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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 7: Book 1: The Merman
"Care for a cod pie, Master Poole?"
Wyman Manderly nudged the pastry across his desk, appreciating the wafting smell of butter and white fish. He would have preferred lamprey, but alas, the first harvest would not be for several moons, and the best batches were even farther off.
His old mentor shook his head, "I must decline. My memory is not what it used to be, but I recall enjoying a rather substantial supper."
Wyman gave a loud, full-bellied laugh. Needing no prompting, the Lord of New Castle helped himself to the tasty morsel, "Nothing like a small snack to settle the stomach before bed. Just as Maester Walys used to say."
"How strange. You would think I would remember such an important lesson."
"As you said yourself, perhaps your memory is starting to go."
"Perhaps it is," the steward chuckled as he passed a hand through his beard, "It gladdens me to see we imparted such lasting lessons during your fosterage."
The two men indulged in idle talk, laughing and jesting louder than most would under the sway of thrice-watered ale. They continued to discuss nothing of import until four knocks at the door signaled the changing of the guard and the stationing of his cousin Marlon's most-trusted men.
The Lord of New Castle refilled Fane's goblet with well-watered ale, "We were told to expect a rider from Winterfell. Here I thought Rickard would have more sense than to send a man of your age."
Wyman was a proud man with well-founded pride. The first Manderly in generations to foster at Winterfell, he had watched White Harbor prosper under his careful rule. He regarded his former mentor with the same care: Rickard sending his personal steward–a man of sixty name days–spoke to the gravity of the situation; Fane's arrival mere days after the raven further betrayed a need for urgency. Now they were speaking in secret, under every layer of security House Manderly could afford. Wyman eyed the well-wrapped 'gift' currently leaning against the wall of his study and found himself yearning for another pie.
The greybeard smiled, "Our lord still trusts this old man with matters of import."
Wyman reached for his own drink, "Is he well? The children?"
"We had five Starks when winter began. Thank the Old Gods and the New we have five at winter's end."
The Lord of New Castle nodded but noted his mentor's nonanswer, "What brings you here, Fane?"
"Tax discrepancies."
Wyman snorted into his cup, "If Rickard thought I was dodging taxes, he would have come in person, Ice in hand. I would be talking to Lord Edwyle's ghost right now." He laughed heartily but shot the greybeard a glare that left no room for further jests, "What happened?"
The aged steward rose, "It would be easier to show you."
His guest walked over to Rickard's supposed gift. Aged hands removed the canvas cover with care, revealing a tall pane of glass so clear Wyman would have thought it was ice. He was on his feet in an instant and standing before the pane moments later. He marveled at the sight of his reflection, staring back at him without a single warp or flaw, and barely resisted the urge to reach out and mark the glass with his hands. The Lord of New Castle turned to the steward.
"Who made this?"
"Here I thought your first question would be the cost."
"You cannot purchase something that does not–cannot–exist." Wyman countered, "Unless the Free Cities have been trading us their scraps, this is beyond what I have known Myr to make."
His old mentor was slow to answer, "Would you believe me if I said Lord Stark found it in the crypts?"
Wyman scoffed, "If Rickard had time to explore his family's crypt while the rest of us were weathering the longest winter in living memory, it will not be the Boltons leading the next rebellion."
The aged steward hardly batted an eye at Wyman's retort. If anything, the man appeared far more preoccupied with his own response, as if his story were hard to tell and harder to believe, "A man approached Lord Stark some time ago asking to take up residence in the Wolfswoods." The greybeard inclined his head towards the glass pane, "This was his offered price."
"A man." Wyman doubted his voice could have sounded more flat.
His mentor nodded in affirmation, "A young one of noble bearing. Bookish, yet capable with a blade. He was accompanied by a woman with the coloring of Old Valyria whom he claimed to be his wife. Her dress had fine Myrish lace, and Maester Luwin believes her to be one of Volantis' Old Blood."
The Lord of New Castle made for his chair with his guest not far behind and poured them both a proper drink of Arbor Red. Wyman said nothing for a time, mulling over Fane's well-chosen words: The books indicated an intelligent man, one that was no fool; the blade was a warning that said man was martially inclined, not to be underestimated despite his maesterly pursuits. And he was Myrish, else Fane would not have mentioned his wife's dress. The story made sense, given the glass, but it reeked of craftsmanship and artifice.
"You claimed the woman had Valyrian coloring. Any chance she hails from Lys?"
He did not miss the look of panic in his mentor's eye, "None. Lady Evetta carries herself as well as her husband, perhaps better."
Wyman allowed himself a smile. So this was not a lordling who ran off with a Lysi slave, and Fane dared not imply such. But Evetta was not a Volantene name, and Wyman would wager a ship her husband's was not Myrish. A picture was forming in his mind, a patchwork of false assumptions, misdirection, and half-truths.
"This is a strange tale," he said instead, "An interesting one, but I wonder why Rickard had not sent a raven and been done with it."
Therein lay the question: Why the urgency? A glassmaker in the North was no doubt a headache and a half, but it hardly warranted Rickard sending an aged steward to his strongest vassal with utmost haste: A hundred leagues in eight days was a hard ride for anyone.
Fane answered by handing over a scroll marked with Rickard's personal seal. Wyman unfurled the scroll, revealing an inventory of goods not unlike countless others he had inspected during his tenure, but the numbers were wrong. The scroll listed quantities Wyman only knew in concept, figures he could not conceive any more than a beggar from Fleabottom could grasp the worth of gold. He looked to Fane in disbelief.
"Surely you jest."
"If I wanted to deceive you, I would have fabricated a more believable sum," the steward snapped, the lines on his face growing deep as he rubbed his brow, "Six shipments of glass arrived in Wintertown a sennight ago. Between the household and conscripted smallfolk, I had sixty men working in shifts transporting glass to Winterfell. I will be impressed if the work is a third done when I return."
Fane Poole fixed Wyman with a stern gaze, "On my honor as the steward of Winterfell, these are the best figures we have on hand."
The Lord of New Castle gave no reply.
"I understand this is an outrageous sum–"
Wyman held up a hand.
"Fane, this is more glass than Myr has ever produced. Do you expect me to truly believe a young scion from one of Myr's glass-forging families eloped with a daughter of Volantis' Old Blood and offered Rickard more glass than the Lannisters have gold in exchange for shelter? Gods, the Redwynes could not ferry this much glass!" Wyman was not done, "And you said it was delivered to Wintertown. How? Is there an army of Unsullied occupying Winterfell I should know about?"
Fane sighed, "I can assure you Lord Fairchild has no Unsullied under his employ."
"Fairchild?" Wyman breathed, repeating a name that sounded about as Myrish as Hightower and Blackwood, "The whores on Bloodstone had smallclothes with more substance than the story you are trying to sell me."
"You are not the intended customer."
The Head of House Manderly paused at that, sipping wine to compose himself. He swirled the goblet once, twice, then locked eyes with Fane after the third, "Young Ned," he realized, "You hope to seed this story in White Harbor, and have it make its way south with the boy when he returns to the Vale."
He was rewarded with a nod, "Rumors will make their way south without our help. We cannot keep the smallfolk from talking, merely influence what they say. The story I offer would be the most convenient truth."
"And the inconvenient one?"
Fane sighed, "If Lord Stark thought it safe to share, he would have given me permission to say."
Wyman set his wine aside and regarded his mentor with steepled hands. The picture was coming together, but questions remained. Why the secrecy? Why the urgency and lies? "Most of the merchants here hail from Braavos, and most make for Essos come winter. Few enough stay that I would have heard word if a Myrman was making his way to Winterfell," he pondered aloud, "If he had been traveling with a woman as you described, it would have fueled enough gossip to warm us through winter."
Wyman's eyes grew wide. The Fairchilds had not fled Essos, else it would not have mattered if they hailed from Myr or Leng. They did not come up from the South, otherwise his old mentor would not be here, trying to plant a rumor meant to travel down the Neck. The far North did not bear mentioning. The picture in his mind shifted, becoming something greater and more dangerous by far. For the second time that night, Wyman stared at his mentor, asking him to confirm the impossible.
The steward met his eye, "Given the route they took to reach the North, I am honestly surprised the Lord and Lady Fairchild were not beset by Ironborn."
"Fane–"
It was the steward's turn to hold up a hand.
"They are not emissaries, merely visitors, eccentrics from a family of clear import."
"Who else knows?" Still stunned, there was little else he could say.
"Let it rest, Wyman," Fane pressed, tired but insistent, "Lord Stark has the matter well at hand. He will divulge more when safe to do so. Trust that he will do right by you and the North, as he always has."
Falling back into his chair, the Lord of New Castle brimmed with questions, objections, and protests. By law, Rickard was well within his rights to treat with these foreigners, particularly on matters of trade. Hells, even political and military alliances were not out of the question if they came with marriage: betrothals between the houses of Westeros and Free Cities were hardly new. Jaehaerys II would have found the whole affair entertaining, at most sending an emissary to protect the interests of the Crown, but Aerys II was not his father.
