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Chapter Text

Rickard Stark felt old. The black pool in the Godswoods reflected a face with temples too grey and lines too deep for a man of four and thirty. His father once said the years were longer in the North and Rickard found those words to be true. At six and ten, he had lost his father and lady mother to winter fever. At six and twenty, he had lost his beloved Lyarra to the birth of their youngest son. Now, at the end of the longest winter in living memory, the burden of lordship weighed heavily upon him. Rodrik’s report this evening had done little to help.

“A house in the Wolfswood?”

“House?” Rodrik Cassel scoffed. “More of a manse, Milord, like nothing on either side of the Narrow Sea. Counted three floors with windows of clear Myrish glass, an iron-wrought fence with a gate as tall as a man ahorse, and a stone-paved path leading right up to the bloody door.”

The knight shook his head in exasperation and Rickard could not fault his old friend. Clear glass windows. A fence of iron and stone-paved roads. There were Northern lords with keeps worth less. Someone had built a manor befitting a Myrish magister within near throwing distance of Winterfell’s walls. In the midst of winter and without his knowledge. The very idea beggared belief.

A cold breath left Rickard’s lips, turning to frost in the frigid air. He had ordered Rodrik to chase a rumor, an outlandish tale he overheard from passing servants and later pried from the mouths of his guards:

For over a moon, a woman as tall as a giant with the coloring of Old Valyria had been visiting the outskirts of Wintertown, offering warm stew, meat, and fresh bread to the smallfolk, asking naught in return. No doubt word of this woman had been kept from his ear, and for all that it stoked his ire, Rickard understood. His men had families in the small town outside his great keep and winter had been bitter. Four years of dark skies and frozen fields had seen grain stores dwindle despite his tireless work. The Stark lord knew what lengths men would go to see their families fed.

In truth, he had not wished to interfere. The woman had fed his people in the midst of winter. Food was life in the North, and few things were more sacred than food freely given. But this was a matter he had to investigate. The last time a woman of Valyrian coloring visited Winterfell, she had arrived on dragonback and forced House Stark to cede half a kingdom’s worth of land. The North could not afford an agent of King’s Landing or Essos, much less another Alysanne Targaryen.

So he had sent Rodrik out at daybreak, to seek the truth of these rumors. The knight had returned well into the evening flanked by four household guards, a large chest between them.

“They call her Lady Evetta, Milord. Damn woman was hard to find. Wasn’t even hiding.” Rodrik shook his head, “Told the smallfolk we meant the woman no harm and they were forthcoming enough. Innkeeper’s wife claimed she came from the western Wolfswood each evening. Had the lads burning daylight looking for a witcher’s hut.”

The knight scoffed, exasperation clear-set on his face.

“The manse was a half league into the Wolfswood, maybe less. The lady was at the gates, tending to white flowers the likes of which I’ve never seen. A giant, just as the rumors said, over nine heads tall. Fair skinned with hair like silver and eyes much the same. Wore a necklace of pale opal and strange dress. Never seen fine clothes dyed in such drab colors.”

Rickard listened, mouth drawing thin. This was no smallfolk vagabond, woodland witch, or wayward wildling. Not that it could ever have been, given the costly acts of charity. But common things being common, the Stark lord had hoped for simpler answers. A foreign noblewoman of means was a complication he could ill afford when winter still gripped his lands.

“You questioned her, this Lady Evetta.” For all that he was grateful for the aid rendered to his people, the woman had much to answer for, not in the least trespassing, building upon a lord’s land without permission, and possible poaching.

His old friend scowled.

“Aye, for all the good it did. Damn woman didn’t say a word in greeting or bat an eye when I evoked your name. Stared at us for a good long while as though she’d seen a talking bear before retreating back to the manse. Was starting to think she was simple before she returned with a man in tow.”

“Her husband?” Rickard surmised, receiving a nod.

“Introduced himself as Cyril Fairchild, late of Yharnam. Strange man with a stranger name. Tall as a short Umber, but still a head shy of his lady wife even with his queer, blacked-feathered hat,” The knight smiled, no doubt deriving satisfaction at this particular detail, “Black of hair with the look of a Stormlander, couldn’t have been older than thirty.”

Rickard returned his gaze to the black pool. A stillness had fallen upon the Godswoods, as if the Old Gods themselves had taken interest in what Rodrik had to say.

“Fairchild.” Rickard tested the word on his tongue. No lordly house in Westeros carried the name. Hundreds there may be, but he would have remembered a name so…milquetoast. Perhaps there was a knightly house, thousands as there were, that he had overlooked, but even a knight sworn to the Lannisters could not afford the wealth Rodrik witnessed. Similarly, the root of the name was Andal, and the Warden of the North knew no House Fairchild in the Free Cities of Essos.

“And Yharnam.”

Again, there was no such city west of the Dothraki Sea. Yet the name filled Rickard with an innate unease, as if the word itself were bitter, something spoken in the same breath as Asshai by the Shadow.

“Was Lord Fairchild forthcoming?”

Rodrik Cassel barked a laugh.

“Gods no! Bastard managed to say words without giving answers. Said he hoped to speak with you in person. The lads and I offered to escort him back with us, but he claimed there was ‘no need to rush things’ and bid us farewell. The gall…”

“Yet you abided by his request,” Rickard countered.

“Most consider it poor form to wring a man’s neck in front of his lady wife, guest rights or no,” the knight grunted, “I’ve lost my hair, not my wits. A man who looks upon a stronghold like Winterfell and believes he may call upon its lord at his leisure is mad, powerful, or both. We know nothing of the man, Milord. I had the lads keep watch, and they didn't find a wisp of a servant or guard anywhere. But Old Gods be good, a keep was built in the Wolfswood, and if the lady and lord built it themselves, I’ll join the Silent Sisters.”

Rickard nodded, sharing Rodrik’s assessment. “A man of wealth and means.”

“Just so and in no small measure.” The knight beckoned the guards forward. With no small effort the men heaved the large, lacquered box before their lord. Another wave from Rodrik dismissed them, leaving the lord and knight alone, “The good Lord Fairchild did not have us leave empty-handed. An apology, he said.”

The knight unlatched the lid, revealing a great sum of gold.

“The lads and I checked. Nothing in there but coin.” Rodrik answered knowingly, producing one for Rickard’s inspection.

The Warden of the North held the coin to his eyes. It was a weighty thing, heavier than a dragon, blemished and darkened with age but lustrous all the same, finely embossed with foreign letters and crests.

“I have never seen coinage such as this.”

Rodrik nodded. “Neither have I. The new maester will make sure, but the coins seem as gold as they appear. Must be eight thousand dragon’s worth here.”

Eight thousand dragons…More wealth than most noble holdings earned in ten years–over half what House Manderly paid in taxes per annum–offered up without ceremony. It was a statement of power presented as an apology.

“Was also asked to give you this, Milord.”

The knight produced an envelope, which Rickard took in hand. He ran a gloved hand over every crisp corner, then pressed down on the sealed edge, an old habit of his boyhood developed after he learned of a Tyroshi Archon who hid poisoned needles in letters to his political rivals.

Though unadorned, the envelope was made of the finest white paper. The seal of pressed red wax reminded Rickard of First Man runes: A single, hard line that branched before coming together, near-converging at a singular point. A personal sigil or family crest, perhaps?

Breaking the seal, Rickard extracted the letter within and read the first line.

To Lord Rickard Stark, Duke of the North

Please join Evetta and I for breakfast tomorrow. We have much to discuss.

With Regards,
Cyril Fairchild, Hunter of the Old Workshop

Rickard allowed the words to settle in his mind before handing the letter back.

“Hunter?” The knight questioned, echoing his disbelief, “Surely this is a jape.”

Rickard shook his head, “Hunter, Rodrik, not ‘a hunter.’”

The knight understood.

“You believe it a title.”

“The man you met does not make his living trapping foxes and hare.” The lord gestured at the chest for good measure, “As for the Old Workshop, it is possibly no more a workshop than the House of Black and White is a place of residence.”

The knight barked a mirthless laugh. The second this evening, by Rickard’s count.

“You know how to put a man’s mind at ease, Milord.”

Rickard allowed himself a small smile, one that fell just as quickly.

“A foreign lord and his lady wife, claiming to hail from a land not known to any map, visit Wintertown with great gifts of food and gold, inviting its lord to dine in a manor built without permission on his own land.” He sighs, humored by the absurdity of circumstances, “Winter was a simpler affair.”

Rodrik nodded, “Aye, feels like stepping into one of Old Nan’s tales.”

A measure of companionable silence fell between the men, ended by a somber, shared thought.

“The Lord and Lady Fairchild, do you believe them truly as foreign as they appear?” The words fell heavily upon both men, for they were different from the question asked. Even here in the Godswoods of Winterfell, the beating heart of the North, it was unwise to voice treasonous thoughts.

‘Could they be friends of our king?’

The knight shook his head, “He referred to you as ‘His Grace,’ Milord.”

Rickard stilled.

“My response was much the same.” Rodrik offered, “Must have shown on my face. Was asked ‘How else does a man address lords second only to the king?’”

“And how does a man of Yharnam address the king?”

“‘Your Majesty,’ Milord.”

Rickard laughed. Yes, Aerys would have enjoyed that, but he would also sooner pull out a man’s tongue than lend him the royal address.

“The lord and lady wear foreign clothes, speak with foreign accents, and address you with foreign honors. Their manse is of foreign design. Same with their gold, weathered with clear signs of age.” Rodrik continued, “If this is a mummer’s farce, I’d let them pull the wool over my eyes for the effort alone.”

Rickard nodded, decision made.

“Have a messenger return to the manor. Inform Lord Fairchild I have petitioners at dawn but will meet him for the midday meal.” A lie. He had no plans to hold court, but Rickard would not be at the beck and call of a foreign lord. He was being lured into a meeting with the promise of answers. In the absence of knowledge, he would project power without undermining courtesy. “Prepare ten of your best men. We will observe guest rights if he offers the same.”

His voice brooked no argument. Rodrik bowed in acquiescence, recognizing his dismissal. Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, was left alone under a paleblood moon, uncertain what wealth or ruin the morrow would bring.

Chapter Text

Rickard Stark rode at the head of seven men garbed in Stark grey, green, and polished mail. Three more had been sent to scout ahead. Ser Rodrick rode at his side in full brigandine, scowling and ever vigilant. The Warden of the North set a deliberate pace, his heart already ill at ease.

He had said farewell to his children that morn, promising to return by nightfall. Brandon had nodded, hoisted Benjen onto his shoulders and returned to the yard. Lyanna had not been so easily deterred, wanting to meet the ‘Lady of the Woods’ herself. Only the promise of riding lessons upon his return saw her relent. He smiled at the memory. Trust Lyanna to know of rumors before her lord father.

Richard clung to thoughts of his children as his party trekked through the Wolfswood. They were making good time. Too good. Traversing a forest on horseback–with snow upon the ground, no less–was a treacherous affair, one that made a league into ten. But a path had been cleared for them, one Rodrick had swore on his life had not been there the day before. The men had half-suspected sorcery until Rodrick had unhorsed, knelt, and placed a hand upon the trail. All were surprised when the hand went to his lips.

Salt.

The seas do not freeze like freshwater. Every Northerner knew this, the Manderlys most of all. Just as they knew salt was a luxury good, purchased from White Harbor and mined from the Lonely Hills at great expense. The Lord and Lady Fairchild–for who else could be responsible–had used it to melt snow.

Rickard felt unbalanced. Maester Luwin had taken but an hour to confirm what he and Rodrik had suspected: eight thousand three hundred dragons in foreign gold now sat in House Stark’s coffers. The new maester had near upturned Winterfell’s library, but found no record of Yharnam in High Valyrian, Old Ghiscari, or the Common Tongue. Luwin had proposed, eyes bright with an excitement Richark did not share, that perhaps it lay to the furthest east, past the Bone Mountains and Bleeding Sea.

He had hoped for a quiet life after Lyarra’s passing, to be but another stitch in the great tapestry of Stark lords and Winter kings, to weather the years like his forefathers before him and leave a more prosperous North for his children. Not a day ago, Rickard’s greatest concern had been renewing trade with the Riverlands. Now, he could well be the first lord of Westeros to meet these strangers from a yet unknown great eastern city.

“Milord.”

Rodrik’s voice interrupted his musings. They were close. Wordlessly, the Warden of the North raised a fist, signaling two men to break off from the party. They would tail behind and report back to Winterfell at the first sign of treachery.

Perhaps it was wrong for a meeting of two peoples to begin with such distrust. But Eddard would be returning from his fosterage to celebrate the coming spring, and Rickard would be there to welcome his son.

They soon joined the scouting party. The forest had given way to a glade he could not recall in all his years hunting with his father and later his children. Already he could see the manor, a masterwork of glass and stone. As the salt path gave way to cobbled steps, the party unhorsed. Ordering two men to guard the beasts, Rickard led his party towards the manor, where their host stood waiting.

The young man at the gates was pale like many a Northerner, clean-shaven with mid-length hair like fresh-poured ink. His waistcoat was the color of mulled wine, worn over a fine, collared shirt that would have provided poor protection on even a warm Northern day. He wore dark trousers with a strange, center crease and some manner of polished, short-ankled shoes that would have seen a man waterlogged with spring snow within five strides. Yet his clothes did not billow with the dying winter winds, his tall frame did not shake from the creeping cold, nor did his breath turn to frost in the frigid air, as if the land itself grasped at the man and failed to find purchase.

The two men soon stood mere paces apart. Here, Rickard noticed the intricate stitching of the younger man’s clothes, the silver buttons on his waistcoat, sleeves, and the decorative chain clasped to a pocket sewn seamlessly into his left breast. The way he had stood at perfect ease, watching the northern party approach with an almost playful patience left Rickard little doubt this was the man whose wife had offered alms more befitting a lord’s table, who had surrendered a king’s ransom as a matter of courtesy, and paved a woodland path in salt as a matter of convenience.

“I am Rickard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” He announced with full formality, meeting the younger man’s gaze, noting how strangely the noonday sun danced in his eyes, “Here by invitation from Lord Cyril of House Fairchild, Hunter of the Old Workshop.”

The so-named Hunter smiled.

“Well met, Lord Stark.”

The greeting came with a faint accent, unlike any Rickard had heard during even the War of Ninepenny Kings. A shallow bow followed, less than most lords would like, but Rickard kept his silence even as he sensed Rodrik’s displeasure.

“I trust your journey here was pleasant.”

Rickard nodded, salt coming again to mind, “It was.”

“That was good to hear.” The Hunter passed a well-pleased look over his men, “Sir Rodrik had some trouble finding our humble home. It seemed poor form to allow a lord to suffer the same.”

“Good Hunter.”

The voice, soft and melodic, carried endearment with an undertone of chastisement.

A woman slipped through the gate, a woven basket in her arms. She wore a dress of umber wool with finely woven brocade, her bodice hemmed with lace. A pale pink scarf contrasted the brown, embroidered shawl draped over her shoulders. A matching pink hat set with dried roses held long waves of silver hair in place. Taller than even Greatjon Umber, she towered over the gathered men. A great beauty by any measure, her skin seemed like porcelain with eyes like deep-set gems that gleamed behind sterling lashes.

The Hunter acquiesced.

“Lord Stark, may I introduce Lady Evetta Fairchild née Vileblood, formerly of Cainhurst, whom I have the great privilege of calling my wife.”

The lady bowed, “Hello, Honorable Lord.”

Her voice carried a strange intonation, stronger than her husbands yet soothing like slipping into a warm bath. As for the name of her house…

“The pleasure is mine, my lady,” Rickard returned, falling easily on a lifetime of etiquette, “You have done my people a great kindness. Know you have House Stark’s gratitude.”

The lady blinked at his words, as though surprised. But a beaming smile soon appeared on her face. She turned to her husband, seemingly to share her joy.

Lady Evetta then stepped forward. She lifted the quilted lid of the basket, unveiling small rolls of steaming white bread, buttered and speckled with large flecks of salt, offered to Rickard with fine-gloved hands.

“The messenger last evening informed us of your guest rights,” the Hunter explained, “We know them as Sacred Hospitality.”

Sacred Hospitality. The words implied enough. Rickard accepted the offered bread and salt with thanks and watched the towering lady offer the same to each of his men, who took the rolls with varied degrees of flustered gratitude.

The grating of metal drew Rickard’s attention back to the Hunter. “Lord Stark,” he said, sliding the iron-wrought gate fully ajar with a hand, “I bid you welcome to the Workshop.”

It was a strange world that lay behind the gates, a menagerie of cobbled stone and outcroppings of pale white flowers that illuminated a faint glow. Lanterns of copper and glass–a luxury even in the Reach–lit the path leading up the sloping steps of the manor, a vaulted structure buttressed by stone arches, wide windows, and doors of heavy, aged oak. There was a stillness in the air that reminded Rickard of the Godswoods, something that stood well before Bran the Builder laid the first stones of Winterfell and would remain long after they crumbled.

As Lady Evetta disappeared through the main doors of the manse, Rickard followed the Hunter along a byway to the side of the house, where a table had been prepared. He near paused at the sight of three sets of porcelain plates laid out on a fine tablecloth. Even the Manderlys would be hard-pressed to import such an expense from the heart of Yi Ti.

Richard took the offered seat as Rodrick stood vigil at his back. No sooner had he settled was the Warden of the North treated to the strangest sight of the day: Lady Evetta appeared from a side door, carrying a tray of assorted porcelain cups. Stranger still, the Hunter had stepped forward, helping his wife set the table. Even Rodrick raised a brow. It was one thing to be served bread and salt–that was a matter of ceremony–it was another altogether for the lord and lady of the manor to take up the duties of the serving staff.

“Wassail cider.” The Hunter offered Rickard a generous cup that smelled strongly of warm cinnamon, citrus, and cloves. The northern lord noted how Lady Evetta placed a third cup, no doubt for herself, but returned to the manor.

“You have a good man in Sir Cassel, Lord Stark.” The Hunter returned to his own seat, “He showed Evetta and I every courtesy yesterday. Even enlightened me to some local customs and mores.”

Rickard did not need to look back to know Rodrick had closed his eyes and prayed to the Old Gods for strength.

“Therefore,” the Hunter continued, settling into his own cup, “I find it only fair to inform you that I am no lord.”

Rickard hid his surprise behind sips of cider. No doubt his men felt the same. Had they any less discipline, they might have voiced their outrage. But Rickard held his tongue, knowing this was a tale half told.

“‘Lord Fairchild has always been my father, then my elder brother and nephew,” the Hunter explained, voice touched with nostalgia, “Father was only an earl, after all.”

Rickard took measure of the man’s words. A second son to a titled sire, then. As for what the title meant, “You named me duke. Your father, an earl,” he notes, “I presume these are noble titles, unless you meant them in jest.”

The hunter blinked, “Ah, my apologies.” Setting down his cup, the Hunter held a hand at shoulder-height, “Knight.” He raised his hand, “Baron.” The hand raised again, “Earl.” And again, “Marquis.” A finger then pointed at Richard’s person, “Your Grace, the Duke.” Lastly, the Hunter pointed skyward, “His Majesty, the King.”

Rickard nodded. The first title required no explanation. A baron was then a petty lord, and an earl a greater vassal, sworn to a principal bannerman, the marquis. House Forrester and Whitehill came immediately to mind.

“At the rank of marquis and below, only the lord and his heir may be addressed as lords.” The Hunter explained, “Second sons and the like must settle for ‘the Honorable’ in court, ‘Mister’ elsewhere.”

Rickard again nodded his understanding. Only the second son of a duke—or perhaps a lesser prince—may inherit the title of lordship.

“And yet your wife is a lady.”

Lights came alive in the Hunter’s eyes.

“Just so.”

Rickard made note of this. If the same rule applied to daughters, the Vilebloods of Cainhurst now warranted great consideration and greater concern.

“By the laws of our land, you are a lord in every respect.” He said at length, making one decision of many, “The title will be afforded to you during your stay.”

The Hunter’s face mimed surprise.

“My stay?” He asked, though there was no question in his voice, “Is the matter settled already, Lord Stark?”

Rickard shook his head, “I would know what brings you to our lands, having built a keep so close to Winterfell.”

“Good Hunter.” Lady Evetta’s face peered through the door, cutting further conversation short. Again, the Hunter left his seat to assist his lady wife. The table was soon set with an opening course of rich fare, bacon-wrapped prunes soaked in tea, scallops swimming in browned butter, a crisp white vegetable–asparagus, he was told–over a peppered cream sauce, food well-befitting a royal feast. Lady Evetta joined them. Even in her low-seated chair, she continued to overlook both men.

“To answer your question, Lord Stark,” The Hunter said, as the meal commenced, “Evetta and I are here for retirement.”

Retirement? Rickard did not know the term. To retire was an action: One retired for the evening; a man retired to bed.

“We have settled our affairs in Yharnam. We stayed long enough to see the city recover, the new residents properly settled. The last of my mentors lived out her remaining years in comfort.” The words were spoken solemnly even as the Hunter smiled at his wife, “And Evetta wanted to see snow.”

Rickard considered his words. The answer raised many questions, chief among them what Yharnam had needed to recover from.

“Truthfully, we had not known this land was even inhabited until we set eyes on your castle.” The Hunter tinted his cup in the direction of Winterfell, still visible in the distance, “We first thought to keep to ourselves. But some two moons ago, Evetta found an elderly man wandering near the Workshop, clearly lost. Strangely, he was rather distressed at our offered aid.”

Rickard suddenly found the rich fare losing appeal. Two moons ago…it coincided with the last snowstorm of winter, but none had known that at the time. Greybeards oft went hunting in lean times and seldom returned, leaving fewer mouths for their families to feed. An ancient truth of the North that remained Rickard’s personal shame.

“Of course, we helped him recover despite his protests. I led him out of the woods myself with a roll of bear meat.”

“Bear meat?”

It was the younger man’s turn to arch a brow.

“I am a Hunter, Lord Stark. And yes, I have personally dispatched four since our arrival. Do be cautious: Spring makes them light sleepers and winter has made them ill-tempered hosts.”

The Hunter helped his wife with the main course, a whole roasted goose stuffed with carrots and onions, served with plum sauce, and a custard-like bread smelling of goose fat. Rickard was treated again to the strange sight of the Hunter carving the goose with a sharp, curved knife that earned him Ser Rodrick’s hawk-eyed gaze. But it was another dish that caught Rickard’s eye, appropriately named ‘roasties’ and made with some manner of parsnip. The Hunter noticed his interest and promised samples for Luwin’s study.

“Lord Fairchild, you deny lordship yet call yourself a Hunter,” Rickard spoke again, as good progress was made on the meal, “I would know what the title means and how it came to you.”

The younger man nods, knowing what was being asked.

‘Who are you?’

“I very much fell into the role,” the Hunter answered, “I was born in the Great Isles. My elder brother was an able administrator, taking after my father, and I was confined rather contently to my studies at university.”

“University?”

Rickard observed a look of concern cross the younger man’s face.

“A school?” The Hunter attempted again, now clearly alarmed at Rickard’s continued puzzlement. “A place of books and learning,” he says at last.

The Warden of the North finally understood. “The Citadel of Oldtown sees to the training of maesters, our most learned men,” he informs, humored to see the younger man relax.

The Hunter continued his tale, “I was well on my way to a professorship, our equivalent to your maesters, but unfortunately contracted consumption.”

“Consumption?” Context gave the word meaning, and Rickard felt ill at ease.

The younger man inclined his head, “A wasting disease that sees the victim cough bouts of blood before he expires.”

The northerners tensed as one. Rodrick stepped forward, as if to shield his liege from an unseen danger, but Rickard raised a hand, stopping his misstep.

“You look well enough, Lord Fairchild,” His tone came measured, not appreciating a possible risk to his persons.

The Hunter remained at ease even as Rodrick glared daggers, “The city of Yharnam so happens to be fabled for its healing arts. Entry into the city, however, was exclusive. Many a man died before its closed gates.”

“But you did not,” Rickard noted, knowing where the man’s tale would lead.

“The Hunters of the city sponsored my treatment.” The young lord glanced skyward, “All they asked in return was years of service. The Hunters of the Old Workshop have a single duty: the hunting of beasts. And Yharnam had many.”

The northern lord considered his words. This was a man who hunted bears. Alone. He did not wish to consider what manner of beast the man thought a threat. The Hunters of this Workshop appeared to mirror a knightly order, charged with combating beasts rather than men. A fantastical tale but perhaps not false, given the stories of white vampire bats in Sothoryos and Westeros’ own history with dragons.

“To go from scholar to warrior would have been a difficult change.” He offers instead.

“The alternative was death,” The Hunter countered, “My mentor and Evetta’s sire, Gehrman, saw me well-trained, though I died several times under his tutelage,” he added, surely in jest.

“Much has happened. The city suffered beasts and plague. I saw an end to both, but many did not. Gehrman passed in peace, leaving the Old Workshop and Evetta in my care.”

The Hunter’s voice carried a heaviness that belied his age. For the first time, Rickard saw that, however young, this was a tired man, wrapped in a weariness sleep would not cure.

Lady Evetta reached out, entwining her fingers with the Hunters. No words were spoken, but a moment passes between them such that Rickard felt the need to avert his gaze.

After the plates were cleared, tea–doubtlessly worth its weight in gold–was served. Rickard considers all he has seen and heard. Already he had been served the finest meal in recent memory while surrounded by luxuries he had not thought possible in much of the world, to say nothing of the North. The food had been presented with care but not pomp, as if little had been done to prepare for his arrival save the meal itself and his good opinion was not of paramount concern. A statement of power all on its own. And there was an air of danger about the Hunter that he made no effort to hide, such that Rickard felt he was dining less with an upjumped second son and more the guildmaster of the Faceless Men. That the younger lord was the professed head–now former head–of this Hunters’ order did little to dissuade Rickard’s thoughts.

“You have the look of a man with a question, Lord Stark.”

“I have many.” He confessed, “And you have answered much. But there remains one I must have answered by day’s end.”

The Hunter nodded, “By your leave.”

“From where do you hail?” Rickard asks, though it felt strange to say, “You have spoken of Yharnam, Cainhurst, and the Great Isles yet these are lands foreign to us and appear on no known map. You thought the North uninhabited, but I am hard pressed to believe men from even the most distant cities of Essos have not heard of the wolf lords who have guarded these lands since the Age of Heroes.”

“Essos?” The Hunter tried the word as if it were foreign, “You mean the continent to the east?”

Rickard could not dignify that with a reply.

“You have been looking in the wrong direction, Lord Stark.”

The Warden of North fought to keep hold of his cup. A man audibly choked behind him. Rodrick looked gobsmacked. But the Hunter had already turned to regard his wife, as if the matter were settled, no backward glance to see if a lie had taken root or a tall tale had been believed. Rickard willed himself to speak.

“You hail from the Sunset Sea.”

The Hunter arched a brow, perfectly at ease.

“I have never heard it called that.” He studies Rickard, “I take this is a rare occurrence?”

What was there to say? A thousand questions crossed his mind only to die on his tongue. “Westeros has never received visitors from the west,” he manages, “None who have tried to cross the Sunset Sea have ever returned.”

The Hunter frowned but said nothing. He instead turned to his wife, “I will fetch dessert,” he offered, as if his previous words had not undone the very underpinnings of the known world.

The lady, on her part, nodded her assent.

The Hunter disappeared into the manor. Silence stretched as Rickard considered the impact and implications of this day. If the Hunter’s words proved true, what would it mean for House Stark and the North to host these strangers from beyond the Lonely Light?

“Honorable Lord,” Lady Evetta’s voice broke Rickard from his thoughts, “Have you a family?”

“I have,” Rickard allowed his mind to take refuge in the banal courtesy of the question. “The Old Gods blessed me with four children. Brandon is my eldest and heir. Eddard is fostering in the Vale. Benjen is my youngest, and Lyanna my only daughter.” He said this with pride, allowing his mind to settle. But his next words did not come as easy, “My wife, Lyarra, passed shortly after Benjen’s birth eight years ago.”

The lady frowns, brows knitting together. “I have caused you pain,” she dipped her head, “I am sorry.”

Rickard shook his, “It is an old hurt. Benjen is beloved by his siblings and I will see him raised well, as Lyarra would have wanted.”

The lady eased at those words, “She would be proud.” How true that was, Rickard could not say. But the lady’s voice was soothing, and he was grateful for the kindness.

The Hunter chose that moment to return, carrying a large strawberry tart topped with fresh cream and white sugar ground to resemble powdered snow. Slices were cut, again under Rodrick’s watchful gaze, and more tea was poured.

“I hope my words have not unsettled you too greatly, Lord Stark.” The Hunter said at length.

“They have,” Rickard replies, offering truth without censure.

“I have maps and books aplenty if you require proof.” The Hunter answered easily, “Evetta and I will have them prepared when you depart.”

Rickard sighed, “I would sleep better if your story simply proved false,” he says with what he hoped passed for good humor.

The Hunter smiled behind his tea, “Then I will be sure to pack the library.”

Rickard mounted his horse. His party was laden with a great number of books, small gifts, and a pie baked by Lady Evetta for the men. The Hunter and his lady wife stood at the gates, bidding them farewell.

“Do feel free to visit at your leisure, Lord Stark.”

Rickard accepts the courtesy for what it was. Indeed, there was more to discuss, but that was for another day. He had come with questions, and he had received answers, however difficult those answers would make life in the coming days. He would need good counsel before anymore could be done.

“You have shown me and my men great hospitality and done my people a great kindness. Know the gratitude of House Stark is more than empty words.”

The Warden of the North turned his horse about to face the Lord Hunter of Yharnam.

“Expect my messenger by week’s end with formal invitation to Winterfell.”

The Hunter considers this, “Do you have a library?”

“The largest within a thousand leagues.”

Cyril Fairchild smiled, eyes agleam with stars, “We await your invitation, Lord Stark.”

Chapter Text

The Book of the Farm.

A strange name for a book bound in fine red leather and titled with gold ink. Stranger still for such a book to be in the hands of a nobleman, much less the lord of a great house. The thought of young Mace Tyrell poring over such text brought Rickard no small measure of amusement.

But he was of the North, where food and life were synonymous. Any northern lord worth the name possessed some passing knowledge of how bread came to his table. But the contents of this book were beyond him. Likely beyond any well-to-do farmer in what Rickard had believed—mere days ago—encompassed the known world.

The tome contained near a thousand pages. A thousand pages detailing animal husbandry, field irrigation, the formulation of fertilizer, and the rotation of crops–half the names of which he did not know. Every thirty odd pages, Rickard spied illustrations of intricate metal contraptions–drills and plows–seemingly birthed from the minds of the Citadel’s brightest maesters and built by Qohor’s greatest smiths.

That was to say nothing of the book itself, reams of white paper with uniform text that would shame the works of the finest scribes, the letters seemingly stamped into the page rather than written. The damn thing was better bound than anything in his personal study.

What did it say about a people when they had books on farming better studied and written than those detailing the deeds of House Stark, a line of once-kings?

Rickard sighed in his seat, a growing occurrence of late. He had taken his evening meal with his children only to retreat into his solar. The room had survived the burning of Winterfell by two Red Kings, the furniture within heirlooms crafted from the hull of Argos Sevenstar’s flagship, a room that was as much the North as the Godswoods. Here, the books of Cyril Fairchild sat like unwelcome guests.

His solar was silent but not empty. Rodrik and his steward, Fane Poole, kept good if disgruntled company. The knight studied the curiously named Burke's Peerage with hard eyes, as if willing the pages alight with his gaze. Fane pored over the works of several septons detailing the supposed history of the Great Isles.

There was another in the room. Maester Luwin, the newest member of Rickard’s circle, had forgone a chair. He instead knelt on the floor, eyes darting between three open tomes. Every long while, he would about-face, scribble illegibly into a scroll, and resume his reading. The maester had done little else save drink and bathe–and only with prompting–since Rickard returned the evening before, books in hand.

“What news do you bring, Maester Luwin?” Fane Poole called, breaking the silence as the candles burned low, hailing Luwin as if the maester had returned from a great journey.

The maester in question stood, gaze somewhat distant. “The Lords of the Lonely Light have long claimed there were lands beyond the Sunset Sea that never knew winter, where every man was his own king.” he shook his head, “The tale was always worth a good laugh.”

Rodrik shifted uneasily, looking up from his own text. “Fairchild did mention his wife wanted to see snow.”

The maester sighed, “To think I would live to see the day the Ironborn knew more than the Citadel.” He made his way to one of the far corners of the room, hands reaching for ale rather than water.

The aged steward offered the maester an apologetic smile, retrieving a cup from his own corner. Luwin had forbidden food or drink within ten paces of the books, an edict he ably enforced despite his lack of lordship.

The maester upended his flagon.

“My lords, we stand before the greatest collection of revelations and blasphemy in the Seven Kingdoms.” He looked upon the books sprawled about with guarded reverence, “Gods Old and New, if I sent half of these back to the Citadel, the archmasters would throw a second chain around my neck. And hang me with it.”

Rickard said nothing, absorbing the maesters words. Luwin took hold of a heavy tome titled The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy. “This book, written by a knight,” the word stressed to emphasize the sheer absurdity of the idea, “Shames the life's work of every bronze-linked maester in the last thousand years. The application of numbers to the motion of bodies celestial and mundane is known to us, but nothing to this extent. Physics he calls it.”

Luwin set the book aside with care, raising another, the Elementary Treatise on Chemistry. “This book details a manner of alchemy, but not as the so-called Wisdoms know it. No mention of wildfire, but rather the principle of transforming matter by means clearly mundane.” He eyed the last book of three, New System of Chemical Philosophy, “Forgive me, Lord Stark, I cannot start to make sense of that one.”

The Warden of the North listened wordlessly as Luwin spoke. When added to his own findings, he disliked the picture it painted. Here were forty books. How many lords in Westeros could claim to own a hundred and part with nearly half without care? Then there were the contents of the books themselves. Already Rickard could see in his mind a kingdom that rivaled Valyria in wealth and knowledge, where winters were blissfully short.

‘What crime did our forefathers commit to be so cursed and they so blessed?’ He fought the welling feeling of bitterness.

Worse, the land was young: if the Peerage were to be believed, the Kingdom of the Great Isles was united a mere eight centuries ago. There was no mention of House Fairchild until four centuries after. House Tyrell had served as High Stewards of Highgarden for five times as long. Yet it hardly mattered.

‘A land where every man is his own king.’

The thought should be absurd. And yet Lady Evetta had given him two gifts when he left the Workshop, tucked away with the books like mere trinkets for a village market. The first was a silver cylinder ending with a fine, tapered tip. The Hunter had called it a fountain pen, a writing instrument that held its own reservoir of ink. Rickard had not needed an ink well in over a day and marveled at the fact.

Yet, even the pen paled when compared to the small, circular object now resting in his hand. Pressing a side trigger revealed a face with twelve numbers and two center arms that revolved at a steady, constant pace. Lord Fairchild had named it a timepiece and it did as the name implied, every full rotation of the short hand marked the day from dusk to dawn. Dorne had its sundials, the Riverlands its water clocks, and the Reach favored their expensive, marked candles. But the Warden of the North now knew the hour, wherever he may be. Rickard would have thought it sorcery had the glass face not displayed the intricate copper gears that spun whenever he wound the timepiece each morn.

The device was as beyond Westeros as Valyarian steel.

“It is as you say, Maester Luwin,” Rickard broke his silence, “But remember this is knowledge Lord Fairchild chose to show. I am interested in what he wished to hide.”

Fane Poole nodded, stroking his greying beard, “I fear we may be losing the forest in the trees. There is likely more information here than the four of us could ever hope to manage, learned though we are. Perhaps that was by design.”

Rodrik grunted, “So the bastard wanted us distracted. Alright, what did he leave out?”

“History,” Fane replied easily, “Based on the dates of the more recent works, there are nearly six centuries unaccounted for. Most texts end less than two hundred years after the founding of the Great Isles. Imagine a history of Westeros that made no mention of the Dance.”

“Furthermore,” the steward continued, “While I find it curious that the history of these lands were recorded by septons, I find it moreso that no holy texts made their way into this collection.”

“I reckon that was probably for the best, maybe even a courtesy,” Rodrik offered. He said no more but Rickard agreed. The North and Westeros fared poorly with new faiths: First came the Andals and their Seven, and now there were whispers of a Red Priest in Aerys’ court.

“What did you gleam?”

Fane regarded his lord, near apologetic, “There were allusions to a singular God and his temple, but little else.”

Rodrik snorted, “So everything from the Seven Who Are One to the Black Goat of Qohor.”

“I am afraid so.”

Luwin chose that moment to speak, “My Lords, I fear there is another important matter we’ve yet to discuss.” The maester struggled again to his feet, the rattle of his long chain sounding through the room. He joined the other members of Rickard’s circle and studied the great prize upon his desk.

A map of the West.

Even now, after a day of study, Rickard could scarcely believe his eyes. A great landmass spanned one end of the map, giving way to a eastern coast dotted with islands that denoted the Great Isles. They sat amidst a span of water near twice the size of the Narrow Sea. And on the eastern end, Rickard made out the Stony Shore, inaccurate and without detail, but there all the same. Here was the Shipwright’s dream realized. The map was not his to keep, he knew this. But a copy would be made and archived, bringing some closure to House Stark's greatest shame.

Luwin placed a hand on the great western mainland, hovering over the word ‘Yharnam’ written in foreboding red. “Lord Fairchild disclosed nothing regarding this city or his Hunter’s Order, not even a bestiary of the monsters he claims to hunt. There is also no mention of Lady Evetta’s house, the Vilebloods of Cainhurst.”

Fane waved a hand, “Your first point can be explained away easily enough. Guilds and knightly orders have their secrets. You would not expect the Kingsguard to hand over the White Book to anyone who asks, even if it were the Sealord asking.” His countenance grew serious, “But your point regarding the Vilebloods is well made.”

The aged steward looked to his liege, “If Lord Fairchild speaks truth, then the inheritance of titles is as stringent as that of land. No lord, however small, would willingly wed his first-born daughter to a landless second son. Moreso if the son had no title to his name. I find it likely Lady Evetta was the second or third daughter of Lord Gehrman Vileblood, and for her to retain the title of lady speaks to the strength of her house.”

“So Fairchild married well above his station.” Rodrik concluded, “I take it future discourtesies should be discouraged?”

The steward nodded, “A sure way to start a blood feud with a people we’ve not even met.”

The knight gave no reply. Instead, he made for his own drink, passing a glance at Rickard that a point was made: The kindly and demure Lady Fairchild was not to be underestimated. The Starks had poor history with houses that favored pink and pale red heraldry, and Rickard doubted the name Vileblood was earned through kindness.

“There is one last matter I must discuss, Lord Stark.” Fane spoke slowly, as if searching for the words, “A keep was built in the Wolfswood.”

All attention turned to the greybeard.

“I am no maester. I have no links of lead or iron. Nor do I know what is needed to build a manor during a winter storm, much less how to conceal its construction from a neighboring lord. But I have been Steward of Winterfell since the days of your father, my lord. I know what is required for a castle’s upkeep during a Northern winter. I set two hundred men and women to the task each day before dawn, to say nothing of the men who staff the garrison.”

The steward sighed.

“Ten men. I would assign no less to manage and guard a keep as you described, my lord. But I am to believe Lord and Lady Fairchild see to it themselves, as smallfolk would a thatch hut?”

