wrong yet stood at the center of his misfortunes. He was no fool: Brandon had offered challenge and given insult, answering defeat with a stab in the back. As the head of House Stark, Rickard was grateful to the Hunter for mitigating the disaster that befell his house, but as a father, he had always spoken of his children with unbridled pride. Cyril Fairchild had taken that from him.
"Dammit all," he whispered again.
Lost in his thoughts, the warden failed to notice Rodrik's approach until the knight's shadow eclipsed the last glimmers of evening light. Forgoing his usual greeting, Rodrik sat beside his lord and uncorked a waterskin, filling the dusk air with the scent of strongwine. The knight drank deeply before offering it to his liege, a post-battle ritual the two men developed during the rebellion, back when Rickard had been a young, untested lord learning the difference between Northern bandits and veteran captains of the Golden Company.
"Looked like you were in need."
His old friend's voice carried a gruff, familiar edge that had Rickard laughing despite his exhaustion and bitterness, "Have I grown so easy to read in my old age?"
"You've been taking a whetstone to Valyrian steel, Milord."
Rickard could not rebuff the claim. Indeed, the stone in his hand had been ground worryingly thin. He set it and the sword aside. Capable as Luwin was, the Lord of Winterfell had no desire to test the limits of the maester's skill.
"So I have," Rickard accepted the wineskin. He drank, pausing only when his lungs begged for breath, unsure but uncaring if the Old Gods valued temperance. The warden and his sworn sword passed the strongwine between themselves in silence. When the wine at last ran dry, Rodrik untied a second from his belt, only for the warden to wave it away.
"You were right, old friend. I should never have invited the Fairchilds here."
Rodrik scowled, showing how much he cared for his lord's apology, "You couldn't have known what your son had planned. Couldn't have known what Fairchild was capable of either."
'But you should have known what Brandon was capable of.' The words were not spoken, but Rickard heard them all the same, whispered in Lyarra's voice. Sleep would not find him tonight.
The Warden of the North breathed deep and slow, gathering himself, "How bad are things, truly?"
The knight squared his shoulders, "Could be better, should be worse. Whole castle knows your son got up to something foul in the yard, just can't seem to agree on what. We have the good Lord Fairchild to thank for that: him showing up for supper made it hard for those who didn't witness the fight to believe those who did. There's more confusion than outrage, at least for now."
Rickard nodded. After the attempt on his guest's life, the servants had thought him mad when he ordered supper to be prepared as planned. The Warden of the North would not soon forget their faces when Cyril Fairchild entered the dining room of the Great Keep, steps light, eyes bright, and smile brighter. Nor would he forget how Lady Evetta had beamed and clapped when her husband announced Brandon would be studying at the Workshop. The scene would have warranted laughter had the whole affair not been so grim.
"What else?"
"Managed to glean more about the Hunter." The knight all but dropped the fresh wineskin in his lord's lap, "That young lad, Donall, came running to me earlier. Looked like he'd just lost at dice to the Others, and they'd come to collect. Threw a gold coin at me. Claimed Fairchild gave it to him as apologies for his sword. Madman had wanted to replace the blade but didn't think he had anything light enough. Let the boy hold that damn cane of his, and the lad said it weighed almost two stones."
A moment passed as the Lord of Winterfell took in the words, and he drank deeply when he did. Two stones…Thrice the weight of a greatsword, and the Hunter had swung it like a reed. Though Brandon would have fared no better had the man been unarmed, the thought of the Hunter striking his son with a war mace rekindled the anger in Rickard's chest.
"Have Fane give him a dragon." He would not punish loyal men for his son's misdeeds. The young man-at-arms was either honest enough to surrender a year's wage in gold or intelligent enough to hand over foreign coin he had no means to spend. House Stark had need for such men.
His thoughts turned to the Hunter, taking stock for the foreign lord who was the subject of both his anger and gratitude. The young man had been a scholar, a student of language and history. He regarded Luwin as a senior, such that even lordship did not deter him from displays of deference. The man was also a warrior, a survivor in a land of horrors. Per Luwin's report, it seemed wherever men went, suffering followed. The West was no paradise. Without doubt, there was greatness there: cities that dwarfed King's Landing, wealth that humbled the Lannisters, and industry that overshadowed Braavos' Arsenal. But their horrors seemed just as great: The Vilebloods of Cainhurst had built their city over a tomb inhabited by monsters. Rickard could scarcely imagine what manner of fortress the city must be to fend off a siege from within every night without end. Nor did he wish to consider what manner of foe would force a city to call upon men of Fairchild's caliber.
The man remained a mystery, and the more Cyril Fairchild insisted he was the second son of a middling lord, the more Rickard was convinced it was the least of his titles.
"What does he want, Rodrik?" His question broke the silence, "Gifts, gold, knowledge…Cyril Fairchild has given all that and more. He takes my son from me, not as a hostage but as a favor. He walked into my solar offering glass for a leasehold I would have exchanged for peace." This was not the way of the world, not in the North or South, Westeros or Essos. Good men paid duty onto oaths. The rest returned favors for favors and repaid debts with interest. Time and again, Cyril Fairchild undermined the foundation of the world Rickard thought he knew. "What would he have of me?"