This was a dangerous game. Knowing his foster brother, the Lord of Winterfell undoubtedly thought he was shielding his bannermen from culpability, but other houses might accuse the Starks of cornering the attention of a foreign kingdom and monopolizing new markets at their expense. Yet there was little Wyman could do. Inserting himself into talks without invitation would only weaken Rickard's position and paint Wyman as the grasping, copper-counting Lord of White Harbor. He would have to trust the steward's judgment. Thankfully, Winterfell was as much Fane's legacy as Rickard's in many regards.
"Better the Realm think Rickard is capitalizing on a Myrman's love affair than courting a foreign power," he summarized, downing the last dregs of his wine, "Very well, I leave the matter in your hands. Rickard knows where my loyalties lie, but remind him that I only command the fourth largest fleet on this side of the sea."
'We are not prepared to challenge the Crown.'
"You need not ask," Fane replied with an appreciative nod, "Now, the other matter at hand: House Stark has received enough glass for six gardens. Our lord means to construct one at Winterfell and gift five onto loyal Northern houses. Not all at once, of course."
"So four loyal houses and the Boltons."
"You disapprove."
Wyman dipped his head, "But I do not disagree." The Manderlys shared strange history with the Boltons. Had the Red Kings not persuaded the Greystarks to betray their kin, his ancestors would never have found themselves masters of the Wolf's Den and later White Harbor. He had long considered the continued survival of House Bolton to be a great misstep by the old Winter Kings, but he understood the need to check the powers of the Umbers whose vast holdings once encompassed the New Gift and the Karstarks who held nominal claim to Winterfell. Furthermore, the Boltons had proven themselves capable if cold bannerman for the last thousand-odd years, serving no worse than his own house. The current arrangement was…convenient. Spurning them so openly would upset the balance of power and invite civil war.
A cruel part of him considered urging just that, spurring the Boltons to rebellion and giving his foster brother every reason to end the legacy of the Red Kings. War, however, was not what the North needed, not after winter. He would not leave fields to fallow and men to starve on account of ambition.
"Who else?"
"Yourself, the Umbers, Dustins, and Karstarks."
Wyman grimaced, "I trust you convinced him overwise?"
"I half suspect he proposed such a disastrous plan to get a rise out of you." A smile returned to Fane's lips. This was well-trodden ground, "The Glovers were sincerely considered."
"A sound choice."
"Our lord would appreciate your council."
"Of course he would," Engaging with foreigners from beyond the Sunset Sea lay well beyond his purview, but navigating the intricacies–and lack thereof–of Northern politics was a familiar friend.
"These glass gardens are as much a bane as they are a boon. Rickard may as well be passing out Valyrian swords." Indeed, the glass gardens were a projection of the Stark's power. The only family able to grow food in the dead of winter, House Stark has always weathered the cold better than any other, living up to their legacy as the Kings of Winter.
"Umber, Glover, Dustin, Karstark, and Bolton," Wyman repeated the names of friends and foes alike, "The Umbers have long been loyal beyond question. The same could be said of the Dustins and Glovers. A means to grow food during winter would especially help Deepwood Motte, and I can see Bear Island benefiting from the arrangement, given Jorah's recent betrothal. A glass garden could mend Rickard's relationship with the Karstarks, but that is no sure thing."
The Lord of Karhold was a disagreeable man, like many Karstarks before him. The man's overtures to the Flints and Hornwoods alongside increasingly bold demands of Winterfell had soured relations of late. Empowering both the Karstarks and Boltons would not serve his brother well.
"To speak plainly, House Manderly has the least need for the food a glass garden would provide. But the same could not be said of the prestige: If my family learned I passed up the opportunity for a garden in White Harbor, I would be tied to a cog and used as an anchor."
Fane nodded in approval of Wyman's assessment and candor, "Worry not, if Lord Stark was seen snubbing his sworn brother, fosterage at Winterfell would quickly lose its worth."
Pouring himself more wine, the Lord of New Castle swirled his goblet, allowing the smooth, steady motion to settle his thoughts, "A man with a gold dragon is infinitely richer than one without, yet a man with two dragons is only twice as rich as a man with one. If Rickard has enough glass for six gardens, two should remain at Winterfell. Power must stay with the Starks, for all of our sakes."
"And the other four?"
"Myself, Umber, Dustin, and Bolton," he spoke with as much certainty as he could muster, "It will be a matter of practicality: White Harbor is the largest settlement in the North by far with Wintertown a distant second and Barrowton a distant third. The volcanic soil in Bolton land will ensure a bountiful harvest. As for the Umbers, they have long served as the North's vanguard against the wildlings. Much of the New Gift once belonged to them. House Stark will show the lengths it will go to right old wrongs, even ones they did not instigate."
Fane considered the plan, "The Karstarks will take offense."
"The Karstarks have been drawing away from Winterfell for generations, and a glass garden may only embolden their demands. Rickard Karstark will grumble, but his hands will be tied. Keeping the Boltons and Karstarks from forming a power block will be difficult, but that is work for another day. The North has a long memory, and none have forgotten what happened the last time the Red Kings turned a cadet house against their kin."
Wyman was under no illusion that he provided impartial council: His proposal would elevate House Manderly, Dustin, Umber, and Bolton well above other houses. It was a far cry from perfect: The Glovers were loyal men who would benefit greatly from a glass garden, but they suffered from frequent Ironborn raids despite Quellon's reforms, and their lands remained some of the most sparsely populated as a result. But the balance would be maintained with power resting soundly with the Starks. Three loyal houses would be honored and poised to staunch Bolton ambition.
Fane raised his cup, toasting his former charge, "Were you not needed here, these old bones would drag you back to Winterfell. Lord Stark will hear your words as they were spoken." The two men drank to a task well-done. "There remains one last matter to discuss," the steward said at length, "If the rumors travel south, they will also travel east."
Wyman soured, "Myr will not be pleased."
"Are the magisters liable to interfere?"
"Eventually," he admitted, "A merchant once told me more men have died in the silk trade than in Dothraki raids. I am inclined to believe him."
"Then this may be necessary," Fane produced another scroll and passed it over. Again, Wyman spied Rickard's personal seal.
"Explain."
"A warning for the magisters of Myr," the steward's voice took on a hard edge, "The North has found itself a man with the means to make glass, glass that will never leave the North. That man is Lord Stark's guest, and should they intend him harm, the North is prepared to sell timber to Braavos at a loss."
Once again, Wyman found himself short for words. Braavos remained White Harbor's most significant foreign trading partner, which suited the Merman just fine. Like all Northerners, he had a low opinion of the slave-owning Free Cities. Myr sat well outside the North's sphere of influence, but the same could not be said of Braavos. Their victory over Pentos and the city's subsequent cessation from the slave trade remained fresh in the minds of the Three Daughters. Braavos was a naval power without peer; the shipwrights of the Arsenal constructed a new galley a day, the growth of their fleet stymied only by the city's access to timber and raw goods, something the Warden of the North was threatening to change.
"A dangerous declaration. It is unlike Rickard to be so bold," Wyman noted, though he approved. Trade with Myr was nominal at best. Whoever this Lord Fairchild was, he had given the North more in gifts than the Myrish traded in goods. It made good sense to see the man safe.
"I leave the letter in your capable hands."
Wyman sighed, resigned but unsurprised, "The captain brave enough to deliver this letter will have to be promised a knighthood if he returns alive and a lordship for his son if he does not."
"As our lord's most loyal supporter, I am sure you will see it done."
"Perhaps White Harbor needs two glass gardens."
The greybeard practically cackled in reply.
TBC
Author's Note:
This was supposed to be a short intermission but grew more complex as I went along. Let it not be said the North is without its intrigue. Hope Wyman comes off as sharp as his reputation implies. There is no mention of him fostering at Winterfell in canon, but he and Rickard are close in age, and I thought it would add some color to the story.
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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 8: Book 1: To No Avail
The North felt familiar, but Winterfell had changed. There were days when Ned wondered if he could still call the castle home. He had left the North at the age of seven. Now five and ten, he had lived more years south of the Neck than not. Father once told him the North was in his blood, but Ned knew blood alone was not enough, else even wildings could lay claim to the proud legacy of the First Men.
The Manderlys had descended upon him the moment his ship made port, dragging him off to a feast that would have beggared most petty lords. White Harbor had been alive with commerce, the docks filled to near bursting with merchant ships once waylaid by winter. The only thing that changed hands faster than goods was gossip. Rumor was his father had a guest, a Myrish glassmaker who had eloped with a Volantene bride. The man-sized pane of glass sitting proudly in Lord Wyman's solar had lent credence to the outlandish tale. Ned made for Wintertown with an escort of Manderly knights, his mind awash with unease despite his father's apparent good fortune.
A quarter turn of the moon saw him back at Winterfell, assailed by his younger siblings as soon as he reached the gates. Benjen was no longer a babe struggling with his first steps, and Lyanna, now a girl of nine name days, looked so much like their mother. The angle of her eyes, the shape of her face, and windswept hair restored details to memories that were starting to blur, another poignant reminder of his long absence. Ned had embraced them both. For a moment, his fears had felt far away, only to return at the sight of his father.
Rickard Stark lived as a giant in Ned's mind, the North personified in cold strength and quiet dignity. The Warden of the North stood as tall as Ned remembered, but there was a heaviness to his steps and weariness in his bearing that betrayed a man haunted by more than the burdens of lordship. Apologizing for Brandon's absence, the warden had pulled Ned into an embrace much like his siblings, even as an undercurrent of worry overwhelmed the warmth in his eyes.