Fane Poole looked to his lord, beseeching him for answers. The Warden of the North had none to give. The old steward had not spoken a thought Rickard did not share. Yet, answers eluded him, as if his mind feared whatever truths he may find.

“Could the guards live elsewhere perhaps?” Lewin proposed. “A garrison separate from the Fairchild manse?”

The steward shook his head, “It would be the height of foolishness to station men so far from their charge. You would be inviting disaster.”

“Could be magic.”

Three heads turned to Rodrik, now pouring his second cup of watered ale.

“They call the North the land of grumpkins and snarks. Just as they say the Rhoynar practiced water magic, the Valyrians fire, and the cursed fucks in Asshai birth shadows. They also say magic’s gone from the world but the world just got bigger. Who’s to say?”

Tension fell over the room. The words were spoken and could not be unsaid.

Rickard released a tired breath, “You are awfully calm saying this, Rodrik.”

The knight scoffed, taking a mighty gulp before topping his cup and offering it to his liege, “Already said this was sounding like one of Old Nan’s tales.”

The Warden of the North drew a long draft of ale. The thought had crossed his mind, but he feared giving it a voice. Words had power and silence was a language all its own.

Magic. It made a strange matter of sense. Wargs were a known factor among the wildlings north of the Wall. They were the bane of many a ranging party but little more. In the end, there in lay the problem. Wildings were a known element; the Fairchilds were unknown. Seemingly kind. Undoubtedly wealthy, but unknown all the same. And little else gave the Warden of the North more cause for concern, but that in itself was no crime.

“Lady Fairchild fed our people with bear meat her husband hunted. Their manor sits on a small plot of land, the worth of which Lord Fairchild has paid five times over. The matter of poaching is similarly moot.” The words did not come easy, “They will visit Winterfell within a moon. The conditions and duration of their stay in the North will be discussed. I admit their appearance in the Wolfswoods strange and without precedence. But suspicion is not proof. And I will not condemn the daughter of a foreign great house nor the leader of a knightly order on suspicion alone.”

Fane studied his lord, “You see opportunity.”

Rickard looked to his new timepiece and pen.

“It is too soon to say.” Much remained uncertain, but he did not deny the claim. The North was poor, oft too poor to see its people fed, nevermind restoring Moat Cailin and the Western fleet. White Harbor was but one city and for all its trade, the taxes and tariffs of a single city could not support the largest of the Seven Kingdoms.

No help would come from the Crown. Aerys had proven himself a poor friend to the North. Rickard would have been disappointed had things ever been different. House Stark had kept faith with the dragons through the Dance, through five Blackfyre rebellions. And what had that earned them? Silence whenever the Reach raised the price of grain to the point of ruin. Warnings and thinly-veiled threats when Rickard raised the price of wool, whale oil, and lumber in turn.

And now the west was known, mapped and untread. The Fairchilds could prove a valuable connection, introducing the North to new markets: The son of an earl an avenue into the Great Isles, daughter of a duke a throughline to the mainland. Were that possible, Rickard could see his promise to Lyarra fulfilled, perhaps even live to see Brandon inherit a strong North. For such a thing, he could overlook much, including magic.

But he would not be blinded by dreams.

The head of House Stark stood and all rose with him.

“I will have your oaths, on your lives and honor, that nothing seen or spoken tonight leaves this room.” The knight, maester, and steward looked upon him with alarm, but not surprise. “The Lord Hunter and his lady wife hail from beyond the Sunset Sea. Of this, there is no doubt. But that does not mean they are who they claim.”

He met the eyes of each man.

“Until more is known, I will have your silence.” To invite rumors now was to invite ruin. Already there were whispers of Aerys refusing a marriage between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei Lannister. The South would soon be a balefire. He would not have the Crown’s attention turned north.

Grey eyes fixed upon Luwin, “We could announce all we know to the Realm at daybreak. But should a single claim prove false, our words would be wind forever thereafter.”

The maester had the good sense to nod his understanding. Oaths were sworn in uttered breaths, in growing shadows and dimming candlelight.

“Luwin, Fane, I bid you both goodnight. I will have need of your counsel in the coming days.” He turned to his sworn sword, “A moment of your time, Rodrik.

The Northern lord and his knight stood alone, not unlike how they had mere days ago, when the world had suddenly changed, growing larger and less certain.

“Thank you, old friend.”

Rodrik Cassel eyed his liege as if he had grown two heads.

“Just doing my duty, Milord.”

“You disapproved of my invitation to Lord Fairchild.”

Rodrik nodded, “Aye, I did.”

“Yet you said nothing.”

The knight huffed, “I am your sword, Milord. ‘Tis my duty to keep you alive, offer good counsel when you ask it, and offer better when you don’t. Not my place to question your authority when a decision’s been made.” He paused for but a moment, as if committing himself to his next words, “But were it up to me, I’d not let Fairchild set foot in Winterfell.”

“Lord Fairchild,” Rickard corrected, allowing himself a smile as Rodrik scowled in distaste. It did not last, “You suspect treachery?”

The knight shook his head, “I’d hardly accuse a Golden Company war elephant of treachery. Doesn’t mean I want it near me and mine.”

Rickard nodded, “A dangerous man.”

“So you agree.” ‘Yet you invited him’ went unsaid.

“They honored guest rights.” Rickard said simply, “To bar them from Winterfell would have been an insult and present dangers all its own. I will not make a certain enemy of a potential friend.”

Rodrik sighed, “You play a dangerous game, milord.”

“Then I trust you with my back, old friend.”

The knight scoffed.

“I fought at your side against Maelys and the Golden Company. I will hold my own against a lone Hunter.”

Chapter Text

"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 stuck with 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 stuck, 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 for 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, 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.

Chapter Text

"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 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 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 in a voice that said he had missed something obvious.

"Oh." He felt embarrassed, but Lady Evetta continued to smile at him, so Benjen tried again.

"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 by 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 appeared to be 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 Lord Cyril 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 trained well under Lord Dustin.

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 fell 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 may 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 interest. 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 reigned. 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 to 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 it was madness that had saved 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 the door of 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 across 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 his 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, and it was a tired, defeated thing, “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.

Chapter Text

"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-practiced 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 bent, 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 his righteous anger and endless 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 believed it was the least of his titles.

"What does he want, Rodrik?" His question broke the silence, "Gifts, gold, knowledge…Cyril Fairchild has given 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 matter 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 the words out 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 shared 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 shy 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 rose, Rickard's grew low, "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 filled with ugly satisfaction as Rodrik recoiled at his words, but it was short-lived, turning bitter in his gut. Deep in his heart, there was hope that the Hunter would take his son as an apprentice, that Brandon would accompany the Fairchild's when they returned west. 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 his fitful sleep. He awoke to darkness. 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 for all to see.

Six wooden crates rivaling the size of nearby houses occupied the space. Already his men had opened one, 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 made his report, "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.

Chapter Text

"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 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 ways.

"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 proved 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 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.

Chapter Text

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 if 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 many 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, they have 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 Ayyrn 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 study 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, silver cylinder 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, Bandon 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, 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-hand 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 blade's path. 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 and bypassing Ned's guard. The technique, simple yet seamlessly executed, marked Ned's defeat.

"Come. Losses during practice 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 got 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 remains."

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 all he heard was the 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 yell drowned out by his own 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 the boy could say.

"Noted," the Hunter spoke without withdrawing his sword, mindless of the guards drawing near, "But this 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 above 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," Brother's voice carried a strange confidence as he combed a hand through his wet 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 have 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.

Chapter Text

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 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 claim 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 the word 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 comforted he felt, “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 had 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 of them 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 Ned 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 candles 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, leaving Ned 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 in the house of his fathers, “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 to 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 felt safe while wearing armor when in fact the Hunter had humored them for half a day while wielding a spellbound blade. A single mistake and Benjen would have been Father’s last living son.

“No knight in the Vale could 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 Rickard’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 rest 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 stepped forward, standing 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, the 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 warden 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 could 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, surprised by his last words. 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 from 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 bannermen and brother at his side. It was Riverlanders and Valemen who aided our people during the worst 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 no one could have predicted. 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.

Chapter Text

Rickard Stark frowned as Brandon and Eddard left Winterfell with his only daughter in tow. He watched as they disappeared from view, certain that his hair would be more white than grey by nightfall.

Cyril Fairchild was fostering his two eldest sons in all but name, an honor which–mere months ago–Rickard would never have bestowed upon a loyal vassal, never mind a foreign house. But Brandon’s folly had forced his hand. The warden was not blind to how his household treated his former heir, now an outcast within his own home. Even Rickard struggled to engage him: Memories of the Fairchild’s visit haunted every conversation between father and son.

Brandon had sought refuge in his lessons at the Workshop, and while Rickard was grateful he had somewhere to escape his troubles, the warden could not permit the Fairchilds to further isolate his son. Rickard had allowed Eddard to train alongside his brother for this very reason, the same reason he had not informed his second son of Brandon’s transgressions: Ned thought the world of him, and Brandon had little left to his name. The warden would not deprive him of his brother’s good opinion and love.

There was another reason for Ned’s visits to the Workshop, one Rickard struggled to admit. Cyril Fairchild believed he was mentoring a warden’s heir, and having Ned at the Workshop ensured that remained true. Anything less would be acting in bad faith, and Rickard was already in the Hunter’s debt. While much remained amiss about the man, his treatment of Brandon and Ned was well worth the warden’s respect.

Rodrik’s men had kept him informed, and each said the same: Cyril Fairchild was training his sons to kill. Short of fighting off bandits and wildlings, the bloodless battles they endured at his hands were the closest thing to actual combat. Even then, Rickard considered Cyril Fairchild the greater foe.

The results spoke for themselves. In the three weeks since Ned’s return, the Warden of the North could not recall the last time his sons lost to anyone save each other. Soon, they would progress beyond Rodrik’s ability to teach, and swordsmanship was not even the only skill Lord Fairchild had imparted onto his sons.

“Dammit.”

The talks he had hoped for never took place. Rickard was not so shameless as to broach the subject after what Brandon had done, but somehow House Stark had continued to receive boons regardless, more than Rickard could have expected from any alliance. His sons were the Hunter’s students, benefiting from his scholarly education and martial skill, and the gardens, once distributed, would secure House Stark’s power base forevermore. If the gods were kind, there would even be an apprenticeship in his son’s future. Only, it would be the wrong son.

“Dammit all.”

Now even his daughter was headed for the Workshop. Lyanna had been incensed by Brandon’s lessons with the Hunter, believing them a privilege rather than punishment. Rickard had spent weeks fending off her demands, but after Ned’s return, Lyanna had redoubled her efforts. Thrice, she had made a mad dash for the western gate during her riding lessons. The night before last, she had slipped out after hours, making it as far as the courtyard before being found. Rickard nearly had the evening guards flogged: The thought of Lyanna wandering the wolfswood alone chilled him more than the prospect of a false spring.

The warden decided that if his daughter was adamant about visiting the Workshop, she would do so with guards who would die to see her safe. Brandon had delivered the request, and the Fairchilds had accepted. Lady Evetta had been especially pleased. Now his daughter was riding off with her brothers, accompanied by ten men and a handmaiden. The whole affair was enough for the warden to wish winter had lasted longer.

He headed back to the Great Hall. There was still a feast to plan and a morning meal he intended to share with his youngest son.

“Ahh.”

Lyanna held the pastry to her mouth. The treat glistened like the shells Lord Manderly had given her last summer. Under her fingers, the bread felt warm and crisp. Baked golden with a dark, glossy filling, it looked almost too good to eat.

Almost.

She bit down, and rather than crumble like a cake, the pastry flaked apart, light and buttery. The filling–Lady Evetta had called it chocolate–melted like honey on her tongue. Rich, sweet, and slightly bitter, it reminded Lyanna of the browned sugar on the edge of a pie.

“Do you like it, dear child?”

The young girl nodded enthusiastically. The intonation of Lady Evetta’s voice was unmistakable, even if Lyanna was only half-listening while she ate.

Following her brothers into the Workshop had Lyanna brimming with excitement, but that excitement had nearly dwindled and died when they found the lord and lady dozing on a couch. They had been leaning against one another as though sharing a dream, and Ned had not wanted to disturb them. Thankfully, Brandon had been braver. Now they were all sitting together enjoying pastries.

Lyanna finished her treat, but made a mess. She tried to turn away when Lady Evetta leaned over with a napkin, but the tall lady did not relent the way Father would if she protested long enough. Lady Evetta waited, silent and patient, leaving the young girl with little recourse.

All the while, the Lord Hunter smiled, passing Lyanna another pastry even as his wife wiped traces of the first from her cheeks.

“Pain au chocolat,” the Lord Hunter explained, sipping a dark tea that smelled acrid and bitter, “A popular choice of breakfast from the kingdom of Gallia. Also called a chocolatine, depending on the region you visit.”

The Lord Hunter helped himself to one of the pastries, studying it with a critical eye. “The Gallians would not consider these up to standard, but I doubt any man from the Great Isles could have done better,” he assessed with self-satisfaction, “I am glad you enjoyed them, Lady Lyanna.”

“You made them?” Lyanna’s brow knitted together. She looked to Lady Evetta for confirmation and was surprised by her nod.

The Hunter laughed, the sound light and amused, “Baking has proven to be as much a science as an art. I am in the process of practicing both.”

“Is it common for the nobility of your homeland to pursue such pastimes, my lord?” Ned asked, sharing Lyanna’s surprise. He and Brandon had kept to themselves for much of the meal.

“Not at all,” the Lord Hunter answered, the corners of his lips forming a smirk rather than a smile, “But a Hunter is allowed his eccentricities, a retired one more so. Though thank you for the question, Eddard, you reminded me that I had some of my own.”

The Lord Hunter drummed his fingers against the table as he met their nervous gaze, “How did you find yesterday’s readings?”

Breakfast progressed in deafening silence.

“Thank you for the music box, Lady Evetta,” Lyanna swung her legs from her seat at the bench, “Father lets me listen to it every night before bed.”

The towering lady stood nearby, grabbing several slender, paperbound books from a shelf, “You are most welcome, dear child. The Good Hunter chose the box, and I the music.”

They had moved to Lady Evetta’s music room after breakfast, accompanied by Lyanna’s handmaiden and guards. The room was as enchanting as the rest of the Workshop with comfortable couches and cushions. Shelves brimmed with books and porcelain ornaments Lyanna wanted to touch. Beside her was an instrument called a piano, a large polished box with monochromatic keys. Lady Evetta had lifted the lid, revealing what looked like a harp tipped on its side.

“Fantaisie Impromptu is quite beautiful,” Lady Evetta’s voice was gentle as she took a seat beside her guest, “Would you like to hear more Chopin?”

Despite the others in the room, the moment felt private, as if Lady Evetta had made time just for her. Lord Fairchild had dragged her brothers off to the library, and Chopin…that was the man who made the song for her music box. He had written others, and Lady Evetta was offering to play them.

The lady did not need a reply to know her answer. A book titled Etudes Op.10 and Op.25 was placed on the stand. Lyanna did not know the words, nor did she understand the array of lines and symbols that dotted each page, but those concerns fell away as gloved hands descended upon the keys.

Lyanna had always hated sitting still. She would fidget during Maester Luwin’s lectures and attempt to escape Old Nan’s lessons. Though she sat well enough in a saddle, that hardly counted. Now Lyanna found herself transfixed and frozen in place, the only movement emanating from her beating heart.

Nothing had prepared her for the sounds that deafened the room or the vibrations that reverberated up her spine. Lady Evetta’s hands bounded across the length of the keyboard at a pace Lyanna’s eyes struggled to follow. Her hands repeated the movement a dozen times, each a variation on the last as if in a dance, and Lyanna found herself swept up in a torrent of sound.

When the music came to a stop as suddenly as it started, Lyanna nearly protested the silence. Lady Evetta’s hands turned a page and fell upon the keys once more. Lyanna watched spellbound as the lady’s left hand hopped from the keys like a hare while her right played a melody as fast as the first but softer and playful, promising mischief.

The young girl realized the etudes were a series of songs, each distinct and more wondrous than the last. Some painted a scene, invoking memories of a late-summer sun cresting over the king’s road and rumbling waves lapping against the pale stones of White Harbor, the only time Lyanna traveled beyond Wintertown. Other songs were formless yet invoked feelings of excitement, joy, and melancholy all at once.

Yet none compared to the penultimate piece. There had been no name, merely a number, Op 25 No.11. It had started innocently: Lady Evetta’s right hand repeated a single note four times, introducing a melody sad and forlorn. Her left hand rose and mirrored the melody. Then came a silence, but not a calm, as the cascade of chords that followed struck Lyanna like a Northern wind. The sound, cold and chilling, deafening and bombast, embodied the North like none other. The young girl watched, shivering in wonder. In that moment, Lady Evetta appeared as imposing as she was tall, as powerful as she was kind.

When the last song ended and the lady lowered her hands, no one spoke. The handmaiden sat with her mouth agape. The guards managed to look more dignified, but their expressions told Lyanna this performance had been special, something Lady Evetta had prepared just for her.

The young girl clapped in applause.

“Did you enjoy that, dear child?”

“It was beautiful!” Lyanna exclaimed, “I’ve never heard anything better.”

Lady Evetta beamed at her praise, “Would you like to hear more?”

“There’s more?”

She received a nod, “Chopin dedicated his life to music. His contemporaries did the same.”

Lyanna felt her heart flutter.

The rest of the morning was filled with words Lyanna did not know and music she wished to remember. Lady Evetta’s hands seemed to dance and sing, spanning fourteen keys and leaped over twice as many while forming three–sometimes four–melodies. Not even a troupe of minstrels could compare. Lady Evetta remained serene, while her hands conveyed such emotion and energy.

The young Stark also noticed how Lady Evetta never glanced at the books while she played. She realized they were only there for her, and the revelation left Lyanna with a strange sense of longing. Music was a story written in a language Lyanna did not understand, and Lady Evetta was an excellent storyteller. Though she knew her letters—Maester Luwin made sure of that—Lyanna never cared for reading, but this was different. As she spied words like prelude, sonata, presto, and allegretto, Lyanna realized this was a language she desperately wanted to learn.

The hours passed, and music filled the Workshop. Lady Evetta even let Lyanna flip the pages for her, signaling to the young girl when to turn. Time and again, Lyanna wondered how Chopin and his friends created such music. When Lady Evetta played songs by one of Chopin’s greatest rivals, it felt like feelings given form. His works had fantastic names like Mephisto, Mazeppa, and Hungarian Rhapsody, and his music was just as wondrous: The last, La Campanella, rang like a shower of chimes and filled the young girl with unspeakable delight.

“Ah, I thought I heard bells.”

The voice nearly startled Lyanna from her seat. The others in the room shared her surprise. Only the lady appeared unfazed by her husband’s intrusion.

“Good Hunter,” Lady Evetta’s eyes went to the large, free-standing watch at the far end of the room, frowning as she read the time, “You did not call.”

The Lord Hunter dipped his head in an unapologetic bow, “You seemed preoccupied, and I did not want to interrupt.” He crossed the room with light, silent steps, stopping before his young guest, “Did you enjoy yourself, Lady Lyanna?”

She nodded fervently, “Lady Evetta plays wonderfully.”

“That she does,” the Hunter’s voice conveyed good humor and minor mischief. He offered his wife an unwavering smile, “Evetta tends to be wonderful at everything.”

The lady turned her head with a sigh, which did nothing to discourage him, “You are very lucky, Lady Lyanna. Even from the library, it sounded like quite the performance.”

The Hunter’s hand traced the piano as the lights in his eyes flickered and danced, “Chopin and Liszt were virtuosos who defined an age. Some even believed Liszt sold his soul to a devil for his musical talents.”

Lyanna heard her handmaiden gasp but barely made out the sound over her own heart, “Did he really?”

The Hunter shook his head, “Likely not, but it makes for a fun story.” He met the young girl’s gaze, “Though if he did, I consider the results well worth the price.”

The midday meal proved as tasty as breakfast, though not as sweet. The crepes reminded Lyanna of griddled cakes, parchment-thin and pleasantly nutty, wrapped around parcels of mushrooms, ham, and cheese with a poached egg overtop. It was served alongside bubbling soup capped with gooey cheese and toasted bread.

“Crêpe bretonne and onion soup,” the Lord Hunter explained. He helped the young girl into a raised chair before strolling off with his wife, leaving Lyanna in the care of her brothers.

“Having fun?” Ned asked over his own meal. He and Brandon looked a tad haggard, which Lyanna found odd, as neither had been sparring. Still, she nodded.

“Lady Evetta lets me help with the music,” she replied, leaving out that she was only turning the pages. No need for her brothers to know that. “Why are you and Brandon so tired?”

“Lord Fairchild is a passionate teacher,” her brother answered, “There’s a lot to learn.”

“What Ned means is that the man could talk the ears off a maester,” Brandon interjected, waving off Ned’s disapproving glare and giving Lyanna his full attention, “More music this afternoon?”

The young girl shook her head, “Lady Evetta promised me a story.”

Her brother nodded, “Call the guards if you need them. We’ll be outside.” Brandon stood and made to leave, but not before ruffling Lyanna’s hair as he passed, eliciting a squeal from his favorite sister.

After lunch, Lyanna rejoined Lady Evetta in the library alongside her handmaiden and guards. True to her word, the towering lady held a beautifully-bound book. Lyanna took a seat at her side and spent the afternoon learning about Alice, the little girl who fell down a rabbit hole into a world of dreams.

Hours later, the young Stark found herself in Lady Evetta’s private sitting room, fresh from a bath and seated before the clearest mirror Lyanna had ever seen. The lady brushed tangles from Lyanna’s damp hair after politely declining help from the flustered handmaiden.

To prepare for supper, Lady Evetta had herded Lyanna into the master bathroom despite being told she had bathed the day before last. The young girl did her best to sit still throughout the ordeal, not wanting the lady to think poorly of her. Disliking how the mirror contrasted her reflection with Lady Evetta’s flawless features, Lyanna’s eyes started to wander.

They fell upon one of the many paintings in the room, depicting a woman who wore Lady Evetta’s face. But the similarities ended there. Rather than a dress, she wore riding leathers, a dark overcoat with fine gold trim, and a half cape draped proudly over one shoulder. Her attire resembled the Hunter’s right down to his peculiar three-point hat, and her posture betrayed none of Lady Evetta’s gentleness. Wielding a shortsword with a saber on her hip, the woman radiated confidence and danger.

“Is that you, Lady Evetta?” Unlikely as it seemed, Lyanna felt compelled to ask.

The lady of the manor followed her eyes to the painting and shook her head, “That is Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower.”

The Astral Clocktower? Was that like the Hightower? She turned to Lady Evetta with beseeching eyes as more questions formed in her mind.

“Who is she?”

For a moment, Lady Evetta hesitated as if she had never considered the question, “The Good Hunter would call her my mother.”

Lyanna gasped, and more questions fell from her lips. “What is she like? Is she also Hunter? Does she fight monsters?” the young girl asked with excitement, only to realize Lady Evetta shared none of her joy.

“I cannot say, dear child. I never knew her.”

Oh.

There were lots of things Lyanna did not know, but this was something she understood without being told. The young girl placed her hand on the lady’s arm in a way she hoped was comforting.

“I’m sorry. I never knew my mother either,” Lyanna offered, though the words felt strange. Mother was gone, and everyone knew that. It was never something Lyanna had needed to share, “Father said she fell sick after Benjen was born.”

Lady Evetta said nothing for a time as she passed her hands through Lyanna’s hair, and the young girl did not shy away, “She would have adored you, dear child.”

Later, as they left the parlor, the young Stark spied another portrait and wondered how she had missed it. The largest in the room, the painting depicted a woman who resembled Lady Evette, but with auburn hair. Another relative, perhaps? The crown in her head would have interested Lyanna were it not for the babe in her arms. He was a pale, pudgy thing like other babies she had seen, but he shared the Hunter’s inky-black hair alongside Lady Evette’s delicate nose, and he stared back at her with ruby-red eyes that left the young girl feeling a deep-seated disquiet.

“Lady Evetta,” Lyanna asked, tugging on her sleeve, “Who is that?”

“Ah,” the lady’s smile was like the sun, “That is my darling, Luca.”

“Lady Evetta plays better.”

The Lord Hunter sighed, “Your father really must teach you to lie, Lady Lyanna. A man’s pride is a fragile thing.” His face formed a pout, though the hurt never reached his eyes, and the young girl giggled despite herself.

After supper, everyone had gathered in the parlor. Brandon and Ned, in their exhaustion, gave each other the occasional shove to stave off sleep. Lady Evetta sat primly, offering her husband quiet encouragement as he played for present company. In truth, Lyanna thought the Hunter played rather well. The Goldberg Variations were beautiful if more austere and structured than what Lady Evetta had played, but it was clear he was not her equal. His performance concluded to tepid applause, which the Hunter took with grace.

“I hope today lived up to your expectations, Lady Lyanna.”

The young girl nodded fervently, turning not to the Hunter but his wife, which seemed to amuse the foreign lord.

“Though you are welcome to return whenever you wish, it would not be proper for a young lady to travel away from home so often,” the Hunter spoke without giving Lyanna time to protest, “But if you like, Evetta would be happy to visit you at Winterfell. Perhaps once or twice a week when your brothers are not here at the Workshop.”

Lyanna looked to Lady Evetta, and her heart soared when the lady inclined her head.

The Hunter left his seat, making his way towards the pair, “I will have Brandon pass a letter to your father,” he met his wife’s gaze, “Evetta has also prepared something for you.”

The young girl felt her hands tremble as the lady gifted her a slender wooden box. She lifted the lid, revealing a phonograph cylinder, Tchaikovsky - Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairies etched on its side. Her eyes met Lady Evetta’s smile.

“Until our next meeting, dear child.”

Lyanna pulled the lady into a hug, grateful for the hands that enveloped her in turn.

Chapter Text

Ned fell on his back. Driven by instinct, he brought his sword over his head, deflecting a thrust aimed at his eye. Though the force of the blow nearly disarmed him, it bought Brandon enough time to step in, forcing Lord Fairchild back.

The younger Stark staggered to his feet, blade raised but wavering.

“Well done, both of you,” their instructor praised, ending the match as he inspected his timepiece, “You held me off for almost a minute, more than enough time for help to arrive.”

The brothers leaned against their swords for support, neither wanting to mention that no sane man would step between the Hunter and his prey.

“Nothing brings a teacher more joy than seeing his students take his lessons to heart. Continue to improve, and the two of you might just manage to cut me.”

“Will you consider taking us seriously when we do?”

The Hunter frowned, “Whatever do you mean, Brandon?”

“You’ve been besting us one-handed, my lord.”

“Ah,” Lord Fairchild raised his silver sword to the evening light. The weapon was even longer than the one he had gifted Ned, and the younger Stark had been alarmed to learn his mentor kept quite the collection of spellbound blades, “Take no offense: The silver sword is traditionally a one-handed weapon. Standard Hunter doctrine dictates a bladed weapon in the dominant hand and a Hunter’s pistol in the other.”

“A one-handed weapon?” Brandon questioned with a smirk, eying his brother.

“It weighs half a stone!” The younger Stark was desperate to discuss something–anything–else, “What manner of weapon is a pistol, Lord Fairchild?”

The Hunter gave the question a moment’s thought, “The closest approximation would be a stringless repeating crossbow, not terribly effective for putting down beasts, but a valuable distraction.” He held their gaze, “A specialty of the Workshop.”

The brothers shared a glance, imagining what such a weapon would do to a man wearing anything but full plate. But their mentor’s tone implied this was another secret of his order. Lord Fairchild answered most questions when asked, but there were some matters he refused to entertain. Brandon had once asked if the Hunter kept any trophies from the beasts he had slain. That was not a memory either Stark wished to recall.

“Let us stop here for today,” the welcome words pulled the brothers from their thoughts, “Evetta started a pot of Blanquette de veau this morning. Safe to say we are all in for quite the treat.”

Even the guards nodded eagerly at the promise of supper. Two trailed behind Brandon as he turned to leave, but Ned stayed behind.

“Lord Fairchild, I request a moment of your time.”

The Hunter smiled, “But of course.”

“Cley, give us the room.”

The guard bowed and made for the door as the foreign lord stooped over the fireplace, casting the library in warm, amber hues.

“What did you wish to discuss, Eddard?”

“Our first lesson.” The young Stark looked on as Lord Fairchild stoked the fire, “You urged me to strike you from behind and had disapproved when I refused. You’ve never urged me to do so again, and I doubt I’ve improved enough to threaten you, my lord.”

“You have not,” his mentor agreed, voice more earnest than reproachful as he rose from his task, “Though your progress this month has been remarkable. I suspect Lord Robert will be quite surprised when you return.”

Ned did not allow the praise to divert him, “You never pushed the issue.”

“I never felt the need,” Lord Fairchild answered as a smile formed behind his eyes, “You are plenty capable as you are and just as interesting besides.”

His last words left the young Stark unsteady, reminded that his mentor was equally dangerous with weapons and words.

Noticing his hesitation, the foreign lord folded his arms and fell seamlessly into the role of a teacher, “Eddard, when seeking answers, it is imperative to ask the right person the right questions. Failing that, you will be better served with silence.”

The young Stark nodded and formed his query anew. ‘Ask the right question’…were it so simple. Despite his reservations, Ned heeded his mentor’s advice.

“What does honor mean to you, my lord?”

Were the Hunter any other man, Ned would have felt foolish for asking: Honor was the lifeblood of Westeros. All laid claim to it, from high lords to hedge knights, and the history of the Seven Kingdoms was the story of oaths kept and broken. The question–which should have caused offense–garnered a laugh.

“What brought this on, Eddard?”

“You’re our teacher, hailing from lands belonging to myth,” Ned explained “The Free Cities, however foreign, are at least known to us.”

He had left much unsaid: Though Essosi disparaged their western neighbors, the lords of Westeros dealt in words and oaths where magisters bartered with silver and slaves.

Cyril Fairchild stood outside this dichotomy, beyond the purview of everything Ned thought he knew. The man possessed more wealth than Ned could fathom, yet he lived alone with his wife in the Wolfswood, unattended by servants or guards. He performed chores that would have landless knights die from shame while mentoring a warden’s sons for no reason save a passing interest in their potential.

The Hunter was guided by whims, and Ned was unsure what that meant for his family or Brandon, who sought his approval.

“You ask a difficult question,” the foreign lord confessed, drawing Ned from his musings, “And you may dislike my answer.”

‘All the more reason to ask.’

Lord Fairchild smiled as though hearing the thought.

“As a young man, I worked tirelessly to live up to the Fairchild name. I thought it easier to part a man from his arm than his principles, else they would not be worth the weight of his words.” The Hunter eyed Ned with wry amusement, “I suspect you would have found me rather agreeable.”

The smile faltered, “But then came the consumption, and I fled to the one place Death could not follow.”

A spell of silence fell over the library as the foreign lord considered his words. “What has Luwin told you about the Night of the Hunt and the Scourge of Beasts?”

Mirroring his mentor, the Stark scion answered with caution, “He said the first was the name for your order’s war against the monsters beneath the city. He never mentioned the second.”

The Hunter nodded, “The Scourge was the plague that laid Yharnam low.”

The answer gave Ned pause. Father and Luwin had shared what they could of Cyril Fairchild, how he had contracted a disease and traveled to Yharnam for healing, only to find it amidst a plague, now given name.

“There is an affliction known as Lyssa’s disease, named after an ancient goddess of madness and rage,” the Hunter explained, “Within days of being bitten by an afflicted animal, the victim begins to exhibit behavioral changes: agitation, delirium, hallucination and–most notably–an aversion to water. Within weeks, the mind inevitably fails, and death follows.”

The Hunter glanced towards the hearth, “The Scourge of Beasts was to Lyssa’s disease what the Doom was to Summerhall.”

The words stunned Ned still.

A shadow fell over the Hunter’s face, his expression becoming a bemusing amalgam of wistful and bitter, “The Scourge robbed men of their minds, but with the loss of sanity came a monstrous strength and a mad desire to see it used…Lyssa’s legacy in truth, some might say.”

“The Scourge…made men stronger?” There was no hiding his disbelief. Ned had first thought to liken the Scourge to Greyscale and its victims to stonemen. Yet Greyscale addled the mind and weakened the body, leaving stonemen feeble, lumbering, and witless. For the Scourge to turn men into monsters in truth, that was not an affliction but a curse.

The Hunter nodded again, “A man afflicted with the Scourge could gnaw through iron, and unlike its lesser cousin, the Scourge spread not through bite but blood. Fighting off the afflicted was a battle many men lost through victory.”

A sense of dread crept through Ned’s heart, “How quickly did it spread?”

“Once the Scourge appeared, Lower Yharnam fell within days,” the words were offered with haunting calm, “It ravaged the populace, turning them against each other and the Hunters who once kept the beasts at bay. The Hunters themselves were not immune, and many were assailed by former comrades and the very denizens they sought to protect.”

The foreigner looked to his student, “What do you suppose the Hunters did then, Eddard? When men and beasts became one and the same?”

“They cut down the populace.” The words accompanied a breath but no question.

Lord Fairchild dipped his head, “Many did. The ones who clung to honor and principle died graceless deaths.”

“And those who abandon them?”

“They died as well.”

It startled Ned how easily the Hunter offered those words.

“You thought the choice would have mattered,” His voice held no judgment as he raised a hand and allowed it to crest through the evening air, “When a ship capsizes amidst a storm, the sailors trapped aboard drown irrespective of their resolve to swim. Actions have consequences, but consequences do not equate to impact. Believing otherwise remains one of mankind’s greatest conceits.”

For a moment, Ned struggled to grasp his mentor’s meaning, only to grow angry once he did.

“Is that your answer, my lord?” He asked, finding courage in the burgeoning warmth of his blood, “You would mock your fallen allies? Dismiss the deeds of brave and decent men?”

His words fell upon the Hunter like wind against the Wall, “Did your father not tell you about the first Northerner Evetta and I came across? His name was Marlon, a farmer of forty-eight years with calloused hands like leather gloves. He had raised three sons to adulthood and had nine grandchildren to his name, but when the snowstorms came and never left, he went hunting.” The foreign lord held Ned’s gaze, “Winter came for Marlon, as your family said it would, and it led him to the Wolfswoods. What else could the man have done when his name was not Targaryen, Arryn, or Stark?”

Having no retort, Ned breathed deeply, mastering his anger. The last time his wolfsblood stirred, a Grafton knight had disparaged his Northern roots and First-Men blood. Cyril Fairchild had offered no such insult, but his words had struck something fundamental:

How? How could he make light of such acts of courage, struggle, and sacrifice? How could he divest those deeds of meaning? Cyril Fairchild was the strongest man Ned had ever known. He had wealth and power in all its forms. If he viewed the world with such defeat, what hope was there for weaker, lesser men?

“Was that what the Scourge of Beasts was to you, my lord?” Ned asked as he forced himself to calm. However much he hated the Hunter’s words, hate would not help him understand, “Winter by a different name?”

Cyril Fairchild smiled, “At the time, it had felt like the Long Night.”

The young Stark stood his ground, “How did you prevail if not by strength of character or arms?” he demanded, “How did you survive when you too were cast out to sea?”

“By drifting atop the corpses of worse and better men.”

The Hunter turned to the hearth as though memories would play out in the flickering flames, “The battle against the Scourge was already long-fought and near-lost when I arrived in Yharnam. The tragedies of brave and wicked men paved my every step; their lives formed the cobblestones beneath my feet.”

He reached above the hearth, “I minded their mistakes and reaped the efforts of their labor. Even then, victory had been a close thing.”

His hands lifted an ornament from atop the mantle.

“Time and again, I was tested. I battled the beasts that overtook Old Yharnam, cut down countless denizens driven mad by the Scourge, and slaughtered the true monsters of the Choir and Mensis.” An undercurrent of old hate simmered beneath the Hunter’s whispered words and calm composure.

“I ended them all. I took from them as they did from me and failed the few innocents left in my care.”

Lord Fairchild held the ornament for Ned to see, a music box not unlike Lyanna’s. When the Hunter lifted the lid, and as the library echoed with a haunting melody, the young Stark laid eyes on a bloodstained ribbon, once belonging to a young girl. Neither spoke as the music played, and the Hunter returned the box to the mantle with care.

“The young man who entered Yharnam forsook things he once thought sacred and discarded others he once held dear. I am what remains.” Something somber passed behind his eyes, “I do wonder if there is enough left for my old family to recognize, much less love.”

The Hunter turned to his student, “It is not my place to belittle you, Eddard. Live well, with honor or without. The world will test you regardless and exact its price. I only hope it does not cost you more than you can afford.”

Silence returned to the room. Ned considered his words before speaking again, “Thank you, my lord. I am grateful that you would entertain my questions.”

The Hunter knew what was to come, “And yet?”

“I cannot abide by your advice or follow your example. Nor can I give up what you have,” Ned confessed, raising his head and finding courage with every word, “Honor never promises a man his fortune or even his life. That is not what it protects.”

“And what does it protect?”

“Those we leave behind,” Ned answered, and he noticed a change in the Hunter as he spoke, “It is a matter of inheritance, not legacy.”

His mentor smiled, “The difference?”

“Legacy is what a man seeks for himself; inheritance is what he leaves to kith and kin,” the Stark scion squared his shoulders and pressed on, “An honorable man may have little to give, but a dishonorable one will only pass on a curse: For all that the Martells tout their princedom, none have forgotten how that came to pass, how they and theirs murdered a king under a banner of truce.”

Grey, stormy eyes held the Hunter’s gaze, “Westeros is not so large that a Stark might escape his name. The world may exact its price, but I’ll not become something my family cannot recognize.”

The Hunter regarded his student with newfound interest, “Well said, Eddard, but that poses a question: If honor is intended to protect, would you discard your honor once it failed its purpose? Would you damn yourself to protect those you hold dear?”

When Ned failed to answer, a hand fell upon his shoulder, gentle but cold.

“Suppose I told you that I intended to take a nap, and when I awoke, I would visit your home and murder everyone within,” the cadence of his voice never changed, not even as Ned’s hand went for his sword, “Would you allow me to wake up?”

The question lingered. The silence stretched and encroached on eternity. Ned’s throat went dry as words failed him, and his hand fell from his sword. All he could do was shake his head.

When the Hunter lowered his hand and Ned beheld the approval in his eyes, he recalled his mentor’s words–of asking the right man the right questions–and wondered if he had failed in both regards.

Ned sat with his family for supper, poking his unfinished stew. He had last seen his mentor two days ago, yet their conversation lingered in his mind, a writhing mass of dark implications and intrusive thoughts.

When Brandon had asked what they had discussed, Ned had been unable to say. The Hunter had detailed a life Ned could scarcely imagine and a resulting perspective he struggled to understand. The Hunter had not insulted Ned’s beliefs, but the question he had asked…Ned had felt played with, prodded, and stretched thin. He desperately wanted to hate the Hunter for it.

‘Time and again, I was tested.’

But unbloodied and unseasoned as he was, could he pass judgment on Cyril Fairchild? Would he come to understand the man once he faced his own battles and found himself changed beyond recognition? The thought brought a newfound fear to Ned’s heart.

Suddenly, the doors of the Great Keep opened.

Brent stood in the doorway, drenched in sweat, barely held upright by two fellow guards, eyes reflected barely-concealed panic.

“Bandits, Milord! Bandits at the Workshop!”