Rodrik mulled over his lord's question, gesturing for the wineskin, which Rickard obliged.
"I distrust the man. I've made no secret of that, but he had us by the bollocks bent over a barrel." The knight's voice bordered a growl, and Rickard had little doubt the word 'us' had been said in courtesy, "Were there ever a time to bugger the North, that'd been his chance. I doubt Fairchild has much interest in Northern land, else he'd be Lord of the Library Tower by now."
The knight paused, "That said, your grandson may not have much say in whose daughter he takes for a wife."
The Warden of the North scoffed.
"Brandon's problem." Rickard's words carried a callousness he did not mean and an exasperation he no longer cared to hide. When his words were met with silence instead of laughter, he turned to see Rodrik wearing the expression of a condemned man.
Realization dawned on him quickly, "Fane and Luwin?"
The knight nodded, "Aye, they thought I'd be more likely to survive this talk. Speaks to their good sense if not their courage."
"You would have me disinherit Brandon."
The knight nodded again, the motion stiff but sure, "Pardon me for saying, Milord, but he can't stay your heir. What he did endangered you all."
'My son endangered no one.' How he wished to say those words without having to lie. If word of what happened got out, Jon and Steffon would distance their respective houses from the Starks. Hoster would follow, halting the shipments of grain. To secure food for their holds, Northern lords would bypass House Starks in their dealings with the Riverlands and Reach. Lyanna would find herself without marriage prospects; Benjen, without fosterage. The very balance of power in the North would change hands, and Winterfell would stand alone. Rickard could see it all: The legacy of eight thousand years brought low by the actions of a day.
None of this accounted for what would have happened had Brandon wounded–much less killed–Lord Fairchild. It would have meant war. Rickard was as proud a Northern as any, but against a people who could cross a sea even the Ironborn feared to tread, who wielded weapons that made castle-forged steel look as soft as bronze, he doubted House Stark would have fared well.
And yet, he balked at the thought of doing what must be done.
"The matter is settled. Lord Fairchild's magnanimity saw to it." Rickard Stark spoke words he did not believe, words that would have been lies were he attempting deception, "The commotion will die once Brandon begins his tutelage. The whispers may spread to Wintertown, but no further. Word travels slowly in the North."
"News travels slow, but rumors fly with the wind. And you and I will be the last to hear of them, Milord." Rodrik regarded his liege with the hard eyes of a man prepared to stand his ground, "Whispers have already reached Wintertown. Several merchants have made it their home, and all Northern trade worth a damn eventually makes its way to White Harbor. Wyman may be your foster brother–hells, I like the man–but don't tell me you'd trust him with what happened here."
The Warden had no rebuttal. The Lord of New Castle had spent his boyhood at Winterfell. Though Rickard would never doubt his loyalty, the merman was too sharp and shrewd to be trusted with such damning information.
Rodrik spoke unabated.
"Even if word of what happened never left these walls, we're expecting the first harvest in three moons and the spring feast soon after. Every lord in the North, great and petty, will gather under your roof. Someone will talk. When talk leads to more talk, your bannerman will have questions." Rodrik spoke with solemn resolve, "Twenty years I've been your sword, Milord, and I've never known you to be a liar. Are you prepared to look each man in the eye and deny the rumors?"
The knight got to his feet, "Say you managed it, would you trust Brandon to do the same?"
Silence followed. The two men did not move even as the winds grew strong and the world dimmed. The Warden of the North said his piece.
"Brandon challenged Lord Fairchild to a spar. Tempers flared, and my son conducted himself in a manner beneath his station. Thankfully, Lord Fairchild took no offense, even offering to take Brandon as a student on account of his skill." The words offered the barest inklings of truth, enough for him to choke out the words without accompanying bile, "That is all he will say on the matter."
Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, stood and passed judgment. "In six years' time, Brandon will abdicate. He will find himself uninterested in lordship, and Ned will assume the mantle of warden upon my death."
The gods would damn him for this. But Rodrik had spoken truth: Even as a rumor, muddled by Lord Fairchild's magnanimity, whispers of what happened would follow Brandon for the rest of his days, a weapon his enemies–and allies–would wield against him. His reputation would be forever tarnished. Too many were involved to keep everything wholly secret: Rickard would have to lie; Brandon would have to lie. Most importantly, Lord Fairchild would have to corroborate this mummer's farce. Rickard could not allow any man to hold such power over House Stark.
But there was a simpler, more horrible truth: Rickard could no longer trust his eldest with the future of their family and house. Whatever others believed, Rickard knew what Brandon had done. He could no longer trust his son to do what duty dictated and justice demanded.
Rodrik nodded gravely, "Will the boy agree to this?"
"He will." The warden spoke with finality, "If he still respects my judgment, he will stand here in the morrow and swear it before the Old Gods and his father."
Again, Rodrik nodded, "And what's to become of him after?"