Winterfell matched what memories Ned had of home, an immovable bedrock of old magic and stone where the cold froze time itself in place. But this was not the Winterfell of his boyhood: Brandon was not practicing in the yard with Ser Rodrik, it was Maester Luwin–not Walys–who greeted him in the Library Tower, and old Fane had been busy overseeing a storeroom stocked not with grain but glass. Question upon question brewed in Ned's mind as he wandered his old home, noticing how guards stood straighter in his presence and servants bowed deeply as he passed, more deference than he received as Lord Arryn's ward.
Brandon returned midway through supper. Entering the dining room garbed in full mail and furs, he should have looked every bit their father's heir. Yet he had moved with leaden limbs that belied bone-deep exhaustion and stared out with shadowed eyes that betrayed trepidation. The younger Stark found himself embraced for the third time, but there had been a desperation in the gesture Ned could not understand. He did not miss the tension in his brother's shoulders when he asked to take supper in his room, nor the pain in Father's eyes when he gave Brandon leave to do as he pleased. Eddard looked to their father as Brandon left, but the Warden of the North gave no answer.
He joined Ser Rodrik in the yard the next day. Father's sworn sword had wanted to assess if he 'had picked up anything worth a damn' during his fosterage. Ned had happily obliged: The prospect of a fight kept his troubled mind at bay. He put on a good showing, besting every man-at-arms Rodrik threw his way before dueling the older knight to a draw in three of four bouts.
Brandon joined them hours later. Though his countenance had improved from the previous night, the elder Stark continued to carry himself with a strange caution and care. The ink staining his hands also caught Ned's eye. Stranger still, the guards grew uneasy as Brandon approached, and Rodrik grew grim when he reached for a blade.
Ned had thought himself decent with a sword, better than most squires and no small number of knights. Sparring with Robert had seen to that, but Brandon had been something else entirely. In his letters, Father had boasted that his brother had become quite the swordsman, and Ned quickly realized how much Father had understated his skill.
Brandon had advanced, blocking Ned's first strike without breaking stride. His second and third swings fared no better. The elder Stark proceeded to counter his feints, forcing Ned back. Desperate, he had tried to bind his brother's blade. Brandon answered by stepping into the bind, angling a strike to the shoulder that opened his guard. The subsequent thrust to the gut saw Ned on the ground. Brandon was at his side in an instant.
As his brother helped him to his feet, Ned's gaze lingered on the guards who had tensed when he fell, eyes fixed on Brandon as if they feared the unthinkable. Ned saw the hurt in his brother's eyes when he realized the same. Gods, what happened while he was away?
"Father, I intend to introduce Ned to Lord Fairchild."
Brandon's words interrupted Ned's musings. The younger Stark had spent the better half of supper ruminating on his defeats: he had challenged his brother to two more matches after the first and lost both handedly.
It had not been a difference in technique but skill. Brandon favored the Northern style of swordsmanship, no different than Rodrik or the man-at-arms. His blows did not rival Robert's prodigious strength, and his footwork did not possess Lord Yohn's polish, yet he had anticipated and countered Ned's movements in a great display of composure—if not calm. The younger Stark had not thought his brother capable of such control.
Ned did not know what to make of his brother's words. Since his return, he had been adrift in a sea of questions, but neither Brandon nor Father had volunteered answers, leaving his nerves frayed and patience thin.
"The Myrish glassmaker?" he ventured. Lord Wyman had mentioned the Fairchilds during Ned's brief stay at New Castle, and the name had hardly sounded Myrish. After his recent display, Ned had planned on spending more time in the yard. He found it strange that Brandon wanted to introduce him to a tradesman, however skilled.
"He doesn't make glass!" Benjen objected, staring up from his stew, voice insistent. The young Stark looked ready to wave his spoon in protest, "He's a Hunter!"
"He's very strong," Lyanna added excitedly, all while chastising their youngest brother, "Brandon goes to fight him a lot, and the guards say his wife plays the most beautiful music. I want to go and listen, but Father won't let me."
Lyanna shot their father a reproachful look, leaving Ned at a loss. His siblings had implied the rumors false, yet the truth hardly sounded more coherent: What could a hunter teach his brother about swordsmanship? Why would his wife, a supposed lady, practice a minstrel's skill? And none of it explained how their father had acquired a hundred panes of the finest glass Ned had ever seen.
The Warden of the North scrutinized his eldest son while his children sat silently, awaiting his decision. At length, he sighed, breathing life back into the room.
"You are the eldest. Look after him."
A vestige of warmth returned to Brandon's eyes at Father's words, and he turned to Ned with newfound resolve, "Ready your sword, armor, and a change of clothes for tomorrow. We leave at dawn."
The three eldest Starks spent the remainder of the meal placating Lyanna, who insisted on joining her brothers. Riding lessons had to be promised; sweets ransomed, but Ned savored the moment and committed it to memory. For the first time in days, he felt at home.
The brothers rode for the Wolfswoods with six of Father's guards. Brandon had made it a race, though Ned had hardly thought it fair when his brother knew the trail by heart. A great weight seemed to fall from Brandon's shoulders as they left, and Ned glimpsed a vestige of the brother who had inherited Father's stature and Mother's spirit.
Sleep had been fleeting the previous night. Father had barred Lyanna and Benjen from his room the evening he returned, giving Ned time to recover from his travels. No longer constrained by Father's decree, the two had barged into his room after hours, eager to display the gifts they received. And what gifts they were: The toy wolf that moved on its own and the pearly box that spilled forth music…Not even Gulltown, a port larger than White Harbor, could boast goods half as intricate or wonderous. Just who were the Fairchilds to give such things to children?
"Ned, we're nearly there. Focus."
The younger Stark straightened at his brother's words. He made out the edge of a clearing, one he could not recall from memory.
"Remember what I told you."
"They are visiting nobles. Treat them as such." Ned repeated Brandon's instructions, still unable to believe how wrong the rumors were, "And eat everything Lady Evetta puts in front of you."
A smirk tugged at Brandon's lips, which only caused Ned further irritation.
"Is he really a hunter?"
Brandon nodded, "Hunter is his preferred title. But he's a noble in all the ways that matter, just the strangest you'll ever meet." He placed a hand on Ned's shoulder as their horses eased to a trot, "I know you've had questions since your return. Father will tell you everything as soon as he can. There's been much on his mind."
Ned gave no answer, surprised by the guilt in Brandon's words.
One look at their destination and Ned vowed to never again listen to tavern talk.
He had many thoughts about this venture, had pictured their destination half a dozen times. Whatever his mind had conjured fell short of the manor at the end of the road. A veritable edifice of grey stone and clear glass, the windows alone would have financed a well-to-do holdfast. Then there was the fence encircling the premises. Ned had first thought it poorly made, the posts too narrow and the spaces too wide to provide any meaningful defense. Then he remembered that wood did not glisten like iron or steel.
Ned turned to his brother, nothing but questions on his mind, "Brandon, what is this?"
"The Workshop," the elder Stark answered as he unhorsed and waited for the party to follow, "Come, they're expecting us."
They made the rest of the way on foot. The weather mellowed as they approached, yet it was not the warmth that welled up from Winterfell's springs. The air carried a taste and scent as foreign as the manor itself, clinging cloy and damp to his skin. Doubt crept into Ned's mind as his boots clicked against the cobblestone, not a guard or sentry in sight. Were it not so well maintained, the manor would have seemed abandoned.
Brandon, sharing none of his brother's apprehension, approached the gates and heaved them ajar.
The gates opened to a foreyard of white, luminescent flowers that bathed the manor in a pale light. The Northern party continued along the path, passing a fountain bubbling with springwater and burnished lanterns lighting the way.
Brandon turned a brass knob beside the entryway, and Ned startled as a bell rang inside the manse. His brother then opened the door–unlocked, of all things—and stepped through. The guards followed Brandon inside with a confidence that belied routine.
"Cloaks on the hanger, and dust off your boots."
Ned only half-listened, too occupied with his surroundings. They stood in a hallway with plaster walls painted pale, warm colors that extended to the intricate moldings of a high ceiling; the floor was a complex overlay of lacquered wood normally reserved for a lord's favored table. The staircase off to the side had newels and balusters so dark Ned mistook them for ironwood.
"The Lord and Lady are likely in the back parlor."
The Northerners followed Brandon's lead, every room they passed leaving Ned in a different state of shock. The first had been a library lined with shelves that touched the vaulted ceiling. The other had displayed cabinets with porcelain of every shape and size, the centerpiece of the room an oddly-shaped black table with three legs and a polished lid, unlike anything Ned had seen. Then there were the paintings and portraits that lined the walls, rendered in a style so lifelike their seemingly captured places and moments frozen in time. The manor had clearly been built for comfort, the many windows illuminating each room with natural light, strangely reminding Ned of Lord Arryn's hunting lodge despite housing more luxuries than the Grafton's personal estate.
Brandon opened the final door at the end of the hall, revealing a room much like the second. One glance at its occupants and Ned realized the rumors had left him grossly misinformed about the happenings of his house.