Pandemonium followed.

Brandon watched as twenty-two horses galloped toward the Workshop. Father and Rodrik led the company, scouts already sent ahead in case of ambush. News of what happened had spread like wildfire, Lyanna and Benjen had been sent to their rooms, and the whole of Winterfell’s garrison stood on guard.

The air tasted of tension and fear that set his wolfblood aflame. The eldest Stark closed his eyes, exhaled through gritted teeth, and willed his hand from his blade. He noticed the harsh lines on the face of the guards and overheard the fearful mutterings of servants who feared the worst. But for all of his anger, Brandon was not afraid.

He had not been afraid when Brent reported the bandits–over a dozen strong–riding for the Workshop, nor had he been surprised to learn Father had been monitoring the manor. Panic did not set in when he learned his mentor and Lady Evetta had refused to leave, that Donald had volunteered to stay behind while Brent went to send word.

Cyril Fairchild–the Hunter–was strong. Brandon doubted there was stronger. If the Hunter could disarm him and six guards alone, he could kill many more with less care.

Brandon had not felt afraid, not until Father departed. Once the last rider left the gates, a commotion led him to the stables, where Ned faced three guards with his silver sword drawn.

“Ned!”

His brother turned, eyes set with panic and urgency.

“I’m leaving.” Brandon had never heard Ned so terrified.

“Lord Brandon! Please,” the guards implored, refusing to draw their swords, “Help your brother see reason!”

“I’m leaving!” Ned repeated, shouting this time, “None of you can best me, so step aside!”

The silver sword trembled in his brother’s hands, and Brandon’s heart raced. He could not raise his blade against his brother. Father would not come home to two dead or dying sons.

“Lord Fairchild can defend himself,” he said, desperate, wondering when he had become the voice of reason. Father had already lost an heir to dishonor. He would not lose another to madness.

Ned shook his head, “It’s not him I’m afraid for!” His eyes pleaded for understanding, “Please!”

His brother would not be swayed. Brandon was the better blade, but he could not subdue Ned without injury, not while he held that sword.

Brandon would not hurt his family again.

“I’ll go,” he said the words and damned them both.

All turned to him in surprise, and the eldest Stark held their gaze, “None of you can stop us, so it’s best if you follow. This will be on my head.”

The path to the Workshop was different, no longer promising an escape from Winterfell and the reminders of all he had done. Ned rode at his side with one guard in front and two behind. Brandon prayed to the Old Gods that the fighting would be over when they arrived.

He had not expected to gain on Father’s party halfway to the manse or to find them on foot. The reason became apparent as his own horse halted and refused to move.

“Brandon, Ned?” Father stepped forward, Ice in hand, his face awash in rage and horror, “Why are you here!”

“We came to help.”

Father made to speak, only to be stopped by the sound of movement. The Northerners turned as one, swords drawn.

A man ran down the path, armored but unarmed.

“THE BLACK! I’LL TAKE THE BLACK! PLEASE! OLD GODS, PLEASE! I’LL-”

Metal parted flesh, twisted bone, and the man’s cries were silenced by screams.

Chapter Text

WARNING: The following chapter contains graphic depictions of violence. We're earning that mature rating today. We will resume our usual family-friendly programming in future chapters.

---

Men could not fly unless on dragonback. Even as a child playing pretend, Ned had never imagined the sky to be anything but the realm of birds and dreams.

He would never forget the night a man sailed through the air, bifurcated in two, crashing into the snow at his feet. The air suddenly tasted of iron, perfumed with the caustic stench of viscera. The young Stark fought back bile as the screams of the still-living man etched themselves into his mind and memory.

Only when the screams began to die did Ned dare to look upon the figure at the end of the road. The moon illuminated the contours of a familiar coat and three-pointed hat. Dark clothes concealed his features, and what remained was obscured by shadows, but there was no mistaking those eyes agleam with shards of starlight.

Stepping over the lower half of his recent prey, the Hunter held a monstrous cleaver the size of a horse’s head, crowned with a mane of serrated teeth. Scars and gashes marred every facet of its well-worn blade, reflecting a tool of cold utility and cruel intent.

The Hunter drew his arm back, and the cleaver folded upon itself with a dreadful sound, transforming into a horrific facsimile of a saw. Even from afar, the young Stark could hear the steel grate against his bones and felt the sheer weight of the weapon the Hunter swung with ease. Ned’s heart raced as his hand went for his silver sword, staying there as the Hunter approached.

Moonlight cast his visage in sharp detail, lending color to the blood and ichor dripping from his hands and clothes like oiled ink. The world shifted and shrank as the Hunter drew near, and the Wolfswood no longer seemed so vast that Ned might escape his gaze. But behind the matted blood, Cyril Fairchild looked as he always had after a lesson, and it unsettled the young Stark how familiar–how recognizable–his mentor remained: His dispassionate eyes awash in an ocean of calm and control. His bearing suggested a man performing a chore, well-practiced and routine.

Rickard stepped between the Hunter and his sons.

“Lord Fairchild,” the Lord of Winterfell offered no further greeting. Ice remained at his side.

The Hunter regarded the Northern lord with a far-off gaze, hooking the cleaver to his belt and making no comment when none returned the gesture. Removing his mask, the Master of the Workshop inhaled the lingering vestiges of miasma and blood.

“Lord Stark,” the Hunter returned. His words echoed composure, the thin line of his lips the only indication of his displeasure, “I see Brent managed to send word. I trust he survived?”

“He returned to us uninjured,” Rickard answered. The warden held the Hunter’s gaze, and Ned saw his father embody a commander of men and veteran of war, “I would ask the same of you and your wife.”

“Evetta and Donald remain unharmed,” the Hunter’s voice entertained no alternative. He gestured to what remained of the bandit, “They never passed the gate.”

Rickard nodded solemnly, eying the body, “Was he the last?”

Before that night, Ned would have thought it absurd to imply one man could prevail against five, never mind a dozen. Yet the Hunter stood before them, bereft of injury, soaked in more blood than a man could spill.

“I left their leader last,” The words were devoid of anticipation, satisfaction, or even anger. They stated a matter of course and dared Rickard to argue.

The warden was forced to give ground, “What happened here?”

“I greeted our intruders,” the Hunter answered, as though it were the most sound and sensible thing, “I offered them gold and asked them to leave. Evetta and I had hoped to resolve the matter before you and your men came to harm.”

Cyril Fairchild breathed out, his breath catching the light like plumes of stardust, “They had laughed at the offer and countered with one that mentioned Evetta.”

The Hunter did not elaborate. His words implied enough, and his actions spoke for themselves.

“If that satisfies your questions, Lord Stark, I fear I have some for your sons.”

The Hunter turned his gaze on Ned and remained unmoved even as the warden readied his sword, and the guards followed suit.

“Your father would not have permitted you to follow him on such a dangerous venture, so I must ask why you are here, Eddard.”

All eyes fell upon the young Stark, and Ned struggled to speak, the apologies and excuses he had prepared nowhere to be found. As he searched for a reply, Brandon stepped forward.

“This is my fault,” he said, falling on one knee, “Father ordered us to remain at home, but I disobeyed him and dragged Ned here.”

The Hunter spared Brandon a glance, “Is this true, Eddard?”

It would have been so easy to nod. It would have been even easier to say nothing at all and affirm Brandon’s guilt with silence. But the young Stark had noticed the look of anger and betrayal in Father’s eyes at Brandon’s words, and he recalled his own mere days ago. Had he not lectured Lord Fairchild on honor? What would his be worth if he kept silent?

“N-no,” Ned stammered. The word felt strangled and heavy in his throat, but those that followed came easier, “I was the one who disobeyed Father. Brandon only came to protect me.”

The young Stark held his ground, ignoring the disappointment and relief on Father’s face and the murmurs that passed over the men.

“You know my next question, Eddard.”

Ned nodded, “I came to guard Lady Evetta, to make sure nothing happened to her during the fighting,” he met the Hunter’s eyes and refused to look away, “I didn’t think we’d recognize what you would become if she came to harm.”

The Hunter did not reply, nor did he deny his student’s claim. Instead, he smiled, and the approval in his eyes did not feel like praise.

A rattled gasp disturbed the silence. To the Northerner’s horror, the bandit shuddered, clinging miraculously to life. Another breath rattled from his throat, forming bloody bubbles on his lips, but Ned made out the beginnings of a plea. A prayer.

The Hunter did not even look his way before producing a sidearm from his waistcoat. To Ned’s eye, the weapon resembled a reinforced club of wood and iron, yet the trigger mechanism identified it as the pistol Lord Fairchild had described. The young Stark braced himself to witness a man die to a bolt, only to be blinded by light and deafening thunder. Distantly, he felt Father push him back as he lost his footing. The young Stark righted himself in time to see smoke waft from the weapon and the man’s head disappear, painting the surrounding snow pale red and grey.

The Hunter lowered the weapon, paying no mind as a guard emptied his stomach nearby.

“I request your help with the bodies, Lord Stark.”

---

Ned had seen men die: At Elbert’s name-day tourney, a hedge knight broke his neck falling from his horse. The body had been pulled from the tilt lines before Ned realized what had happened, and the next joust had commenced without delay.

He had watched Lord Arryn condemn cruel, hardened men and remembered how even they grew afraid when led through the Moon Door.

He had witnessed an ambushed patrol return to the Bloody Gate, where a wounded squire had bled out in his saddle. His comrades had closed his eyes, giving his features a veneer of peace.

There was no peace to be found at the Workshop, only the silence of dead men and the fear of those who stripped them bare. The Northerners found fourteen bodies near the manor. Eight had died at the gate; the others cut down as they fled. Most were missing a limb; others had been gutted. The bloody hand and footprints beside each corpse told the same tale: These men had not enjoyed quick deaths. They had been maimed and left to die, granted time for contemplation, reflection, and regret.

Ned walked alongside Father and Brandon, passing broken bodies with slack, tear-stained faces, mouths agape in wordless prayer. The lady of the manor stood by the gate, Donald at her side. Though the young man looked too stricken to defend himself, much less another, Lady Evetta appeared no different than she had days before.

“Honorable Lord,” She greeted with a bow.

Father returned the gesture, “Lady Evetta, I am glad to see you safe.”

The lady inclined her head. A specter of sadness passed over her features as she watched her husband assist the guards, “I had hoped he would find peace in the Waking World.”

The Starks gave no reply, having no words to offer.

---

Father’s men looted the dead in silence. No rebuke was levied against those who lost their stomachs and left to gather wood for the pyre. No remarks were made as the Hunter stripped tattered cloaks from corpses with a practiced hand and tore through shirts of riveted mail with equal ease. Three piles took shape: One of bodies, one of armor, and one of arms.

Ned studied the tailored mail, castle-forged steel, and well-weighted purses. Father and Rodrik’s expressions grew grim at the sight of their prize. Ned shared a glance with Brandon and knew they thought the same.

With the bodies gathered, the Hunter doused the pyre in pitch and set it ablaze, breathing steadily as the Northerners shielded themselves from the smell of smoke and burning flesh.

He then turned his attention to a man sprawled beneath a tree some thirty paces from the manor. He was a man of middling years, wearing fine brigandine with a sword at his hip. Scarred and powerfully built, he would have looked formidable were he able to stand. As it was, he lay helplessly where the Hunter had propped him against the tree, forcing him to witness what became of his men.

“M-monster.”

There was no fire left in the man, his words the last embers of a dying flame.

Cyril Fairchild knelt before him and raised his chin.

“Take slow breaths,” he instructed, ever the teacher, “I did not break your neck high enough to hamper your breathing.”

In the silence of the Workshop, Ned could hear the words, detecting the familiar calm and composure that chilled his blood more than any display of anger.

“You will die here. You were dead before you arrived. Had you accepted my offer and left, I would have followed and propped you against a different tree. But do not worry: You and your men will live on in my dreams, and we will reenact this night without end.”

The Hunter stood and drew his pistol. Once more, Ned heard the sound of thunder, and a headless corpse fell against the snow.

---

“Fourteen men?” Luwin’s fingers went white against his tankard.

“Fifteen counting the captain. Fairchild burned him last.”

Fane passed a hand over his face, “He slew fifteen men alone?”

“Butchered,” Rodrik corrected. He drained his ale and filled his companions’ to the brim, “The corpses were missing chunks. Never seen the like. And aye, poor lad’s been quiet, but I reckon Donald wasn’t much involved.”

Luwin cast long looks into the contents of his cup, “Old Gods help us all.”

A murmur of agreement passed over the table as the Warden of the North observed in silence. The night had been a mess of activity after the bodies were burned. The Hunter had set off for the bandits’ camp, leaving the gold he had offered now-dead men in Rickard’s care. Lady Evetta had accompanied her husband, and none had dared to protest.

The return to Winterfell had been made in silence. The Northerners had found their horses, and a dozen none had recognized. Despite the lack of casualties, the guards had carried themselves with the morale of defeated men. Riding through the gates, Rickard embraced Benjen and Lyanna before sending his children to their rooms and summoning his council.

Now he sat in his solar, recalling the massacre at the Workshop. He had not witnessed such a scene since the war, when he had charged the bulwark of Bloodstone as a younger man. Cyril Fairchild had left no survivors, and while Rickard would have preferred the ringleader alive, he had been unable to challenge the Hunter, not with his sons so close and at risk.

The thought of his two eldest sons darkened his spirits. He would have words with Eddard. What those words would be, he remained unsure.

Fane Poole was the first to break the silence, “I am starting to understand why the Vilebloods brought Lord Fairchild into their fold, going so far as to marry one of their own.”

Rodrik grunted, “Aye, what fool of a father lets a son like that become a maester?”

“A wise man with sound judgment,” the greybeard countered, “Unless his firstborn was the Warrior reborn, history has shown what happens when a second son so overshadows the elder.”

On that, Rickard agreed. Cyril Fairchild once headed a powerful order and had married a lady of high standing. Per Lyanna’s handmaiden, he had a male heir, likely fostering with his mother’s family, and the roots of said family ran deep, given evidence of their ties–perhaps even marriage–to royalty. Men with less have strived for more.

The maester seemed to share his thoughts, “Lord Fairchild has not returned to the Great Isles since becoming Master of the Workshop. Alongside his ties to Cainhurst, he likely feared his presence would have threatened his nephew’s birthright.” Luwin ruminated into his cup, “I think this speaks well of his character.”

“The corpses said plenty enough,” Rodrik countered, though his voice carried more weariness than bite, “At least the man’s not lied about his origins: Had he come from Essos, we’d have heard about the monster during the war, and Maelsy would’ve lost his moniker.”

Once more, Rickard found little room to argue. The Hunter’s prodigious strength, coupled with his wife’s height, had always raised concerns regarding the nature and quality of men beyond the Sunset Sea. Tonight had forced those concerns to the forefront of Rickard’s mind. His only comfort was the certainty that Lord Fairchild’s strength had been exceptional, else the Vilebloods would not have pursued him so doggedly.

There were also the man’s weapons to consider. In truth, Rickard was unsure where to begin. The Northerners had already suspected the Fairchilds of having some form of magic. A mountain of glass would not have appeared in Wintertown otherwise. But it was becoming evident that not all magic from the west was so benign, and the North–no, the Seven Kingdoms–had no recourse for the weapons Lord Fairchild possessed.

Following Rodrik’s example, the maester upended his tankard, “What are we to do?”

The knight folds his arms, expression growing sour, “I’ve never liked the man. I like him less now, given the work he’s caused me, but Fairchild had the right of it tonight: Bastards came for him and his, and he made them pay for it. Lords had men killed for less.”

“And we have all but acknowledged him as the Lord of the Workshop–if not the surrounding Wolfswood–for the next six years,” Fane finished, passing a hand through his beard.

Rickard broke his silence, three sets of eyes turning as he spoke, “The events of tonight changed nothing. Our arrangement with Lord Fairchild stands, as does his tutelage of my sons and Lady Evetta’s recent lessons with my daughter.”

His words were met with concern. Even Luwin, who thought better of the man than most, expressed apprehension, “Is that wise, my lord?”

Grey eyes passed over the room as Rickard contemplated the words, giving them their due.

“Cyril Fairchild is a dangerous man. Of that, there was never any doubt. Our only question was the extent, and we glimpsed that answer tonight. More than ever, we cannot make an enemy of him,” Strange as it sounded, for all that he had been surprised, Rickard had not felt deceived. The Hunter had always carried himself with an air of danger. In training Brandon and Ned, the Hunter had shown his potential for violence. Tonight saw that potential fulfilled.

“We have taken his gold and his glass. My own son made an attempt on his life. Would you have me rescind our agreement now that he was attacked on our lands?”

When his question was met with silence, the warden spoke once more, finding little joy in what was to come, “On that matter, I fear there are pressing details to discuss.”

The old steward sighed and reached for his drink, “In all my years, I have never seen so much castle-forged steel added to the armory after a bandit raid.”

Rickard looked to his sworn sword, who nodded grimly, “The lads recognized some of them,” the knight grunted, voice almost a growl, “They were Whitehill men.”

The weight of the words and all they implied fell upon the room, leaving the air tense and heavy.

Luwin shook his head, chains rattling as he did, “Bolton has made a move.”

“Fool’s made a mistake,” Rodrik barked back, “The treacherous cunt must’ve leached out his brains with his blood!”

“It is far less foolish than you might imagine, Rodrik,” the steward looked to his lord and was met with agreement.

Roose Bolton had targeted the Fairchilds. Through spies in Winterfell or White Harbor, the Lord of the Dreadfort had learned of House Stark’s supposed glassmaker. Whether he knew the quantity of glass Rickard held hardly mattered: The ambitions of the Red Kings had not died with the last rebellion, and Bolton realized Rickard’s recent windfall would have rendered those ambitions untenable.

The plan had been daring but clever. During the coming feast, Rickard had intended to confirm the rumors Fane had planted in White Harbor. Had the Fairchilds died before then, he would have been forced to denounce the rumors, perhaps even the very existence of the Fairchilds: To do any less was to admit guests had died under his protection, that he had allowed a great boon–not only to House Stark but the North–to slip through his fingers. The panes hidden in the crypts would have collected dust, for how would Rickard have explained Winterfell’s glass production without a glassmaker?

The Warden of the North closed his eyes as his anger swelled: Roose would have made him an unwilling accomplice in the murder of his own guests.

This had not been a raid but an assassination. Such a task required trained and trusted men. Sellwords were not known for such qualities and using his own bore too great a risk, so Bolton had called upon Highpoint. There had been risks even then—risk of failure and capture—but not ruin, not truly. The North was a harsh land: Losing a patrol was not uncommon, nor were men-at-arms turning brigands. Had the men been captured, their words would not have held against Whitehill, never mind Bolton, a high lord. Ludd would have disavowed his men, Roose would have called upon his goodfather’s support, and others would have followed. The Boltons were mistrusted, but the lords of the North would not condemn one of their own over the death of a foreigner.

“It takes twelve days to travel from Highpoint to Winterfell on horseback, longer if you evaded patrols,” Fane mused, “To coordinate such an attack, Bolton must have planned this the moment he heard of the Fairchilds.”

Rodrick turned to his liege, eyes burning with anger, “He has to answer for this.”

“Where are the men?”

The knight frowned but answered all the same, “In the guard tower. Gave them five dragons a piece and locked them in a room with enough ale to last till morning.”

The warden nodded. Rumors would be contained, as well as they could be. His men would recognize the gold for what it was, “They will say nothing of what happened tonight.”

“My lord–”

“Roose Bolton has moved against us, but this was an act of desperation, not daring,” his voice turned cold as a modicum of anger bled through, “He does not know the fate of his men, whether they had failed or simply abandoned their task. Nor can he exclude their capture. We will not aid him in this regard.”

Luwin considered his words, “Without information, he cannot act.”

Rodrik shook his head, “Need I explain the dangers of a cornered animal?”

“We are less than a moon from the spring feast. It will take two weeks for Bolton to travel to Winterfell. He will arrive with his regular retinue: He has no time to muster his forces, and we have given him no cause to justify such action.”

This was war, war without battlelines or banners, but war all the same. Roose had nearly dealt House Stark a crippling blow, but he could not have accounted for the Hunter. Now the Lord of the Dreadfort had shown his hand, his men lay dead, and Rickard saw his enemies for what they were.

Bolton would live to see morning. He would survive the feast and return to the Dreadfort, but that was all he would do: Live and watch as Rickard tore the foundations of his house out from under him piece by piece.

The Warden of the North turned to Luwin, “We will send word to Lord Manderly at daybreak,” his foster brother commanded the greatest force of heavy cavalry in the North. Their presence would be a welcome addition to the feast, “The North has found itself a glassmaker, with great assistance from House Manderly. The first shipment will rightly go to White Harbor, and such valuable cargo will require a formidable escort.”

“Bolton will see through the pretense,” Fane warned.

“It cannot be helped. The feast is upon us, and the safety of our guests remains paramount. Bolton has already proven himself willing to attack those under our protection,” Rickard’s voice took on a vicious edge, “And knowing his position does not make it easier to change.”

“The feast won’t be our only concern, Milord. Could be a diversion,” Rodrik warned, though talk of strategy seemed to pacify him, “We’ll have to double the patrols. Even two hundred armed men crossing the border would wreak havoc when all the lords of the North are knee-deep in mead.”

Rickard nodded, “See it done,”

“I take it the Dreadfort will not see a glass garden this spring?” Luwin ventured.

Rickard felt the beginnings of a smile, “Bolton will be promised one as planned.”

Fane chuckled behind his cup, “I imagine he will struggle to gather the enemies of House Stark under his banner while continuing to receive our favor.”

“House Stark will keep its word,” the warden assured, “But with gardens promised to three other houses, it will be difficult to say just how many will be constructed before winter.”

Bolton would stand alone. Though he had proven himself capable and clever, Roose was a young, untested lord carrying a family legacy of failed rebellions, and Rickard was a veteran of war. The Dreadfort had fewer allies, and that number would dwindle in the days to come.

“And what of Fairchild?” Rodrik asked, “Man’s no fool. I’d bet a ballock he made one of the bastards talk before making him a corpse. Bolton will resemble his own banner if Fairchild gets his hands on him. I’d not object, but others might have questions, Milord.”

“I will speak with him in the morrow,” Rickard said no more on the matter, and in truth, there was nothing more to say. He stood, and his inner circle followed, “Relay my orders to the men and prepare the ravens to fly at first light.”

Rickard watched as his council bowed and departed. They had done what they could. Recklessness would damn them as fast as inaction. As he made for his room, anticipating troubled thoughts and fitful sleep, the Warden of the North vowed Bolton would not be the ruin of his house.

---

Two days later, ravens reached Winterfell, bearing missives that went out to every castle and keep in the North: Roose Bolton and Ludd Whitehill had died in their sleep.

TBC

Chapter Text

The Morning After the Attack:

"I must apologize for what happened."

"You keep apologizing for matters outside your control, Lord Stark," Lord Fairchild's voice carried a familiar air of amusement glaringly absent the night before, "Once you start apologizing for the horrors of the world, you will find little time for anything else."

Under the shadow of the Great Hall, the Warden of the North stood beside the Master of the Workshop. Sporting a clean wardrobe, the younger lord had approached the western gate at daybreak. Were it not for the terrified horses trailing behind him or the set of bloodstained swords the Hunter held, Rickard would have thought the previous night a dream.

"Is Lady Evetta well?"

The Hunter nodded, "She looks forward to resuming her lessons with your daughter. As for your sons, please inform them they have the next two days to themselves."

Something unreadable passed behind his eyes, and–for a moment–the Hunter did not appear so entertained. Rickard found no desire to argue nor words to offer. He instead turned his gaze to the grim contents of the Hunter's hand, no doubt once belonging to the poor fools he found at the camp, "I had hoped you would have left some alive. It would have made matters easier."

"Would it now?" Some levity returned to the young lord's voice as he arched a brow and regarded the warden with doubt, "I must disagree, Lord Stark. You have no evidence, no leads, and the testimony of your guards will not hold against those of high birth. Right now, there is little you can do and no need to act. Evetta and I see no reason for that to change."

The Hunter beckoned a guard forward, handing over the bloodstained swords as a stablehand led the horses away, "I live in the woods, so I encounter bears and wolves aplenty. Yesterday was no different: I chanced upon beasts without fur or fangs but beasts all the same. Those men died for their intent, not the threat they posed."

The Hunter bowed and made to leave, "Put this matter out of your mind. I trust the upcoming feast will occupy enough of your time."

"Lord Fairchild," The warden's eyes bore into the Hunter's back, "I request you take no action against those responsible. Not yet."

The Hunter turned enough to meet his gaze, "I promise to do no more than I already have, Lord Stark."

Chapter Text

WARNING: The following chapter contains a smidge of smut. We will resume our usual family-friendly programming eventually.

The Greatjon laughed as he swung a slab of iron the length of a man with deceptive speed and skill. A veritable mountain of meat and mail, he roared in challenge.

And Brandon roared back.

The assembled lords watched transfixed as Rickard’s sons beset the Lord of Last Hearth.

Brandon sidestepped the giant’s strike and deflected a vicious backswing as the pain in his arms and the screams of the crowd set his blood aflame. Ned charged in, giving Brandon a moment’s rest. Wondering how this madness had come to pass, the elder Stark quickly chalked it up to good fortune and bad luck.

They had done well. Brandon had bested half a dozen warriors, Medger Cerwyn, Helman Tallhart, and Robett Glover among them, but the battered shoulder and bruised ribs he had earned were taking their toll.

Ned had claimed his own victories against Wendel Manderly and Willam Dustin. Brandon had grown concerned when his brother faced Jorah Mormont, who had distinguished himself against Lord Karstark and numerous lesser men, but Ned stood by his side, and they did not.

When the Greatjon saw Rickard’s sons were the last afield, his laugh had nearly roused the Winter Kings from their sleep. He had invited the brothers to attack him together, and they had obliged. Most would have thought it madness, for the Greatjon was more than twice their age and double their combined weight, but the Hunter was stronger and faster by far.

Cyril Fairchild was insurmountable; Greatjon Umber was not.

Brandon gathered himself and charged as Ned gave ground. Forced to contend with both brothers, the Greatjon swung his blade in a sweeping arc. Acting with more daring than sense, the elder Stark ducked under Umber’s blade and delivered a thrust to his side. The Greatjon grunted, unable to retaliate as Ned fell upon him. Capitalized on the opening, Brandon half-handed his sword, bound Umber’s wrist, and twisted. Hard. The sword fell from Umber's hand as Brandon snaked his blade around the giant's arm until the tip rested against his throat.

The crowd fell silent. Not even Father spoke over Lord Umber’s booming laughter.

“Night King’s tits! Since when did the wolf pups sprout teeth?”

“About the same time the giant grew long in the tooth, my lord.”

The Greatjon’s smile threatened to break his face, “I’ll let you pups tussle this out. The winner will drink with giants tonight!”

The Lord of Last Hearth departed the field in good spirits, and the Starks were met with thunderous applause.

Brandon regarded his brother.

“You unhurt?

Ned nodded, breaths labored and short, “My blood feels like fire.”

Brandon smiled, “Mine as well.”

His brother raised his sword; Brandon nodded his assent.

The Doll sat beside her husband, clapping as the elder wolf helped his brother stand.

“Will you go to them, Good Hunter?”

The Hunter shook his head as he placed his hand over her own.

“Let them have their day.”

Gregor Forrester immersed himself in the sights and sounds of the Great Hall. He recalled the first time he laid eyes on Winterfell, how he had stood with his mouth agape, and Father had to close his jaw. Even now, as Ironrath’s representative and a member of Lord Glover’s retinue, the feeling remained much the same.

Banners from every house adorned the walls. Every breath was perfused with the scent of smoke, roasted meat, and wine. The air pulsed with the hearts of a thousand guests, and the swell of their voices drowned out mistrals and music alike.

The melee was the talk of the evening, and Gregor could hardly fault other lords for their fervor. More than the joust, the melee was the source of true prestige North of the Neck, and the Starks had won much today. Lord Brandon and Eddard's duel with the Greatjon befitted the old stories. Like the Kings of Winter, they had laid the giant low. Gregor doubted there had been a greater spectacle since Barristan Selmy unhorsed Duncan the Tall.

Lord Stark’s sons did not find themselves wanting for attention. Lord Eddard sat among Lord Dustin and Cerwyns’ retinue while Lord Brandon, the champion of the melee, stood surrounded by a throng of Umber and Mormont men. Gregor had yet to approach the elder Stark, choosing to observe from afar. In Wintertown, the heir of Ironrath had heard whispers that Lord Richard’s heir was vicious in the yard and graceless in defeat. Gregor knew better than to believe such rumors, but that they existed at all–so close to Winterfell–left him uneasy.

The melee was far from the only topic discussed. Gregor spied many a guest stealing glances at a mild-mannered man in dark clothes and the tallest woman he had ever seen. They had first been sighted last evening before the feast. Slipping into the hall without introduction, they had seated themselves with the Manderlys. The man had danced with his wife earlier, the swirling, sweeping movements turning a great many heads. They had since kept to Lord Manderly’s retinue, the man conversing with Ser Wylis and Marlon while Lady Manderly, her goodcousin Lady Hornwood, and gooddaughter Leona Woolfield encircled his wife.

Gregor regarded the scene with a frown. The gleaming buttons of the man’s coat and the fist-sized opal on his wife’s breast were proof enough that they had not wandered in from the village market, yet they were undeniably foreign. Were there ever a man allowed to break doctrine, it would be Lord Stark’s foster brother. Still, the thought of Lord Manderly inviting foreigners sat ill with Gregor, and no doubt others felt the same: The Harvest Feast was a Northern affair, a time for every lord between the Gift and Neck to exchange news and discuss matters of the Realm.

Of course, Gregor knew better than to voice such thoughts. For Lord Manderly to invite the foreigner, knowing full well his fellow lords would disapprove, the man must be a merchant prince of some import, and the Forrester heir knew better than to meddle with the affairs of White Harbor. Lord Manderly was a fair man by reputation, but Gregor would give him no cause to cease trade with Ironrath.

He kept those thoughts in mind as the stranger walked his way.

“Lord Forrester, I presume?”

Small as his family was, the heir of Ironrath had not expected the man to recognize his heraldry. “Gregor Forrester,” he corrected, still unsure of the man’s name or station, “Lord Forrester would be my father.”

“Lord Gregor, then,” the man amended, smiling as he introduced himself, “Cyril Fairchild.”

Fairchild? Though the name sounded Andal and the man had the coloring of a Stormlander, the Forrester heir had never known a clean-shaven storm lord, much less one that favored such dreary attire. Then there was the man’s accent, which resembled no dialect of Common Gregor had ever heard. Perhaps he hailed from Pentos, which controlled much of old Andalos and housed many families of Andal blood.

The reasoning felt sound yet off-target.

From afar, Cyril Fairchild had appeared wholly unremarkable. The man looked handsome enough–as men of high birth tended to be–but he was no Targaryen, Lannister, or Dayne. Nor was he near as tall or powerfully built as half the Umbers in the hall. Yet there was a striking sharpness to his features and a brightness to his eyes that made their shade difficult to discern.

Closer inspection of the man’s drab-colored clothes further revealed intricate stitching and needlework, the threads of wool woven so tight and uniform Gregor nearly mistook them for silk. For all their lack of embellishment, the make of the man’s gloves, mantel, and coat was beyond what even Lord Glover was known to wear. The resulting impression was that of artifice, understated but failing subtly, like a cold space amidst a warm room.

“Lord Stark has organized quite the gathering, so very different from what we have at home,” the foreigner surveyed the hall as his eyes lingered on his wife, “Evetta and I are fortunate to have received an invitation.”

“Indeed, the harvest feast has always been a much-anticipated affair, more so given the length of winter,” Gregor continued to regard the foreigner with caution and care, “When you spoke of home, may I ask where that would be, Lord Fairchild?”

He had taken a risk addressing the foreigner with such honors. Were the man merely a well-to-do merchant, Gregor–and House Forrester, by extension–would be the laughing stock of the North, but Fairchild had conducted himself with an ease that betrayed his station. More than his features, clothes, or surname, the man had navigated a gathering of lords with a practiced hand while uttering the name ‘Stark’ with respect, not reverence.

Gregor’s instincts were rewarded when Fairchild recognized the words as his due.

“Across the sea and a bit farther off,” the man answered, mischief playing upon his lips, “Lord Mandery would have been less coy and said Myr.”

Gregor nodded despite his surprise. Outrageous rumors had reached Ironrath of a Myrman and his runaway Volantene bride seeking refuge in Winterfell. Though the story had reached as far as Deepwood Motte, Lord Glover had dismissed it out of hand, and Gregor had done the same. Clearly, there was some truth to the tale, but the rumor had mentioned a tradesman, where Lord Fairchild looked more a magister’s son.

“We have our share of gatherings, everything from grand balls to smaller dances and evening parties, but nothing quite like the melee.”

Gregor nodded to his now-named companion, “Indeed, it was a spectacle worthy of song,” he looked to the high table, where Lord Brandon was attempting to outdrink Jorah Mormont, a battle Gregor doubted he would win, “Lord Stark’s sons are proving themselves the pride of the North. Don’t recall being half as good at their age.”

“Yes, they did well and still have much room to grow.”

The man’s voice carried an undercurrent of pride Gregor found strange, nearly as odd as the words themselves. The man hardly looked a swordsman, and the heir of Ironrath had half a mind to ask on what authority Fairchild made such an assessment but thought better of it. The man had offered nothing Gregor wished to gainsay, much less argue.

“You must be well versed with the North, Lord Fairchild, to know even House Forrester of Ironrath,” he offered instead and thought the words fair. Father needed to know if Lord Manderly was educating a foreigner on the inner workings of the North.

Lord Fairchild’s smile did nothing to assuage his worries, “No need to be modest, Lord Gregor. For your family to be the sole proprietor of ironwood is no small thing, and I confess that I have been looking for a new fingerboard for my cello.”

Ah, of course. Ironwood. It always came back to ironwood. “My pardons, Lord Fairchild, but the cello…is that some manner of instrument?”

“Just so. Think of it as a large, free-standing fiddle, though the description hardly does it justice.” The words painted an apt picture, though the term ‘fiddle’ was said with great resignation.

The man looked like he wished to say more but stopped mid-breath, a flash of embarrassment forming behind his eyes, “Apologies, that was unbecoming of me. This is hardly a place to discuss matters of business.”

Once more, Lord Fairchild proved himself foreign: The lords of the North had not traveled hundreds of leagues to break bread with House Stark. Winter had left every house an island in a storm, and the feast was always marked by discussions of alliances, betrothals, and trade, but Gregor allowed Lord Fairchild his assumptions. Ironwood was one of the few luxury commodities the North produced and it did not leave the North lightly. By letting the matter rest, Lord Fairchild had spared Gregor the chance to cause offense.

Just as he thought to bid the foreigner farewell, the gathered lords grew silent, heralding Rickard Stark’s arrival. As the Warden of the North took his place at the high table, Gregor recalled stories of how their overlord once claimed the heads of three Golden Company captains in a single battle. Rickard Stark lived up to the legends. Tall, long-faced with a strong bearing and cold eyes, garbed in the finest furs, the Warden of the North looked as formidable as the Wall itself, and his voice reflected that strength.

“My Lords and Ladies, I welcome you to Winterfell and the Harvest Feast. Partake in the bounty of my table, the warmth of my hearth, and let tonight hail the coming spring in truth!” The warden raised his cup, “To the long summer!”

The hall erupted in a din of noise as hundreds of fists pounded tables and the Stark name chanted like a rallying cry. The Warden allowed the sound to swell and die.

“Tonight, House Stark bids welcome to an important guest,” Gergor’s heart nearly stopped when Rickard Stark turned, raising his cup to the foreigner, “Lord Cyril Fairchild comes to us from across the sea. By his efforts, Myrish glass has been brought to our shores. Come next winter, the glass gardens of Winterfell will not stand alone.”

Unlike before, his words were not greeted with applause. A stunned silence overtook the hall as the gathered lords turned as one.

“Dear, oh dear, Lord Stark,” a smile tugged at the Hunter’s lips as a thousand pairs of eyes looked his way, “That was rather outrageous.”

Wyman speared a potato and mopped the remnants of venison gravy from his plate. Pleasantly toothsome, hearty yet fluffy in a way parsnips were not, the roasties had proved popular during the feast. Rumors were White Harbor had passed them onto Winterfell last autumn. Alas, Wyman had been unable to enjoy taking credit for the crispy morsels, much less enjoy his meal, as newfound troubles plagued his mind.

Mere weeks before the feast, Wyman had received a missive from Winterfell written in Rickard’s hand and cipher. The message bore grim news: Bolton and Whitehill had shown their true colors, orchestrating an attack that Cyril Fairchild had personally repelled. The last detail had given Wyman pause, a feeling made worse when word of Bolton and Whitehill’s deaths arrived later that day.

The Lord of New Castle would sooner forgo supper than believe the two traitors had died of natural causes.

His foster brother had not been responsible. Of that, Wyman was certain: Had Rickard wanted Bolton and Whitehill dead, he would not have informed Wyman of the attack on the Workshop. What purpose would that have served but to provide Richard with motive, brewing suspicion where none had existed? No, his brother had not been responsible, which left the list of suspects worryingly short.

Wyman glanced at the foreigner conversing with the Forrester heir while his own kin worked tirelessly to keep the gathering lords from mobbing them both.

The Lord of New Castle had been among the first arrivals at Winterfell, as was expected of Edwyle Stark’s former ward. Under the pretense of paying respects to his foster father, he had followed Rickard into the crypts to inspect the stored glass. Wyman had half hoped his foster brother had finally cracked under the strain of lordship, but seeing with his own eyes what Cyril Fairchild had offered the North left no room for doubt.

His foster brother had seemingly aged ten years in half the time, yet it was a wonder how he was alive at all: the tale Rickard retold had chilled Wyman to the bone. For a man to prevail against fifteen armsmen, for the lords responsible to die the same night…It would have been better if the Fairchilds had arrived on dragon back: At least then Wyman would have understood his position, poor as it was. Instead, Rickard was playing host to a foreigner more dangerous than the Faceless and Sorrowful Men put together.

Wyman sighed.

Lords were not murdered; it simply was not done. They died as all men do–from war, sickness, and worse–but it was never meant to be easy. Even the great game had rules that were not broken lightly, not when assassinations risked escalation and invited reprisal.

But now two Northern lords lay dead, dying the same night they attempted treachery, and the implications left Wyman cold. Cyril Fairchild was a man of magical means. Either he could kill men with only a thought or distance meant little to those who reside beyond the Sunset Sea. Either way, Fairchild could have waited: Had Bolton and Whitehill died even weeks after the attack, their deaths days apart, even Rickard would have thought it an act of providence. Instead, the deaths had been conspicuous and intentionally so.

Most of the North would be none the wiser, but Rickard would know. The butchery of Ludd’s men and the dead lords that followed had been a warning that armies and castles would not shield a man from Fairchild’s wrath.

Wyman prayed the coming days would pass without incident, but after the talks last evening, he feared even the gods would think his request over much.

"This where all our taxes are going, Rickard?"

The Greatjon laid his meaty paw against the glass. He questioned the warden with hard eyes while Wyman lamented at what passed for Northern pageantry: Umber's loyalty was beyond reproach–the man once took two goldenheart arrows in the back shielding Rickard from Maelys' archers–but the giants had long made a tradition of testing their overlord, ensuring the wolves they bowed to still had teeth.