"He will leave the North and sail east. I will see him off in a Northern galley well-supplied with men and gold. He will be free to reestablish himself wherever he chooses."
The knight squared his shoulders. "And if he chooses to join the Company of Roses?"
Rickard glared at the man who had been his closest confidant, wondering if a lifetime of friendship could survive the words to follow, "Then that is his choice. They are not the Golden Company. The Roses have not set foot on Northern shores in three centuries. They have no claim here."
"No, but you'd give them one," Rodrik's voice rose just short of shouting, "Hells to it all, I trust your boy, even after all that's happened. If he swears to abdicate, I trust him to. But what of his son? His son's son? Ned's line could face a foe with greater claim to Winterfell than any Blackfyre had to Kings Landing!"
"What would you have me do?" Where Rodrik's voice had risen, Rickard's took on a cold, hard edge, "Never has an heir of Winterfell joined the Watch. Never has a firstborn son been set aside for the second. To have him take the Black would be as good as admitting guilt, and banishing him would mean the same. What would you have of me? Take him hunting and arrange for an accident?"
Rickard's heart twisted with ugly satisfaction as Rodrik recoiled at his words, but it was short-lived, turning bitter in his gut. He had not decided the timeframe of his son's abdication frivolously: Deep in his heart, he hoped that the Hunter would take his son as a formal apprentice, that Brandon would accompany the Fairchild's when they returned west in six years time. It would allow him to leave with honor. But he could not ask this of the Hunter, not after all the man had already done.
"Brandon will abdicate. Let that be enough."
'Do not ask more of me.'
The Warden of the North left the godswoods empty-handed, leaving Rodrik to retrieve his family sword. His burdens were heavy enough without a physical reminder of the legacy he had nearly brought to ruin.
Loud knocks at the door awoke him from fitful sleep. Rodrik entered the room, looking as tired as Rickard felt. The knight bowed dutifully, as if the argument last evening never occurred, "Milord, you are needed in Wintertown."
"What happened?"
"You'd not believe me if you don't see it yourself," the knight sighed, "Fairchild delivered his rent."
Rickard rode out at first light with twenty men, a tenth of his household guard. They made their way down the muddied streets, past squat houses of snow-stained wood and naked stone into the market square. Though most smallfolk had returned to the fields, all who remained had gathered in the public square, the focus of their attention clear.
Six wooden crates rivaling the size of nearby houses occupied the space. Already his men had one opened, revealing its contents for all to see: Great stacks of glass as clear as lakeside ice lined the crate from floor to ceiling, each layer protected by large sheets of wool. Fane Poole and Maester Luwin scrutinized a pane the height of a man and half the width, bowing as Rickard approached.
"The local tanner alerted the guards to the crates last evening near the hour of the owl." The steward reported, "There were no prior sightings, no witnesses, and the guards on duty likewise reported nothing."
The Warden of the North surveyed the clearing. There were no furrows in the muddied road, no tracks from a horse or carriage, no indication at all that the delivery was the product of human labor.
"What of the glass itself?"
Luwin stepped forward, "Its strength and clarity puts the work of Myr to shame, Milord. From my readings, I believe this is polished plate glass. The cost of even a single pane is ruinous, my lord."
Fane nodded his ascent, "By our estimates, there is enough glass in each crate for a new glass garden apiece."
Six glass gardens. Six glass gardens for six years in the North. Cyril had offered glass, and Rickard had accepted. They had not discussed details, and Rickard had been content to let the matter rest, too preoccupied with Brandon's fate to care. The Hunter could have handed him a cracked vase, and the Lord of Winterfell would have considered it payment enough. Furthermore, he had thought Lord Fairchild would require time to facilitate the trade.
"Some of the panes look to weigh as much as six stones. We requested the services of the master mason to oversee transport and ensure no one comes to undue harm."
The steward's voice shook Rickard from his musing, "I trust you to see it done."
Fane and Luwin bowed deeply as the warden returned to Rodrik, whose men were ordering the smallfolk to disperse and readying wagons for transport. The knight fixed his lord with a question uttered too low for others to hear.
"Magic?"
A nod was the only answer he received.
Later, when Rickard stood alone on the battlements, watching pane after pane of glass make its way through the gates of Winterfell, he found himself laughing. It was a hollow thing, bereft of merriment or joy. House Stark acquired its glass garden a thousand years ago, when his ancestors seized the holdings of the Greystarks after the last Bolton Rebellion. It had taken the extinction of a noble house to fund a single garden. Now he had six, one to build in Winterfell and five to give. History would remember him for this. The North now had the means to grow food during winter on a scale unseen in all its history, and House Stark's position had never been stronger.
Was it wrong that he would give it all away to see his family whole again? No answer came to him as day turned to night, the shadows growing long under the soft light of the paleblood moon.
TBC
Author's Note:
Meanwhile, the Fairchild's were celebrating their first student.
A bit of a more somber chapter. Unfortunately, actions have consequences, and this being Westeros, second changes are hard to come by.
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