Standing nine heads tall, the lady of the manor at least looked Valyrian. Or rather, she looked how most would imagine a descendant of Old Valyria: Stunning and statuesque with skin like alabaster, hair like silver, and eyes the same shade.
The lord of the manor looked no more Myrish than Father did. The fair-faced man stood as tall as Rickard Stark, though his stature was more lean than broad, bordering thin. His clothes befitted a man expecting a cold day in Dorne, his waistcoat the closest thing to proper Northern garb. Yet his bearing was relaxed, almost playful, his gaze conveying quiet amusement.
"Good morning, Brandon," the lord welcomed, his voice warm and accented in a way Ned could not place, "Have you been well?"
"I have, my lord" Brandon answered, bowing as he spoke.
Strangely, the show of respect garnered a frown, "One day, I will have you call me 'Teacher,'" Brandon shrugged noncommittally, and the lord let the matter rest, peering at Ned instead, "You brought a friend."
Brandon nodded, "My younger brother, Eddard Stark, recently returned from the Vale," he then motioned to the foreign lord, "This is Lord Cyril Fairchild, a Hunter of Yharnam, and his wife, Lady Evetta Fairchild, formerly of Cainhurst. Lord Fairchild has been my sword instructor for the better part of a moon."
Ned dipped his head to the now-named Lord Fairchild and then his wife. Both bowed in turn.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lord Eddard. Evetta and I will be staying in the North for a short while." The words were kindly said, yet phrased as though no one had much say in the matter.
"My brother said you hail from Yharnam, my lord? Not Myr?" Ned ventured the question, desperate to reconcile the rumors with the man standing before him.
Lord Fairchild laughed softly, "Yes, that rumor has been making rounds in town. Evetta and I frankly find it entertaining. If the story means less work for your father, I hardly see the harm."
The answer left Ned speechless. Years of etiquette kept him from standing with his mouth agape, but only just. He shot a withering glare at his brother, who looked damningly amused.
Lord Fairchild, oblivious to the exchange, pointed to a side door, "Go wash up. Breakfast will be ready when you return."
Plumbing. The manor had plumbing. That was Ned's first thought after cleaning his hands in a wash basin attached to what he could only describe as a small fountain.
He and Brandon returned to the parlor where Lord Fairchild was preparing the table. He beckoned them to sit, and Ned found himself peering over a porcelain plate piled high with bacon, pork and blood sausage, fried eggs, mushrooms, and some manner of red fruit similarly fried and glistening with grease. The lady of the manor returned with cups of tea smelling pleasantly of citrus and a small fortune in cream and white sugar.
"A proper hunter's breakfast," Lord Fairchild helped himself to a cup while passing Ned a small platter of buttered bread, "Your brother visits us quite often as my student. Consider our home and hospitality your own."
Ned took the bread with thanks, understanding guest rights would be a standing affair. Jon Arryn had offered the same during Ned's fosterage.
The lord and lady of the manor enjoyed their tea while the brothers ate. Lord Fairchild waited sometime before speaking again.
"Your father mentioned your fosterage when we visited Winterfell. Evetta and I have only started learning about the other kingdoms, courtesy of Maester Luwin. Tell us, what is the Vale of Arryn like?"
The question came as no surprise, but Ned chose his words with care, "The Vale is a land of high mountains and fertile valleys. It reminds me of the North in many ways. The cold sweeps in with the wind rather than the snow, and the people of the Vale are no less strong.
It is the heart of knighthood and knightly tradition in the Seven Kingdoms, regardless of what the Reach may say. House Arryn ruled the land as the Kings of the Mountain and Vale for thousands of years and now act as the Wardens of the East. Their seat, the Eyrie, sits upon the Giant's Lance."
The foreign lord remained silent as Ned recounted his time in the Eyrie, Gulltown, and Runestone.
"It sounds like a wondrous place," he said at last, "Perhaps Evetta and I should visit once we leave the North." He smiled at his wife before turning back to Ned, "Your Father was kind enough to lease us a parcel of land for the next six years. Do you think Lord Arryn would be amenable to a similar arrangement?"
Ned suppressed a veritable mountain of questions as he formed a reply, "I cannot speak for him, my lord, but I am doubtful. Land ownership, however temporary, usually accompanies oaths to a lord and the Crown," Ned did not mention that Father had clearly made great exceptions on Lord Fairchild's account. Their agreement was unprecedented and unorthodox, "But even if he were to agree, I would advise against it."
"Why is that?" The lord arched a brow, more amused than insulted.
"The Vale, for all its beauty, is not safe for travel. Mountain clans dwell in the foothills and haunt the high road."
Lord Fairchild tapped the table as if grasping something from memory, "Those are the hill tribes that descended from the First Men who refused Andal rule?"
Ned knew Northerners–namely Umbers–who would have drawn steel at the question and what it implied. Yet, the curious look on Lord Fairchild's face was telling enough that he had meant no offense, however much the question irked Ned all the same, "Though they descended from the First Men, the mountain clans have long forgotten our customs, traditions, and honors. They do not pray before the weirwood. Instead, they attack travelers and raid villages, stealing animals and women before torching what remains."
The Hunter nodded, "Have you faced them?"
"I mean to. Lord Arryn plans to have me and Robert ride out with his knights next year."
Lord Fairchild nodded once more, "I understand. Maester Luwin lent me some fascinating books on the First Men, and I had hoped to learn more. A shame their descendants have become mere beasts," the foreign lord refilled his cup, the tone of his voice light despite the words he spoke, "May I ask who were your sword instructors in the Vale?"
Ned sat straighter in his seat, "I mostly received lessons from Lord Arryn's master-at-arms. Lord Arryn saw to my instruction personally whenever he could. I also studied under Lord Yohn whenever he visited court."
The lord blinked in surprise, "The Marquess of Runestone? I heard he is quite the accomplished knight. Perhaps there is nothing for me to teach you."
"I beat him three times yesterday," Brandon interjected, "He needs your help as much as I do."
Ned could only swallow a curse as Lord Fairchild laughed lightly, handing Brandon a strange, circular object as he rose from his seat, "Finish your breakfast, and meet me outside in twenty minutes."
The brothers ate their fill before returning to the front of the manor, where Lady Evetta stood holding their cloaks and a pair of wooden swords.
"The Good Hunter awaits you at the foot of the Great Tree."
Three guards accompanied the brothers behind the manse, where the Workshop's flowers had overtaken the glade. Beneath a bare tree atop a lonely hill, Lord Fairchild sat with a book in hand. A greatsword wrapped inexplicably in canvas rested at his side. He caught the timepiece Brandon threw his way as he stood.
"Let us begin," the foreign lord offered no further preamble, directing the younger Stark to a nearby pell, "Run me through your usual drills, Eddard. I will be formulating a lesson plan for the coming weeks and need to know where you stand."
Unfamiliar with the term but understanding its meaning, Ned approached the post, wooden sword ready. Strange as circumstances were, the young Stark quickly fell into forms and drills his body had committed to memory. Neither Lord Fairchild nor Brandon spoke as Ned struck the head, neck, and underarms of an imagined foe to a steady, internal rhythm.
The young Stark performed for his silent audience until a hand clasped his shoulder, stopping him mid-swing.
"That will suffice," Lord Fairchild turned to his brother, "What do you think, Brandon?"
The elder Stark startled at the question, not expecting to participate in his brother's instruction, "He fights like a Vale knight," he began, "Good form, strong footwork, better than mine or Willam's, to be honest. But he's not stepping into his swings enough and lacks the aggression of Northern swordwork."
"Not necessarily a bad thing, but a fair assessment," Lord Fairchild patted the younger Stark on the shoulder, "And a fine display, Eddard. You are a credit to your instructors."
Not expecting praise, Ned stammered his thanks, leaving the foreign lord more amused.
"Truthfully, I believe you are well prepared for the fights ahead, though it never hurts to know more ways to dismantle a man," Lord Fairchild gave Ned no time to consider his choice of words. Instead, he pointed his sword at the elder Stark, "Join us, Brandon."
The rest of the morning was spent drilling stances and forms. The brothers practiced attacking from various guards and their associated counters, switching roles and repeating the techniques to Lord Fairchild's satisfaction. Most of the movements felt familiar, some did not, but Lord Fairchild made every turn of the sword and cardinal cut an exercise all its own. Ned committed himself to the motions. Whatever his doubts, the lesson had an organization and structure he found welcome.
The sun hung well overhead when they broke for the midday meal. Lady Evetta had made her way up the hill with a basket. Producing a quilt, she had motioned the brothers to sit. A pitcher was placed between them, and Ned was handed a plate of arrayed meats and greens nestled between slices of buttered bread, the whole affair uniformly cut and beautifully arranged.
"Tea sandwiches and lemonade," the foreign lord explained, noting Ned's confusion, "Ham and mustard, egg and cress, cucumber, smoked salmon and coronation chicken–a personal favorite."
He regarded his wife with mock disapproval, "You spoil them."
A smile formed on Lady Evetta's lips, matching the one in her husband's eyes. She offered her hand, which he took in earnest, tracing the back of her glove.
Lord Fairchild spared his students a passing glance. "Ned, Brandon, enjoy your lunch. Evetta and I will be in the garden."