Wyman watched as his foster brother held the Greatjon's gaze, daring the man to continue. Umber yielded with good humor as he released his hold on the priceless goods.

Robard Dustin and Bethany Bolton were not so bold, but they regarded the exchange with guarded intrigue. After all, House Stark was not known to host its vassals in a storeroom, much less one that housed more wealth than an Iron Bank vault.

The Warden of the North addressed his guests.

"My lords, I thank you for gathering this evening. The North has weathered another great winter, and it is through your sacrifices that our people yet live. House Stark thanks you, but we must remember those who gave their lives in service."

Grey eyes settled upon Roose's widow, "I offer my deepest condolences, Lady Bolton. Your husband's passing was a surprise to us all."

"Thank you, Lord Stark. His death has greatly affected our families."

Wyman eyed the woman with pity as he recalled the meek yet vibrant girl who trailed behind Rodrik Ryswell many summers ago. Bethany Bolton née Ryswell was a waif of a woman with sable hair and pallid skin. Despite the creases on her brow and strained lines of her face, she appeared calm and likewise relaxed, as though recently relieved of a great burden. The Lord of New Castle allowed himself a moment's guilt before stepping forward.

"I wish to offer my sympathies as well, Lady Bolton. White Harbor is prepared to aid the Dreadfort during these tumultuous times." Wyman dipped his head, "House Manderly further extends an offer of fosterage to Young Domeric, so that we might strengthen relations between our esteemed houses in the years to come."

When Lady Bolton and his fellow lords reacted with surprise, the merman wore his best smile, even as Bethany looked to their liege, "Both my sons are knighted and grown. Young Domeric would find welcome at New Castle."

Bethany Bolton carried herself well despite her surprise. Caught off guard as she was, Roose's widow held her poise, mouth growing thin as she surmised the merman's intent.

"My father and I thank you for your kindness, Lord Manderly."

Wyman nodded, admiring the lady's noncommittal reply. Rodrik Ryswell had not raised a fool, but this was not an offer the Lady of the Dreadfort could readily refuse.

Roose Bolton had barely been buried. For Wyman to make so bold—some would say shameless—an offer, Rickard must have given his approval, and the recently-widowed Lady Bolton could ill afford to anger their liege: With the blood of the Red Kings reduced to a single babe, the Ryswells needed Winterfell's support to keep Roose's former vassals from bucking, and the warden had declared his position without uttering a word:

'Bury the history of your house alongside your husband, or I will allow your lords to do as they please, and your son will not inherit a fief worth the name.'

In truth, Wyman had not considered taking a new ward. He had counseled Rickard to foster Domeric while their old mentor acted as regent of the Dreadfort. His brother had deemed the plan impossible: Following Roose's death, Lady Bethany had petitioned for a Ryswell cousin to assume the regency, and Rickard had no grounds to refuse. House Ryswell had been loyal. For all the world knew, House Bolton had been the same.

Furthermore, Fane was not someone Rickard could afford to lose. His son Vayon was capable, but an untested steward could not be tasked with transporting glass as far as Last Hearth and New Castle without suspicion. As much as the greybeard had earned his rest, House Stark still required his service, and Wyman's old mentor had accepted without hesitation.

Then there was the simple fact that a Bolton could not be allowed within Winterfell, where he might catch Lord Fairchild's eye. That the young boy had not shared his father's fate was a good indication that Fairchild did not intend to destroy House Bolton root and stem, but the converse was of equal concern. Four moons under the foreigner's tutelage had made Rickard's sons a match for the fiercest warriors in the North, and young Domeric could not be allowed to acquire such skill.

Wyman had no reason to protest the arrangement: This was a chance to bind New Castle and the Dreadfort through commerce and blood. The next Lady Bolton may well be a merman rather than a wolf. Rodrik Ryswell would no doubt oppose Wyman's growing influence, but the Lord of the Rills did not have near enough men to govern his late goodson's lands, not when his own holdings lay so close to the Iron Islands. White Harbor had no such concerns, and the merman would happily lend his support. Roose's death had already left Wyman uncontested as the greatest of Rickard's bannermen. Patience and planning would cement House Manderly's prominence forevermore.

The Warden of the North regarded Lady Bethany a final time and considered the matter done. Once more, he turned to the Greatjon.

"Lord Umber, to the question you asked, worry not: The glass you see was not purchased but instead payment for promises already fulfilled."

The warden's words sparked a keen look in the giant's eye, "So there was something to the rumors then?" He cracked a smile that showed great rows of yellowed teeth, "Managed to filch yourself a glassmaker, my lord?"

"He is my guest," Rickard corrected, voice curt, "You no doubt caught sight of him last evening."

"The man hardly looks Merish," Lord Dustin remarked. Well over fifty, the old Lord of Barrow Hall had been one of Rickard's strongest supporters after Lord Edwyle's passing. Even with his strength long gone, the old warrior commanded respect, "Were he more dour, I'd have taken him for a Braavosi banker."

"Andal blood runs through more of Essos than any of the Free Cities would ever admit. Coin and influence have always counted for more than coloring east of the Narrow Sea," Wyman explained.

Umber glanced his way, "You familiar with the man, Manderly?"

"I would hope so, considering I introduced him to our lord."

Rickard affirmed his words, "It was four years ago, during the last months of autumn, when Lord Manderly sent word, and I agreed to an audience with Lord Fairchild."

"Fairchild?" Wyman found himself once more with Umber's attention as the giant reddened with rage, "The man's name was Fairchild, and you thought him Myrish! Allowed him within arm's length of our lord?"

"I know my trade well, Umber," the Lord of New Castle made a show of outrage. As often the case with Umber, little acting was needed, "I can spot a mummer faster than you could a wildling. Men may have secrets without harboring deceit, and charlatans are not known to carry proof of a glassmaker's craft."

"Peace, Wyman," Robard Dustin raised a hand, silencing them both, "Lord Umber was right to voice concern, but none here question your judgment, much less the results of your work."

"And this is the work of a master," Bethany ran a hand along a pane longer than she was tall and held Wyman with questioning eyes, "Why did he leave Myre for our shores?"

"The man wishes to distance himself from family and friends who had disapproved of his marriage to a lady of Volantis' Old Blood." Wyman would never know how Rickard convinced Lord Fairchild to agree to this mummer's farce.

The Greatjon barked a laugh. "The lengths a man would go to for a pair of long legs and pretty tits. Finally, the story makes sense," the giant looked well-pleased with the jape, even as Wyman grimaced and Rickard bristled at his words, "We're harboring him, then?"

The warden shook his head, "House Stark has welcomed Lord Fairchild as a guest, and he has kindly provided glass to the North during his stay." The meaning of his words was not lost to the lords: To harbor a fugitive was to invite reprisal and retaliation, but who was Myr to demand the North surrender a guest, much less dictate the duration of his stay?

Rickard motioned to the nearly two hundred panes of glass that left his lords spellbound, "What you see here is a fraction of what has been made and promised."

"You supplied him with a foundry." Lady Bethany's face betrayed newfound respect and wariness. Wyman saw the same pass over Umber and Lord Dustin as they realized Rickard had concealed a secret of this magnitude under cover of winter.

Wyman's brother did not deny the claim, "The Workshop rests within the Wolfswoods, where Lord Fairchild and his lady wife have taken up residence. House Stark has staked much on this venture, and I would ask that none disturb his work."

The warning was clear: glass was being forged in the North under Stark patronage. To contact the Fairchilds without Rickard's approval was to undermine House Stark.

Lord Dustin passed a hand through his beard.

"Strange stories sprout from the snow each spring, but I've not heard stranger in quite some time. For the North to have its own glassmaker is welcome news, my lord. But I must ask–for this was clearly the work of a great many men–does this Myrman treat his laborers as ordained by the Old Gods and New?"

Once more, Wyman interceded, "Worry not. Fairchild brought only freeman. Slaves can be bought and sold, and Volantis has more coin than the Three Daughters put together." He allowed his words to imply the rest.

When the old warrior expressed doubt, Rickard lent his voice to the matter, "Lord Fairchild did not come to the North on a whim. Unlike the South, we have few dealings with Myr. Were trade to cease, he knew we would not feel compelled to see him home for want of Myrish carpets or lace, just as he knew we needed glass for more than ornamentation and finery," Rickard's face remained a mask of calm as Umber and Dustin's face darkened at the thought of a foreigner using the North for his ends, "But in coming to the North, Lord Fairchild has placed himself at great disadvantage: He is without connection or support. The Braavosi traders who frequent our shores are no friends of Myr, and our need is not so great that we would entertain the sanctimony of the so-called Free Cities. Lord Fairchild understands his position as well as our own,"

The warden's grey eyes passed over his lords as burgeoning anger was replaced with grudging respect, "The fruits of his work will not be enjoyed by House Stark alone."

His voice echoed finality, and the shock that followed was palpable. No doubt, the lords hoped for this from the start, guessing Rickard's intent the moment they laid eyes on the glass. But assumptions were not an offer in hand or formal decree.

The Warden of the North spoke through their silence, "My lords, Lady Bolton. Your lands represent the most productive in the North. You have fed our people through winter, defended them from wildings, and worse. House Stark will see such service rewarded."

"You honor us, my lord," Lord Dustin fell to his knees, only for Rickard to shake his head.

"The reward for service is greater service. Winter has passed, but it will come again. House Stark will call upon you and expect you stronger than you were today."

Perhaps a Southerner would have balked when such grand gifts accompanied such grim words. But this was the North, where life meant duty, and duty meant death. Rickard's words met only approval.

The Greatjon knelt, "House Umber has followed House Stark since the days before the Wall was built. We'll follow you til the day it falls, unto whatever comes thereafter."

Lady Bethany and Wyman followed his example. The Warden of the North accepted their words as the oaths and promises they were. He motioned for them to stand, and Wyman knew there was one matter left to discuss.

"In light of the great service he has rendered to the North, Cyril Fairchild will be afforded all the courtesies of a lord and guest of Winterfell."

The Greatjon huffed as he nodded, "Aye, you've made it clear, calling him 'Lord' as much as you have. A wildling would have caught on."

Wyman shot the giant with a glare, "You saw the man. Does he have the look of a smallfolk tradesman? The head of each glass-forging family sits on Myr's conclave of magisters. Lord Fairchild cannot be far removed from the most prominent of those lineages to offer us what he has. There is also his marriage to a lady of Volantene nobility–a scandal, to be sure–but hardly a mismatch."

"Lord Fairchild has abided by our laws, respected our customs, and shown every courtesy in his dealings with House Stark. He offers a gift that cannot be bought for all the gold of the Rock," Rickard Stark regarded his lords, his expression glacial with eyes like chipped ice, "Let it be known that any man who offers the Fairchilds insult will guard the Wall until his dying day. Should any man intend them harm, I will personally see him bled out before a heart tree."

“If that man’s Myrish, then I’m a Lyseni whore.”

Wyman passed a glance at his dining companion for the evening. He would have preferred to sup with his lovely wife or beloved sons. Regrettably, he had been seated beside the Greatjon and thus made a show of looking the giant up and down, "You would go hungry."

Lord Umber smiled, “You Manderlys aren’t half as clever as you think.”

“Nor you Umbers half the fools you look.”

The Greatjon laughed, motioning a serving girl for more wine, “Play your games, Manderly, but keep Rickard out of trouble,” He took the jug off the girl’s hands and waved her off, “When it all goes to shit, just point me at the men who need killing. We Umbers will take care of the rest.”

The Greatjon upended his drink; Myman raised his own, and a deal was struck.

Outside the Great Hall and far from prying eyes, Brandon focused on breathing, trying to will wine from his body with every breath. Seeing how he could still think and his thoughts did not float, the Stark scion thought he did well.

His victory over the melee had made it impossible to escape attention. Every lord in the North had wanted a word. The Umbers had made good on their promise, dragging him to their table. Jorah Mormont had gotten involved along the way, the Karstarks and Tallharts following suit. Brandon had slipped away in the ensuing contests of strength and one-upmanship.

Four moons ago, the thought of fleeing a feast had been unthinkable, just as defeating the Greatjon had been but a dream. Had he bested the giant back then, Brandon would have recounted the tale until his dying day. But the feat no longer felt so grand, and the praise he received rang false, like blind men mistaking the warmth of a fire for the sun.

He had faced the best warriors in the North, each a match for the finest Southern knight. Taking their measure, he had found them all wanting, for none could compare to the Hunter.

Father would not speak of it, neither would Ser Rodrik nor the guards, but Brandon would never forget the night his mentor defended the Workshop from a near-score of men. Brandon recalled the bodies he left in his wake, remembered seeing the Hunter’s strength in truth and feeling betrayed.

Brandon knew he had no right to feel as he had, but the feeling remained. He was no longer Father’s heir, and being the Hunter’s student was all that remained. He had hoped–with work and training–that his mentor might see him as an equal.

Those hopes had died that night. The greatest swordsman Bradon had ever known favored a weapon he could never hope to lift. Perhaps it was the magic that had allowed the Hunter to murder Lord Bolton and Whitehill, leaving his involvement undeniable but without proof. Perhaps it rested in his blood, a veritable ocean of power compared to the paltry legacy of greenseers and wargs that dotted Brandon’s own.

The results were the same: A man without a tongue could not speak, no more than one without eyes could see, or one without legs could run. No amount of work would help Brandon stand where the Hunter stood.

The young Stark shook his head, willing the thoughts away. He would never be Lord Fairchild’s equal, but he was still his student, and Cyril Fairchild remained his mentor.

He leaned against the wall of the Old Keep, closed his eyes, and focused on breathing. He counted thirty breaths before a familiar voice drew him from his thoughts.

"There you are."

Brandon opened his eyes, and Barbrey Ryswell came into view. She wore a gown bearing her house colors, red and gold, on a field of dark blue bordering black. The dress hugged her figure; the high collar and low neckline accentuated her height, rivaling his own. Her hair, coiled in a tight coiffure, accented her cheekbones, chin, and the sharp lines of her brow, the result more regal than soft and Northern in all regards.

She approached him, deftly skirting a puddle in her path while holding a goblet.

"Whatever possessed you to come here?"

"Attempting to escape unwanted attention," he offered and blamed the wine when the words came too quickly.

"Is my attention unwanted?" Her voice came more challenging than cloying, and Brandon allowed himself a laugh. He had missed her. Formally, they had exchanged words during Lord Dustin's visits to the Rills on business. Away from his foster father and Lord Ryswell's prying eyes, they had exchanged light touches, kisses, and the promise of more.

She took a spot against the Old Keep and raised her cup, "To the champion of the melee."

Brandon scoffed, "Ned had helped."

"And you landed every blow that mattered," Barbrey sipped her cup, and Brandon noted the burgeoning warmth in her eyes. The small smile that began to show meant more to him than the praise of a thousand lords, "You've not visited in a long time. A lady might think you were avoiding her."

"Father needed me home."

'Needed, not wanted, a shame he had to hide.'

She studied his face and considered his words but did not push for more. Brandon was grateful for the silence until she passed him the goblet. They were far from the Great Hall and patrolling guards. She had sought him out. Brandon knew better than to drink more than he had.

He took the cup and drained it.

"You've visited my home. This is my first time in yours," Barbrey reached for his hands as she turned to the Broken Tower, "Show me where you like to hide."

Drowning in her perfume, Brandon no longer minded sitting atop a tattered bed in an abandoned room. Barbrey lay against him, her long skirt bunched to her waist. Encircling her back and pressing her close, Brandon found her soft, warm, and wanting.

He should not be here, doing what he was. He was destined to leave the North. Other men–better men–would have promised Barbrey the world. Willam, his foster brother, had been smitten with her, but that had not stopped Brandon from pursuing her. He had been the heir of Winterfell then, but so much had changed.

He did not deserve her now. Brandon was beginning to doubt he ever had.

The wine had dulled his senses, but his mind was his own. He should not have followed Barbrey into the Broken Tower; he should have pushed her away. This would ruin her.

But she wanted him.

Father no longer wanted him for an heir, and Winterfell did not want him for a lord. Soon, Ned would not want him for a brother.

But Barbrey wanted him, desired him. He could have this.

They shared a single breath as they kissed, and Brandon lost himself in the quickening pulse beneath her skin, the way she gasped under his touch.

Then her breath hitched as the door swung ajar.

"Good, both of you are dressed."

Cyril Fairchild stood in the doorway.

"Now we have to make both of you decent."

"Who–" Barbrey was on her feet faster than Brandon could follow, her expression shifting from surprise to recognition and rage, "You're the Myrman. Why are you here?"

His mentor spared Barbrey a glance, his expression more contemplative than damning despite the judgment in his eyes. Lord Fairchild stepped forward, and Lady Evetta followed him through the door, her saddened glaze and pursed lips cutting Brandon without a word.

Lord Fairchild motioned to Barbrey and then the door.

"Lady Manderly and Lady Hornwood are waiting downstairs. They mean to tour the godswoods," His mentor spoke with a clipped tone, bereft of the courtesy he had maintained after murdering fifteen men, "Please make yourself presentable and join them."

Barbrey mistook his words for a challenge.

"Who are you to command me?" She stepped forward, and Brandon hated himself for finding her beautiful. Though caught unawares, flushed, and beset with indignation, she stood steadfast and prepared to fight, "I am Barbrey Ryswell of House Ryswell. Who are you to dismiss me like a serving–"

"Barbrey, please go," His voice bordered a plea, "Your words won't sway him."

She turned to him, ready to protest, but he held her gaze. Perhaps she heard the defeat in his voice. Maybe she saw how he was more afraid now than he ever was facing Lord Umber. None of that mattered. When Lady Evetta came forward to comb her hair and smooth her dress, Barbrey had not protested, allowing the foreign lady to guide her away.

She turned to him one last time, and he offered what assurance he could.

"Go, I'll make this right."

The Hunter allowed the tension to linger as the ladies disappeared from view, the sound of their steps turning into echoes in the evening air.

“Seeing how our customs differed, I never thought it my place to educate you or Eddard on matters of courtship, but the impropriety of trysts atop a moth-eaten featherbed is somewhat universal.”

“Why are you here?” Brandon knew he had no right to the question, yet he asked all the same. The sweet wine had long turned bitter in his gut.

“To protect my best student,” His mentor answered, sincerity reflected in his features when Brandon dared to meet his gaze.

Lord Fairchild approached the half-ruined nightstand beside the bed. He tapped the tabletop, and Brandon winced from the sound.

“Have you considered the possibility that Marquess Ryswell might hear of this? Likely from Lady Barbrey herself?” More fingers drummed against the rotten wood as the Hunter gave Brandon time to consider the question, “That this might have been her intention? Or his design?”

Lord Fairchild demanded answers, but Brandon had none to give. He considered all the times he and Barbrey had slipped away with her guards conspicuously absent. Lord Ryswell’s intentions had not been hard to discern, but Brandon had simply not cared. What had he to fear as the heir of Winterfell?

‘But you are no longer heir. You are not what she wants, and she would spurn you if she knew.’

The Hunter struck the table again. Through the maddening sound, Brandon regarded his mentor with cold eyes and gritted teeth.

“After your dalliance with his daughter, the marquess would be within his rights to see the two of you married and demand a duel if you refused.”

“Let him try!” he snarled back, “I beat the Greatjon. He won’t fare better!”

Even as he spoke, the words felt desperate and pitiful, like a beggar brandishing a crude blade with trembling hands. More than ever, his triumph over Lord Umber felt petty, his victory at the melee hollow. All his training and strength of arms would not avail him of his mentor’s judgment. Cyril Fairchild said nothing, yet Brandon felt small under his gaze, just as he had in the training yard mere moons ago.

“Do you think whatever affections Lady Barbrey might have for you would survive the wounding of her father?”

Brandon shot to his feet. He was unsure what he had intended. Perhaps he had meant to lash out; perhaps he had planned to scream or leave. But the choice was taken from him. Nausea struck him as soon as he stood, and the room spun as he fell.

The Hunter did not move from the nightstand.

“Is that the extent of your control?” he asked, “I fear for the future of House Stark if this is all the restraint its heir can muster.”

Brandon heard the question and laughed. The ugly, rasping sound left him hoarse, and he almost wished to see the Hunter’s expression but knew there would be little to see, “Then you needn’t worry, my lord,” his words dripped with scorn, directed both outwards and in, “Ned will be the next Warden of the North.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I am no longer Father’s heir!” He shouted back, “I haven’t been since the day you visited Winterfell!”

The words felt strange to say, much less confess. Brandon had never told a soul of the vow he had made beneath the heart tree, and he found no relief in the admission, only weariness.

“I see.”

A hand wrapped around him, and the Stark scion was helped to his feet. The Hunter’s face betrayed little, but something ponderous passed behind his eyes, “Brent will bring you to Maester Luwin. If anyone asks, you felt unwell and sought his help after your last contest with Marquess Umber’s kin.”

His hold grew gentle.

“Sleep tonight. Allow your thoughts to settle and blood to cool. We will speak in the morrow.”

Greatjon Umber helped himself to his tenth tankard of ale and eighth ham hock of the evening. He had also liberated several roasties from Manderly’s plate, if only to see the man’s mustache droop whenever he frowned.

Just as he signaled a servant for more ale, the Lord of Last Hearth spotted a peculiar sight.

The towering lady from Volantis had returned with her husband in tow, and neither looked terribly pleased. The pair had disappeared not long ago with no one the wiser. Small wonder how they managed that: a warrior with Lady Fairchild’s height could have served as his own banner on the battlefield.

As the night wore on, men and women from every station had retreated to their rooms–and places of lesser repute. To be sure, the coming days would see many hastily-arranged marriages and the births of as many children true and bastard-born.

So while the foreign lord’s departure with his pretty wife had hardly been a surprise, their hasty return was a touch strange. Of course, the Greatjon was not fool enough to comment.

Alas, not all Northerners were so wise.

“You two back already?” a knight wearing Ryswell colors slurred as the foreign couple approached, catching the attention of passersby, “Mustn’t have been much of a ride! Guess your husband’s more gelding than stallion!”

With his drinking companions roaring behind him, the man grew more bold, “How about trying your hands with a horse of Northern stock?”

As light laughter echoed from those nearby, the Greatjon cursed. The fool’s words were hardly the worst spouted that evening, but to direct such insults at a lady was not to be borne. Maege Mormont had brained men for less.

No, if the fool got himself thrown from the feast, that was hardly the Greatjon’s concern, but what sure as fuck was were the two Umbers–Uncle Mor’s sons at that–sitting beside the feather-brained fool, laughing and goading him on! Old God’s bones, he had warned them before the feast!

If House Umber lost its glass garden for this insult, he would drag them both to Eastwatch by the ears!

Just as he entertained the thought, the Lord of Last Hearth realized something was amiss: The laughter had died too quickly. The Great Hall had gone so quiet he could have heard snow melt. He spotted movement from the Stark guardsman and recognized the resignation of men readying a charge. The sound of a shattered pot turned his attention to a serving girl trembling with naked fear, and Manderly had turned the color of whale wax. By the Wall, what was happening?

Farther down the hall, Lord Fairchild stood eerily still. Though he gave no retort, his expression told Umber he heard the fool well enough.

The foreign lord advanced on the knight, but his wife stopped and overtook him, a deep frown upon her face.

Even the fool seemed puzzled by her approach until the towering woman grabbed him by the waist and hoisted him up like a squealing babe, surcoat and all. Without a word, she carried the flailing man over to the corner table reserved for children. Young Lyanna jumped from her seat and offered her chair. The towering noblewoman deposited the man in the chair as he thrashed, cursed, and tried to stand, but she held him in place until he ceased.

The lady then turned, bowed to Lord Stark, and returned to her husband, guiding them to seats just beneath the high table.

One man laughed, and more followed until the hall shook from the sound. The Greatjon would have joined the rumpus had he not caught sight of Rickard and the murderous look affixed upon the warden's face.

When those grey eyes fell upon him, the Lord of Last Hearth turned instead to his lackwits cousins and downed his ale.

Others be damned, House Umber would get its glass, and if he had to return home two men short, so be it.

They had stayed just long enough to be seen. Then her Hunter led them into the cold. He held her hand, leather on silk.

“Thank you.” He repeated the words once, then twice more.

“Read to me tonight, Good Hunter.”

Her husband inclined his head and guided them home.

The following morning found Brandon at the Workshop, seated in Lord Fairchild’s parlor. He had spent the night in Maester Luwin’s study, but the guards had passed word of what had happened in the Great Hall.

Officially, he was here on Father’s behalf to offer gifts and apologies for Bowen Ryswell’s behavior. That Brandon had personal matters to discuss was mere happenstance.

Already rumors ran amuck. By choosing not to leave immediately after Bowen’s insult, the Fairchilds had saved House Stark considerable face. However, their decision to decline the guest rooms Father had prepared left many wondering if they would return for today’s festivities, much less the feast at large. Brandon knew there was little to fear: Despite spending the night in Winterfell’s dungeon, the Ryswell knight and his friends had all been alive come morning.

Most would be none the wiser, but that alone spoke volumes of the Hunter’s mercy and the depths of his control. Brandon was forced to consider how poorly his own compared.

This was another wrong House Stark had to rectify, and Richard’s eldest son was not ignorant to his own involvement. For Lady Evetta, Father had sent a bouquet of winter roses, the last from Winterfell’s garden. For his mentor, the warden had prepared the largest slab of ironwood Fane could procure. The latter now occupied the sidewall of Lord Fairchild’s parlor.

“This is a generous gift,” the Hunter traced the dark grains that ran like rivers through the wood, “I had only hoped to replace the fingerboard to my cello, but there is enough ironwood here for a double bass.”

The Hunter wore a smile that fell short of delight, the amusement in his voice muted and weary. In that moment, his mentor looked older than his thirty-odd years would imply, but that was not for Brandon to say.

“My father apologizes for what happened last evening.”

“If Lord Stark offers any more apologies, he will have none to give when it truly matters.”

If the words caused the guards to waver, Brandon pretended not to see. Lord Fairchild turned from Father’s gift and returned to his seat at Brandon’s side.

“Please inform Lord Stark that we thank him for the gifts and request he abandons whatever designs he has for Bowen Ryswell.”

“My lord?” His mentor’s response came as measured as expected, but that did not make the request easier to believe.

The Hunter helped himself to a cup of tea, “The man spouted filth at Evetta, and she deemed his humiliation punishment enough. There is nothing more for your father to do unless he wishes to question her judgment.”

Brandon breathed deep and nodded, acknowledging Lord Fairchild’s warning for what it was, confident the guards felt no better as the Hunter waved them away.

The room fell silent. As his mentor finished his cup and poured another, Brandon reached for his own. The cup had grown cold, but he drank it all the same. Though he would never take the drink like a calf to milk, he had grown to appreciate the ritual of draining the bitter draught.

“How are you feeling?”

He did not say he was well, knowing his mentor had little patience for platitudes and less for lies.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, “Not just for yesterday, but for what I did the day we met and everything since.”

“There is nothing to forgive. When facing a monster, yours was the correct response. It saddens me that Lord Stark does not understand or feels that he must act regardless.”

Brandon tried to protest the Hunter’s claim regarding his nature, but the words failed to form.

“In six years, I will renounce my claim to Winterfell, and Ned will become Father’s heir.”

Though a dangerous truth to share, the young Stark knew the Hunter would keep his confidence. Cyril Fairchild had all he needed to ruin House Stark a hundred times over, but the man desired nothing from his family. Time and again, he had shown kindness without exchange.

“Eddard does not know,” his mentor concluded, and the words held no question, “Would you like me to speak with your father regarding this?”

Brandon turned to the Hunter, and the man’s gaze told him this was no test. The eldest son of House Stark allowed himself to imagine what he stood to gain–regain–if he accepted his mentor’s help. He would have Winterfell, the North, and even Barbrey. They flashed through his mind as he shook his head.

“I made a vow before the Old Gods.”

The Hunter nodded, eyes bereft of judgment, “Very well, I have taken much from you. I will not take your gods as well.” His mentor set his cup aside, “But you never did answer my question.”

A pregnant pause permeated the room.

“I was angry,” he confessed. The words felt ugly and raw but sincere, “I still am. I’ve lost everything, and I resent you. But I am also grateful, maybe even relieved.”

The last words rang truer than the rest: For all that he had desired Winterfell and the North, Brandon had never wanted to rule. He had witnessed the burdens Father bore every waking day and knew they would have broken him, even with Ned’s help. With his disgrace, there had been a strange solace knowing he could not fall further in Father’s eyes.

“What do you wish to do?”

“I will protect my family,” the answer fell from his lips, “Even if it means leaving home.” Again the words rang true. He had only ever wanted to defend his family, but his actions had always fallen short of his intent. He had challenged the Hunter, broken guest right, and left Father indebted to a foreign lord.

“Have you considered becoming a Hunter?”

Brandon met Lord Fairchild’s gaze and did not dare believe what the question implied, even as hope welled dangerously in his breast. Already Lord Fairchild had forgiven him for crimes the gods would not. That he would offer Brandon this after all he had done…

The young Stark laughed and found himself unable to stop. Nothing else came to mind as he was offered an honor he did not deserve and could scarcely believe, “Did you even leave beasts enough to hunt?” Foolish as he felt for asking, he could not fathom his mentor leaving a task half done.

“I have killed many,” the Hunter admitted, “Luca helped with the rest, but so long as there are men, there will be monsters and need for Hunter’s work.”

Cyril Fairchild stood, and the hand that fell on Brandon’s back felt like absolution.

“Give the matter some thought. You have time,” his smile was warm, his starry eyes kind, “Whatever you decide, you have my support, and there will be a place for you here.”

Rickard’s eldest son allowed his head to fall, concealing the dampness that clouded his gaze, “Thank you, my Teacher.”

Chapter Text

The evening after the fifth and final day of the Harvest Feast, Ned stood in a familiar library as Lord Fairchild stoked a flame. They spoke in private mere weeks ago, and the young Stark considered all that had transpired. Now more than ever, Ned feared his mentor, but his respect remained.

“I understand you will be leaving us, Eddard?”

The young Stark nodded, “I will depart with Lord Manderly tomorrow and sail to Gulltown from White Harbor.” He had wanted to stay for Benjen’s name day, but that was two moons off, and Lord Arryn was expecting his return. “I came to thank you for your tutelage and hospitality. I’ve improved more than I thought possible.”

“It was my pleasure,” his mentor assured. “You have supplied me with a strong foundation to build upon.” Turning from the hearth, Lord Fairchild smiled, and Ned warmed from the praise.

Bright eyes reflected mild interest as they spied the steel sword on his belt, “You will not be bringing your new blade to the Vale?”

“I left it in Father’s care until my return,” the young Stark answered, somewhat abashed. Though he loathed to part with the silver sword, Ned had found no way to explain its origins. Claiming he had found the sword near Winterfell or its crypts would have southron lords demanding House Stark return ‘Andal heirlooms’ taken by the Hungry Wolf and other Winter Kings. Ned would learn to live without.

“Probably for the best,” The Hunter’s voice conveyed approval, “Against ordinary men, such a sword would do you a disservice. You will never learn if every enemy fell on the first swing.”

Ned chose not to consider what that implied about Lord Fairchild and his foes.

Standing to his feet, Lord Fairchild grabbed a small parcel from a nearby table and handed it to his student. “Evetta prepared some pineapples from the garden, and we candied them this morning. There should be enough for you to share with your travel companions.”

The young Stark offered his thanks, knowing the ‘garden’ in question was the small glass house–conservatory, the Hunter had called it–that had sprouted up beside the Workshop sometime between the first and last day of the feast.

When asked about the new addition to the manor, his mentor explained that Lady Evetta had started cultivating cuttings from the winter roses she had received from Father. None had dared to question him further: magic was a sword without a hilt, but Ned knew how well the Hunter wielded a blade.

“I understand you will be riding out against the mountain clans alongside Duke Arryn’s knights?”

The question spared Ned from contemplating his mentor’s aptitude for swordsmanship and spellcraft. “Every lord in the Vale is charged with protecting his lands and people, and every lordling must learn the same,” Ned offered, hoping the answer sufficed.

His mentor placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Then I expect to see you safe, healthy, and whole when we resume your lessons next year.”

Lord Fairchild turned his attention to one of the bookshelves. His student, understanding the words to be both warning and encouragement, bowed and made to leave.

“Eddard.”

The young Stark stopped, realizing his mentor still had more to say.

The Hunter lingered on his name, and Ned observed his mentor consider his words with care. “The first time you kill a man, you will be surprised by the ease of it. Most simply fall as their bodies fail them; others do not have time to scream. Do not dwell on it: kill the next man and the next until only your comrades and you yourself remain.”

Lord Fairchild smiled and looked almost sad.

“You may feel something afterward when you realize that someone who once lived lives no longer, and you are responsible. Allow yourself to mourn not only for your enemy but also yourself, and know whatever pain you feel to be the conscience of a good man.”

Chapter Text

"Slow down!"

The warning only spurred Benjen to pedal faster.

"You can't catch me, Brandon!"

"Won't be hard when you topple over!"

The young boy squealed as he rounded the corner, and his older brother disappeared from view.

---

Rickard watched as his youngest son raced down the cobbled path on his safety bicycle, a name day gift from Lord Fairchild and his lady wife. The Lord of Winterfell had first thought the name inapt for such a masterwork of craftsmanship, but those notions had died a quick death once the Hunter showcased its predecessor, a high-wheeled monstrosity that left the warden grateful Lord Fairchild had not gifted Benjen a  penny-farthing.

Rickard sighed into his glass of sparkling wine.

With the Fairchilds teaching three of his children, the warden knew his youngest son had felt excluded from the excitement. He had not been surprised when Benjen asked to visit ‘Lord Hunter's house,’ nor had he batted an eye when Lyanna relayed her brother’s wishes to Lady Evetta before Rickard could send a messenger.

Now, on the eve of Benjen's name day, the Lord of Winterfell found himself a guest at his own son's party. Paper lanterns and brightly-colored ribbons decorated the grounds of the Fairchild manor. Tables laden with cake, sugar-covered confectionaries, custard apples, and other exotic fruits dotted the foreyard. Even the fountains had been dyed a rich, violet hue.

With no vassals to impress, ceremonies to observe, or demands to entertain, Rickard felt he had stepped into a blissful dream. Lyanna and Benjen had laughed as they sailed kites nearly four men across while Brandon ensured his siblings did not fly off like ships in the wind. During the game of rats and cats that followed, Benjen attempted to scale the steepled roof of the Workshop, thwarted only by Lord Fairchild's timely intervention.

Then Lyanna had played the piano, urged on by Lady Evetta's silent encouragement. Though his daughter had only a few months of practice, the simple melodies had sounded beautiful to Rickard's ear, and Lord Fairchild's praise—that Lyanna could grow into a great talent—had not felt like flattery.

"Though your daughter has proven herself gifted, I suspect Benjen might be the most talented of your children, Lord Stark." The Hunter helped himself to a custard tart, eyes agleam with merriment and mischief, "It took me three days to learn how to ride my first bicycle. Your son has not been on his for a full hour."

"We all have our strengths," Rickard replied with tact, even as a smile tugged at his lips."Thank you for arranging this gathering. It means a great deal to my family, and Benjen will no doubt cherish the memory."

The Lord of Winterfell spoke and meant every word. A name day feast would be held in the morrow. Lord Cerwyn was due to arrive alongside the masters and knights that governed Rickard's lands, but a third son seldom garnered great attention, and the celebration was always a modest affair.

"It was our pleasure, Lord Stark," the Hunter assured, sparing the warden from somber thoughts, "Your children are a delight, and the Workshop would be much too quiet in their absence."

Acknowledging the Hunter's words, Rickard witnessed Lady Evetta holding Lyanna aloft as she wrangled three kites at once while Brandon recruited more guards in a vain attempt to outmaneuver his brother. While evading his pursuers, Benjen turned to his father and waved.

Rickard smiled and prayed that the joy reached his eyes.

---

Hours after their return, after the family supper and his children had retired to their rooms, the warden sat alone in his solar, his desk cleared of parchment, letters, ledgers, and ink. All that remained was a single candle, a long-forgotten cup of watered ale, and the keepsake clasped in his hand.

From the tapestries of the Great Hall to the furnishings of the Great Keep, Lyarra Stark had left her imprint on Winterfell. After her passing, Rickard had left everything untouched to remind himself of the years his wife had walked and ruled these halls, not the final days when she lay bedridden.

The arrowhead in his hand was one such memento, a shard of dragonglass he had recovered the first time they ventured into the crypts, searching for the Builder's fabled tomb. He had been younger than Benjen at the time and had urged her to turn back, but Lyarra would not be deterred, leading them onward by candlelight. Her excitement had nearly been worth the caning they both received. Rickard smiled as he gazed into the roaring hearth. This was how he wished to remember her: strong, daring, and brave.

Tomorrow was Benjen's name day. Rickard would welcome his lords with warmth and good cheer, but tonight, he allowed himself to ruminate and reminisce.

The fire had dwindled to embers when a knock at the door disturbed the silence.

Rodrik appeared, brow furrowed and mouth affixed with a scowl.

"It's Fairchild, Milord. Asked to see you," the knight said, words more an apology than a report. "Shall I send him away?"

Closing his eyes, Rickard considered what he wanted and what was wise before allowing himself a moment to make peace with the latter.

He shook his head.

"Have the guards see him in." Even now, his voice echoed resolve, leaving no room for argument.

Rodrik nodded and departed without further protest. He returned a short while afterward, Cyril Fairchild following closely behind. The Hunter bowed as he entered the room, and Rickard returned the greeting, schooling weariness behind well-practiced courtesy.

"Has something happened, Lord Fairchild?"

The Hunter shook his head.

"Nothing so serious, Lord Stark."

The younger man produced a bottle of amber liquor, the words  'Glenlivet'  and  'Whiskey'  etched into the flawless glass. Two crystal tumblers followed suit, finding their place on the warden's table.

"This is more of a social call."

The Hunter uncorked the bottle and poured a sliver into each glass. Rickard stopped his sworn sword from interfering as he scrutinized the tumbler pushed his way.

"Will this kill me?"

He asked nothing else.

The Hunter smiled. "Not without concerted effort, and certainly not tonight."

The answer sufficed.

---

The whiskey tasted of honey and smoke. The rolling warmth that tumbled down his throat reminded Rickard of Tyroshi brandy, only more potent and less sweet.

The Warden of the North sipped his glass, grey eyes lingering on the hearth. The solar was silent save the occasional embers that flared up from the low-burning flame, but the Hunter did not press him for conversation.

"This is rather forward of you, Lord Fairchild."

Acknowledging the accusation, his guest made no play at subtlety.

"Tomorrow commemorates more than Benjen's birth. Your vassals will hand your son their gifts and you, their well-wishes, but it will not be their place to offer more."

The Hunter turned the contents of his tumbler with disinterest as he regarded his host with an unwavering gaze.

"Brandon has helped me understand how much I have inconvenienced you, Lord Stark." His expression grew pensive, "If there are any words you wish to offer an empty room, all the world will believe you were alone tonight."

The words were more of an apology than Rickard had expected from a man who owed him none. The offer of confidence sounded no less strange, given all that had passed between them. Respect warred with resentment as the Hunter once more proved his character a match for his strength.

The Lord of Winterfell ruminated into his cup, tallying all he had lost and gained since the Hunter's arrival. He reached the same conclusion he had months before: House Stark owed Cyril Fairchild a debt, and the man bore no blame for Brandon's disgrace. But the truth did not bring closure, and the liquor failed to tip the balance of Rickard's gratitude and frustration.

"We grew up together. Here in Winterfell," he ceded at last. What need did Cyril Fairchild have for his demons? With the secrets already between them, what was one more but another ship lost amidst the Smoking Sea? "Her father was the youngest son of Beron Stark, my great-grandfather. She was my constant companion and accomplice in all manner of mischief that drove my father to drink."

The Hunter smiled at the tale, "Only yours?"

Memories of the Wandering Wolf teaching them every secret passageway within the Great Keep drew a low laugh from the warden, "Great-uncle Rodrik was encouraging in all the wrong ways."

His thoughts grew somber as he recalled a young Lyarra holding Winterfell together after sickness had claimed his parents and the last of their kin. He remembered how she had governed the North alone while he marched off to war, desperate to prove the blood of the wolf had not waned or weakened. She had brought their youngest son into the world healthy and whole, knowing full well what it would cost her. And him.

"Lyarra was strong in a way I have known no one to be, and I have known none stronger since her passing."

Rickard held the Hunter's gaze and met no challenge. The young man instead raised his glass.

"To our better halves."

The warden drained his cup, and silence reclaimed the room. It became clear that the Hunter would offer no further conversation without prompting.

"How did you come to meet Evetta?"

The question felt bold to ask, for it was more than the Hunter had offered to give, but Rickard was tired of surrendering secrets for Cyril Fairchild to keep.

For half a year, he had grasped at hearsay and conjecture in a vain attempt to understand the man who had upended his world.

The Hunter leaned back, tapping his glass as he considered the question.

"During my first night in Yharnam, beasts attacked Iosefka's Clinic while I was receiving treatment. I was still on the maester's table when they battered down the door. Feverish and unarmed, I fled into the streets and made my way across the Great Bridge. There I was beset by a beast, the size of which I doubt you would believe."

A smile overtook the young man's features as the memory played out behind his eyes. "I awoke in the Old Workshop, Evetta standing over me. She gave me the strength to venture back into the city, where the Scourge had left fathers unable to recognize their sons and mothers, their own babes."

The Hunter recounted the tale with the ease of a greybeard recalling his youth, voice awash with nostalgia despite the horrors his words implied.

"Evetta would welcome my return after every battle won and lost. Though she cared for all of Gehrman's students, I allowed myself to believe she waited for me alone. It was reason enough to retake a city most thought damned beyond hope."

The warden listened as his guest recounted a tale befitting heroes from a bygone age. The thought of defending a city from enemies that could drive the likes of the Hunter to desperation invoked images of the Long Night, of battling the Others with the realms of Men long lost.

The Hunter's deeds were beyond him, as they were for most living men, but Rickard understood Lord Fairchild's regard for his wife; the memory of Lyarra had kept him alive through many a battle when the war had weighed on his soul and death no longer seemed a poor substitute for sleep.

As the Hunter had done before, the warden raised his glass.

'To our better halves.'

The younger man mirrored the gesture, even as his smile faltered.

"Evetta took my name after Gehrman's passing," the Hunter's features darkened with a familiar pain, as though coarse wool had been brushed over an old wound, "Though my former mentor was a peerless warrior and an apt teacher, he was a callous man and worse father. With his grief came neglect, such that Evetta never knew life outside the Workshop. Upon his death, Gehrman left me to inherit everything he owned."

The Lord of Winterfell listened and felt his anger flare. Lyanna had told him about Lady Maria, the mother Lady Evetta had never met. He understood the pain of losing a wife and knew it to be a poor excuse for a father's mistreatment. Even as a great lord, Rickard fretted over the prospects of his youngest son. What madness would possess the First Hunter to disinherit a daughter, leaving her destitute?

"Did he know your intentions for her?"

"Whether he knew or not, he left Evetta no choice but to love me."

The young man refilled their cups as his words hung between them, haunting and unkind.

"Evetta refused my attempts to return what was rightfully hers. She refused enough times that I eventually stopped trying, yet she agreed to marry me when I mustered the courage to ask." The Hunter paused, his subsequent words laced with conviction, "Regardless of the circumstances that brought us together, Evetta and I have made a family and turned the Workshop into a home. I wish for her happiness, as she has always seen to mine."

Rickard thanked the Hunter for his confidence. For all it meant to the North, Cyril Fairchild had parted with gold, gifts, and glass without care. He had not parted with his personal history near as easily, and Rickard recognized the worth of those words.

"I understand you have a son." The warden lived for his children, and Cyril Fairchild seemed the same.

"Luca," the Hunter affirmed, spirits improving as he uttered the name. "The boy is studying under his Great-grandaunt Annalise at Cainhurst. We call her 'grandmother' as a courtesy."

"The Great Isles have a tradition of fosterage?"

The younger man shook his head.

"The institution was never commonly practiced and is considered antiquated. Luca's circumstances are somewhat special as Annalise has named him her heir," the Hunter explained, no doubt noticing the sudden shift in the warden's bearing. "The main branch of Cainhurst has not produced a child in quite some time, and Annalise is quite fond of her 'grandson.'"

"That is a great honor," Rickard offered despite his surprise.

"It made Luca happy," The Hunter remarked, as though inheriting the lands and titles of a great house was not a marked change in his son's fortunes. "The boy always had a keen interest in his mother's family. I only hope Annalise does not spoil him over much. Evetta and I see to that well enough ourselves."

"A fool's wager."

The Hunter smiled, "Allow a father to dream, Lord Stark."

Another spell of silence fell over the room. More whiskey was poured, and the bottle dwindled as the night grew long. Rickard's thoughts turned to his children.

"Do you ever fear for him?"

The Hunter arched a brow.

"But of course," he spoke as though the answer were obvious, "I would think it the privilege of every father to fear his children might inherit his flaws and repeat his failings." The Hunter tapped the lip on his glass, causing the liquor to ripple and distort his reflection upon its surface. "Luca is a sweet boy when he chooses to be. He has much of Evetta's looks and temperament and a good deal of his father's stubbornness and strength." The words carried an exasperation and fondness the warden knew well. "But slow as he is to anger, he is slower to forgive, and the boy always had a unique fondness for the sadder sorts of stories."

"Have you other children?" Rickard asked, unsure if the Hunter had described his heir with praise or censure.

The younger man shook his head. "Luca's birth was a difficult one. Evetta and I are content with one child."

Rickard acknowledged the words with newfound envy. The North was a harsh land where parents too often buried their children, and no Northerner could entrust his legacy to a single son, the Lord of Winterfell, least of all. But Rickard's line had been secure: he had two sons, a daughter, and a wife. Lyarra had seemed so strong when they had tried for a fourth child.

Three children...it would have been enough.

Rickard closed his eyes, releasing a strained breath. He would not surrender his youngest son for the world, but in his weakest moments—the long nights he sat alone at his desk without the warmth of a familiar hand upon his shoulder, the long days of holding court without the words of his closest counsel—the Lord of Winterfell imagined himself a father to three children and a husband to a still-living wife. The dream was never worth the guilt that followed, and Rickard lived in fear of the day he visited the dream without remorse.

"You are a good father, Lord Stark."

The words cut through his thoughts like a deluge of wind and cold water. The Hunter regarded his host with knowing eyes bereft of judgment.

"Evetta and I have had the pleasure of knowing all four of your children and the privilege of teaching three. They have keen minds and kind hearts, each a credit to their parents." The Hunter's voice conveyed respect, "As one father to another, you have every reason to be proud."

Rickard met the Hunter's praise with silence, wondering how much he deserved and how much he merely wished to believe. He loved all his children, and that never changed, not even in light of Brandon's transgressions. But even those the warden had long forgiven.

Rickard recalled standing between his sons and the Hunter after the latter had split a man in two. Ice had felt like a stick in his hands, and he finally understood what his eldest son had faced in the yard all those moons ago and thought he was defending his family from.

Cyril Fairchild could have wrought ruin upon Winterfell as surely as Balerion had upon Harrenhal. Instead, the Hunter had made Rickard the most powerful Stark to rule the North, greater than many Kings of Winter. Brandon and Eddard would soon be the best swords the realm had seen in an age. Even Lyanna had benefited from her lessons with the Hunter's wife, displaying more patience over the last month than Rickard had witnessed all winter.

"Brandon has informed me of what you offered him," he spoke the words into the silence of the evening air. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done."

"The choice is his to make, and he has many years to make it." The Hunter accepted the warden's gratitude with measured grace, "Should he choose the path of a Hunter, there will never be another Scourge." The younger man spoke with conviction, as though the world would bend and break to accommodate his words and will. "Whatever monsters Brandon may face, know he will never become one under my care. That, I promise you, Lord Stark."

"Just Rickard," the Lord of Winterfell corrected, holding the Hunter's gaze to ensure the meaning was clear.

"Rickard," the Hunter amended, amusement alight in his eye like a fistful of stars.

"Just Cyril, then."

Chapter Text

Date: 278 AC

Steffon Baratheon stifled a cough, eyes watering as he regarded the contents of his cup with newfound respect.

"Seven hells, that's a fine drink!" True to his namesake, the stormlord's booming voice shook the old stones of Winterfell. "Here I thought you Northerners lived off yak piss and goat's milk!"

"We know better than to strain a southerner's sensitive stomach with Northern fare," the Lord of Winterfell replied, voice measured and calm.

The Lord of Storm's End roared with laughter as he poured himself another helping of Rickard's whiskey.

"Many thanks." The old oak chair protested under Steffon's massive frame as he leaned back and downed his flask. "You've not left the North in a long while."

"Not since His Grace last summoned me to court," Rickard replied, his reserve a sharp contrast to his guest's spirited–and deliberate–lack of restraint.

"Ah, more's the pity," Steffon waved a hand dismissively, even as his voice conveyed the contrary. "Saw your boys' practicing in the yard earlier. Wrap them in white cloaks and shining armor, and I'd have mistaken them for Dayne and Selmy."

"High praise."

The stormlord hummed in agreement, "What are people calling them these days?"

"The Wolf Knight," Rickard answered, referring to his middle son before turning his thoughts to his eldest, "and the Northern Blade."

The warden's voice echoed pride and incredibility.

Much has changed in the last two years. Brandon's star had continued to rise after the Harvest Melee, and young warriors throughout the North made pilgrimage to Winterfell, hoping to challenge the prodigious scion who had bested Greatjon Umber. The duels had numbered seventeen at last count, but the Lord of Winterfell had long since stopped counting. The result was always the same: victory, decisive and total.

'The Northern Blade.'

Rickard was unsure who had coined the name, but once men started comparing his son to the likes of Arther Dayne, others followed suit. Brandon's deeds only supported the claim: Invited to Bear Island for a hunting expedition last year, his eldest son had arrived to the sight of two  longships assailing the island's sole harbor. Aiding the defenders, Brandon had slain the raiders to a man.

Weeks later, Rickard received word that Harren Botley had died at sea.

Not to be outdone by his elder brother, Eddard had earned distinction battling the Burned Men of the Vale. Letters from Jon Arryn had detailed how Eddard had slain a Red Hand war chief in single combat and aided in the rescue of many captured women, among them Jon's niece, Lorra Waynwood. The Warden of the East had seen his ward knighted for the deed, making Eddard the first Stark in centuries to receive the honor.

Proud as he was of his sons, the years had not passed without misfortune: Vayon Poole now oversaw most of his father's duties under the pretense of training, but all of Winterfell knew the old steward spent more days abed than not. Well aware that the greybeard would wave off his concerns and take offense to a well-intentioned dismissal, the Warden of the North prepared himself for the inevitable passing of his long-time mentor.

"Might I trouble you for another bottle?" the stormlord waved his cup, the clinking of glass against his signet ring drawing Rickard from his thoughts. "Cassana likes her drinks stronger than most think proper for a lady at court, but our voyage to Volantis is expected to take some time."

"A voyage you have already delayed by coming north. Unannounced."

Tension filled the warden's solar as Rickard's eyes grew cold, and the easy smile slipped from Steffon's face.

"Your man, Manderly, was asked not to announce my arrival," he explained, implying the request had carried the weight of royal authority. "And yet, Cassana swore she spied a raven flying this way when we left White Harbor."

"No doubt it was meant for House Cerwyn," Rickard replied evenly.

"No doubt," the stormlord huffed. "That even a day's ride from here?"

"Half."

The Lord of Storm's End hummed, regarding his host with keen blue eyes alike mountain lakes after rainfall.

"I have never been a strong study–Cressen can attest to that–but I distinctly recall House Stark having only one glass garden, not two."

"Another is being built. If summer persists, it will be completed in half a year."

Steffon nodded and returned to his drink, seemingly satisfied with Richard's answer, for good or ill.

"Those panes looked sturdy enough to take a swing from my hammer, though I doubt your men would give me the chance, Lord Paramount or no."

Rickard did not dignify those words with a reply.

"Rumors have been making their way down the Neck for some time now. Most have dismissed them as the mad ramblings of sailors drunk on spoiled grog and the rumor-mongering of smallfolk bored of warming their cocks in sheep." The Lord of Storm's End snorted at his own jape, only for his features to grow stern as his next words levied questions and unspoken charges. "But His Grace has grown concerned regarding the happenings in the North as of late."

Rickard scoffed.

'Concerned.' Such a polite term for paranoia and obsession. Aerys' deteriorating state was well known to all who bothered to take note. That the rumors managed to reach Winterfell meant they were common knowledge elsewhere.

Baratheon swirled his glass, forming turbulent waves across its surface.

"Some say you scrounged up the coin to hire a Myrish glassmaker, others that you kidnapped a magister's son. I'm partial to the one that claimed you hired Ironborn to abscond with half of Myr's glass guild. There's even talk of a silver-haired woman visiting Winterfell. I've heard everything from the second coming of the Corpse Queen to the return of a lost Valyrian princess. The less imaginative say you've taken a Lyseni lover."

Silence fell over the room, and the warden allowed it to linger, never turning from Steffon's gaze.

"I am ever at the service of the Iron Throne," Rickard answered at last, voice as even as patience would allow. "A Myrman wishing to escape a family feud offered me his services. The matter had seemed unworthy of the Crown's time."

Rickard had long anticipated this conversation. With the glass gardens too conspicuous to escape attention, the warden and his inner circle had expected to receive queries and royal envoys within a year of the Fairchilds' arrival.

That was before the Defiance of Duskendale.

The Lord of Winterfell would never know what madness had possessed Denys Darklyn to commit treason: the North had stomached far worse without entertaining rebellion, never mind imprisoning the king. Whatever his reasons, amidst the chaos of Denys' folly, Rickard had overseen the construction of his gardens with near impunity.

Already two had been built, the first in Winterfell, the second in White Harbor. The garden in Barrowtown was nearing completion, with the one meant for the Dread Fort not far behind. All that remained was the garden promised to Last Hearth and the third at Winterfell.

Then there were the potatoes. Given to Rickard on a whim, they had proved nothing short of a wonder, sprouting like weeds in frosted and fallow fields. Though they did not keep near as well as wheat, and the smallfolk had not adopted the foreign crop half as quickly as he had hoped, for the first time in living memory, the North enjoyed harvests that bordered on bountiful.

And yet, despite these successes, the Lord of Winterfell had continued to purchase great quantities of southern grain, turning the sweat and toil of his people into silks and perfumes for the South. Though his blood boiled at the thought, Rickard would give the Reach no cause to petition the Crown, nor Aerys any reason to levy taxes or tariffs against the North.

His bookkeepers had kept their records in good order and ensured the Crown always received its due. In the eyes of the southrons, the North would never be above suspicion, but Rickard would keep the North beneath their notice: the Targaryens have long neglected his people, and the warden saw no reason for that to change.

Steffon shook his head in disbelief.

"Gods be good, Rickard. Just what have you been up to?"

"Seeing to the interests of my family, just as you are now."

Winter-grey eyes met stormy blue as neither lord gave ground, unspoken promises and threats passing between them.

The Crown had sent Steffon to Winterfell. Were the envoy of lesser standing, Rickard would have said less than he already had and sent the man on his way. Employing a Myrman was no crime and even if the North were producing glass, the Crown had no right to inspect the Fairchild's Workshop, no more than it had to inspect House Lannister's mines or House Redwyne's winery. The Targaryens never had such authority, even as dragonlords.

Cyril's identity would have held, at least for a time. Rickard doubted Aerys' interest in the North would have survived the coming winter. Even if it had, the snows would have given the warden ample time to see the last gardens erected and, if the need arose, fake foundries built. Come spring, the king's envoys would have found naught amiss.

Aerys had sent Steffon to ascertain the source of the North's good fortune and investigate the silver-haired woman sighted near Winterfell, but Steffon Baratheon had his own reasons for traveling north.

The Lords of Winterfell and Storm's End had known each other for a long time. Their correspondences dated back to the war, and Richard had amassed a great many letters as a result. Whether their contents were incriminating or innocuous hardly mattered; if the rumors of Aerys' temperament held a kernel of truth, their existence alone would be implicating enough.

After his imprisonment, Aerys reportedly dismissed the King's Justice. In the same breath, he had named over a dozen courtiers and servants as traitors in league with Darklyn. With the presence of a Red Priest in the royal court and the Crown's patronage of the Wisdoms long confirmed, Rickard needed little help imagining their fate.

The Warden of the North had not prayed for Aerys' health after his capture, nor had he rejoiced at his rescue. Rickard wagered that Steffon–the king’s own cousin–had done much the same.

Neither man would profit if Rickard were summoned south to explain himself. The Warden of the North would give his guest no cause to recommend such action.

"I am not deaf to the whispers of southron lords and their courts. For all their love of the game, they are not subtle in their insults of me and mine: a half-feral mutt leashed to a frozen wasteland filled with men both savage and dim."

Rickard spoke each word with care, his voice drowning out the hushed howlings of summer wind.

"Perhaps there is some truth to the rumors. Perhaps the Warden of the North is a fool, easily mistaking the first man to melt sand into half-clear slag for a Myrish glassmaker. Such a fool would likewise mistake any fair-haired woman for a daughter of Old Valyria. No doubt the son of Rhaelle Targaryen would have more discerning eyes."

The warden said his piece. Steffon sat silent and still, an immovable mountain casting looming shadows along the far side of the room. At length, Baratheon wetted his lips with whiskey and heaved a sigh.

"Aerys would likely believe the tale. I suspect he thinks your ilk little better than the wildings and would enjoy having his notions affirmed." The stormlord regarded Rickard with a tempestuous gaze, "But he expects me to return with your secrets strung up on a string. If I told him what he wished to hear, he would make me his Hand."

"Then it hardly matters what I say."

Once more, the eyes of the direwolf and those of the crowned stag met in contention. Silence stretched between them until the Lord of Storm's End threw his head back and laughed. Bereft of his usual cheer, the sound rang humorless, bitter, and hauntingly familiar as Rickard recalled the night he had received six glass gardens and lost an heir.

"Cousin Rhaella is the last good thing left in that cesspool of a city." The stormlord’s words seeped through gritted teeth like venom, "And Hand of the King…Tywin would sooner set the realm aflame than be cast aside like a jilted wife."

Steffon placed his cup down and pushed it aside.

"The three of us were as close as brothers. We promised to rule together and bring about a golden age that would overshadow the Conciliator's in every conceivable way." The stormlord scoffed as though he had suffered a poor jape, voice embittered by betrayal. "The things he's done…"

Baratheon grew quiet. Whether his words were meant for the dragon or lion, Rickard could not decide, and that alone spoke volumes of the men in question. The Lord of Winterfell allowed his guest a moment to his memories and regrets.

"I will tell Aerys your story once Cassana and I return from our fruitless task," Steffon conceded, regarding his host with steely resolve. "But I will need assurances."

'Family.'

Rickard dipped his head, understanding what Steffon was asking of him. Of Lyanna.

"I will announce the betrothal at tomorrow's feast."

Steffon nodded.

"I would count you amongst my friends, but I would hate to leave you in such poor company."

Father had no brothers, so Lyanna had no uncles. It was something the young Stark had always known. Even Lord Manderly, who grew up with Father, was a vassal beholden to her family, whom Father had to placate with rewards and favors. The Lord Hunter was different.

The Hunter and his beautiful wife had become constants in Lyanna's life. The Workshop was only a short ride from home, filled with tasty food and wondrous treats. Lady Evetta would always visit Winterfell for Lyanna's music lessons, and her brothers would always ride off to theirs with apprehension. Because even as famed warriors with silly names, they were no closer to defeating their teacher.

Holding Lady Evetta's hand, Lyanna trekked up the lonely hill behind the Workshop. She had fled into the wolfswood as soon as Lord Baratheon had left Winterfell, and Father had not dared to stop her.

Last night, he had announced her betrothal to Ned's oaf of a foster brother and broken her heart. Lyanna had wanted to jump from her chair, fling a bread roll at Lord Baratheon, and storm out of the Great Hall. But Lady Evetta had taught her that being loud was not the same as being brave and that shouting was not the same as being heard.

Had she done what she wanted to, she would have embarrassed Father. Angry as she was, Lyanna had not wanted that.

Instead, the young girl sought out the only man whom she thought could help.

Beneath the Great Tree, Lord Cyril Fairchild read a book by the hazy light of the dawn. Spotting his young guest, he tucked the book away and stood.

"Good morning, Lyanna. What brings you to the Workshop?"

Though the lord smiled, Lyanna wavered under his gaze. She looked to Lady Evetta and received a gentle nod that gave her the courage to step forward.

"I want to become a Hunter."

Lord Fairchild registered her request with faint surprise, but his lack of disapproval gave the young girl hope.

"Whyever would you want that, Lyanna?"

"I w-want to learn how to fight." Lyanna stammered the well-rehearsed answer, struggling to meet the Lord unter's eyes as she prayed he would accept the lie.

"I see," came the reply, and for the span of a breath, the young girl thought she had succeeded. But then the Hunter’s expression grew somber, and her hopes slipped away. "I am afraid I cannot help you."

The words struck Lyanna like a physical blow.

"Why not?" The young Stark felt her voice rising, her face growing hot as her vision grew splotchy. Hurt and anger overwhelmed her. "You've taught my brothers! You've been teaching them for years!"

"I taught them how to kill." Without raising his voice, Lord Fairchild dispelled the young girl's rage. “The world is filled with monsters, Lyanna, many of whom bear the guise of men. As your father’s sons and the North’s protectors, your brothers are duty-bound to see them to justice and violent ends. I taught your brothers what they needed to survive the task.”

The Hunter stepped forward, and Lyanna stumbled back as though she had ventured too close to a fire or waded too far into a stream. Yet, there was a caution in his movements and a softness to his bearing that resonated care and concern.

"I do not think that is something you wish to learn, Lyanna, nor do I believe that is what brought you here."

The young Stark trembled. She had been fueled by anger since the night before. In its absence, she felt hollow, as though a conflagration had burned through her and left what remained teetering on the verge of collapse.

"Father betrothed me to Robert Baratheon." The words tumbled from her lips as she fought back tears, "I don't want to marry him! I won't!"

Lyanna looked down at her feet, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She wanted to be brave but felt helpless. She wanted the Lord Hunter to tell her that she did not have to marry and that he would save her from this engagement. Instead, she heard leaves crumple under the Hunter as he knelt and wrapped his arms around her.

"It is alright to cry."

He said nothing more as Lyanna sobbed into his shoulder. He held her as she dirtied his fine shirt with tears and snot.

"I've heard what Ned says about him! How he likes to drink and chase skirts! He's a brute! I won't marry a man like that! I don't want a marriage like that!"

She stared up at the lord like none she had ever known, stronger and fiercer than anyone in the world yet kind and caring all the same.

"I want what you and Lady Evetta have!"

The words sounded like a confession to a secret Lyanna had held without knowing. Her words caused Lord Fairchild to hold her tighter, and Lady Evetta joined their embrace. Not for the first time, Lyanna wished that Father had a brother, if only so she might have an uncle.

In a manner that felt strangely routine, Rickard entertained the idea that he had gone mad. Not three years ago, he had permitted a foreign lord to reside just outside of Wintertown. In all but name, he had allowed the Hunter to foster his children. Mere hours earlier, he had watched as Lyanna ran off into the wolfswoods to seek comfort and support he had failed to provide.

Now the Warden of the North stood atop the battlements, overlooking the Western Gate with the Hunter at his side.

"What would you have me do?"

The Hunter frowned. "I would caution you against heeding the words of a fool who stumbled his way into love and happiness."

"I value your advice all the same."

Cyril frowned deeper, looking more discomforted than the warden had ever known him to be. Rickard confessed the sight consoled him more than it should.

Whatever reservations he might have regarding Lyanna's betrothal, the Warden of the North would never have broached the subject to another lord, much less one with a young, unmarried heir. And yet, when the Hunter returned with his daughter in tow and requested an audience, the Lord of Winterfell had never questioned his sincerity.

Setting aside his good opinion and trust–for the Hunter had both–the man had been a mentor to both Rickard’s eldest and heir. Marrying Lyanna to Luca would give Cyril no more influence over Winterfell than he already had. Furthermore, if Lady Evetta's family possessed even a fraction of the wealth her husband displayed, the Vilebloods of Cainhurst would find Winterfell a poor prize. No, Cyril had no need to rob the North of its poverty, which gave Rickard all the more reason to heed his counsel.

As though sharing his thoughts, his companion released a sigh.

"Robert Baratheon is the eldest son of Duke Steffon Baratheon, heir to the Stormlands and second cousin to the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. His connections and pedigree are unquestionable, but what little I have heard of the boy does not flatter." Cyril pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed again, "Likewise, that even Ned cannot wholly endorse his character is no small thing."

The Lord of Winterfell said nothing as the Hunter swiped snow from the castle wall with haphazard sweeps of his cane. Three merlons were cleared of snow before he spoke again.

"Your daughter is a lady of high birth. Privilege is her birthright, marriage her duty.” Cyril described the world as it was, not how he wished it to be. “Yet, Evetta and I would see her happy. You wish the same."

The Master of the Workshop turned to the Warden of the North, and a thread of understanding passed between them.

"Speak with her as a father would his daughter,” Cyril advised, his words final. “Though I suspect she will hate you for a time, acceptance cannot come without understanding."

The Hunter peered beyond the battlements, tapping his cane against the ancient stones. "I do not know Robert Baratheon well enough to pass judgment, but Lyanna deserves to know the boy you promised her to. Allow her to write to him in a month's time. We will redress the matter if he proves as repugnant as she fears."

The Lord of Winterfell heaved a sigh, recognizing the words as ones he needed to hear, reluctant as he was to listen. Part of him had hoped Cyril would magic away his troubles as he had Bolton and Whitehill, but the warden dismissed the notion as foolish.

Rickard had never been a man to shirk his duties onto another.

Had the world been kinder, Lyarra would have seen to this task. But she was gone and had entrusted Rickard to raise their children. He would see to this duty as he had all others.

The Lord of Winterfell followed his companion’s gaze. He looked out to the rolling expanse of the North and found himself at peace, however weary.

"War was easier than fatherhood."

Cyril nodded solemnly even as his eyes shone a bit brighter.

Chapter Text

Date: 281 AC

"Lord Fairchild, Lady Evetta, we've come to say farewell."

Lyanna stood in a familiar parlor, Brandon and Ned at her side. Both had grown so tall she had to stand on tiptoes just to reach their shoulders.

The last three years had passed like a dream, blurred at the edges and without detail. Mere moons after Lord Baratheon's departure, white ravens had flown from the Citadel, heralding another long winter.

Yet it had been unlike any Lyanna could recall: the blinding snowstorms that once battered the walls of her home, forcing the household to huddle near the hot springs and hearths, were nowhere to be found. Only the heavy snowfalls signaled the end of autumn.

Father had not sat idle. He had ensured the granaries were stocked to near bursting while the glass gardens continued producing food long after the ground froze over, keeping Wintertown fed even as the settlement grew.

Lords and smallfolk alike sang House Stark's praises, for Father had not been alone. Ned had worked tirelessly at his side, arranging the last shipments of glass promised to Last Hearth and relief for holdfasts needing aid. Brandon had ventured out on regular patrols, his reputation alone dissuading would-be bandits from harrowing farms and villages.

Eager to do her part, Lyanna had spent her evenings helping Lady Evetta ladle soup and hand out bread to the smallfolk.

So the years had passed with the world growing small, silent, and still. Though news of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's marriage to Elia Martell and the birth of a new princess eventually reached Winterfell to modest fanfare, the young girl remembered little else of note.

But winter had not been dull, and the young girl had never wanted for attention: Lady Evetta had visited Winterfell without fail, overseeing Lyanna's music lessons with the same care the Hunter had seen to her brothers' swordwork. It had become something of a tradition for the members of House Stark to gather in Lyanna's room for private performances after supper. If Father ever noticed the gaggle of servants loitering outised the door, he never said.

Likewise, winter had not excused Lyanna's brothers from sparring with the Hunter, for the path to the Workshop always remained bereft of snow.

Today, on the eve of spring, Lyanna stood in a blue dress dyed with winter roses, the case to her beloved violin held between her hands. Both had been gifts from the Fairchilds, who had become all but family.

Eying the three Starks with a playful smile, the lord in question rose from his chair as his wife did the same, leaving breakfast half-finished and well-forgotten.

"Dear, oh dear, it is time already?"

Lyanna nodded and tried to reply, only for Brandon to sneak up and ruffle her hair.

"We'll be leaving in an hour," he supplied, voice now a deep baritone that resembled Father's more and more by the day.

"We have everything packed," she added, paying no mind as both Brandon and Ned glared her way, as though questioning her contribution to the task. She looked instead to the Lord Hunter. "Won't you come with us? Harrenhal is set to be the greatest tourney the realm has ever seen."

The young girl already knew his answer, but she asked all the same and held back her disappointment when Lord Fairchild shook his head.

"As delightful as that would be, Evetta and I would hate to inconvenience your father further."

Lyanna nodded, understanding if unhappy with his words, as she turned towards her music teacher.

"Robert will be there," she explained, craning her neck to meet Lady Evetta's gaze. "I swear I'll give him a chance."

Her hands felt clammy as she gripped her violin with growing embarrassment. "A-and I'll keep practicing while I'm away. I promise!"

Though she loathed to admit it, Lyanna almost looked forward to meeting Robert Baratheon. After learning of her betrothal, she had been angry at Father for some time. It would be weeks before she heeded his advice and wrote to her husband-to-be, half-hoping her letters would go unanswered.

Instead, the oaf had written back. His diction needed work and his penmanship was a travesty, but Lyanna had been strangely pleased, knowing Robert had penned the letters himself–likely with great effort–rather than handing them off to a maester.

Their contents had also been a surprise. The oaf had not tried to woo her; instead, he had expressed his joy at their engagement, how eager he was to meet her and show her the stormlands.

He told her of the forests encompassing Cape Wrath, the clear waters surrounding the Sapphire Isle, and the Slayne River that swelled after every rainstorm.

Lyanna had nearly laughed when Robert described how, upon returning from Volantis, his father had arrived in Gulltown and all but thrown him aboard the Windproud, setting sail for Storm's End before Lord Arryn had time to offer guest rights.

Robert was now helping Lord Baratheon govern the stormlands. He had denounced it as an onerous task, but one he fulfilled for fear of his mother's ire, who was more a dragon than his father could ever hope to be, Targaryen blood or not. He wrote of his family often, of his brothers, Stannis and Renly.

Lyanna confessed she had come to look forward to Robert's letters. To be sure, she remained unhappy with the match, but the young Stark knew her duty and thought Robert deserved the chance to prove himself more than what the rumors described.

Her music teacher stepped closer. The young girl found herself enveloped in a pair of familiar arms, and her worries slipped away.

"Take care, dear child."

Lyanna returned Lady Evetta's embrace.

The Hunter stood some paces away, giving the young girl time with his wife. Only once Lyanna returned to her brothers' side did Lord Fairchild turn to his students.

"How long will you be away, Eddard?"

"Three moons, give or take," Ned ventured, sounding a touch too happy about escaping the Hunter's lesson, forcing Lyanna to stifle a laugh. "Will that be a problem, my lord?"

Lord Fairchild shook his head.

"Not at all. I am sure Evetta and I will find some way to occupy our time," he answered, causing Ned to look more alarmed than relieved. "Come, I will see the three of you off."

The Lord Hunter led the way back into the foreyard. Each of the Stark children received a parcel of sweets and another embrace from Lady Evetta as they stepped out the door.

"Brandon, before I forget," the Hunter's voice stopped the children at the gates and garnered the attention of the nearby guards, "I will have a Hunter's contract ready for you the next time we meet."

The eldest Stark stood stock still. Ned turned to him and then their mentor with askance, but the Hunter was already making his way back to his wife.

"Off you go," he said, waving as he went. "Evetta and I will be here when you return."

Standing amidst the last of winter's snow, the Doll waited outside the Workshop. The children had left hours earlier, and the sun had fallen from the evenfall sky. All around, the North slept, saturating the air with dreams of summer and nascent spring.

With eyes once fashioned from gemstones and glass, the Doll waited as her husband locked the gates of the manor. A smile graced her once-painted lips as he oversaw the task with care, miming the motions of a man leaving home.

"Three moons will be time aplenty."

The Good Hunter lent his voice to the silence, every word straining the world with all they implied. Turning from the Workshop, he beheld his wife with an expression well-meaning and near serene. Glimmers of their idyllic, shared dream reflected within his starlit gaze.

The Doll nodded her assent as the ground beneath their feet rippled. Ether supplanted stone, and the Little Ones clambered through the undulating forest path, heeding the Hunter's call. With reverent fervor, they hoisted a greatsword aloft.

The Good Hunter grasped the weapon, and the world came undone.

Fissures formed within the air and earth as reality unraveled at the seams, forced to accommodate a shard of the cosmos given terrible purpose and form.

Closer to the left-behind Great Ones than a mere Hunter's tool, Ludwig's keepsake bathed the wolfswoods in a light never meant to illuminate the Waking World. The legacy of Great Isz beckoned a constellation of foreign stars onto the realms of men, forging a blade that sundered the boundaries of prophecy and natural law.

The Good Hunter allowed the weapon to fall from his hand. The sword dispersed, but its presence lingered, unseen yet palpable, tainting the evening air with the promise of miracles and impossibility.

The Holy Sword of Moonlight was now the Hunter's to wield as surely as the limbs he pretended to have and need.

"We will be back in time to welcome the children home."

Once more, the Doll dipped her head. Her husband offered his hand, and she reached out with arms cast from bisque and bone. Together, the Moon-Scented Hunter and Plain Doll walked northwards, onto the Land of Always Winter.

281 AC would be a year well-remembered in the annals of history, mired by deeds great and terrible, committed by men much the same. Time would march on, trampling mankind’s every achievement underfoot. The age of the Seven Kingdoms and the legacy of House Stark would fade into legend. The beloved memories of Rickard, Brandon, Eddard, and Lyanna would fall into myth.

But none would forget the year that marked the death of Winter.

Chapter Text

Date: 281 AC

'Steel sharpens steel.'

Willam Dustin frowned as he recalled his late father's words, finding them more stifling than the warm southern air. He rode alongside his foster brother at the head of the North retinue, a place of supposed honor that felt unearned and misplaced.

Though he sensed his companion's gaze upon him, Willam focused on the road ahead. The young lord of Barrowton hardly needed eyes to see how much Brandon had changed and how he had failed to keep apace.

For over a moon, the Dustin lord and Stark heir had traveled together, parsing only the most basic courtesies. There was no quarrel between them, no great wrong that required recompense. Willam simply had no words for the Northern Blade, not when he had only ever known Brandon Stark.

Five years had passed since the Harvest Melee. Willam could still recall how Brandon and his trueborn brother had overwhelmed the Giant of Last Hearth, how the elder Stark had fought like the veteran of a dozen pitched battles. Gone was the spirited boy whose temper flickered and flared like a storm-caught flame, who would skip evening lessons to charm maids at the local tavern. Willam had not recognized the man who stood in his place.

He had cornered Brandon after the fight, had demanded to know how he gained skills never taught and learned techniques unknown to even Barrowton's master-of-arms.

'I trained with Ned and found a reason to improve.'

Brandon had said nothing more, and Willam had thought the answer absurd. Yet he had dueled the younger Stark himself, losing the exchange after a mere four blows. If the elder Stark were the better blade, Willam knew he was not skilled enough to discern the difference.

Robard Dustin had welcomed the change in his former ward, convinced his foster son had abandoned his boyish whims upon finding a proper rival and challenge. That Willam had failed to provide either went unsaid.

'Steel sharpens steel.'

The young lord's grip tightened against his reins as his father's words rang unwanted and true: In their attempts to best one another, both Starks had achieved greatness. The deeds of the Wolf Knight and Northern Blade spoke for themselves.

Before the Targaryen and their dragons, the direwolves had been kings, but they had not been the first rulers of the First Men. That honor had belonged to the Barrow Kings, whose blood still ran through Willam's veins. Mummers sang of the Thousand Year War that humbled his ancestors, but Willam could not fathom the conflict lasting even a decade had Winterfell fielded men alike its current heir. Had the Starks always possessed such strength or had William fallen short of his storied lineage?

The voice that replied was not his own.

"How is your wife?" His companion's words carried a weight that belied more than friendly inquiry, "Father mentioned you were expecting a child."

William turned and near glared at his foster brother. After weeks of silence, this was what he wished to discuss? Time had made Brandon less brash but no less blunt.

"Barbrey is well," he answered. "She thinks it's a boy. Maester Gareth believes the same." He thought to mention this was the first time the two had agreed on anything save the time of day, but this was no place for japes.

His father had arranged the match shortly before his passing, and Willam remained unsure if he was angry or grateful. Since their first acquaintance, he had found Barbrey stunning, yet he had been forced to admire her from afar, knowing her heart lay elsewhere.

Then came the Harvest Feast, where Lord Stark had banished Bowen Ryswell from his keep, never again to find warmth or welcome within Winterfell. Death would have borne lesser shame, but when Willam recalled the newly-built garden within Barrowton and considered the boons they had nearly lost, he could not fault the warden's judgment.

Lord Stark had stayed his hand from further punishment, but all knew House Ryswell had lost its liege lord's favor. No lady of the Rills would sit beside the Lord of Winterfell for at least a generation. With a few bandied words, the Ryswell knight had ruined his niece's prospects.

Robard Dustin had sensed opportunity. Disfavored as they were, the Ryswells remained one of the North's greatest houses and Barrowton's strongest neighbors. An alliance between their families was meant to combat House Manderly's growing influence: With Domeric Bolton fostering at White Harbor and his betrothal to Wynafryd Manderly all but assured, the might of the merman could not go unchallenged.

Understanding his father's decision had not made Willam's duty easier to bear. The marriage was announced and the wedding arranged far faster than Willam had thought proper. And what a wedding it had been with Eddard and Lord Stark in attendance. Willam recalled nodding absently at whatever excuse the former had offered for Brandon's absence while his stunning bride fought back tears.

Barbrey had been brave, managing a smile as they paraded past endless throngs of well-wishers, but when they were at last alone, her strength had been spent.

It would be weeks before they became husband and wife in truth, longer still for Barbrey to view their marriage as more than duty and regard him with some semblance of love. Now she carried his son.