Ned followed their retreating forms until a jab turned his attention.
"Eat slowly," Brandon warned through bites of salmon and ham, "We'll be sparring with the Hunter after this. You'll want your stomach to settle before then."
Lord Fairchild returned accompanied by the guards who had remained at the manse. Ned noted the sluggishness in their steps as the men relieved their fellows. No doubt they had enjoyed the midday meal as much as he had.
The foreign lord, steps ever spry, approached his students, "Ready, Brandon?"
The elder Stark stood, nodding with confidence, resolve set in his eyes. Ned stood as well, miming his brother, only to watch in alarm as Brandon drew live steel, leaving his practice sword where it lay.
Lord Fairchild answered by unfurling the canvas from his blade, and Ned near gasped at the sight. The sword was undoubtedly a prized heirloom: Ornate etchings adorned the crossguard and ran along the entire length of the fuller. The blade rivaled a greatsword in length despite its slender profile, shining paler than steel yet darker than House Dayne's fabled Dawn. If anything, the blade seemed like silver, however impossible that might be. But the sword, however beautiful, was not Ned's concern.
"My Lord, you're unarmored."
Brandon answered before Lord Fairchild could reply, "Don't worry. I'm not going to cut him."
The lord frowned, "Have more faith in your abilities, Brandon," his voice offered alarming encouragement, "As your brother said, Eddard, no need to worry. If you manage to cut me down, please inform Evetta. Her great-aunt will see you knighted immediately."
Before Ned could further protest, Lord Fairchild beckoned his brother.
"Come."
Brandon needed no prompting. He charged, readying a slash to cut the man from left hip to opposing shoulder. The foreign lord answered with a thrust, sword outstretched but off-centered to avoid skewering his student. The precaution proved unneeded: Brandon intercepted the blade. Swinging upwards, he forced the silver sword back, leaving Lord Fairchild open. Wasting no time, the elder Stark stepped into his opponent's guard. Sword held high, he drove the hilt downwards. When Lord Fairchild evaded the blow, Brandon turned the bash into a rending cut by rotating his wrists, forcing his opponent to block and tilt sideways as the sword angled for his face.
"Very good, Brandon," Lord Fairchild praised, voice conversational despite the blade beside his head, "Good aggression. A little reckless, but you used it to your advantage, anticipating my counter and acting accordingly."
Rather than answer, Brandon withdrew from the bind. He stepped back, assuming a gated guard. Lord Fairchild nodded with approval.
"At your leisure."
The elder Stark charged again, leading with solid, rending strikes. Lord Fairchild weathered the onslaught, parrying four blows before delivering a thrust to Brandon's side. The flat of the blade scraped against mail, forcing Brandon back, momentum lost. Lord Fairchild closed the gap and struck again, aiming for his student's shoulder, but Brandon was ready. Changing his grip, the elder Stark seized the flat of his blade like a staff, bracing against the blow. Despite grunting under the strain, he batted the silver blade aside before driving his own at Lord Fairchild's throat. The attack would have ended most men, armored or otherwise. But Lord Fairchild stepped back while withdrawing his sword, evading the first stab before blocking Brandon's second attempt at his neck.
"Excellent application of half-swording," the lord commended, smiling even as Brandon's breath came in stunted puffs, "A marked improvement from last week."
The display left Ned stunned and mute. Brandon had attempted no less than four lethal blows in the span of two exchanges. He did not know some techniques, but the ones he recognized were forbidden in the yard and barred from most tourneys. It became clear that his brother had held back the day before, however much it wounded his pride. Then there was Lord Fairchild, who had fended off Brandon's assault with a speed and precision Ned found hard to believe. If the way Brandon had to brace against the last blow was any indication, the foreign lord was also far stronger than he appeared. How he wielded the long blade like an arming sword highlighted that strength.
Glassmaker…when he returned to White Harbor, Ned vowed to box the ear of the man who spread such rumors.
Lord Fairchild and Brandon sparred for the better part of an hour. The foreign lord alternated between teacher and opponent, giving the elder Stark instruction and time to breathe between bouts. True to Brandon's words, both combatants held clean blades by the time Lord Fairchild dismissed him and instructed Ned to draw his sword.
"At your leisure, Eddard."
Rather than attack, Ned assumed a low guard, blade pointed at his opponent's throat to prevent his advance. Standing before Cyril Fairchild was entirely different from watching the man fight. The foreign lord had not assumed a stance, yet every opening felt like a trap, the relaxed lines of his body a threat all their own.
Lord Fairchild sighed at his hesitation, "Eddard, if you do not plan on attacking, I will take the initiative."
He received no further warning. Lord Fairchild brought his sword down in a well-telegraphed swing. Ned sidestepped and deflected the attack. The younger Stark felt the strain on his arms as the blades made contact. Gods, the man was as strong as Robert–stronger, even. Had he employed a proper two-handed grip…Ned severed the thought: his parry had forced Lord Fairchild to overreach. Seizing the opportunity, Ned aimed an attack at his side, only for Lord Fairchild to mime his footwork and step out of the way. The foreign lord attacked thrice more. Each time, Ned managed to deflect the blow but missed the counter.
"Good defense," the foreign lord complimented even as the younger Stark maintained his guard, "You seem accustomed to fighting those stronger than you."
The lord's voice bore no question, and Ned ventured a nod, "My foster brother favors the warhammer."
Lord Fairchild chuckled, "Patience and composure coupled with excellent defense…You have the makings of an exceptional warrior, if not a Hunter."
The young Stark did not know what to make of the man's words, but Lord Fairchild did not wait for a reply, merely readied his weapon.
"Fortunately, there are ways around a strong guard."
The silver sword came down; the attack again well-telegraphed. Ned readied himself to counter, only to feel the flat of a blade against his brow.
It took him a moment to realize what had happened: Lord Fairchild had changed the alignment of his footwork midswing, altering the path of his blade to bypass Ned's guard. The technique, simple yet seamlessly executed, marked Ned's defeat.
"Come. Losses here are learning opportunities, unlike those on the battlefield."
Over the next hour, Lord Fairchild disarmed the young Stark no less than six times. Ned took some solace knowing that his matches lasted longer than Brandon's, though he was well aware it was more a matter of technique than skill: Bouts where he assumed the offensive seldom ended well.
Ned felt the silver blade slide underarm after Lord Fairchild feinted a false-edge cut, ending their last bout. The foreign lord beckoned Brandon to join them, smiling as both brothers looked his way, "Fighting alongside an ally is a skill in itself. Come, a match or two should see us to supper."
"Ned!"
The younger Stark stepped back as Brandon charged in to take his place. He used the moment to regain his breath and master his heart.
The situation seemed grim. The brothers were fairing no better together than alone. Superior numbers had proved no advantage, and they had given up on attacking together after their earlier attempts nearly saw them killed: Lord Fairchild had redirected Ned's first thrust at Brandon's head. Had their instructor not simultaneously kicked Brandon out of the way, the next Lord of Winterfell would have lost an ear.
After the subsequent attempt nearly cost Ned an eye, the brothers changed tactics. The elder Stark led the charge, beating Lord Fairchild back with vicious blows, but for all of his strength, it was never enough. The foreign lord would ward off every attack and retaliate, breaking Brandon's momentum and forcing Ned to step in. Together, they had managed a stalemate, but defeat was a foregone conclusion.
The brothers were already the best swords the North had produced in a generation, yet they were tiring. Ned had never heard of a knight sweating through a mail shirt, yet he was confident his was starting to rust. Brandon kept a brave face, but his strikes were growing slow and worryingly sloppy, forcing Ned to intervene more frequently while their opponent looked no worse for wear.
Cyril Fairchild continued to strike and move to a cadence neither brother could maintain. Sweat was not even forming on his brow, as if the man had not exerted himself since his midday walk with his wife.
"Why are you hesitating, Eddard?"
Ned startled at the question, carried with an undertone of disapproval. He stared at Lord Fairchild's back, Brandon breathing heavily some steps away.
"Your enemy is distracted. Why are you hesitating?"
The young Stark looked to the lord in confusion, then nearly dropped his sword in shock. Brandon froze, no doubt sharing Ned's horror at what Lord Fairchild proposed.
"I will not stab you in the back, my lord!" in his disbelief, Ned barely managed the words.
Lord Fairchild turned to face him, frowning, "Whyever not? I am your enemy, and while you both have fought well," He pointed his silver sword at the younger Stark, "Do you believe you can win against me as you are?"
Ned shook his head.
"Then my question stands."
Eddard replied with certainty, reciting a lifetime of learning and expectation, "There are things a man mustn't do, even in the face of death or defeat. You are my brother's instructor and Father's guest. I will not dishonor my family or myself with treachery."
Silence followed his answer. Lord Fairchild studied him, eyes no longer so amused.
"Gather your strength."
The spar continued. Brandon attacked Lord Fairchild with renewed vigor, refusing to give ground. Ned remained vigilant, intercepting any attack that slipped past Brandon's guard. Both brothers gave everything they had, but Lord Fairchild continued to push them back. Twice, the foreign lord managed to separate the brothers; twice he gave Ned his back. Each time, the younger Stark did as he promised.