Willam turned to his companion, the man his wife had wanted, the foster brother who had grown great only after leaving Barrowton.

Neither man had wronged the other, yet there were wounds between them all the same.

Brandon received the news with ponderous silence as he held his companion's gaze.

"I am happy for you, Willam," he said, and the words rang true.

Willam dipped his head, "Thank you, Brandon."

The Northern Blade nodded and turned back to the road. The Lord of Barrowton followed his example.

He no longer recognized the man who rode beside him. But they had shared a boyhood, and for that, Willam could call him brother. When the day came for his brother to assume his birthright, Willam could call him lord and follow him through triumph and ruin.

Urging his destrier onwards at a languid pace, Eddard trailed behind the vanguard, failing to maintain formation–or appearances—as other troubles harried his mind.

'I will have a Hunter's contract ready for you the next time we meet.'

After five years, the young Stark had thought himself accustomed to his mentor's proclivities. The Hunter's words and actions often elicited alarm, but his promise to Brandon had shaken Ned to his core. Worse yet, his brother had refused to discuss the offer and all it implied.

Eddard knew frightfully little about his mentor's profession, only that it entailed perils he would not wish upon his kin. Were that his only objection, Ned would respect Brandon's decision, whichever he made, for the Starks have never shied away from death or duty. Instead, Ned feared for what Brandon stood to lose: Hunters preyed upon beasts found west of the Sunset Sea, far from the North and the only life his brother had ever known.

Ever since Ned's return from the Vale, Father had requested his presence whenever he held council or court, entrusting the young Stark with more duties than most second sons saw in a lifetime. Recognizing the tasks as training, Eddard believed he would one day serve as Brandon's hand, just as Kevan Lannister acted as Lord Tywin's shadow.

He had thought the reasoning sound: Lord Fairchild and Lady Evetta were the first Yharnamites to visit Westeros, but it was foolish to believe others would not follow. Their son, Luca, would inherit lands that made paupers of most great houses. Once the Hunter returned west, news of the Seven Kingdoms would spread. Maintaining cordial relations with these newfound powers would prove a headache once the South interfered.

Eddard had thought this to be his burden when Brandon assumed his birthright. He had hoped Father would grant him lordship over the Stony Shore to facilitate correspondance between Winterfell and the West. Now, Eddard suspected Father had made arrangements he was only now beginning to grasp, for when Lord Fairchild had made his offer, Brandon had not shared his brother's surprise.

Ned shook his head. Not even in his dreams did he dare to imagine himself seated upon his father's chair, knowing the tragedies necessary for that to pass. Now he was presented the prospect without the promised tragedy.

The young knight recalled the day he had received a silver sword, how the weapon remained in his possession despite the threat it posed to his future kin.

With a tired sigh and shake of his head, Eddard urged his steed into a gallop. He passed the other lords and took his place at Barndon's side. There would be time to press his brother for answers, to insist he decline Lord Fairchild's offer and volunteer himself for the task. Their teacher would understand, being himself a second son

Eddard allowed his thoughts to calm and mind to rest as five misshapen towers appeared against the horizon, piercing the dawn.

Harrenhal lay within view.

Chapter Text

Leaf shook off Ash's hand. She turned away from the others, who followed her with eyes forlorn and worried. Leaving her kindred to their songs, the Last Singer drew her cloak close as she scurried toward the mouth of the cave.

It was coming.

They called it the Great One, for they did not know its name and dared not ask. They knew not what it was or from whence it came, only that the Great One did as it pleased, and none had interfered. Not the cruel creature that lurked under the sea nor the baleful flame that dwelled beyond the shattered arm of the Empty Lands*. Even the venerable voices beneath the earth had remained hushed and silent.

The greenseer seldom spoke these days. He slept, but Leaf doubted he dreamed. Leaf herself had not for quite some time, for she and her kin were standing upon a shore, awaiting a wave that would reach a hundred leagues inland. What were dreams in the face of such certainty?

As the ground grew cold and her destination closer, the Last Singer thought of the others, of Ash, Black Knife, Coals, Scales, and Snowylocks. Those were not their names, but names they would be given by the last greenseer. Now, the last seer might never be born, and the Final Battle would never come to pass.

Claws scraped stone, and fingers trembled as Leaf reached the entrance.

She would never forget the night the Great One pierced the dark space between stars, casting constellations eons old into disarray. In the span of a single breath, it had subsumed the moon overhead and descended upon the lands stolen by Men. An unfathomable weight had pressed upon the very fabric of the world, unraveling countless songs yet unsung like poorly spun thread.

Leaf had once wandered the land. Though young by the measure of her people, she had witnessed the dying days of the dragons and shared in the visions of the three-eyed crow. Though she knew of events past, present, and promised, Leaf had beheld the shadow of the Great One and foresaw the world's end.

The ruin she feared never passed. That night, the Great One would cede the sky to the morning sun, but the songs would never return, hushed by a foreign power, runoffs from a leviathan settling within a shallow pool. Leaf had felt its power wash over her, suffusing her senses yet still out of reach, a strength she could not borrow, no more than she could quench her thirst from the sea.

The Enemy had lashed out with winter and wroth. But their struggle proved fruitless, for the Great One had turned its gaze northwards, and Leaf had never felt the stirrings of something so great and terrible.

There was no hope for the Enemy. All that remained was to learn if she and her kindred would share their doom and die this day.

The others had chosen to stay within their home, to sing, lament, and remember, awaiting whatever came. Leaf could not do the same. She had been born the last of a waning people. She had wandered the world and learned the Common Tongue, all to prepare the last greenseer for the Final Battle. That purpose had been taken from her, but Leaf had been born to witness the world. If Death came for them all, she would witness her own end.

Gathering her courage, the Last Singer left the protection of her home.

She stopped midstep.

Gone were the wind and cold, and in their place?

A vacuous silence.

There was no frost to nip at her skin, no moist earth to hush her steps. The cave just at her back now felt out of reach. Her ears discerned no sounds, her tongue no tastes, her nose no scents. And before her eyes stood a figure in the shape of a man.

"Good evening, young miss."

The sound reached her ears, and to her shock, Leaf recognized them as words, a greeting in the Common Tongue.

"Are you in need of anything?"

Daring to raise her gaze to the speaker, Leaf felt her vision blur. A sharp pain bloomed behind her eyes as she beheld a man unremarkable by any measure, dark of hair and slim of frame. His clothes did not glimmer with ill-gotten gains, nor were they adorned with the macabre remains of fallen foes. But the way the air moved–failed to move–about him, the way snow fled from his feet as he stood unstirring conjured feelings of a terrible stillness, a false peace forced upon the chaos of the natural world.

Then there were his eyes. Though the crow had a thousand and one to peer through time, their perception was that of a mortal man. How could they compare to those that held captive the very stars within their gaze?

Leaf looked upon the visage of the Great One and bit back bile as she fought for breath.

How? How had this being lived among the humans? How had they not realized what had stood in their midst? Had Brandon's get truly grown so blind? Or was it that blindness that compelled the Great One to live amongst them, unbothered and unseen?

The questions fled her mind as she recalled the Great One's own. A new fear overtook Leaf as she made sense of its words.

'Are you in need of anything?'

What was she to say? What answer could she possibly give when the fate of her people hung in the balance?

'Please, spare us.'

'Please, help us.'

'Save us.'

Desires centuries-old welled in her heart, but when she at last opened her mouth to speak, none passed her lips.

"Please," she whispered, beseeching the Great One with a voice raw and weary, "leave us be."

'Men have taken the world from us. It is no longer ours to live in. Leave us to our long dwindling.'

Leaf's vision turned bleary as she awaited the Great One's reply. The unfathomable being regarded her for the barest moment before turning away.

"Very well." It waved a hand before departing. "Then I wish you well."

The Last Singer remained silent and still as the Great One left the clearing, joined by another seemingly god-forged and god-touched. Only when the Great One disappeared did Leaf dare to collapse, falling to her knees as sound and sense returned to the world. With trembling hands clutching her cloak, Leaf did all she could to quiet her heart, unsure what she had done, whom she had spared or doomed. The songs were gone, the future mired with frightful uncertainty. And yet Leaf knew she would have made the same choice, however many times the Great One offered. The Last Singer only prayed she was strong enough to bear the consequences sure to follow.

Chapter Text

Ned stood at Brandon's side. The two exchanged glances when Robert rushed the dance floor with Lyanna in tow.

"What do you make of him, Brandon?"

"Not much. Been busy finding a place to hide a body that big."

The younger Stark breathed a sigh partway between amusement and defeat. He trailed their fast-departing sister with vigilant eyes, pointedly ignoring the self-satisfied smirk on Brandon's face.

It was the eve of the tourney proper, and the festivities were well underway. A veritable sea of banners flew over the darkened skies of Harrenhal as notable guests flooded the Hall of a Thousand Hearths–a grand structure that could house the Great Halls of Winterfell and Eyrie with room to spare. Overhead, many-coloured tapestries displayed the heraldry of noble families great and small. Above the high table, eclipsing them all, hung the three-headed dragon in sable black and red.

Teams of servants hoisted platters of whole-roasted boar onto lavish banquet tables while a pond-sized fountain bubbled with well-aged wine. A small army of minstrels filled the hall with music as lords and ladies encircled entire troupes of mummers performing on a makeshift stage, their voices growing ever louder as they vied for attention and applause.

Westeros had not witnessed such a gathering since the last Great Council, and Ned found himself swept up in the spectacle.

Robert–no doubt at Lady Cassana's behest–had greeted their party sporting a lavish, form-fitting doublet that hampered his every step. The massive Baratheon had all but staggered into a stiff bow, and Lyanna had appraised her betrothed with the scrutiny of a merchant inspecting a potential purchase. The sight had nearly spurred Ned to laughter.

Now he and Brandon stood amongst Lord Whent's honored guests, eyeing their dear sister and goodbrother-to-be. With every man sworn to the Baratheons and Starks shadowing their every step, Ned doubted either would misbehave and allowed his attention to wander, trusting Brandon to keep watch.

He surveyed the hall as guests in recognizable colors came and went. The sights and sounds soon blurred together, forming an idle backdrop for the young knight's musings.

Then, a stir among the nearby lords caught his attention. Their heads turned as one, and Ned followed suit, nearly staggering at the sight that held their gaze.

'Beautiful.'

No other thought came to mind as a lady descended the high table, her sun-kissed face set with haunting violet eyes. Tumbling dark hair draped her bare shoulders, falling over a lilac dress cut in the Dornish style, clasped with silver breastpins depicting a white sword and star.

The Wolf Knight's breath caught in his throat, and his pulse thrummed through his fingers when the lady of Starfall surveyed the gathered lords. Her gaze passed over him, and Ned was sure he only imagined the smile that graced her lips.

The young Stark had heard whispers of Ellia Martell's companion at court, a beauty said to rival Lord Tywin's daughter. Seeing the truth for himself, Ned thought the rumors wholly inept, for the lady before him was beyond compare.

"She's a comely one."

Brandon clasped his shoulder, drawing Ned from his daydreams. The gesture, warm and seemingly harmless, had the younger Stark praying to the gods for strength.

"That's Ashara Dayne of Starfall."

"I wasn't aware," Brandon assured, his tone wholly insincere as he flashed a smile that left his brother wary. "Trying to lecture me on heraldry, Ned?"

The younger Stark had no rebuttal, and to his immense misfortune, Brandon pressed the issue.

"You should ask her for a dance."

Ned faced his brother with a look of horror.

"She's Arthur Dayne's sister!" he hissed, "Princess Elia's lady-in-waiting!"

"And you are a Stark of Winterfell and a knight with feats rivaling those of the Kingsguard."

"Brandon–"

"Go."

The hand on his shoulder suddenly appeared at his back. The harsh shove that followed sent Ned stumbling forward, well past Lady Ashara's other admirers.

Innumerable guests turned his way. The ensuing tittering and laughter even drew attention from the high table.

The young knight shot his brother a withering glare, the sense of betrayal only dampened by the severity of his plight. Were the situation less dire, he might have appreciated the irony of a Stark being thrown to the wolves.

He had no choice but to advance: to retreat now would be deemed an act of cowardice no better than deserting the battlefield. Worse, by many accounts.

'Let it not be said that a Stark died without dignity.'

Making peace with his predicament and cursing Brandon with every breath, Ned stepped forward. His boots clicked against the slate-tiled floor, the vast hall suddenly much too quiet as he reached the steps.

"My lady," he greeted, bowing low and suppressing his nerves as best he could, "I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell."

For the briefest moment, the fair lady said nothing, and the world stood still, waiting. When she finally spoke, Ned could no longer deny the glimmer of interest within her eyes.

"Ashara Dayne of Starfall," she offered, and how her voice flowed like a melody, "It is a pleasure to meet Lorra's savior."

'Ah.'

Warmth bloomed in Ned's breast as the pieces fell in place. As he rose, holding Ashara's gaze, he vowed to thank Lady Waynwood for this kindness.

"May I have this dance, my lady?"

Confident that Ned could fend for himself, Brandon returned his attention to Baratheon, contemplating how he might murder the man if the need arose. Explaining the exercise to passersby had allowed him to decline the overtures of several ladies with minimal offense and measured grace.

"And here I was thinking the evening's festivities lacked flair." A new voice disturbed his vigil. "Imagine my surprise when you Northerners volunteered yourselves for the main event."

The Northern Blade turned, greeted by a stranger who was decidedly not a lady vying for the attention of Winterfell's heir. A tall, slender man stood several paces away, his face set with sharp eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thin smile that warned of a keen mind and mercurial temper. He strolled forward at a languid pace, hands relaxed at his back, Dornish guards trailing his every step. He wore Martell colors, but Brandon hardly needed help recognizing a man of such infamous reputation.

"Prince Oberyn," Brandon greeted. He offered a nod but nothing more. A prince the Martell may be, but a prince of Dorne was not a prince of the Realm, and a Stark did not lower his head on a whim.

"Lord Stark," came the reply, the greeting improper and intentionally so. "Or would you prefer the Northern Blade?"

The Dornishman exuded mirth. He made a show of scanning Brondon with an appreciative gaze before finally dipping his head. "Your reputation precedes you."

The eldest son of Rickard Stark regarded the Red Viper, who had earned his moniker after poisoning Edgar Yronwood in an ill-fated duel, leaving his nephew a ward–a hostage–of their family's ancient enemy. Brandon would have thought worse of the man were his own crimes less severe.

"I could say the same."

Oberyn smiled, and the amusement in his eyes pricked at Brandon's anger. The prince's levity and unguarded mannerisms reminded him much of his teacher, but the comparison felt unearned, for Lord Fairchild had always regarded the North, regarded Father, with curiosity, candor, and respect. Oberyn, in contrast, carried himself with a certainty that belied conceit and a quiet disregard that bordered condescension.

Brandon schooled his expression as the prince surveyed the crowd.

"Rare is it for our peoples to cross paths," the Donishman mused. "I would introduce you to dear Elia and my uncle. Alas, royal duties demand their attention."

"My family had the privilege of meeting the royal family when we arrived," Brandon remarked, motioning to the high table, beset by nobles eager to greet the princess and crown prince. Oberyn turned on his heels, barely acknowledging the reply.

"My men managed to liberate a choice vintage from Lord Whent's personal stores, one I've been meaning to try. Care to partake, Lord Stark?"

Already weary of the man, Brandon thought to refuse, but he knew better than to spurn a man so close to the royal family. Departing the dance floor, he spared a glance at his siblings, garnering a laugh from the prince.

"Worry not. I'm confident Lord Dayne's men will safeguard your brother's honor."

Grey eyes watched as Oberyn poured two generous goblets of richly-colored wine, bringing both to his lips before slipping one across the table. Brandon accepted the cup but made no move to drink: the wine was mere pretense for whatever Oberyn wished to discuss, and the prince did not keep him waiting.

"The Northern Blade." The Martell tested the name on his tongue, savoring words seemingly more flavorful than the wine on his lips, "Rumors say you're the best sword House Stark has produced since the last Cregan. It's quite the boast, one I'd almost not believe."

"And yet you do," Brandon countered, noting how Oberyn had omitted his better-known contemporary, Arthur Dayne.

"I'm afraid your reputation has little to do with it." The prince motioned behind him, where Ned and Ashara were still dancing, well after the first song's end. "While I'm sure any Northerner would happily inflate your reputation to curry your father's favor, the Valemen are a proud, dull lot. Their knights would sooner bed a mountain raider than admit an outsider bested one of their own."

Oberyn studied his companion with keen, dark eyes.

"Yet word has it your brother has beaten Bronze Yohn on several occasions."

Brandon held the Viper's gaze, having nothing to say. When compared to his brother, Brandon was the better blade, but that reputation had not reached the South. What Oberyn knew of the Northern Blade derived from rumor and hearsay. In contrast, Ned had made his skills known during his travels through the Vale and Stormlands. Brandon would freely admit his brother was the warrior of greater renown, a reputation that would serve him well.

"And yet, for all of your brother's accolades, for all I've heard of your skills, neither of you are betrothed. I've not heard rumors of a paramour or even a bastard, not one. It's all so very dull." The Donishman swirled his wine, eyeing his companion over the rim of his cup. "Tell me, Lord Stark, does your father have reason to fear for his legacy?"

There was a time when Oberyn's words would have driven Brandon to violence. Even now, the wolf's blood simmered in his veins as he tested the weight of his goblet, entertaining the thought. But while Brandon hesitated to claim the years had changed him, there was no denying he had grown: Even if he managed to crack the Dornishman's head open, it would still mean defeat by every meaningful measure.

Brandon was no stranger to desire: He had traversed much of the North, often at Father's behest. He had visited distant keeps and driven bandits from remote villages. Many a smallfolk had been grateful for his efforts. More than once, he had been propositioned, and Brandon confessed there were times when his discipline faltered.

He had been careful, seeking only experienced women who knew their trade and plied it well. There had been highborn ladies who had offered the same, but Brandon had refused their advances, for the pain of losing Barbrey still lingered, to say nothing of the consequences of siring a bastard of noble birth. He would not subject Ned to such a burden.

A great number of Northern lords had grumbled, wondering why the heir of Winterfell remained unwed. Just as many questioned why their liege lord had refused lesser matches for his younger son. They would not have to wonder long. Once Brandon returned North and renounced his claim, Ned would take his place at Father's side. Whether or not the future Lady of Winterfell happened to be Dornish, Brandon wished for his brother's happiness.

The thought assuaged his anger. Now more than ever, Oberyn's words rang hollow.

"I've heard it said that winter freezes a Northerner's heart in his chest, yet my lord father has four children to his name." Brandon's words echoed a calm, cold certainty. "I have also heard that the southern sun roasts a Dornishman's brain in his head."

A guard stiffened at the prince's side. Brandon paid him no mind as he drank from his cup.

"You have yet to offer me words that discredit the claim, my prince."

The guards stirred as one. Some reached for steel, only to stop when their prince released a ring of laughter. Brandon waited for Oberyn to master his men.

"You are not what I had expected," the Viper praised, eyes bright with newfound intrigue like a snake realizing his prey bore fangs. "Perhaps there's hope for Lord Rickard's legacy after all."

Nothing more was said as both men drank. The Martell poured more wine. Well aware of his reputation, he again offered to sample his companion's cup, which Brandon found no reason to refuse.

"Brave of you to offer your brother up to Ashara," Oberyn mused after a time. "Putting him in her sights…I'm unsure if I should offer you a toast or accuse you of kinslaying now that he's gained Arthur's attention."

"I fail to see how that would matter."

"So you say," the prince replied, and for the first time, Brandon detected a hint of fire behind his voice. The Martell rose from his seat, having nothing more to say. The Northern Blade bid the Red Viper farewell as the Dornishmen made for the high table.

"Oh, and Lord Stark," Oberyn's voice forced Brandon to turn. "It's not a Northerner's heart that shrinks in the cold but rather his head."

Brandon waited for the Dornish prince to disappear before breathing a sigh, grateful for the absence of Martell gold, orange, and red. He was not made for such battles, to spar with veiled insults and japes, wagering his family's reputation with every word and breath. He would much rather face the beasts of his teacher's homeland and whatever horrors that entailed. If nothing else, the claws of a beast would offer a swifter death than embarrassment at court.

Ned sprinted down the hall, his armor clattering with every step. He had awoken barely an hour earlier, closer to midday than daybreak. The servants had barely helped him into a spare suit of armor before he made a mad dash for the yard.

It was the first day of the tourney. Though the melee was three days off, every worthwhile warrior would be spending that time displaying their skill and prowess. Challenges would undoubtedly be issued while ladies spectated the ensuing duels. The coming days would be no less important than the melee itself.

And Ned had overslept.

He reached the battlements overlooking the sparring ring in good time. There, he met his brother, dressed in plain yet well-crafted plate, the barest hint of sweat upon his brow.

"Morning," Brandon greeted with an innocuous wave and guilty smile.

"You told the guards not to wake me."

Brandon did not deny the accusation, much too pleased with himself.

"You had a busy night. Thought you needed the rest."

"It was only a dance."

"It was three. Practically a scandal."

Well aware this was an argument he could only lose, Ned stared out into the yard, where Robert was engaging a Hightower knight.

"What happened while I was asleep?"

"Heard that the king would be arriving for tonight's feast."

Ned nodded, not at all surprised. He would have thought it stranger had Prince Rhaegar tried to host the grand tourney alone.

"Benjen also enjoyed himself," Brandon added with a wry smile. "Thought you should know."

Once more, Ned found himself speechless and similarly abashed. Distracted by last night's festivities, he had neglected their youngest brother, who had spent the evening amongst the pages and junior squires.

The younger Stark stewed in his guilt until his brother once more demanded his attention.

"Ned," he said, and the Wolf Knight startled at how his tone changed.

"We are not the challengers here."

Nothing more was said, yet an unspoken understanding passed between them.

A mighty roar sounded through the yard as the heir of Storm's End bludgeoned his opponent into the dirt with a wooden mallet.

"Stark!" He bellowed, directing his hammer at Brandon while stepping over his fallen foe, "Get your ass down here, so I can buff a new dent into your head!"

"Go fetch yourself a drink!" Brandon barked back. "I won't have your bannermen claiming I caught you winded and half asleep! What's more, Ned here needs a proper chance to wake up!"

A cacophony of jeers and laughter accompanied Brandon's words, and whatever Robert shouted back, Ned failed to hear as he made for the yard.

He descended the steps, marched up to the sparring ring, and nearly groaned aloud at the sight of the opponent awaiting him.

"Well met, Ser Eddard."

The Wolf Knight stood amidst the sons of Westeros' most prominent houses. At a glance, Ned recognized the colors of House Royce, Bracken, Mallister, Lefford, Swann, and Brax. Each man sported a spare suit of polished plate, a luxury beyond the means of most landed knights.

Yet his opponent wore armor beyond compare, its gilding alone worth more than all the others combined, befitting a warrior famed for cutting down three veterans of the Golden Company at the age of ten. Ned would consider him the Westerlands' finest knight, his reputation only dampened by his nephew's meteoric rise.

"Well met, Ser Tygett."

The Lion of Casterly Rock drew his sword, and Ned followed suit.

The Westerlands were the wealthiest of the Seven Kingdoms. Ned would never refute the claim, but they were far from the most prosperous: where the verdant fields of the Reach yielded wheat without end, the Kingdom of the Rock was a canvas with rolling hills, steep crags, and shallow valleys. Smallfolk toiled on small farms mired with grit and gravel while the gold beneath their feet saw the kingdom assailed by reavers as surely as the North saw snow.

From the heights of Casterly Rock, the Lannisters governed a harsh land made harsher by Tywin's rule. The swordsmanship of Westerland knights reflected its history, and Tygett Lannister exemplified its martial tradition: he struck with a stony discipline that lacked the artistry synonymous with Reachman and Dornish knights. His unshakeable footwork, like those of a Stormlander, emphasized aggression over evasion or feints. The Lannister attacked with frightening precision, each blow banishing the legacy of Lord Tytos' misrule.

But for all he knew of war and battle, the lion knight had never faced a foe who outclassed Maelys Blackfyre in every regard. Nor had he witnessed his own death play out behind bright, starlit eyes and raised his sword in defiance, knowing victory would be measured in the moments abating defeat.

So when Tygett struck, Ned answered. The Lannister sought the gaps within his armor, but Eddard batted the gilded blade aside, warding off a vicious cross-cut to his chin before redirecting a parting slash from his knees and another from his hand. Steel screeched as Eddard denied Tygett a blow meant to crush his fingers within their gauntlets.

The spectators stood silent as Lord Stark's second son parried and repelled Tygett's onslaught, never expending the energy to block or bind the lion's blade. Lord Fairchild would have overwhelmed his guard in an instant, but against the Lion of Lannister, Ned refused to give ground; Every step backward was one he would reclaim before the next blow.

Yet Ned knew he would not outlast his foe, for Ser Tygett was a knight to rival any member of the Kingsguard, and Ned had to wonder how far he would have risen in an era when Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne had not lived. Even now, his arms ached despite deflecting the brunt of each blow, a testament to Tygett's strength.

Allowing his opponent to dictate the pace of their duel, Ned waited as the Lannister adapted to his defenses faster than any Vale knight he could recall. When the flash of gilded steel crew closer and nearly struck true, the young Stark feigned a poorly-timed parry, allowing himself to be driven back.

The lion knight raised his blade, committing his strength to a final blow, only for Ned's arms to form a fool's guard. From the low stance, he leveraged the fulcrum of his blade, transitioning seamlessly into an upward thrust that sought Tygett's throat.

The Lannister narrowly evaded the deathblow and answered by bringing his blade down on Ned's exposed head. But the young knight stepped forward and finally bound their blades. Mustering his strength, Ned drove both swords to the ground, entangled at the hilt, and brought his full weight to bear, driving his shoulder into the knight's breastplate.

A dull sound echoed through the ring as Ned's pauldron dented gilded steel. Tygett staggered, forced to relinquish his blade to stay upright, righting himself only to realize he had been disarmed.

For a moment, none spoke.

The lion knight glared at his opponent, his eyes alight with anger and wounded pride. But his rage was short-lived. Tygett calmed himself with a steely breath, inclining his head to the younger knight.

Ned mirrored the gesture, returning Lannister's blade hilt first.

"Well fought, Ser Tygett."

"You moreso, Ser Eddard," came the reply. "It seems your reputation is well-earned."

Nothing more was said as both warriors left the ring. Ned was assailed by his fellow knights, offering congratulations and seeking advice. Yet their praise fell on deaf ears as Ned waded through the crowd toward the balcony overlooking the square. There, he spied a now familiar face.

Ned raised his hand, and when Ashara waved back, he thought her smile the most beautiful thing

Chapter Text

When Melisandre first set foot within the Red Temple of Volantis, seven kings still ruled Westeros while dragons plagued the eastern skies. In the centuries since that fateful day, the kings had lost their crowns as the dragons had their wings, yet Melisandre remained in R'hllor's service.

Through her faith, she had found purpose. Through that purpose, she had known freedom, gifted to a young slave who had not owned the blood in her veins or flesh on her bones.

Perhaps that was why Melisandre felt so angered as she held a great flame aloft within the wolflord's halls.

She had not intended to return to this savage land while the Soul of Ice slumbered and Azor Ahai remained unfound. Yet the red priestess sought answers that had evaded fire and shadow.

When winter ended a moon ago, Melisandre had stared into the Great Brazier of the Volanti temple and saw naught but flame. Gone were the visions of the terrible battle destined to eclipse every man-waged war; gone was the specter of the Great Darkness that loathed all things warm and living. What scenes remained had danced in utter disarray, leaving the future impossible to discern.

Never before had Melisandre felt her faith so tested as she feared the loss of her Lord's favor, that the Enemy had returned and she had failed as an instrument of R'hllor's will. Even now, that fear lingered.

She had not been alone: priests and priestesses throughout Essos had lost hold of the Lord's gift.

The High Priest had called a grand assembly, the tenth such gathering in the history of the Faith. The proclamation had been unprecedented, for the last took place not a decade ago, in the wake of a foreign power that had washed over the world.

Melisandre could still recall the strange sensation that had overwhelmed her, altogether familiar yet impossible, like the touch of waves at one's feet while traversing the Red Wastes. But the fleeting magic had faded too quickly, the phenomenon dismissed as the by-product of a passing star.

Now, the world paid for their folly.

The Faith could no longer afford the luxury of self-deception. For two weeks, a thousand voices had cried out, but for all that was said, naught had been done.

With the Faith desperate for answers, the Red Temple of Volantis decreed the great exodus of its priesthood, tasked with pilgrimage to places of power, where the vestiges of magic might bolster the flames and illuminate R'hllor's will.

Where others had ventured eastward, Melisandre had crossed the Narrow Sea. Her command of the Common Tongue and knowledge of the winterlands left no one better suited to journey past the Wall of the fabled Builder.

That had been her duty, a sacred mission now hindered by the man seated upon a weirwood throne.

Rickard Stark.

Even in Essos, Melisandre had heard whispers of the so-called savage who had absconded with Myr's secrets. However hard the glass guilds tried to refute the rumors, their words rang hollow in the face of the three great gardens outside the wolflord's keep.

They called him the Last Direwolf, a legendary figure born too late into a world now mundane. Without ever crossing the Narrow Sea, he had made a mockery of the Free Cities, claiming a prize that Myr had guarded and others had coveted since the Doom, all to forge a kingdom mightier than the one surrendered to dragons centuries ago.

Mesliandre's mouth drew thin.

The high seat of House Stark was a throne by a different name, just as the man who sat upon it was a king without a crown. He had studied her with a face carved from stone and eyes chipped from ice. His impassive bearing echoed a slumbering power, strong with the blood of kings unabated by time.

The direwolf was a man worthy of legend, but he had hindered her path, and that was not to be borne.

Mesliandre had arranged an audience with the barbarian lord, knowing news of her travels would reach his ear. She had sought his aid, for as faithful as her followers were, they were ill-equipped for the coming cold.

When he instead denied her passage, Melisandre chose to remind him of her task, punctuating her words with a great plume of flame. The display of magic, illusion, and alchemy had expended the powders within her robes and set R'hllor's ruby aglow against her breast.

Yet, despite her efforts, the face of the wolflord remained unchanged, untempted by her glamor and unmoved by her flames. He had raised a hand, halting his men from drawing steel while regarding her with barely-held interest, as though she was not Melisandre of Asshai but Melony of Lot Seven, back still wet from fresh lashes, frail wrists bitten black by wrought iron chains.

Without a word, he had stirred her anger more than any man she could recall.

"That was needless, my lady." Though his voice carried no warning, Rickard Stark sat with a naked Valyrian blade resting upon his lap, an apt reminder that he had withheld guest rights. "None here doubt your identity or purpose. But I must advise against this venture, for the dangers beyond the Wall are great, and even the Night's Watch cannot guarantee safe harbor."

The lord's grey eyes grew somber and pensive.

"I can no longer wholeheartedly endorse the honor of the Black Brothers: the death of Danny Flint haunts the order to this day, and I will not add to the mistral's store of tragic tales."

Melisandre felt her anger settle. For all that his words rankled, the lord had spoken without condescension or ridicule, his voice belying good intentions the priestess knew better than to spurn.

"We thank you for your warning, Lord Stark." The red priestess's voice grew rich and warm as she touched the ruby upon her neck and met the direwolf's eyes, "But we who serve the Lord of Light have our own oaths. We are bound to them as you are yours, and we would not abandon our sacred duty for fear of death."

Once more, Melisandre willed the ruby to life, refining her glamor to accentuate her features beyond a mere trick of the light.

"I trust you understand."

Detecting a shift in the wolflord's bearing as he sheathed his blade, the red priestess thought the battle won.

"You have made your intentions clear, and I will not insult your resolve by bandying words." The lord waved a servant forward with bread and salt. "A raven will be sent to Castle Black so that Lord Commander Qorgyle knows to expect your arrival. It will take a week for word to reach the Wall. I ask that you and your followers take that time to rest and prepare for the road ahead. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, Lady Melisandre."

The words surprised her, and Merlisandre would have laughed had she not been outplayed: Rickard Stark had promised to send a letter of introduction, but introductions did not guarantee a warm reception. No doubt the raven's missive would ensure she found no welcome at Castle Black. The Night's Watch might claim no master, but they would never risk the ire of the lord whose roads saw their men clothed and fed.

"We thank you for your hospitality." Meslisandre dipped her head, recognizing that she had lost this exchange. No matter. The hearts of men were easily swayed, and the machinations of a single lord would not deter her from her task. "I request a place my followers and I may convene for our morning sermons."

The wolflord nodded.

"The First Keep will be at your disposal, but I ask that you not involve my people in your worship." His eyes took on a harsh light that advised caution, "The North has forever kept faith with the Old Gods."

The warning was clear: guest rights had been given. The direwolf would not harm his guests, but the same was expected in turn. Melisandre had little doubt about how the lord would perceive the conversion of his people.

There would come a day when the savages saw the Lord's Light, but it would not be this day, not when her mission took precedence. But that day would come. A great man Rickard Stark may be, but a man he remained, widowed and aging–though Melisandre confessed he wore his age well. She would be his guest for a week's time, and should she return from the Wall alive, his guest again in a moon's turn. There would be time then to see if the direwolf indeed held a heart of stone.

The thought soothed her mind as Melisandre bowed and made to leave, her followers trailing some steps behind. She was halfway to the door when the wolflord called to her. The red priestess turned and found him standing, his sword and throne several steps away.

"Is there something else you require, my lord?"

The lord affirmed the question and drew closer.

"You are a lady well-traveled and well-learned," he said, and Melisandre found it strange to hear familiar words offered without a trace of flattery. "I would ask regarding your knowledge of the higher mysteries."

Had the lord's eyes not been bereft of greed, the priestess would have been disappointed by the question. She withheld judgment, waiting for the lord to proceed.

"Employing magic to grow wheat from a fallow field, maturing crops to harvest within a day…what would be the price for such a task?"

The question caught Melisandre by surprise.

How curious.

She had served R'hllor for nary six centuries. In that time, she had treated with many men with power real and perceived. Those who had not desired her body had sought her sorcery. Many had wanted both. They would ask the red priestess to divine their futures and beseech the shadowbinder to silence their foes, but this was a request wholly new. For a lord to witness magic and inquire how it might aid his people was, without doubt, a form of greed but one that Melisandre found palatable.

Truly, Rickard Stark was a rare man indeed.

"You refer to the deeds of your ancestor, the fabled Greenhand?" The priestess almost smiled as she answered the question with more.

Rickard Stark worded his reply with care. "I speak of magic of a similar vein."

"Then you already have your answer." Melisandre's smile grew as she pressed her point. "You speak of magic lost to legend and myth, of seeding life where naught had been and disrupting time itself to suit your needs."

The red priestess turned from the Last Direwolf, leaving her words to haunt his thoughts.

"If you wish to feed your people, my lord, I would advise the construction of more glass gardens. That at least would be achievable by mortal means."

Rickard sighed into the silence.

The Warden of the North sat at his solar. In one hand, he nursed a tumbler of whiskey. In the other, he held an elegant envelope, one his men had found fastened to the gate of the Workshop shortly after his children left for Harrenhal. Tossing the letter aside, he reached for the small plate of candied pineapples on his desk.

"Sure you should still be eating those, milord?"

Rickard did not attempt to greet his sworn sword as he entered the once-silent room.

"Lady Evetta has gifted me a box every moon for the last five years." The warden slid the plate and its contents toward his old friend. "Were they intended to do harm, I would imagine the damage long done."

Rodrik scoffed, helping himself to a spare glass and fistful of fruit.

"Suppose Fairchild knows better ways to kill a man."

Rickard offered no reply as he poured Rodrik's share of amber liquor. He wasted no words on what they both understood. His old friend seemed to share the sentiment, and the two men sat in silence, ruminating into their cups.

"You didn't warn her away from the Workshop," the knight said at length, voice more curious than critical.

"Lady Melisandre would doubtlessly investigate any place I forbid her to go."

Rodrik chuckled.

"She doesn't seem the sort to leave well enough alone." The humor left his voice as quickly as it came. "The things she said…you believe half of it, my lord?"

"She believed every word she spoke," Rickard answered with as much insult as flattery. "I offered my warnings and said my piece. Her decisions will be her own."

The arrival of Melisandre of Asshai had the whole of Winterfell on guard. The shadowed city was not a place that inspired neighborly sentiments, nor were the red priests–so fond of slaves and sacrifice–a people who evoked trust. Yet, turning the woman away had not been feasible, not while she represented one of the world's great faiths.

Luwin had warned his liege of the dangers that might accompany her, of the shadowbinders and maegi seemingly native to the cursed land. Upon meeting the woman, however, Rickard found his initial assumptions affirmed: the greatest threat Melisandre posed was that of a red priestess visiting the home of the Old Gods. The warden would have to send many letters to as many lords or risk rumors running rampant by week's end.

Strangely enough, Lady Melisandre's attempt to cow him had left Rickard wholly underwhelmed. Most would not have noticed, too occupied with the flames, but the warden saw how the spell had taxed her, how her posture had stiffened and breath quickened after the display. Even now, he remembered how poorly her efforts compared to the small, unintended wonders that Cyril had made routine. The Red Woman was rumored to be a prominent practitioner, so what did that make the Hunter, whom Rickard thought a friend?

'You speak of magic lost to legend and myth.'

Rodrik eyed his liege, seemingly of a similar mind.

"About what she said of Fairchild," the knight's voice drifted off with a shared unease.

"It is nothing we have not already considered," Rickard offered, both men aware his words carried no confidence. "She may well be mistaken."

"Aye, but–"

"I was unaware you held her opinion in such high regard."

Rodrik grumbled at that, waving his empty cup in his liege lord's face for good measure. The Warden of the North allowed himself a smile, eyes drifting again to the well-read letter upon his desk.

Dear Rickard,

Away on business. Will return soon.

Kindest Regards,
Cyril

Chapter Text

Rhaegar plucked a chord, another woman swooned, and Robert Baratheon resigned himself to a slow death.

'Seven help me if another woman weeps.'

With his head propped on a bandaged hand, the heir of Storm's End fought to keep his eyes open, sharing commiserating looks with several young lords whose wives were eying the prince with impure intent.

Robert supposed he was fortunate in that regard.

Lyanna sat at his side, assessing the prince's performance with a critical eye. Unlike the vapid fools fawning over Rhaegar, his betrothed reminded Robert of a veteran knight spectating a spar. All the while, her hand drummed gently against the tabletop.

"What are you doing?" he asked, voice hushed for a Baratheon but far from a whisper.

"Memorizing the song," she hissed back, concentration lost. "It's a pretty tune, and I intend to make it mine."

She shot him a half-hearted glare. Were Robert more a fool, he would have thought Lyanna truly cross with him.

"Not that you seem to care much for music."

Her voice carried a hint of cheek that had Robert grinning despite himself.

"Perhaps I'd pay it more mind if you were the one playing."

The heir of Storm's End placed his hand over his betrothed's, a bold gesture and—if the sharp look from Brandon Stark were any indication—one he would pay for in the morrow. But Lyanna smiled and made no attempt to shake off his hand.

Robert considered that a resounding victory.

As the tourney of singers wore on, Robert's thoughts turned inwards. The young lord had never been one for contemplation, but the recent demands of his station had left him little recourse.

By and large, he was happy: Storm's End had prevailed against the long winter, House Baratheon stood healthy and whole, and Robert himself was betrothed to a spirited beauty with kind eyes and a lively wit. Better yet, her brothers were already his in all but blood, his future goodfather a man as impressive as the Old Lion and much better liked.

But all was not well.

Not blind to his faults, the young Baratheon freely admitted he had not been the best of wards. For years, he had made poor Ned an unwilling accomplice in innumerable acts of mischief while ignoring Jon's every lesson and reprimand. Only after returning to the stormlands did Robert realize how much the Old Falcon had coddled him.

In the months following his fosterage, the heir of Storm's End found himself saddled with its upkeep, a task Mother usually shared with Ser Harbert. It had been a test, and Robert had failed spectacularly: were it not for Stannis, the Baratheon heir doubted their home would still be standing. His performance had earned himself a permanent posting at Father's side, where he was tasked with relearning the finer points of lordship.

There were days when Robert seriously considered swimming across the Narrow Sea to start life anew as a sellsword, and though the plan still held considerable appeal, the young stag had upheld his duties, however poorly. To do any less was to risk Mother hounding him to the world's end, and the Baratheon heir would sooner court the King's Justice than test her anger. Moreover–loath though he was to admit it–Robert yearned to be a better man, well aware of how his failings shamed the lord who had raised him like a son.

There was another reason why he had taken his tasks to heart.

Cheers erupted throughout the hall as Rhaegar was announced the winner of the tournament, several ladies squealing as though the decision were ever in doubt.

Robert released Lyanna's hand and offered the victor a guarded applause, glaring all the while.

Rhaegar Targaryen. The Crown Prince. Cousin. Kin.

Though Robert had few memories of his silver-haired grandmother, he had grown up on Father's stories of the brave princess who had married for duty, saving the kingdoms from war after great-grandfather Lyonel's rebellion and Duncan Targaryen's folly. Time and again, the Lord of Storm's End had reminded his sons that the Targaryens were family and that it was House Baratheon's eternal duty to support the king and crown.

Then came the letter from King's Landing, not a week after his parents had returned without Rhaegar's promised bride. Robert had no chance to read the message, for Father had torn it asunder and flown into rage that even Mother struggled to appease. Never before had the young Baratheon seen his father so wroth, ready to repeat the deeds of the Laughing Storm.

Now, the Lord of Storm's End no longer spoke of the Targaryens as kin.

Robert watched as the spectators applauded Rhaegar as though he were the Conqueror reborn, but all Robert saw was a conflated minstrel and tourney knight, one who spent his days holed up at Dragonstone while the king mocked his Dornish wife and made a mess of the realm.

The surrounding lords and ladies continued to cheer as though Aerys Targaryen had not anointed Jaime Lannister to the Kingsguard mere days ago, depriving Tywin of his heir–the last in a long string of insults.

The Targaryens had forgotten themselves. Even with the last dragons long dead, they acted like dragonlords, too proud to accept that they had to walk the earth like everyone else.

There would be a reckoning. Robert could feel it in his bones. He only hoped he would be ready to lead when the kingdoms faced the coming storm.

Lyanna stood in her personal apartment, one of four reserved for her family. Tonight, Lord Arryn had invited his former wards to supper, Ned had dragged Brandon along, and Benjen had ventured out accompanied by Lord Reed. Lyanna relished the rare moment of privacy.

With her violin and bowstring tucked safely underarm, she hovered over a ream of paper with a feathered quill. Again and again, the young girl replayed the prince's song in her mind, dotting the manuscript with scratches and blotches of ink.

She added her own flourishes, altering the meter and ornaments to suit her tastes. Every so often, the young Stark would clean her hands, take up her violin, and allow the melody she envisioned to fill the room.

During the long winter, Lyanna had spent many nights seated beside Lady Evetta, learning musical theory by candlelight. Music was now a beautiful language that the young girl understood. The once impenetrable books in her teacher's study had become collections of wondrous tales Lyanna could recite and share.

Yet, despite learning so many beautiful stories, the young Stark struggled to craft her own. Realizing that music from the Lord Hunter's homeland had history–styles, intricacies, and trends that made the offerings of the Seven Kingdoms seem sparse by comparison–had left Lyanna with a hunger and yearning she found impossible to describe.

Though not a composer herself, Lady Evetta had been happy to nurture her student's pursuits, and Lyanna had treasured her encouragements as though they were gems. The tournament of singers had provided inspiration, and the young Stark was confident her work tonight would bring her closer to composing a song of her own.

The sky grew dark as Lyanna continued her task, leaving three sheets of manuscripts wet with ink. Every new measure felt like a triumph, and the young girl grew giddy at the thought of sharing her work with her brothers. She might even convince Robert to stay awake for the entire piece.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. It creaked ajar, revealing Lyanna's handmaiden, features tense with worry.

"It's the prince," she uttered, voice unsteady. "He's asked to see you, milady."

The young Stark almost stumbled in surprise.

"Thank you, Erena. Please see him in." The words did not feel entirely her own, even as she gave the command. The handmaiden left to do as instructed, leaving Lyanna alone with a hammering heart.

This was not a proper meeting, else Prince Rhaegar would have approached Brandon, Father's heir. Moreover, Ned would never have forgotten such an important appointment.

Lyanna laid her violin on the bed and fought the urge to wring her hands. Minding her nerves, the young Stark waited as the clink of armor and footsteps approached.

The door creaked open. The now-familiar figure of Arthur Dayne stepped through the entranceway, followed by his charge.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was beautiful. Lyanna could not think of anyone more beautiful save Lady Evetta. The prince stood taller than the Sword of the Morning with lithe yet powerful limbs. His face was handsome without flaw, crowned with a diadem of silver hair and set with eyes like amethysts.

The young girl beheld the prince and bowed low.

"My prince."

Lyanna grew silent as a stutter caught in her throat. Perhaps there was more she should have said, but the young girl was unprepared to host a prince, never mind one that had arrived unannounced. She found herself thankful for the Stark servants and guards who had accompanied the prince into her room, though they could not speak in her stead.

"Please raise your head, Lady Lyanna." Rhaegar's voice flowed like a song. "It is Arthur and I who should apologize for the intrusion."

To the young girl's alarm, the prince dipped his head ever so slightly. Ser Arthur, who had made himself scarce in one of the far corners of the room, offered the same.

"I often pass these halls on my way to the royal apartments. More than once, I've heard the enchanting music that flowed from your door. Tonight, I had hoped to hear a performance in full."

Rhaegar offered his explanations, proving his words as well-practiced as his harp, and Lyanna knew the prince's request was, in fact, a demand.

With another deep bow, she rounded the room to retrieve her violin. Returning to her manuscripts, Lyanna found the prince seated on a chest beside her bed, mere steps away.

Silence reigned as the silver prince regarded the young girl with voiceless expectation.

When her bowstring trembled, Lyanna imagined herself back in Winterfell, performing for her family after a midwinter meal. Father would sit with Benjen on his lap while Brandon and Ned settled on the heated floor of her messy room, awaiting whatever piece Lyanna had learned the day before, divulged by Lady Evetta like a much-cherished secret.

Drawing courage from the memory, Lyanna pressed her bow against the strings.

Harsh, coarse, and all-consuming, the first note held the audience captive without warning. All else fell into place as Lyanna's left hand danced along the fingerboard at a pace few could follow while her right drew out a lively melody with every tug of her bow. She punctuated the last chord of the chorus with a resounding vibrato as a glimmer of shock overtook the prince's eyes.

Lyanna closed her own as the air within the room became a living thing, beckoned to life at her hands. Time slipped away as Lyanna lost herself abating the evening silence. The memory of the prince's performance played out within her mind all the while, and when she at last pictured Rhaegar withdrawing his hands from his harp, Lyanna realized she had done the same: the violin no longer rested against her chin, and the bow hung at her side.

The young girl opened her eyes to the sound of a lonely applause.

"Remarkable." Rhaegar's voice carried a breathless quality, conveying wonderment. "Were it not for the chorus, I would not have recognized the work as my own."

"I found your song beautiful," Lyanna returned, somewhat abashed. "I thought to play it myself."

"It is all the more beautiful for your performance."

Rhaegar's voice matched the warmth of his words, yet Lyanna struggled to form an apt reply.

"I am glad it was to your liking, my prince," she said at last.

Seemingly satisfied, the silver prince turned to the room's sole window, overlooking a dusky sky.

"You have my sincere thanks, Lady Lyanna. I confess this has been a welcome distraction from my thoughts, which have been dark of late."

A somberness reclaimed the prince's features as he discerned the confusion and concern that played across the young girl's face.

"Rhaenys' birth had left Elia ill. The Grand Maester has warned that Aegon's birth will likely be no less difficult, if not worse."

His words struck Lyanna like a blow, and she sensed this was a secret the prince should not have shared.

Princess Elia's pregnancy had been announced on the eve of the tourney. The joyous news was met with resounding applause, for the princess was again with child, and the swell beneath her dress proved she was many months along.

Recalling her beloved teacher, who had only ever known Lady Maria through paintings, and her own mother, who survived only through Father's stories, the young girl fought the urge to reach out and touch the prince.

"I will pray for Princess Elia's continued health and your son's safe birth."

She spoke with as much sincerity as she could muster, but Rhaegar did not quite acknowledge her words as he made to stand. Perhaps the prince realized he had shared overmuch with a stranger who was not yet a friend.

"In all my years, I've not met a musician of your talents, Lady Lyanna," he offered instead, voice reflecting the somber calm of a man seeking refuge within his thoughts. "Your tutor is most fortunate to have so gifted a student."

"I am nowhere near her equal," Lyanna replied, once more flustered by the prince's praise but grateful to leave discussions of Princess Elia and her children behind.

"She must be a singular woman for you to hold her in such regard," Rhaegar supplied in turn, and for a moment, Lyanna feared both she and the prince had shared overmuch. "Should she and I ever cross paths, I will speak well of you, my lady."

Unable to trust her voice, Lyanna sought refuge in a wordless nod, leaving the prince to interpret the gesture however he wished. Thankfully, Rhaegar made no note of her misstep.

With little else to say, the prince again expressed his gratitude before bidding Lyanna farewell. Arthur Dayne followed him, offering the young girl a look resembling an apology as he closed the door.

The moment they left, Lyanna stumbled to her bed and collapsed, feeling more tired than she could ever recall. As Erena and the others tended to her, the girl found herself lost in a myriad of thoughts, pleased that the prince had enjoyed her performance, yet sad that her family had not been the first to hear it.

It was only hours later that Lyanna remembered that the royal apartments were in the Kingspyre Tower, far away on the opposite side of Harrenhal.

Chapter Text

Ned and Brandon rode through the gates of Harrenhal, fifty of the North's finest warriors at their backs. Both wore their best suits of armor, forged from iron annealed with Skagosi ash, lending the resulting steel a dark, burnished hue. Etched from acid and lye, the visage of direwolves adorned each cuirass while carved weirwood branches weaved through every gorget, gauntlet, and greave.

They had been gifts from Father, commissioned specifically for the melee. Exceptional by even the exacting standards of the Reach, the armors had seemed an obscene expense. But Ned reminded himself that Harrenhal was to be the greatest tourney for centuries to come and thus no place for Northern austerity.

Tightening the violet favor around his arm, the younger Stark surveyed the field. He recognized Lord Royce and Ser Denys at the head of House Arryn's finest knights. A stone's throw away, Brynden Tully commanded the river lords while the familiar figure of Ser Tygett stood alongside Roland Crakehall. Further back, Ned spotted Robert sporting an antlered great helm, face no doubt split with a rakish grin.

Turning his gaze from his foster brother, Ned passed a critical eye over Jon Connington, who had sided with the Crownlands over his liege lord. Lord Tytos Blackwood stood amongst them, his presence at Connington's side explained by the scathing looks he shot at Jonos Bracken.

Stone-grey eyes settled on the Dornish contingent, led by Oberyn Martell, his uncle, and another member of the Kingsguard who had Ned's lips drawing thin.

"That's Arthur Dayne."

Brandon acknowledged the warning without concern.

"I'll take you at your word," he replied, hands resting against the horn of his saddle, eyes focusing more on the clouds overhead than the riders afield. "You've met the man more often than I."

Though he gestured to Ashara's favor and spoke the words in jest, Brandon's voice lacked its usual levity, laced with a bitterness that had set in days ago. The elder Stark had since ceased his good-natured japes and taunts, and Ned was saddened at the change.

"I suspect I've seen more of him than Ashara these last two days," he supplied as the remark garnered a faint laugh.

"What a sad state of affairs," the elder Stark sighed, and Ned found himself unable to argue.

Since his first dance with Ashara, the young northern knight had met the Daynes on several occasions, seeking their permission for a proper courtship. Lord Symon Dayne had pressed Ned regarding his incomes, duties, and prospective holdings, demanding to know what sort of future Ashara could expect as a member of his household. Ned had not begrudged Lord Dayne his queries; irrespective of his family name or personal deeds, the young Stark remained a second son and landless knight. Had Ned sat in the man's stead with Symon's kinsmen seeking Lyanna's hand, he and Brandon would have seen they suffer much worse.

Ashara had aided him at every turn, guiding Ned through each meeting, needling and teasing her brother whenever he grew too forceful with his questioning, all while assuring Ned that the man was far warmer than he appeared. Time and again, the Lord of Starfall would grumble while yielding to Ashara's chidings, and she would smile, ever gracious in victory.

When even Ser Arthur Dayne endorsed Ned's character, Lord Dayne had finally acquiesced, granting him permission to accompany Ashara for the remainder of the tourney and continue correspondence thereafter.

That had been just days ago, back when Ned had believed he would leave Harrenhal with nothing but fond memories.

Then came the night he and Brandon had returned to their apartments after supping with Jon and Robert, finding Lyanna in clear distress. She had refused to share her thoughts until the following day. Only then did Ned learn of Rhaegar's intrusion, how the prince had all but forced himself into her room, demanding a song as though she were a common minstrel.

The mere memory of his sister struggling to recount her ordeal had spurred something dark and hateful within Ned's breast.

He had hugged her, assuring Lyanna that she had done well and was not to blame for Rhaegar's folly. He repeated the words until she believed him.

Brandon had not joined their embrace. Instead, he stood silent and still, not trusting himself to move. Ned, struggling with his own anger, had understood.

The following days would pass like a blur. All thoughts of the melee lay abandoned as the brothers worked to safeguard their sister's honor, imperiled through no fault of her own. They had acted quickly, for any number of witnesses might have seen Rhaegar entering or departing Lyanna's chambers, and rumors could not be allowed to spread.

Brandon had returned to the sparring ring and issued challenges to every house within the Crownlands, House Targaryen's staunchest supporters. Nine men would enter the ring that day, and none would leave by their own power. Their broken bodies served as a warning that Rhaegar's actions would not be overlooked, that any fool tempted to besmirch Lyanna's honor best back his words with steel.

Ned had waged his own battles within the Widow's Tower, which housed the Kingsguards' temporary quarters. He had confronted Arthur, and though Ned had initially thought well of his future good-brother, the Dornishman's involvement in Rhaegar's transgressions had tarnished Ned's good opinion of the legendary knight.

His opinion had plummeted further when Arthur–knowing full well that Rhaegar had breached propriety the moment he arrived unannounced–insisted that nothing untoward had passed between Lyanna and the prince. It had taken all of Ned's control not to ask Arthur if he would have thought the same had Ashara or Allyria been the ones to suffer Rhaegar's attention.

"She's to be your sister as well," he had said instead, and the knight had wavered, his eyes betraying shame.

When pressed, Arthur had sworn he would offer truthful testimony if asked what occurred that evening. Such a simple thing, yet it had taken hours to extract the promise. Ned had returned to his chambers accomplished yet embittered; if the need arose, Arthur's word would shield Lyanna from the worst of the rumors, for the Realm still held the Sword of the Morning in high regard, even if Ned did not.

---

The Wolf Knight drew himself from his thoughts in time to hear the low bellow of a warhorn, the first of three signaling the start of the melee. There would be time before the second and more before the third, enough for the gathered warriors to muster their courage for a grand display. But even as his fellow northmen inspected their armor and readied their arms, Ned kept his gaze fixed on the Sword of the Morning.

"I hadn't expected him to participate," he remarked, recalling Arthur's preference for the joust despite his title. "Though I can guess his reasons."

Ned turned to the Martell prince and was met with dark eyes alight with venom. He looked on, unbothered.

"Perhaps it's the same reason the Red Viper's been taking our measure and why he's staring daggers at us now," Brandon scoffed as he brought his horse into the path of Oberyn's gaze.

Ned nodded his assent. Neither he nor Brandon had much mind for intrigue–the events of the last two days had left them both stretched thin–but the Red Viper had hardly been subtle.

House Martell had won the war for Prince Rhaegar's hand, only for Aerys to deny the Dornish a meaningful presence at court, all but declaring them tools in his feud against Tywin Lannister. Princess Elia's position had been precarious after she birthed Rhaegar a daughter instead of a son. Aerys limiting her household to a handful of ladies-in-waiting and ineffectual stewards had only worsened her plight.

Like many others, Ned had assumed Lewyn Martell and Arthur Dayne to be the princess' strongest defenders within the Red Keep. No doubt the latter's reputation as the greatest blade in all the realm had shielded Elia better than even Arthur himself.

Ned and Brandon's growing renown had challenged Arthur's preeminence, and Dorne would never allow such a challenge to go unanswered. That was why the Red Viper had spent the better part of a week observing them, why fifty of House Martell's finest warriors had enlisted in the melee over the joust. If they had their way, the Wolf Knight and Northern Blade would never again be uttered in the same breath as the Sword of the Morning. Days ago, Ned would have thought that Arthur shared their cause.

But recent events had cast everything into doubt.

That the Sword of the Morning would defend the prince after what had befallen Lyanna and Elia, that he had not even deigned to warn their families of what might occur…

No, it was clear that Arthur was neither the stalwart defender Ned had envisioned nor the loyal guard the Martells had desired.

The young knight sighed.

A kinder part of him thought Dayne's participation was an apology to the Martells, just as his promise had been one to the Starks. A crueler part wondered how many hours the Red Viper wasted convincing Arthur of the task.

"He knows," Ned noted, not turning his eyes from the Dornish prince, whose coiled limbs and blazing eyes conveyed the anger of a man suffering a great injustice.

"Of course he does," Brandon said, tone uncaring. "His uncle was in the tower when you confronted Dayne."

"Do you think he holds us responsible?" Ned asked, already knowing the answer.

"Does it matter?" the elder Stark challenged. "The man's thoughts are his own. He's free to think what he wants, so long as he minds his tongue."

Ned grimaced, already foreseeing disaster.

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then remind him that Prince Doran doesn't have another son to surrender for his mistakes," Brandon bit back, sounding too much like their teacher during his rare moments of displeasure.

"This is a tourney," Ned stressed, recalling the grueling events of the last two days. "I'd rather not start a war."

For a time, the elder Stark gave no reply. The silence stretched long enough that Ned no longer expected an answer, only for Brandon to inhale a low, strained breath and release it with a nod.

"I'll endeavor to do the same."

Ned found himself smiling as he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, knowing how easily Brandon took to anger and how hard he had worked to keep it at bay.

Nothing more was said as the second horn blared, and the brothers sat in silence, awaiting the third.

---

"Wendel!"

Ned had no time to say more as he raised his sword against the mace descending upon the merman's helm. He drew his shield back in the same breath, warding off a spearpoint aimed at his flank.

The sound of thunderous hooves, screams, and clashing steel fell like a fog over Ned's mind, obscuring his thoughts as he pressed his destrier onward. The Wolf Knight lost himself in the simplicity of his single-minded task: again and again, he raised his sword and shield to drive back the survivors of Brandon's initial charge.

Only after riding past the men of the Reach did Ned's senses return and the world refocus. Granted a brief respite, Wendel Manderly raised his visor and dipped his head.

"My thanks, Ser Eddard."

Ned gave a curt nod and sheathed his blade.

"Rest and gather your strength," he ordered. "The day is still young."

The merman did as instructed, falling back into formation. The northmen returned to their place on the field. The Wolf Knight brought his destrier beside the vanguard, where his brother greeted him with a half-finished wineskin.

"Those flowers had thorns," Brandon drawled.

"Our pelts were thick," he replied, taking the wineskin as his brother laughed.

They watched as seven maesters rode forth to assist the wounded. As the casualties were tallied and carried off, the Dornish and river lords moved into position, awaiting the warhorn that would signal the next charge.

'A seven-sided melee in the ancient style.'

There was a good reason why mounted knights preferred to charge against footmen over their mounted peers. A hundred stones worth of man, beast, and steel was a frightful thing, and two knights facing one another in the joust was perilous enough. For companies of fifty to do the same without fencing or boundaries bordered on madness.

The format and participants of the melee had been decided well before the Starks traveled south, and Lord Whent had met with the lords of every kingdom to coordinate the grand affair.

Each kingdom was to muster fifty men. One kingdom would charge against another, passing first on the right and then left while the rest bore witness, thereby ensuring ample spectacle for the onlookers and time for the maesters to oversee the wounded. The charges would continue until forty men remained ahorse, the fourth blast of a horn prompting the remaining warriors to dismount and fight afoot.

Other rules had been set forth: swords and axes were to be blunted, spears were to be no longer than the length of a man, and war hammers no heavier than half a stone's weight. Blows to a man's back or horse were expressly forbidden.

Ned had stood at Brandon's side while the lords discussed the order of the charge. A handful of seasoned knights, veterans of the last Blackfyre Rebellion, had claimed the format a mockery of true combat. Ned was inclined to agree, but pageantry did not preclude the melee from danger, for a single blunder and the resulting collision would improve the fortunes of a dozen second sons.

Thus far, the North had done well, losing only ten men to the Westerlands, Crownlands, and Reach. None were so injured that the maesters feared for their lives or limbs. Brandon had commanded two of the last three charges, while Greatjon Umber had led the other. Ned would not soon forget the sight of his brother releasing his reins to deliver a two-handed swing that lifted Jon Connington from his horse.

Ned had volunteered for a role less dangerous by only the barest of degrees: at the start of each charge, he would fall back to the middle of the company on the side facing the enemy. From there, he would repel any foe who withstood Brandon's initial offensive.

He watched grimly as the Dornishmen, led by Arthur Dayne, carved a bloody path through the rivernmen and readied himself for the next charge.

---

They faced the stormlords afterward. Commanding their respective companies, the scions of two great houses met at full tilt. Forced to evade the arc of Robert's warhammer, Brandon swung his own blade wide, allowing the laughing Baratheon to exact a heavy toll on the northmen until Ned intervened. Brandon claimed his own bloody price, but more than twenty men lay wounded when the dust settled.

Despite Lord Blacktyde's able command and the fearsome reputations of Houses Harlaw and Drumm's warriors, the men of the Iron Islands did not perform nearly as well. The lords of the Riverlands, largely exhausted by their battles with Arthur and Robert, fared no better.

At last, the warriors of the North faced those of Dorne. Their numbers stood near equal, Brandon commanding twenty-eight men while Ser Arthur led twenty-three. The two warriors clashed and proved each other's equal on horseback. The Kingsguard parried Brandon's initial strike in a masterful display of skill that opened his opponent's guard. He delivered a cross-cut to his opponent's head, only for Brandon to catch Arthur's blade on the hilt of his own, denying the death blow.

As the Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade engaged in single combat, Ned saw to the defense of the northmen's flank. Twice, he warded off Oberyn's spear, diverting the tip skywards away from his comrades. He crossed blades with Ser Lewyn, catching the latter's sword on the lip of his shield when the Dornishman brought his blade down in a powerful arc. A well-placed underarm thrust saw Ned unseat his foe.

Passing the notable Dornish commanders, Ned readied himself to face the rearguard when his destrier seized. The young Stark barely freed himself from his stirrups before the beast faltered and fell.

---

He escaped being crushed under his mount. Even then, Ned landed poorly, armor betraying him as his limbs crashed against the unyielding steel. Despite retaining consciousness, his vision blurred, and sounds bled into echos as he struggled against the bile that welled in his throat.

For a time, he lay there, mind clouded by pain, bleary eyes staring in disbelief at the spear buried in his stead.

He felt several hands help him sit as more shadows ran to his defense. Distantly, he heard Brandon shouting, his voice almost unrecognizable with rage, quickly joined by Lord Royce's and Robert's sounding equally wroth.

New voices drowned out the ones he knew, and Ned abandoned his efforts to decipher some semblance of conversation. He instead allowed two maesters to inspect him while William Dustin stood guard. He accepted a cup of water but refused milk of the poppy, needing what remained of his focus and strength.

In the distance, Brandon and Oberyn exchanged insults and threats, nearly coming to blows as their bannermen threatened the same. Ned noted several valemen and stormlanders among the ranks of the northmen while a contingent of crownlanders backed the Dornish. Lord Whent's eldest son stood between them, preventing the melee from devolving into a true battle.

The wounded knight watched and waited for tempers to cool. He inspected his armor and found it dented but sound. Eventually, the battle lines dissolved. Robert and Lord Royce returned to their men, and the Crownlanders followed suit. A much smaller party made their way towards him, Brandon at their head.

"Ned–"

"I'm alright," he assured, willing himself to stand. He turned from his brother, acknowledged Alton Whent, and settled his eyes on the Dornishman. "You have words for me, Prince Oberyn?"

Peering down from his stallion, Red Viper wore the expression of a man forced to sup on spoiled milk.

"My apologies, Lord Eddard." Gone was the prince's usual condescension and conceit. In its place was the terseness of a man whose every word invoked physical pain. "Ebbin Wyl thought himself above the rules of the tourney. He desired your death and dishonored all of Dorne in his wake."

Oberyn tilted his head behind him, where a young man lay restrained by his fellow Dornishmen.

"Fool thought the heat of battle would conceal his crimes from the eyes of five kingdoms."

Sparing the man a glance, Ned looked to his horse, which had long received mercy at his behest. He breathed a sigh.

"What were his motives?"

A bitter smile tugged at Oberyn's lips.

"You made an enemy of every unwedded man in Dorne when you courted Ashara. I suspect many of the wedded ones hate you just the same," the prince explained, and none of the lords doubted his words. "Ebbin was among the most vocal of your detractors, but even I had not expected such treachery."

The Red Viper gripped his reins tighter with every word.

"House Martell will see you compensated for your horse, and a message will be sent to Sunspear. House Wyl will forfeit its lands and title, either in part or totality."

Several Dornish lords stirred in their saddles, clearly unsettled by the fate that had befallen one of their own, however deserved. Oberyn paid them no mind.

"As for Ebbin," he continued, as though discussing the fate of a man long dead, "Your brother has requested he face northern justice. Neither House Targaryen nor House Martell saw reason to deny him."

The words said much and implied more. One glance at Brandon told Ned that his brother had not been courteous nor compromising with his demands. Ned had no time to dwell on the matter, feeling the Dornishman's eye upon him once more.

"I had not intended to see you injured in this manner, Lord Eddard."

Red Viper offered the apology with great reluctance, yet his words were sincere, implying sentiments said and unspoken.

Ned gave no reply. The Martell no doubt expected him to respond in resignation or anger. Instead, the young knight walked past the northern destriers and Dornish steeds, denying him either. Stopping beside his fallen mount, he reached for his saddle and lifted his longsword.

"Thank you for all you've done under these trying circumstances, Prince Oberyn." Ned offered the words with simple courtesy, and all fell silent as he unsheathed the blade. "Would you do me the final kindness of dismounting? I'm afraid I no longer have the means to fight ahorse."

With the exception of his brother, the gathered lords stared in shock. Even Oberyn failed to conceal his surprise and growing intrigue.

"I have not forfeited the melee," Ned explained when the prince remained silent. "Or was I unhorsed by legitimate means?"

He allowed the question to linger, giving the Red Viper time to accept his challenge or endorse the actions of his brother's bannerman.

The Red Viper laughed.

"Are you sure of this, Stark?" the prince warned as his previous frustrations gave way to a mire of amusement and offense. "You've unseated many men today, my uncle amongst them. Most would consider that honor enough."

Ned regarded the prince with unyielding eyes.

"I wish to settle all matters between us, Martell."

Once more, words conveyed more than what was said. The Red Viper's only response was to jump from his stallion, spear in hand.

---

He had not enjoyed his time in Oldtown, exiled from Sunspear in all but name. In truth, the Red Viper could scarcely recall his years amongst the maesters; for a man able to match wits with Doran Martell, forging six links of a chain had proved a trifle. His time had been better spent inviting courtesans to his private quarters.

Perhaps he should have given the study of theology a passing glance. As little as he cared for the northern savages and their sanctified trees, the old gods clearly still held power in the frozen North. How else could Rickard Stark have sired such sons?

The thought hounded the Dornish prince like the stench of King's Landing.

Hate came easily to him these days. He found his temper short, and Ebbin's idiocy had made it shorter. But even as Oberyn directed his anger at the man before him, there was no denying Eddard Stark's mettle.

The heir of Winterfell may have unhorsed more men than any other, but it had been his younger brother who had ensured nearly half the northmen remained afield, with only Dorne close to matching their numbers.

Even now, more battered and bruised than not, the second son of House Stark repelled Oberyn's every attempt to lay him low. Even as the Red Viper's spear came alive in his hands, sailing forth in a twisted dance of pointed steel, the young northman fended off Oberyn's assault with fast footwork and precise swordplay.

The prince's anger worsened the longer the Stark stood his ground.

He recalled the morning his uncle relayed news of Rhaegar's transgressions. Several men had been needed to dissuade him from murdering all those involved. But even in his rage, Oberyn knew House Martell had greater access to the crown prince than any other. Between his uncle and Ellia's ladies-in-waiting, a paramour would not have gone unnoticed, and Lyanna Stark had never so much as parsed words with his faithless goodbrother. Perhaps Ashara could have relayed a message through Arthur with no one the wiser, but the very idea beggared belief.

Loath though he was to admit it, the Starks had not shown themselves to be such men, and despite Arthur's recent failings, the Red Viper did not think the Daynes capable of such treachery.

No, the dragon's crimes were his own, and nothing could call it to task. Not even the Dornish sun.

The knowledge did nothing for Oberyn's fury. He raged at Rhaegar for his faithlessness, Arthur for his betrayal, and Doran for agreeing to the damned match years ago. He hated Lyanna Stark for catching the prince's eye, himself for being powerless in the wake of this insult, and Eddard Stark for being the same.

As the Red Viper simmered in his anger, a blunted blade caught the edge of his helm.

---

He watched as Oberyn staggered back. The prince's helm had spared his face from ruin, but Ned's blade had driven his cheek guard inward and upwards. Now, the warped sheet of bronze only served to block the prince's vision.

As he waited for his opponent to regain his bearings, Ned sensed a change in the air, as though a revelation had rippled through the surrounding lords.

They had thought him quiet.

He recalled his earliest years in Winterfell, how the walls would echo with warm laughter and gentle teasing whenever the servants spied him trailing behind his elder brother.

As the years passed, the words grew less kind as men mistook his reserve for weakness. His foster father's court would whisper of how peculiar and ill-matched the Quiet Wolf appeared beside the heir of Storm's End.

The whispers had lessened after his first duel and disappeared altogether once he earned his spurs. But in another life where he had not rescued Lady Lorra, Ned doubted he would have outgrown the name.

Even now, having witnessed him best countless warriors with a patient and implacable defense, the lords of the realm compared him to Brandon and thought him incapable of anger.

Ned was sure Oberyn Martell had thought the same, forgetting that he faced a trueborn son of Winterfell, one whose family had suffered a great insult.

Ned was not his brother, but the wolf blood was every bit his birthright as it was Brandon's, and the cold could burn as brutally as any flame.

Permitting Oberyn the barest moment to divest his helm or fight half-blind, the northern knight readied his blade in a wrathful stance and resumed his attack. With his back acting as a fulcrum, the Wolf Knight leveraged his footwork and lent his full weight to the strength of each blow. That his sword lacked an edge no longer mattered as he delivered a cut meant to part the prince's jaw.

Bringing his own weapon to bear, Oberyn braced against the heft as castle-forged steel clashed against hardened cornel wood. A crack sounded from the spear as he diverted the blow and slid his arm down its length, turning the spearpoint into a dagger which he drove into Ned's side.

But the Wolf Knight had already raised his sword and brought it down on the prince's head. Forced to abandon his attack, Oberyn intercepted the blade with the heel of his spear, only for the ill-timed defense to falter. The Red Viper screamed as Ned's sword bit into his shoulder, and the bronze discs of his armor bent under the blow.

Ned allowed the prince to retreat.

This was not how he preferred to fight, fueled by fury and bereft of restraint. Even now, his efforts paled when compared to Brandon's natural ferocity, never mind the primal fear Lord Fairchild could instill within the hearts of men.

Yet, even a poor imitation of the Hunter's teachings had left the Dornish prince grasping his arm, weapon trembling in his hand as he gasped for breath through gritted teeth.

Not for the first time, Ned marveled at what he had achieved as the lesser student of a great teacher. But this would be his only duel of the melee, something he had known from the moment he fell. Maintaining the power and pace of his offensive required heroic effort, and already he was beyond exhaustion. Even if he prevailed against his opponent, Ned knew he lacked the strength to face another. Once the match was done, he would retire to the spectator stands and drag the Red Viper along with him, easing Brandon's path to victory.

He retook the wrathful stance, and the prince, despite his pain, answered by raising the butt of his spear with the tip angled low.

For the briefest moment, the two second sons stood motionless under a noonday sun. All thoughts of the melee, its rules, and the blunted weapons in their hands fell away as they resolved themselves to a proper duel.

With a sudden kick, the Red Viper raised his spear and lunged, intent on driving the point through Ned's visor and out the other end. Veering his head, the Wolf Knight turned the lethal strike into a glancing blow. He answered with a cut meant to open Oberyn's throat. The prince leapt back and lashed out with his spear's daggered hilt, only for Ned to step into the arc of his swing, sword raised high.

The prince blocked the descending blade with the vambrace of his wounded arm, the pain and frustration on his face clear for all to see.

The Red Viper was a spearman without peer. With nary a glance, he could pierce the gaps in a man's armor, forcing his enemies to wager their lives on the strength of their mail. But a spear needed space to strike, and Ned stubbornly denied his opponent that advantage, forcing him to lose ground without gaining distance.

The Wolf Knight had long proven himself a match for the Dornishman's speed and footwork, but the Red Viper was unable to mimic Ned's impregnable defense as the northman drove him back. With his face unprotected and the Wolf Knight striking with lethal intent, the Red Viper could no longer turn the tide of battle, unable to risk certain death for a wounding blow.

The end was inevitable and came without a preamble. Again, Ned brought his sword down on Oberyn's head, and the Red Viper answered by raising his spear. The prince was fast enough to see the Wolf Knight redirect the blow, scraping his blade along the spear's length, and withdrew his hand to spare it from injury. But he could do nothing when Stark pivoted and drove the sword into his side. A dull crack sounded as Ned's blade collided with the copper scales of Oberyn's armor.

The Red Viper fell slowly, stubborn even in defeat, and the field remained silent even as Ned made out the faraway sound of shouts and applause. As the anger and strength fled his body, the young knight directed his blade at the Dornishman's chest.

'Yield,' he thought but did not say, knowing Oberyn would understand.

From the ground, the prince seemed almost grateful for his silence and answered in kind, discarding his spear in disgust. The young Stark was not blind to his anger, but where that anger was directed now, he could no longer say.

Ned offered a hand he knew Oberyn would refuse and was not surprised when the prince found his voice.

"I will stand by my own strength or not at all, Stark," he hissed, voice bitter and weary, and Ned found no desire to argue.

He turned to leave, taking several paces before the prince spoke again.

"Ser Eddard," Oberyn called, and Ned was surprised to hear his voice carry the barest hint of formality and respect. He turned to find the prince having righted himself, hand still clutched against his wounded side. "I will send you my personal taster for tonight's feast. Feel free to make use of his services for the remainder of the tourney."

The Dornish prince held his gaze without explanation or apology, and Ned acknowledged the offer with a silent nod, returning to his northern companions with slow, unsteady steps.

His eyes met Brandon's, and a wordless understanding passed between them as Ned walked by. He made for the battlements unaided, the very picture of a battle-worn yet victorious knight, Ashara's favor still tied to his arm.

Chapter Text

"Yield, Baratheon."

Arthur awaited his opponent's reply. The stormlord towered over him, warhammer raised high overhead, but the Sword of the Morning held his blade taut against his opponent's gorget, poised to pierce his throat. Even with the finest of armors, few men would have risked such a blow, and had Arthur wielded Dawn, Robert Baratheon would have met his end.

None knew this better than the young stag, who glowered at the Dornish knight, his face etched with frustration and fury as Arthur stared back, unmoved.

"Damn your eyes, Dayne," he spat. Baratheon stepped back and lowered his hammer. Arthur likewise withdrew, finding the insult had been more courtesy than he had expected from his foe.

Without exchanging further pleasantries, the antlered lord stomped off the field. His defeat afforded Arthur a moment to reflect on the duel as his breathing steadied and body eased. The heir of Storm's End had proven himself worthy of his Durrandon and Targaryen blood. Despite sustaining injuries against Greatjon Umber, he had pressed Arthur like few men he could recall, leaving the Dornish knight uncertain of victory.

But for all his battle lust and bluster, the young stag had attacked Arthur with the intent to humble rather than harm, proof that he knew nothing of Rhaegar's visit to his betrothed. The Sword of the Morning was unsurprised: Eddard Stark would not have confided in his foster brother, not when his words endangered Lady Lyanna's prospects and honor. Rhaegar had left House Stark with little recourse, and though their silence served his prince's cause, Arthur was glad Lady Lyanna had been spared further indignity.

Selfishly, his thoughts turned to Ashara, whose own match had been imperiled by Rhaegar's actions. Having played his part in their troubles, Arthur knew the Starks were far less inclined to see Eddard and Ashara wed. But the wolves of Winterfell could not be seen abandoning so public a courtship, not without incurring scrutiny that they could ill afford.

The Starks would doubtlessly bleed House Dayne dry when it came time to discuss the dowry, but Arthur could not bring himself to care. Marriage to the Wolf Knight would free Ashara from the snakepit that was King's Landing, the dangers that lurked within, and the consequences of his own failings.

Duty was a burden the Daynes knew well, bound to service by oaths if not by chains. The Sword of the Morning would at least see his sister freed from hers with honor intact.

---​

As the melee devolved into a series of duels, Arthur pressed onward. One by one, famed knights challenged him, only to be found wanting. Forty men turned to twenty, then twenty became ten.

Soon, only five men remained, falling to four after Tytos Blackwood bested Tygett Lannister.

The lion's defeat came as some surprise, but the young riverlord had distinguished himself during the melee. Bullying his way to the front of the Crownlands contingent, the Lord of Raventree Hall had led the charge against his fellow rivermen and unseated his rival, Jonos Bracken. Afoot, Tytos had proved himself no less formidable, but faced with the great warriors who remained afield, his qualities fell short.

The young Lord of Raventree Hall found himself outmatched, but he approached Arthur all the same, refusing to turn heel in the face of certain defeat. The Sword of the Morning honored his courage by raising his blade.

The duel ended quickly: a deft parry broke the momentum of Tytos' advance, a swift strike opened his guard, and a second forced the sword from his hand. Saluting the young riverman, Arthur turned in time to see Brandon Stark overwhelm Yohn Royce with brutal, hammering blows. The veteran knight weathered the assault as best he could, until a vicious kick drove the air from his lungs, sending Bronze Yohn staggering into the dirt.