Suddenly, moments away from besting them both, Lord Fairchild retreated. Offering no answer to their puzzled gaze, the foreign lord raised his sword to the evening light.
"You held to your principles, knowing they would not avail you. Admirable. Perhaps I spoke too soon regarding your future as a Hunter." Despite his words, Lord Fairchild's voice failed to convey praise. Instead, it carried a strange intonation of dispassion while a look of detachment formed behind his eyes. There was a change in the air and a newfound tension in Brandon's bearing.
The Hunter regarded his first student, "I will be bringing this lesson to a close. Be prepared."
Whatever his brother cursed, Ned failed to hear as Brandon shoved him back. Then came the deafening screech of steel.
The elder Stark barely managed to bring his sword to bear, left hand bracing against his blade. The silver sword struck just above Brandon's arm, cutting his blade down to the fuller before shaving the false edge and tip clean off. The impact sent him staggering back, weapon ruined.
He was given no time to recover. The Hunter struck again, sword raised high. The descending strike missed Brandon by a hair; the sheer force of the blow buried the blade in the ground. Such a thing should have left the Hunter open, vulnerable, but the first attack had robbed Brandon of his bearings. The second stole his footing. Discarding his weapon, the Hunter charged his prey.
Ned watched in horror as the Hunter lifted his brother–all twelve stones of him–with one hand and tossed him aside like a fistful of wheat. He could only scream as his brother tumbled down the hill.
"None of that now. Brandon has taken worse falls from me," the Hunter spoke, the cadence of his voice calm despite his savage display. He eyed a guard as he retrieved his half-buried blade.
"Brent, please go help Brandon. I will be finishing things here with Eddard."
Despite the tension and stress lining his face, the guard did as he was told. His remaining fellows gripped their swords but made no attempt to intervene. Ned knew they could not save him.
It felt like drowning, like falling through black ice over a lake. The Hunter stepped closer, and Ned felt himself being dragged further down, his limbs cold and lungs aflame. Strength deserted him, leaving his breathing as erratic as his thoughts. He looked upon the Hunter and discerned neither anger nor joy behind his eyes. Only danger. He could not fight the Hunter, no more than a drowning man could fight for air.
The first strike nearly shattered his wrists, cleaving the tip from his sword. The second rent his blade in two, and the third left him holding a dagger.
Ned charged the Hunter, giving no thought to strategy or technique. Reason had abandoned him, and years of training fell away. All that remained was a desperation to do something–anything–in the face of death. Ned lunged, mouth open in a scream he could not hear over his hammering heart.
Then he was on the ground, the air driven from his lungs, the Hunter looming above with his silver blade pressed against Ned's breast.
"Y-yield," it was all he could say.
"Noted," the Hunter spoke without withdrawing his sword, mindless of the guards drawing near, "But the lesson is not over."
Ned felt the blade move, separating the links of his mail like silk. His gambeson offered no protection. The blade scraped across his sternum and traced along a rib before resting over his heart.
The thought of death, having only started to subside, returned in force. Ned fought his rising panic. Lord Fairchild would not…He was Father's guest, and Ned was his. He was only half a league from Winterfell. He had just returned home, and he hardly had a chance to speak with Father. Surely…But the thought remained, the fear grew, and the Hunter's gaze offered no assurance.
"Ple–"
Ned clamped his jaw shut. The shock of what he nearly said pushed past the fear. Rickard Stark was his father, Lyarra Stark his mother, and he was a Stark of Winterfell. He would live up to the name or not at all.
Ned held the Hunter's gaze, watching as amusement returned to his eyes.
"Remember this feeling," the Hunter's sword tapped Ned's rib as he spoke, "Commit it to memory. Master it, and you will never fear a fight against monsters or men."
The Hunter finished his lesson just as a ruined blade appeared at his shoulder.
"Lord Fairchild, I believe supper is ready."
The Hunter nodded, withdrawing his sword while turning to Brandon, uncaring of the blade poised at his neck, "You are right. Please show Eddard the washroom upstairs. Evetta has already drawn the bath for you both. I will help her prepare the table."
The tension bled from Brandon as he ran to help his brother.
"Also, Eddard," the Hunter held his sword by the blade, offering Ned the hilt, "Your present."
Ned barely recalled what happened afterward, only that Brandon had half led and half dragged him back to the manor. Lady Evetta had been waiting at the door, frowning slightly at their sorry state. Brandon had guided him up the staircase and past two sets of doors into a room Ned could only guess served as a garderobe.
"Is that a porcelain bathtub?" The question sounded absurd, given what had happened, but it was all he could say.
Brandon nodded, "Not the only one, either." His voice seeped exhaust as he loosened his hold while ensuring Ned could stand, "Wash up and try not to drown. I will be in the guest room across the hall."
Ned gripped the sides of the tub as he settled himself in the steaming bath, desperate not to dwell on his brother's poorly chosen words. He focused on drawing in breaths of warm, humid air, concentrating on the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet and the tub wall against his back. Again and again, the young Stark assured himself he would not sink.
Ned stayed in the bath, collecting his thoughts while losing track of time. Brandon eventually returned, standing against the doorway in a clean doublet.
"It gets easier," the elder Stark said when Ned refused to speak, "You'll still lose, but you get used to losing. Sometimes you even lose gracefully."
"What is he?" Ned's voice trembled, and he failed to meet Brandon's eyes.
"You said yourself, he is Father's guest and our sword instructor," his brother's voice carried a strange confidence as he combed a hand through his damp hair, "You did well today. Father will be proud."
"Proud?" There had been no mockery in his brother's voice, but Ned heard it all the same, "Brandon, I was afraid. I lost my nerve."
Frustration and shame bubbled to the surface as the young Stark rose, spilling water as he stood, "I almost," he struggled to choke out the words, "I almost begged for my life."
Brandon stood unmoved at his confession, "You did well," his brother's tone conveyed admiration and envy, leaving Ned lost, "Far better than I ever have."
"Are you unwell, Young Wolf?"
Ned startled at the question, suddenly finding three sets of eyes upon him.
Lady Evetta had prepared a supper as remarkable as the midday and morning meal. Pot au feu, she had called it in a foreign tongue. Slices of braised rib meat and roasted marrow bone rested over tender carrots, asparagus, and parsnips. Nestled in a pool of light broth and adorned with a sauce of spiced mustard, the dish filled the dining room with warm and inviting smells, but Ned had no stomach for food.
Unhappy with his silence, Lady Evetta rose from her seat. Walking to his side, she patted his head, leaving the young scion more mortified than soothed.
The lady of manor regarded her husband with a hint of reproach, "You frightened him."
Her voice carried a wisp of fire, and Ned thought he would die of shame when Lord Fairchild dipped his head as he left the room, returning with a drink that smelled sweetly of ginger and bubbled like pickled brine.
"Ginger beer. It helps settle the stomach," he set the copper cup done before glancing at Ned's untouched plate, "I will have some stew ready for you to bring home, else you will be hungry before the end of the evening."
Ned nodded his thanks, nursing the cup while his brother and hosts resumed their meal.
Supper came to a close before Ned spoke again.
"Lord Fairchild, had I done as you said, forsook all I've been taught and struck you from behind, could we have prevailed against you?"
Cyril Fairchild smiled, strangely sad, "No, I doubt it would have mattered."
Father was at the gates when they returned. He hugged them both the moment they unhorsed.
"He did well," Brandon spoke before the younger Stark could intervene.
"I didn't—" Ned tried to protest, but Father stopped him.
"Brandon said you did well, and I trust him at his word," a moment passed between Father and his elder brother, one that left Brandon trembling after Rickard turned to his second son.
"I see you have a new sword," The words echoed weariness, and Ned detected no small measure of exasperation in his father's voice, "Go rest. Benjen and Lyanna missed you both."
The brothers made their way past the gate. Despite Father's instructions, Ned headed to the kitchens, where the head cook had outright refused to heat Lady Evetta's fine ceramics over an open fire. The cook had transferred the contents to a copper pot, and Ned waited patiently for his meal to warm. Though he loathed to admit it, Lord Fairchild had been right: He was famished.
TBC
Chapter Summary:
Local boy fights cuttlefish and lives. This chapter was a tough one and required a bit of research. Had to read up on fencing. Also learned that baked beans weren't a popular part of the English breakfast until the 1900s. Fun stuff. The Starks are quickly learning that the chief export of the Workshop isn't glass or even gold. It's trauma.
Additonal Notes:
Cyril's practice yard is gehrman's boss arena
Ned's gift is the sword part of an unslotted +10 kirkhammer. So if you're wondering why a silver blade cuts so well, it's because the Hunter hammered a blood rock into it.
"A trick weapon typically used by Healing Church hunters. On the one side, an easily handled silver sword. On the other, a giant obtuse stone weapon, characterized by a blunt strike and extreme force of impact. The Church takes a heavy-handed, merciless stance toward the plague of beasts, an irony not lost upon the wielders of this most symbolic weapon." -Kirkhammer item description, Bloodborne
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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 9: The Lone Wolf Dies But The Pack Survives
Eddard Stark sat at the edge of his bed, holding a handle. It once belonged to a dagger with a proper blade, but that was before Ned had drawn it across a certain sword.
The young Stark had slept soundly, much to his surprise. Despite the previous day's excitement, his body had succumbed to sheer exhaustion.
Ned had awoken well before dawn, the sun so far off he had lit a candle for light. Now and again, the Stark scion passed a hand over his chest, unable to shake the sensation of a blade ghosting his skin. Remember the feeling, the Hunter had said. What Ned would give to forget.
He turned his eyes to the Hunter's gift, left on his desk the previous evening. The dagger lay forgotten as Ned reached for the blade. Heavy and silver from hilt to tip, the sword trembled and flickered as Ned raised it to the candlelight, his arms still aching from the previous day. The weapon was not Valyrian steel, yet it was undeniably magic. Ned's armor and old sword had been returned to the blacksmith in a belt pouch.
The silver blade was beautiful, perhaps more so than Ice. For a Stark of Winterfell, such thoughts bordered on blasphemy, but this sword was his and his alone. Therein lay the problem.
Was it right for him to have such a weapon? Ned was the second son to a great lord, the greatest in the North, but a second son all the same. He stood to inherit no lands. Robert had promised to make Ned his bannerman–a Stark of the Stormlands–and Lord Arryn mentioned his Waynwood nieces too often for Ned to mistake his intentions. Grateful as he was, the young scion no longer knew if he could accept either offer.
Would it be safe for a cadet house to possess a sword that rivaled Ice? Magical swords had power beyond their magic: Wielding his namesake, Daemon Blackfyre had rallied more lords to his cause than he had any right to. While Ned would sooner fall on the sword than turn it against family, what would happen in a century, much less two? Every instinct told him the silver blade could best Valyrian steel.
Then there was Cyril Fairchild, the Hunter who spoke in an accent Ned did not recognize, hailing from a city Ned did not know. The Lannisters would have surrendered a mountain of gold for the blade; others would have promised him a kingdom, yet Lord Fairchild had handed it to a second son. Why had he given Ned such a gift? Was the Hunter trying to sow dissent within House Stark, driving a wedge between him and Brandon? What if the gesture had been as thoughtless as it appeared? What manner of man parted with such swords on a whim?
The young Stark breathed deeply, setting the sword aside, fingers trembling as he tried to rub sleep and worry from his eyes. The silver sword was better off with the heir of Winterfell. Were he a better man–a better brother–he would have surrendered the blade to Brandon. The truth hounded him, but Ned could not bring himself to follow through.
A knock at the door drew his attention. Brandon barged through the doorway, looking much less worn than Ned felt.
"Good, you're awake. Come, we have got a busy day ahead of us."
Ned knew better than to argue.
Following a quick meal of dried fruit and honeyed oats, the young Stark followed his brother out of the Great Keep.
"Are we heading back to the manor?"
Brandon shook his head, but Ned's relief was short-lived, "Lessons are thrice a week. Yesterday was the last of three. We have two days to prepare for the next one."
'We?'
The young Stark kept the thought to himself, but Brandon shot him a glare as though he had said it aloud.
"Cyril Fairchild was the last student of Lord Gehrman Vileblood, Lady Evetta's father. Lord Fairchild succeeded him as the leader of an order of Hunters," his brother warned, his eyes leveled and voice resolved, "There are more men like him out in the world. We need to be prepared."
Ned shook his head. The more he learned about the Hunter, the less he liked, "How have we not heard of him before?"
"You've seen how he fights. Do you think his enemies live long enough to share stories?"
Ned gave no answer, following his brother as the elder Stark led them along the western battlements. He quickly realized they were not heading for the yard.
"Brandon, why are we walking towards the Library Tower?"
"Because Lord Fairchild has assigned reading, and I will not be falling behind," The words echoed wisdom learned from previous mistakes.
Ned stumbled, "Reading?"
His brother nodded, visibly vexed, "The man was a maester before he became a Hunter. He offered to supplement Maester Luwin's lessons with some of his own."
Ned frowned. This was not what he had expected when Brandon promised a productive day, "He never mentioned this."
Brandon sighed, sounding resigned but not defeated, "He provides reading at the start of each week. Lessons take place in the mornings, swordwork in the afternoons. Yesterday was your first lesson, so he made an exception."
Maester Luwin greeted the brothers as they entered the tower. They seated themselves at a table occupied by beautifully-bound books. Though Brandon quickly turned his attention to a hefty tome and piles of well-worn parchment, he spared a moment to lob a book Ned's way.
"Start with this. If you have any questions, ask."
"Are you certain Lord Fairchild would want me included in your lessons?" Ned frowned as the Summary Of Arithmetic, Geometry, Proportions And Proportionality stared back at him, the letters neat, uniform, and foreboding.
Brandon smirked, lifting his book and relieving it identical to the one in Ned's hand, "The Hunter gave me an extra copy when he heard you were coming home."
"Heard from whom?"
His brother had the good sense not to answer, and Ned offered no further protest. He flipped through the pages, his frown growing deeper the more he saw.
"Brandon, this is a book on–"
"Numbers and bookkeeping," Brandon finished for him, "Lord Fairchild thought we'd find this more useful than learning the histories of foreign kingdoms or the courteous of foreign courts."
"We're not merchants."
Brandon shrugged, "Neither is he."
"We should be practicing in the yard."
"You can barely lift your arms." The elder brother reached over and flipped Ned's book to the front.
"Read." Gods, it was strange to hear Brandon say the word, much less as a command, "The Hunter doesn't care if you agree with the contents, only that you comprehend them. The next time we meet, he'll ask how much you've covered. He might ask more questions afterward, he might not, but if you give him reason to doubt your understanding, neither of us will be holding swords that day."
Ned glared at his brother, "You speak from experience."
Brandon nodded, "By our third lesson, I had fallen behind. The Hunter found out, and cancelled practice. Made me complete the damn reading while he stared over a cup of tea. Took all morning. He then lectured me on matters I doubt Maester Luwin could grasp."
The elder Stark eyed his book as if it had dealt him a personal slight, "Truthfully, I don't recall a thing he said, but I'd drink wildfire before reliving the experience."
Father found them hours later, much to the brothers' surprise. He raised a hand before either could rise from his seat.
"Ned, join me after supper," his voice carried a solemn command directed at his second son, "We will visit your mother."
Eddard Stark knelt and placed a candle before his mother's tomb while Father stood at his side. Neither spoke as Ned paid his respects to Lyarra Stark.
The young Stark tried to recall her face from faded memories. Only the Lords of Winterfell had statues placed over their tombs, but Ned selfishly wished Father would abandon the tradition. Perhaps, he never saw the need, having known Mother since childhood. Perhaps Father could still see her behind his eyes. As much as Lyanna shared Mother's likeness, Ned struggled to do the same.
"The last time we stood here, you came to say farewell."
Ned nodded, remembering the day Jon Arryn summoned him to the Vale, not six moons after Mother's death. Ned had not thought well of his foster father after that. It would be years before he finally understood: Robert had already set sail from Storm's End when the missive reached Winterfell. Lord Arryn had wanted the boys to start their fosterage together, ensuring Ned had a friend–an ally–at court.
The Warden of the North knelt beside his son, "Jon has kept me apprised of your progress, how you have excelled in your lessons and distinguished yourself during the squire's tourney at Ironoaks."
Ned wanted to confess that his victory over Lyonel Corbray had been a narrow thing, while his subsequent loss to Robert had been decisive, but now was not the time for such words. He remained silent as Father's hand fell upon his shoulder.
"She would be proud, as I am."
Father and son paid their respects, standing only after the light from Ned's candle dimmed and died. Ned watched as Father lit another before following him down the winding staircase.
They descended further into the crypts, the air growing stale and still. The only light came from their candles; the only sound from their steps.
"The Southerners often claim that words are wind. I have always found the saying strange," the warden's pace slowed as he spoke, but he did not stop, "Here in the North, the winds will cut a man deeper than any sword."
Ned found himself unable to agree. He had lived in the Vale for too long, "I have almost forgotten the feeling, Father."
The Warden of the North nodded, "There will be time for you to remember."
They continued their descent, and Ned grew certain of their destination: The lower levels of the crypt, where the Kings of Winter were laid to rest.
"Brandon introduced you to Lord Fairchild and his lady wife," the warden spoke again, "What do you make of him?"
The young Stark had expected the question, yet it felt wrong to utter the Hunter's name here amongst his forebearers, "His mannerisms were foreign, but Lord Fairchild was a gracious host and capable teacher. Brandon has clearly benefited from his instruction."
The response was inoffensive and polite. In truth, Ned was reluctant to say more, but he had studied under Lord Arryn long enough to recognize a test: Father had not led him here to discuss idle courtesies.
"When Brandon introduced Lord Fairchild as his sword instructor, I was unsure what to think. The man looked and spoke like a maester. I questioned if he ever held a sword in his life." A hand went to his chest as he recalled what still haunted his waking dreams, "But then we fought."
Ned closed his eyes, commanding his heart to still, "For all his kindness and courtesy, Lord Fairchild fights without a hint of caution, as if the world would not dare cause him harm. The only thing greater than his strength is his control."
He and Brandon had come so close to death. Ned had foolishly thought himself safe while wearing armor. Now he realized the Hunter had humored them for hours while wielding a spellbound blade. A single misstep would have left Benjen as Father's last living son.
"No knight in the Vale could hope to match him."
The weight of Ned's assessment hung in the air, and the warden answered his son with approval.
"Any Northerner I send against Lord Fairchild is one I condemn to die," a familiar exasperation returned to Father's voice, "We first learned of the Fairchilds three moons ago. Word spread from Wintertown that Lady Evetta had offered alms to the smallfolk during the last days of winter."
Three moons…That was not enough time to build a manor in the Wolfswoods. With the wind and snow, Ned doubted it was enough time to build a barn. Then there were the hundred-odd planes of glass Fane Poole kept in the storeroom. For all its plumbing, the so-called Workshop lacked a kiln. Ned knew the rumors were false, yet the truth offered less sense.
"They arrived as formal guests of Winterfell last moon. Your brother impressed Lord Fairchild during a spar."
"He took Brandon as his student," Ned spoke as his mind wandered. Had he fought in Brandon's place, could he have done as his brother had? Could he have impressed the strange warrior who seemingly stepped out of legend? Engrossed in his thoughts, Ned failed to notice the strain in his father's voice, the stiffness that bled into his shoulders and bearing when he failed to meet Ned's gaze.
The Warden of North nodded, the gesture pained and half-hearted, "For the next year. Though it is my hope that Lord Fairchild will consider overseeing your brother's training for the remainder of his time in the North."
"Brandon will not return to Barrowtown?" Ned asked, confused.
"Your brother is needed here. I will inform Lord Dustin during the spring feast. He will be well compensated."
'Needed here.'
Brandon was mere months away from his majority. Father was risking relations with a principal bannerman by ending a fosterage prematurely, and the Dustins could easily take offense. But this was more than that.
The warden voiced his son's concerns, "You wish to know why I am handing over Brandon's fosterage to a foreign lord." He beckoned Ned forward, "Come, we are nearly there."
They descended into the cavernous vault of the lower levels, where the standing figures of the Lords of Winterfell gave way to the Kings of Winter seated upon their marble thrones. Legends said the caverns were larger than Winterfell itself, but that was something Ned could no longer confirm. A wall blocked the way. At first, Ned thought there had been another cave-in, that vault had been subsumed in ice, but that was impossible: The crypts were too close to the hot springs for ice to form. Then the young Stark drew closer and saw the wall for what it was.
Glass.
Ned took a stumbling step back, nearly dropping his candle. Turning his head twice over to confirm his eyes did not deceive him, he ran to the edge of the carven near the end of the wall, trying to assess its depth.
He could not see the end.
"Father–"
"Cyril Fairchild will take up residence in the Wolfswood for the next six years. In return, he has offered House Stark enough glass for six glass gardens, two of which will remain in Winterfell, the other four given to our greatest bannerman."
Ned's heart pounded in his ears as images of the Hunter invaded his mind. This was what Lord Fairchild had meant when he said he leased land from Father? By the Old Gods, this was enough wealth to buy the Wolfswood!
Rickard spoke through his son's silence, "Fane and his men have worked tirelessly to transport these panes from Wintertown, but only our most trusted servants, whose families have served House Stark for generations, helped store the glass where our forefathers rest." He made to stand at his son's side, "Some hundred panes remain in the main storeroom, as you have seen already, to be shown to our bannerman during the feast."
"Father, how is this possible?" There was a desperation in Ned's voice. The desire for answers had become a need, "Just who is he?"
'What manner of man parted with such wealth for transient gain?'
"His methods remain a mystery," Father confessed, bringing Ned no comfort, "The man himself claims to be a Hunter from the city of Yharnam, a second son of House Fairchild of the Great Isles who married a daughter of House Vileblood of Cainhurst."
The warden unraveled a piece of parchment, revealing a map. "Those names mean nothing to you. I had felt the same."
The head of House Stark stood silently as his son took the map, watched as his expression shifted from confusion to surprise and finally realization, "Father, this is–"
Rickard nodded, "The answer sought by the Shipwright millennia ago."
"How can this be real?" It was all Ned could say.
"There have been many nights when I wished it were false, but Lord Fairchild has supplied much evidence to the contrary. Forty books containing knowledge that would overturn the Citadel sit in my study. Then there are the gifts you, Lyanna, and Benjen received."
Ned returned the map with trembling hands, his mind still reeling from the revelation. He now understood Father's silence. This was the most momentous event to happen in the North in centuries. It painted Cyril Fairchild's strange mannerisms in a new light, for the man was more alien than Ned could have imagined.
Rickard allowed the silence to linger, giving his son time to recover from all he had learned. When the warden spoke again, his voice carried weariness but also a command.
"After the spring feast, you will continue your fosterage in the Vale until your nameday. Afterward, I will need you at my side, for there are lands I will ask you to govern and plans that require your help."
The young Stark looked to his Father with askance and surprise. Ned was a second son. He was never meant to inherit more than a small holdfast, and that was only if Father or Brandon deemed him worthy of the honor. Father was commanding him to do so much more, and Ned could not comprehend why.
Rickard Stark turned away from his son.
"When I first visited the Red Keep twelve years ago, Aerys Targaryen commanded me to construct a second Wall a hundred leagues north of the first, so that he could rule Westeros from the Shadow City to the Frostfangs. We had barely exchanged greetings.
It would take Steffon hours to dissuade him of the venture."
Rickard's voice dripped with scorn, leaving his son uneasy. The warden revealed an envelope. Its contents had long been discarded, but Ned recognized the seal of House Baratheon.
"I received word that Aerys has commanded Steffon to ready an expedition for Volantis. He is to secure a bride of Valyrian blood for Prince Rhaegar. The king intends for his grandchildren to revive the dragons of old." The warden turned, meeting his son's gaze, "Steffon has assured me that will not come to pass."
Once more, Ned fought the urge to step back, realizing Father's words traipsed treason.
"House Stark has kept faith with the Targaryens since the conquest. Never have we raised our banners in rebellion. Not even House Baratheon can claim such," The warden voice grew cold, "We have kept faith, but it was Walton Stark who died for Jaehaerys' folly and your great grandfather who gave his life at the Long Lake with only his brother and bannermen at his side. It was Riverlanders and Valemen who aided our people during the worst of winters, when letters to the Crown and Reach went unanswered."
Father's hand came to Ned's shoulder, the grip gentled despite the taunt lines of his face and form.
"Our oaths are to the Crown, but our duty is to the North, and we must remember our true friends. Steffon Baratheon means to betroth Robert to Lyanna. Hoster Tully has two daughters he means to make Ladies of the Eyrie and Winterfell."
This was too much. He had been assailed by revelation upon revelation. Ned could not even muster shock that Robert would become his goodbrother.
"Brandon should be here," was all he could say. Father had offered words Ned was never meant to hear, confided secrets well beyond the purview of a second son.
"He has caught Lord Fairchild's eye," Father answered, "The Great Isles are ruled by a House of Lords, a grand council on which House Fairchild holds a hereditary seat. House Vileblood is a great house on the mainland that lays claim to the city of Yharnam. All accounts indicate it mightier than any Free City."
Ned nodded. He finally understood: Father had spoken words he had meant for Brandon, plans decades in the making, but the arrival of the Hunter was something none could have foreseen. From beyond the Sunset Sea, the Hunter had brought martial strength beyond compare and wealth beyond imagination. It was vital for the North to build relations with Cyril Fairchild, and the man clearly favored Ned's brother. It fell on Ned to assume Brandon's previous responsibilities.
When Rickard Stark spoke again, his voice was soft, almost an apology, "I had hoped to spare you from these burdens, for they were never yours to bear, but I will need you at my side. Dispersing the glass to our vassals will be the work of years, not moons. The betrothals much the same." Father and son stood together, "I ask you to be brave for Brandon, Benjen, and Lyanna."
"Father," Ned did all he could to mimic Brandon's strength and courage, "You need not ask. Not now or ever. I will always do my duty to our family and home."
Eddard Stark made to kneel before the Warden of the North, only to find himself in his father's embrace.
TBC
Author's Note: Well, we've reached the end of my backlog. Chapter 10 coming soon. Trying to keep a monthly, bimonthly schedule. Thank you all for reading!
Some Details Regarding Cyril's teaching method:
Do the assigned reading. There's no homework, no reports, and no notes. If you have questions, ask and we'll discuss them. Otherwise, I might ask about the reading next lesson, or I might not, so you can technically get away with not doing anything. But if I catch you…may the Old Gods have mercy on your soul.
As for Ned's long-awaited talk with his father, some things to point out:
1. Stopping a fosterage is not done lightly, especially when the foster father is a fellow warden. It implies something's wrong at home (i.e., the heir died) or something went wrong with the fosterage. Rickard wants to keep scrutiny away from Winterfell, so Ned's returning to the Vale.
2. He holds off on telling Ned about Brandon's abdication because Ned might let something slip while he's in the Vale (see above). He wants to trust his kids, but he's down to two male heirs, one of whom is eight.
3. Rickard and Fane chose to store the glass in the crypts because if you're not a Stark, you have no business there. Unless the king comes in person, no one can realistically strong-arm Rickard to access the crypts and, therefore, the glass.
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