The Lord of Runestone fell on his back, struggling for breath while his opponent held a blade over his eyes.

"I yield," the valeman gasped, and Arthur appreciated his exhaustion even from afar. He watched as the Northern Blade lowered his sword and helped the bronze lord to his feet.

"Haven't been struck like that since I was a squire," Yohn Royce huffed, lifting his visor to acknowledge the younger man. "Lord Stark must be blessed by the gods to have you and Eddard for sons."

Mirroring the aged warrior, Brandon removed his helm in a show of respect.

"We had the fortune of learning under great men," he replied, voice measured and modest despite his savage display. "Thank you for overseeing my brother's instruction, Lord Royce."

Even in defeat, the Lord of Runestone warmed at the praise. He grasped the northman's shoulder and wished him luck before taking his leave.

The Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade stood alone on the field. Not a voice could be heard as the heir of Winterfell turned to face his enemy.

Arthur stepped forward, ready to salute his opponent, only for Brandon to raise his helm and toss it aside. Cheers arose from the crowd who mistook his actions for showmanship, leaving Arthur no choice but to discard his own.

The Knight of Starfall locked eyes with the heir of Winterfell, who glared back as though Arthur were the source of all the world's ills. No doubt he thought Arthur the lowest of men, believing he had known Rhaegar's intentions when they left the royal apartments days ago and had done nothing to dissuade his prince from their destination upon learning the truth.

There was much he wished to say, but Arthur held his tongue. Instead, he raised his greatsword and accepted the hate that was his due.

---​

Brandon had imagined himself approaching Ebbin Wyl, the coward who had tried to kill his brother. He envisioned himself drawing a rondel dagger and driving it through Ebbin's knee, twisting the blade to pry the joint apart amidst the Dornishman's screams. Brandon saw himself returning the coward to Dorne crippled and lame, granting him the chance to find his courage and venture into the desert like a greybeard into the snow, sparing his kin the burden and indignity of his care.

The heir of Winterfell knew himself capable of such cruelty, of maiming a man and calling it justice. Perhaps that was why he had allowed the Whents to drag Ebbin Wyl away, disgraced but unharmed, destined for Harrenhal's dungeons and the Wall thereafter.

But when Brandon's gaze upon Arthur Dayne, the brutal fantasy returned in force, accompanied by memories equally woeful and bitter. He recalled the wavering smile Lyanna had worn hours ago when she chose to brave the Realm's scrutiny, determined to silence the rumors her brothers had kept at bay. Brandon remembered the look of dejection on Benjen's face as his youngest brother sat alone at night, knees drawn to his chest, old enough to realize his family's plight yet too young to help.

As the scenes played out behind his eyes, Brandon charged the Sword of the Morning. Arthur Dayne did not deserve to know his thoughts, but the fool would learn his pain once Brandon carved it into his flesh.

---​

The Sword of the Morning swept his blade in a great arc, and the Northern Blade struck back with savage grace. Thrice, they clashed, each accompanied by a deafening sound as the impact threatened to warp the blades in their hands. Arthur deflected a blow meant for his head, a deft turn of his wrists locking Brandon's sword in place. Castle-forged steel screeched as the Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade pressed into the bind, shifting leverage and footing as they vied for control.

The reach of Arthur's greatsword proved no advantage as Brandon angled a thrust at his groin, only for the knight to parry the blow and bypass his guard. Turning his sword into a lance, Arthur drove the point into the exposed mail of Brandon's armor, intent on piercing his arm and ending the duel. The Northern Blade made no attempt to evade as he pivoted into the attack, forcing Arthur's greatsword to glance off his cuirass and his opponent to overreach. Instincts alone saved Arthur's life as Brandon slashed across his face, the blade drawing near enough to cast a shadow over his eyes.

The Sword of the Morning withdrew while the Northern Blade stood his ground. Spectators roared from the battlements, voices alight with every emotion from excitement to horror. Their cries went unheeded as Arthur steadied his breathing and heart.

His hands ached for Dawn, for Brandon Stark was near as strong as Robert Baratheon and twice as fast. Faced with such a foe, Arthur fully understood how the Starks of old had brought the North to heel. Not since facing Barristan Selmy had the Dornish knight needed his family's blade to secure victory.

The Northern Blade lived up to his name, and the thought brought Arthur little comfort, for while Eddard Stark had shown himself a true knight–his conduct during the melee proving his character beyond reproach–Brandon Stark was not his brother.

Where Eddard stood as steadfast as the Wall at the edge of the Realm, the heir of Winterfell struck like a baleful squall. Without a lance, he had unhorsed the likes of Jon Connington and Garth Hightower with worrying ease; on foot, he had brutalized men of the Crownlands and Dorne with a fervor bordering zeal.

Yet, for all that he breathed violence, the heir of Winterfell had deferred to the Lord of Runestone with startling humility and had handled his brother's would-be killer with astonishing restraint, betraying a discipline more dangerous than the sum of his skill. That alone made Arthur wary.

Few would believe it, but the Sword of the Morning had improved markedly since joining the Kingsguard, benefiting from Barristan Selmy's personal instruction. Time and again, the legendary knight had forced Arthur to confront the rare mistakes in his bladework, errors lesser men had been unable to exploit. Under Barriston's guidance, the Sword of the Morning had polished his skills to their zenith, and as Arthur fought the Northern Blade, he recognized the same refinement in Brandon's savage form.

Pieces fell into place as Arthur uncovered the answer to a question he had never asked. The Sword of the Morning could no longer deny the truth before his eyes: there was a hidden master in the North, one who rivaled Ser Barriston in skill, if not in deed.

The revelation accompanied a startling lack of surprise, for the winterlands were the largest and most insular of the Seven Kingdoms, a desolate and barren waste where even the most exceptional of talents could languish in obscurity amidst decades of peace.

But that was not what mattered now. The prince must be informed. Whoever taught the Northern Blade must be found and brought into the fold, for while Arthur and his sworn brothers were prepared to lay down their lives, they needed allies to defend the Realm from the trials ahead.

The barest tremor ran down Arthur's blade as he recalled Rhaegar's words when he confided his dreams of song and prophecy. Of the coming night and the promised prince. Of salt and smoke, ice and fire.

Arthur dearly wished his prince was mistaken, yet within his heart, Rhaegar's words rung terrible and true. History has shown the perils of dismissing a dragon's dreams: Mighty Valyria had mocked Daenys the Dreamer when she foresaw the Doom. Now, the Freehold was no more. Arthur would not allow the same fate to befall the Seven Kingdoms.

As the Northern Blade drew near, the Dornish knight thought back to his prince–the same prince who had given him hope after Arthur pledged himself to a king, only to service a monster. Even now, here in Harrenhal, Arthur would close his eyes and find himself standing guard outside the royal bedchamber, listening as the king laughed and queen screamed, unable to intervene without blackening his name and marking his family for death. Rhaegar Targaryen had promised him–promised them all–an end to the nightmares.

The Sword of the Morning remembered his prince, recalled his oath as a Kingsguard knight, and willed his weary body forward.

---​

From the battlements of the greatest castle Westeros had ever known, a summer knight clad in gleaming armor battled a winter warrior cloaked in shadows. The figures moved as though in a dance, reciting a routine only they could follow, and the Realm bore witness to a duel unlike any in all its history.

The knight moved with the swiftness of windswept sand, every strike flowing seamlessly into the next. With every twist and turn, his blade traced the elegant lines of his form, carving graceful arcs through the warm, southern air. His opponent struck back like an icy tempest, every blow abrupt, brutal, and deliberate, embodying the harsh beauty of a barren land where life defied the world's every attempt to lay it low.

The warriors exchanged killing blows as though they were words, standing like figures from a bygone age when the great houses were yet unnamed and the world still young.

Time lost meaning as the two men gained and lost ground with every exchange. In another life, history would have remembered the summer knight as the greatest legend to wield a blade, his memory lingering in the minds of men long after his lifeblood watered the sands of Dorne. Even now, he proved himself the preeminent swordsman of his time, fighting with flawless technique and form.

But his opponent answered with a strength without limit or end, honed by a teacher capable of that and more. Against such a force, even the knight faltered and fell.

---​

The heir of Winterfell pinned Arthur to the ground. His blade pressed against Arthur's neck, the blunted edge barely held in place by the guard of the knight's sword. Not to be denied his prey, the northman leaned against the hilt of his blade, forming a wedge that forced Arthur's own sword into his chest. Even in the face of death, the knight refused to yield,

But just as his strength wavered, the Northern Blade withdrew.

Brandon rose to his feet, leaving his sword where it lay. He looked down at Arthur, daring the Dornish knight to stand. The provocation proved needless, for the victor was never in doubt.

The Sword of the Morning lifted himself from the dirt only to kneel, and the melee of Harrenhal came to an end.

---​

Brandon half-listened as the Whents proclaimed his victory. The thrum of his heart drowned out the roar of the crowd and his hands still itched for a blade. He had been prepared to maim Arthur Dayne–kill him, even–and the ensuing scorn would have fallen from him like rain. The thought of Lord Fairchild's disapproval and fear for Ned's happiness had stayed his hand, but even now, his blood simmered with lingering regret.

Casting all thoughts of the Dornishman aside, the heir of Winterfell approached the battlements and knelt before the royal box. Raising his head to regard the king, Brandon thought it a cruel joke that seven kingdoms owed allegiance to a crown-wearing fool.

Aerys Targaryen was a gaunt specter of a man, his skeletal frame dwarfed by his high-backed throne. Curtains of oily, matted hair fell past his shoulders, pooling in his lap in utter disarray. Scabs and near-healed cuts marred every patch of pallid skin visible beneath his satin robes. Long, yellowed nails adorned his hands like talons, desperately clawing at his throne as though clinging to any proof of his power and claim.

The Targaryen king was the very image of a vagrant wrapped in royal garb, a wretched creature whose ever-shifting eyes betrayed unending fear and cruelty. And yet, none dared to speak when the king rose from his throne.

"Well fought, well fought!"

Amidst the suffocating silence, Brandon heard the king's every word, his tone amused yet laced with anger, reminding Brandon of a boy whose toy had been damaged, caring little for his possessions, only that they were his.

"Yes, yes, well done indeed!"

Aerys raised his hands, long nails raking together as he clapped in applause. The surrounding lords hurried to follow his example.

"You fought well, Stark!" the king praised again, the words quickly losing worth as they were dispensed like coins, "Or, at the very least, you fought better."

The king's eyes swept over him, landing on Dayne several steps away. As he studied his knight, Aery's amusement shifted to disdain, but that too turned quickly to disinterest, and Brandon found himself again suffering the king's attention.

"That Dornishman who struck your brother's horse," Aerys drawled, savoring every word with a levity that pricked at Brandon's ears and anger, "I had thought to see him burn, but I chose to see what you might do with him."

Aery's eyes narrowed, a sneer thinning his lips as all humor fell from his face.

"You've disappointed me in that regard, Stark."

The Targaryen king demanded an answer. In another life, Brandon might have wavered under Aery's gaze. But the heir of Winterfell had spent years under the tutelage of a man with starlit eyes, a force of nature who even now made Brandon feel like a child playing at knighthood. When compared to the Hunter, Aerys Targaryen fell painfully short, and no number of crowns or kingdoms could make up the difference.

The Northern Blade held the king's graze.

"He was unworthy prey, Your Grace."

For a moment, Aerys stood still, stunned the northman had dared express anything save regret. His eyes darted wildly as he weighed Brandon's words, deciding whether they warranted punishment. Then, as the silence grew unbearable, Aerys threw his head back and laughed.

"Yes, yes! You may be right in that regard, yes!" Delight danced in Aerys' eyes, and it was clear that the king was speaking for his own amusement. "Yes, it seems Rickard has reared a fierce beast indeed!"

The Targaryen curled an outstretched hand into a fist, grasping an unseen chain.

"And who better than I to hold its leash?"

None were prepared when Aerys unfurled his hand, directing a gnarled finger at Brandon.

"Kneel, Brandon Stark!" he shouted as though the young warrior were not already on one knee. "You have proven yourself the finest blade in the Realm! Better, yes, than my own Kingsguard. But I would see that changed! Kneel, Brandon Stark! Swear to me, and I will see you honored with a white cloak!"

The lords and ladies of the Realm stood stunned by his declaration. Brandon watched, almost amused as many struggled to mask their shock, whispering to their fellows while the men of the North roared in outrage, the massive form of Greatjon Umber prominent amongst the riled lords. Their protests fell on deaf ears as Aerys awaited an answer, uncaring that Brandon was no knight, that his induction would add an eighth blade to the seven-manned order and rob the Warden of the North of his presumed heir.

The eldest scion of Winterfell bit back a laugh.

"I accept," he proclaimed, his answer sapping the fight from his fellow northmen. "I only implore your benevolence, Your Grace."

Aerys' maddening smile slipped the moment Brandon made his request.

"Speak," the king dared, his voice echoing both challenge and command.

Brandon made a show of bowing his head lower still. "Allow me a year to prepare my brother for his duties." The Northern Blade steeled his resolve, resisting the urge to look for his brother, thus shielding him from Aerys' gaze. "House Stark has kept faith with House Targaryen since the days of the Conquest. Not once have we wavered. Let me ensure Eddard serves you just the same."

The king studied his newest Kingsguard with wide, violet eyes, searching for any sign of deception. A gnarled hand rose to stroke his beard as the scabbed king made sense of his thoughts.

"Yes," he rasped at last, yellowed nails catching on the knots of his matted hair. He glanced at his Lord Hand, who had lost his own heir to the Kingsguard days ago, and smiled cruelly. "Yes, it would be my pleasure to grant so small a favor to so loyal a servant."

The kings stepped forward, issuing a decree for all to hear.

"Speak your vows now, Brandon Stark, and I grant you this boon."

Brandon bowed his head as though in ascent. He mimed the words Jaime Lannister had uttered days before, words House Targaryen had plundered from the ancient oaths of the Night's Watch. He recited the words, feigning a solemn dignity so the crowd would think him sincere.

"I swear to ward the king with all my strength, to give my blood for his.
I swear to obey His commands and keep His secrets.
I swear to defend His honor and serve at His pleasure.
I will never flee, nor falter in my duty.
I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.
I pledge to His Grace my life and honor, until the day that I die."

---​

Brandon made his way back to the Stark apartments. None dared to congratulate him on his victory, and the rare servant scurried past with unnatural haste, fearing his anger. All the while, the Northern Blade fought back the smile that tugged at his lips and the laughter that welled in his throat, a difficult task when Aerys Targaryen seemed adamant on aiding House Stark in its designs against the Crown.

With the king's decree, Brandon could now leave the North without suspicion. Aerys had even spared him the inconvenience of a formal abdication. Instead, Ned would take his rightful place as Father's heir while marrying for love.

Brandon knew Father would be cross with them both: the future Lord of Winterfell had better prospects than a stony Dornishwoman, however storied her house or close her ties to the future queen. But Ashara Dayne had been a fine match when Ned was a second son, and the North knew Eddard would not stoop so low as to abandon her now that he was Father's heir.
The Northern houses would protest, but Father had bought enough goodwill to last several lifetimes. When the lords grumbled, they would do so in silence.

Hoster Tully would have no choice but to follow suit, for he could not be seen feuding with House Stark over the crime of abiding their king. The Lord of Riverrun was already wroth with Father after the warden delayed discussions of Brandon's betrothal years ago, citing the needs of his people amidst the long winter. Perhaps Father had hoped to avoid Hoster's scrutiny once Brandon left Westeros. Perhaps, he thought with a flare of guilt, the Warden of the North simply had not wanted to face the inevitable exile of his eldest son.

The former heir had every faith that Ned would make amends: the union between Riverrun and Winterfell would be postponed a generation, nothing more.

This was a victory for their family and the North. Brandon needed only to convince his brother of that fact.

Not bothering to knock, he barged into Ned's room. Having long removed his armor, the younger Stark sprung to his feet in an instant.

"You can't do this, Brandon!"

"Good evening to you as well, Ned," Brandon replied, settling comfortably on the desk beside his brother's bed. The concern in Ned's voice sparked a familiar mix of fondness and guilt. "That was a fine fight against the Red Viper."

Ned frowned at his poor attempt at humor.

"You have to talk to the king. Seek an audience," he insisted, speaking faster than his mind could follow, "Tell him you've changed your mind–"

"Changed my mind?" Brandon questioned, resisting the urge to arch his brow while repeating the words for emphasis. "I wasn't aware oaths could be so easily reversed."

Ned opened his mouth, desperate to argue, searching for a rebuttal he would never find.

"You can't join the Kingsguard, Brandon. You can't."

There was a shift in his bearing and a defeat in his voice that reminded Brandon of a child offering a prayer into the night, believing it would come true if he uttered it often enough. The sight weighed heavily on Brandon's heart.

"I don't intend to," he assured, voice growing stern when Ned looked to him in askance. "I did not suffer Lord Fairchild's instructions just to serve that fool of a king, never mind the prince who tried to ruin our sister."

Feeling his blood warm at the mere mention of the Targaryens, the Northern Blade stared out at the evening sky, waiting for his temper to settle and the bite of his words to subside.

"I'll follow our teacher when he returns to Yharnam," he said at last. "Have Father claim I was lost at sea. He wouldn't even have to lie."

Ned stared at him, his expression increasingly resigned.

"Winterfell is your seat," he insisted, clinging to the fundamental truths which had shaped his world–truths that had come undone over the course of a day.

Brandon resisted the urge to leave the room. He had stated his plans and spoken his mind. Were he to walk away, Ned would not follow. But he would be leaving Ned alone with his thoughts, believing that he had stolen his brother's seat. That was a prospect Brandon refused to entertain.

"I've broken guest rights."

He confessed the crime without pause or preamble. Ned stilled as though struck, and Brandon looked to the floor, unable to meet his brother's eyes.

"I've broken guest rights," he repeated, articulating each word with care, leaving no room for doubt. "The first time Lord Fairchild visited Winterfell, I thought him no different than any southron lord, there to mock Father by way of his wealth and courtesy." Once more, Ned gave no answer, too stunned to respond, and Brandon pressed on.

"I goaded him into a duel, even insulted Lady Evetta for good measure." Even now, Brandon wondered how he had survived that singular act of stupidity. "I fared as well as you might expect and, upon defeat, tried to stab him through the back. Didn't even manage to succeed."

His voice wavered, and the rest of the tale died in his throat. Brandon struggled to continue, finding little else to say. No words would lessen the weight of his crimes nor the magnitude of what Lord Fairchild had forgiven.

"Winterfell hasn't been mine for a long time."

The room fell to silence, deafening in the wake of his confession. The former heir endured the stillness without complaint, his mind and limbs tense with apprehension, well aware Ned could wound him in ways Dayne's blade never could.

The sound of shuffling forced Brandon to look up. He found Ned leaning against the opposing wall, his expression pensive and downcast. A hand lay against his chest, as though attempting to assuage an old, imagined wound. The younger Stark met his brother's gaze without rage or censure.

"I had promised myself, that when we returned to the Workshop, I would speak to Lord Fairchild," he offered. "I had meant to volunteer myself and become a Hunter in your stead."

Ned's words were not what Brandon had expected, and he felt compelled to speak his mind.

"Was this before you laid eyes on Ashara?"

The question, absurd as it was, caught both brothers by surprise. Brandon failed to suppress a snort when Ned's cheeks colored, and a flash of embarrassment passed his brother's eyes. Then, the laughter began in earnest. Ned's voice joined his own, a weak and weary sound, but one that Brandon clung to all the same.

Chapter Text

Ashara Dayne held her head high as she strolled past the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. The sharp sound of her steps echoed against the slated tiles, announcing her destination and intent.

Women watched as she passed, trailing her with envious eyes. Men looked on, believing they had lost a prize they had never won. All the while, rumors and gossip swirled around her, whispered by fools who fancied themselves clever.

The conclusion of the melee was all anyone cared to discuss. The bravery of innumerable knights, their displays of martial skill, and even House Wyl's unprecedented treachery had been overshadowed by Aerys Targaryen's disastrous decree. Many believed the victor had not been Brandon Stark but rather his brother, who had been unhorsed much earlier during the contest. Some even suggested that the true winner had been the Dornishwoman who had ensnared the Wolf Knight days ago.

Ashara ignored the whispers, leaving the hall at an unhurried pace. Years within the Red Keep had robbed such words of their bite.

She navigated the maze of hallways that led to the base of the Northmen's tower. With purposeful, unwavering strides, Ashara began the slow ascent towards the Starks' apartments.

Ashara had loved Elia.

As young girls, they would spend hours wading through the shallow pools of the Water Gardens, hiding from their caretakers amongst the lily pads. Growing bolder over the years, they would venture out from the Winding Walls to explore the bazaars of the Shadowed City. Once Elia received her first sand steed, the two would leave Sunspear altogether, traversing the vast dunes of Dorne to visit Planky Town and make pilgrimage to the mouth of the Greenblood.

The eldest daughter of Starfall had been Elia's ever-present companion, and when the Princess of Dorne left for King's Landing, Ashara had been at her side. Though she was no knight, no Sword of the Morning, Ashara had vowed to protect her beloved friend.

She had kept her word, shielding Elia from courtly ladies who mocked the princess' dusky complexion and fragile health behind false smiles and callous eyes. She had fettered out and dismissed faithless servants who betrayed their princess' trust for a fistful of coins. The young lady-in-waiting had held Elia's hand when Aerys forced the princess to watch as he burned men and women alive, daring his good-daughter to look away and risk his ire.

For years, Ashara had protected her dearest friend. She had done all she could, given all she had, and the burden had left her worn.

There were mornings when she awoke afraid, limbs locked in the midst of a long-forgotten nightmare. Her heart would race whenever a shadow flickered at the edges of her vision, and dread would pool in her stomach whenever a sip of wine tasted a touch too sweet or a wedge of fruit a trace too bitter. Then there were the nights when she fled to her dreams, only to see the faces of Aerys' victims engulfed in flame, their lips blistered and wet with grease as the wildfire consumed their lives and souls.

Ashara had loved Elia. The certainty of that love left her feeling cowardly and craven as she climbed the tower. But the horrors of the Red Keep had tested her in ways that had left her more weary than strong, and Ashara feared what would become of her–what she would become–if she stayed within its walls.

The young Dornishwoman soon reached the end of the staircase. The household guards allowed her to pass with nary a glance, and Ashara found herself within the Starks' living quarters, staring at Ned's door.

She smiled as she recalled the first night of the tourney, how she had struggled not to laugh when he stumbled before the high table. Ashara had been watching him from afar, as she had other potential suitors. Discussing notable young men had been a favorite pastime of Queen Rhaella's sewing circles, and Arthur–having known his sister's plight–had mentioned those of good repute.

The list had not been long. Had she married a Dornishman, her lord husband would have joined her at court, leveraging her connections to seek favor with both the Targaryens and Martells. Marrying a lord of Crownlands would have likewise confined her to the Red Keep. And though an heir of the Stormlands, Vale, or even the Reach would have served her needs better, Eddard Stark's name had lingered in her thoughts, a curiosity that stood apart from the likes of Elbert Arryn, Baelor Hightower, and Alyn Estermont.

Ashara had heard fantastical tales of Rickard Stark's second son. The Wolf Knight had been the favorite topic of minstrels after his daring venture into the Mountains of the Moon. They sang of how he had broken the strength of the Burned Men, claiming the head of their fiercest war chief in single combat before departing with a score of women once abandoned to an unimaginable fate.

It was a beautiful tale, the sort of story that inflamed the hearts of maidens and grew more exaggerated with each telling, distorting the man underneath. Having met men of supposed legend, having witnessed how Ser Selmy could error and her own brother could falter, Ashara had not expected Eddard Stark to live up to the stories.

He had managed to surprise her.

The second son of Winterfell was a young man just shy of twenty, tall but not towering, strong but not so broad that he resembled Robert Baratheon. He carried himself with a reserve that bordered on bashful and had been so clearly nervous when he asked her to dance. Yet, the moment she took his hand, he had led her onto the dancefloor, moving with the unspoken confidence of a man who had proven his worth through countless, storied deeds. It was a captivating contradiction that had Ashara accepting a second dance and then a third.

In the days that followed, Ashara came to reconcile her quiet dance partner with the noble warrior who had earned his knighthood in the godswood of the Eyrie and the eternal friendship of the Vale. And though he desired her and made his feelings known, Eddard had never approached more than was proper, displaying respect and regard that gave Ashara hope that theirs would be more than a marriage of fleeting passions and selfish ends.

In many ways, Ned reminded Ashara of the men her brothers had hoped to be, back when they were boys dreaming of gallantry and knighthood.

Ashara had accepted his suit, playing her part in convincing Symon of the match. Though the North was farther than she had ever meant to travel, Ashara faced the prospect without fear. Instead, she felt a strange sense of resignation and relief, knowing that escaping the Red Keep meant leaving Starfall even further behind–a fitting penance for deserting her charge.

In truth, Ashara was always meant to leave Elia. As a daughter of Starfall, she was expected to entertain a promising match. And though accepting Eddard's hand was neither a betrayal of her promise nor a desertion of her duty, Ashara recognized her actions as abandonment all the same.

She was running away, and yet, the gnawing guilt was not enough to slow her stride.

Duty was a burden Ashara knew well. It had left her with unseen scars and even now weighed heavily on dear Arthur, who bore dishonor after dishonor, hoping that Rhaegar would prove a better king–a better man–than his father.

Ashara was not so foolish as to think Winterfell would be bereft of intrigue or the schemes of men who believed power their due. But the lords of the North held House Stark with a regard that bordered on reverence, and Rickard Stark was said to be a titan among men.

His sons had proved themselves of equal quality, giving Ashara reason to hope their home was not the den of sycophants and snakes that had thrived under Aerys' madness and neglect.

Ashara had dared to envision herself within Winterfell. Her husband would govern the North at his brother's side. Their family would be given apartments within Winterfell's Great Keep and granted a knight's fee to secure their incomes. She would spend her days with Brandon's lady wife, ensuring the castle's upkeep.

It would have been a simple life, modest by the measures of the south, but one that promised a peace Ashara had longed to see.

But then Brandon Stark had won the melee, and her dreams had come undone. Aerys had laid claim to the Northern Blade, leaving Eddard to assume his brother's mantle and Ashara to marry the future Warden of the North.

She found Ned sitting on his bed. He wore only a nightgown, his hair damp from a recent bath. Moonlight filtered through the window overhead, casting a faint glow across the room.

The heir of Winterfell watched as she closed the door behind her. His eyes betrayed fleeting surprise, which turned quickly to understanding.

"Lady Ashara," he greeted, his words a weak attempt at formality, as though it were normal for an unwedded lady to enter a man's room with kohl-lined eyes and lips brushed with fresh rouge.

"Ned," she answered, allowing herself a sad smile as she stepped closer, stopping at the foot of the bed.

He made no attempt to close the distance between them, and Ashara said nothing more, allowing Eddard time to grapple with the choices she had made for them both. A flicker of hope bloomed in her heart when his eyes met hers without anger.

"It's quiet," she offered, knowing Ned would understand.

"Brandon took Lyanna and Benjen to the celebratory feast." He explained, and Ashara understood.

She took another step forward, climbing the bed to occupy the space at his side, not caring for what became of her finest dress.

Her mind raced with a myriad of thoughts. She wished to praise him for his victories over Oberyn and Lewyn Martell, but the words felt wrong to say.

"I'm glad you're safe," she whispered instead, tone simple and sincere. "I had feared the worst when you fell."

"It was not an attack I had expected," he replied, no doubt trying to make light of his injuries. "I'm simply grateful it was a lesson I'll live to learn from."

He offered her a strained smile, and a quiet fell between them as the heir of Winterfell and the lady of Starfall considered their next words, their worlds reduced to a lonely room.

Ashara was the first to break the silence.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, offering condolences to a man who would someday inherit a kingdom, recognizing the words as ones he needed to hear.

Ned sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"So much has gone wrong," his voice carried the weight of a confession. "This was meant to be a tourney, nothing more."

Ashara nodded, fixing her gaze to the ceiling. She was not blind to the tensions brewing between the Northmen and the Crown, nor the anger Brandon and Eddard had directed towards Arthur.

"I imagine it's enough for you to wish you never traveled south."

"Nearly," came the reply, and the warmth of a hand on her own had Ashara meeting Ned's eyes with burgeoning joy and guilt.

"I've written to my father," he continued. "The message will arrive at Winterfell by week's end."

The eldest daughter of Starfall nodded, understanding all he implied.

"I should go," she answered back, even as she made no attempt to leave.

Her betrothed inclined his head, a gesture others might have mistook for assent.

"I would ask you to stay." There was a softness to his gaze reminiscent of morning fog. His voice carried the certainty of tempered steel, and Ashara fought to keep her own steady.

"I didn't want to seduce you." She voiced a regret that had not deterred her from approaching him or drawing closer still.

He offered her a smile, even now a touch forlorn.

"You've bewitched me all the same."

Chapter Text

Ever since she was a young girl, Lyanna had loved winter roses, captivated by the vibrant colors they lent to her snow-covered home.

During the long winter, on the rare days when her violin sat untouched on the mantle, Lyanna would help Lady Evetta prune the small, thorny shrubs that adorned the glass garden beside the Workshop.

The young lady of Winterfell remembered the day when the pale buds bloomed into brilliant blue roses. She recalled how stunning the flowers had appeared nestled in Lady Evetta's bonnet and how lovely they had looked woven into her own hair.

So why did the roses in her hands seem so ugly?

Rhaegar Targaryen had won the joust to thunderous applause. The crowd had cheered his name, their voices shaking the very ground like charging cavalry, and even Lyanna had found herself swept up in the excitement.

But then the prince had laid the flowered crown in her lap, and the cheers had died. Smiles fell from the faces of lords and smallfolk alike, and pandemonium followed. The Dornish and Northmen shouted in outrage, each side decrying the other, threatening violence. Benjen had held her tightly, trying to shield her from the crowd's attention, while Ned struggled to keep Brandon from drawing his blade. Nearby, Ser Lewyn wrested a dagger from his nephew's hands, and Princess Ellia watched as her husband rode past, her eyes hollow and downcast.

All the while, the king's mad cackle echoed in Lyanna's ears as she asked herself why. Why had the prince given her the flowers? Why had he crowned her the queen of love and beauty when his wife sat mere steps away?

Lyanna recalled the night Rhaegar had visited her chambers, confiding the troubles that plagued his family. Did he fear Princess Elia would not survive the birth of their second child? Did he dread the prospect of another daughter?

A sickly sensation coiled in Lyanna's gut as she thought of her music teacher. The Lord Hunter and his wife only had one child, and Lady Evetta had implied she was unable to bear more. And yet, the Hunter had loved her all the same. Lyanna had seen how Lord Fairchild regarded his wife with eyes ready to exchange the world for her happiness, and she knew such love was not dependent on the birth of a daughter or son.

The memory made the roses seem uglier still.

A newfound resolve settled in Lyanna's heart as she rose from her seat. Amidst the ceaseless shouting and the king's terrible laughter, she waded through the onlookers until she reached the royal box, where the Dornish princess sat beside her brother and uncle.

"Forgive my intrusion, Princess Elia." The young lady of Winterfell bowed, and the crowd grew silent. Lyanna felt the weight of a thousand eyes upon her as she presented the crown, "I believe Prince Rhaegar meant these for you."

She ignored the shock on Ser Lewyn's face and the unreadable light in Prince Oberyn's eyes as Elia accepted the flowers with trembling hands. The princess offered quiet words of gratitude. Bowing once more, Lyanna returned to the Starks' box, doing her best to appear strong and sure even as her arms trembled and her legs threatened to give out. She refused to acknowledge the silent prince or listen to the mad king's laughter, which had only grown louder after all she had done. After what seemed like an eternity, Lyanna found herself again in Benjen's arms.

---​

"We need to leave."

Ned spoke the words into his goblet, just loud enough for Brandon to hear. The brothers sat some distance from the high table, overlooking the final feast of the tourney, which felt conspicuously lacking in revelry despite the abundance of food, wine, and music. Lyanna sat nearby, and as much as Ned wished to hide her away, their sister was safer at their side.

Brandon drained his own cup.

"I've made arrangements with Tytos Blackwood."

Ned nodded in approval. Though they owed allegiance to the Tullys, House Blackwood had maintained strong ties with the North. Two daughters of Raventree Hall had wedded the Lords of Winterfell since the Dance, and Blackwood Vale was a short ride from Seagard, where a ship could ensure safe passage to the North.

"We should leave tonight."

The elder Stark shook his head.

"Lyanna, Benjen, and I will leave in the morning," Brandon corrected, giving Ned no chance to interrupt. "Lord Arryn has invited you and Robert back to the Vale."

The Northern Blade held his brother's attention with hard, frigid eyes that demanded attention.

"They need to be informed."

His words brooked no argument, and Ned found himself unable to protest. Jon had indeed called both of his former wards to the Eyrie. Ned had meant for Ashara to accompany him, but she had chosen to stay with Princess Elia until the birth of her second child. Any hope of dissuading her had died after Rhaegar's latest insult, one that made it all the more pressing that Jon and Robert learned the true depths of the prince's transgressions.

The Lord of the Eyrie and the heir of Storm's End must know that this madness would not end with Aerys, only take on a different form. Whatever lay ahead, House Stark would need its allies well-informed and well-prepared in the coming days, and loath though he was to admit it, Ned acknowledged no one else suitable for the task.

"Take Brent, Donal, and Crey," he said instead, listing off their father's best men, "And whoever else you need."

"You're the future Lord of Winterfell," Brandon remarked, though his brother needed no reminder. "Do not discount your own safety."

"I'll manage," Ned insisted, leaving no room for discussion as he set his goblet aside and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Look after them, Brandon. And keep yourself safe."

The Northern Blade nodded, and nothing more was said.

Chapter Text

They sensed its approach.

The snow had not halted its advance. Neither had the dead. Even the old magics had failed to slow its stride.

From atop a lonely hill within the sunless realm, the wraiths had gathered–hundreds strong–led by warriors able to recall a world before the race of Men. United in grim purpose, they had beseeched the Dark Mother for salvation and succor.

She had answered.

The Heart of Winter had pulsed with a terrible power, and sorcery meant to beckon a second Long Night coalesced within the Lands of Always Winter. Towering curtains of ice arose from the earth, blurring the horizon and obscuring the sky. The air filled with frost, turning every breath into a poison that sapped warmth and life from the living, and silence blanketed the land, stilled by a cold that froze time itself in place.

The wraiths imbibed the blessing of the Dark Mother. Power coursed through their pale, pulseless limbs, and translucent blades formed in their hands, forged from the suspended frost. 

Standing in silence, they awaited the enemy. 

They did not wait long. 

A figure took shape against the darkness, heralded by the sound of crunching ice and measured steps. The trespasser wore the guise of a man, traversing the snow at an unhurried pace. In one hand, it held a canvased sword; in the other, a strange weapon of twisted timber and steel.

With quiet disregard, the trespasser passed into the realm of the Dark Mother and stood within the beating Heart of Winter. It studied the wraiths with bright, curious eyes, offering wordless challenge. 

The warriors met its gaze and surged forth, compelled by a primal, animal fear. They assailed the enemy from every direction, descending the hill like wind-swept ships atop a calm sea. 

The trespasser awaited their approach.

At the head of the vanguard, a warrior overtook the rest, intent on driving its blade and body through the enemy.

A clothed sword met the tip of a spear, and a shrill cry sundered the silence. 

Ice blessed by the Dark Mother grated against the trespasser’s blade, pouring forth an unearthly cold meant to shatter steel. But the canvased blade weathered the onslaught with frightful ease, rending the spear as if it were silk, and the wraith fell, cleaved in two. It did not shatter, as though vanquished by obsidian or fire, instead dying as a man would, its eyes dimmed and body stilled. 

The trespasser denied the warrior its rest, kicking its severed torso into its kin. The wraith struck by the impact managed to recover, only for the enemy to raise its strange weapon and fire a searing bolt through the air, piercing the corpse to produce another. 

With a sound like thunder, more bolts flew from the weapon, staggering the surrounding wraiths. The trespasser swept its blade once more, and the vanguard fell. 

Surrounded by a ring of bodies, the trespasser at last broke its stride. Though waist-deep in snow, warring against the land itself in the midst of battle, the monster outpaced its prey. 

Four warriors were needed to contend with its speed, thrice more to match its strength. The trespasser moved without tiring, never allowing its enemies to bring their numbers to bear. It forced the wraiths to give chase, and more fell with each exchange. 

Spears of ice rained down from the sky as more warriors joined the fray. Yet, every attempt to catch the trespasser unaware proved fruitless as it evaded every spear and lance, seemingly knowing where they would fall. 

Finally, a spear struck and shattered the trespasser’s strange weapon. A wraith, believing it disarmed–vulnerable–charged forth. The monster answered by conjuring a mass of steel within its hand and forming a fist.

The wraith fell to the ground, headless.

The battle raged on like a dark dance, and more wraiths were lost. All the while, the trespasser remained unscathed, promising a defeat slow but certain. 

Then a warrior, ancient even by the measure of its people, drove the enemy back. It battled the trespasser, evading and deflecting the canvased blade with speed and skill beyond the measure of mortal man. Even then, it was not the monster’s equal. 

The trespasser severed the warrior’s arm. As others rushed to its defense, the ancient being feigned retreat, and with its remaining hand, drove its spear through its own kin, burying the blade within the side of its foe.

The old warrior died for its efforts, but its spear remained embedded within the trespasser, and those who remained watched transfixed as paleblood pulsed from the wound, hissing as it landed upon the snow. 

The tide turned. The warriors renewed their efforts, and though they continued to die, none faltered or fled. The wraiths fought on, clinging and grasping at the trespasser even as they fell, sacrificing their eternal lives so that others might strike down the enemy. 

Slowly, swords bit into flesh and spears found their marks. A myriad of wounds marred the trespasser, a bloody tapestry bought with the lives of brave, desperate souls. Even then, it fought on, heedless of its wounds. 

Then, at last, a sword driven through its knee forced the monster to stagger. In that single moment, the survivors cried out to the Dark Mother. As if hearing their call, the land itself shifted. A torrent of ice surged forth, crashing into the trespasser like a wall of stone, piercing its frame and lifting it aloft. The ice continued to rise, forming a glacial spire that assailed the sky. 

A new mountain arose from the Lands of Always Winter. The trespasser–unlike any being within the Dark Mother’s domain, who has threatened her children like no other–hung impaled and motionless upon its jagged peak.

Silence reclaimed the land. The remaining warriors–less than half of the gathered host–fell to their knees, beset by an exhaustion that should not have ailed bodies that required neither sleep nor rest. Victory had been achieved, though at an immeasurable cost. Wordless prayers were offered to the Dark Mother–prayers that were disrupted by a terrible sound. 

As one, the wraiths raised their heads, and faces incapable of horror beheld a hand rising against the darkness. A fist fell upon the spire, and a deafening crack split the air, shaking the ground below. The fist rose again, and the terrible sound rang out again and again until the lance shattered. 

The monster fell. 

It crashed gracelessly upon the snow, a tangled mass of blood and broken limbs. Yet the trespasser rose, right arm severed at the elbow, the left dangling from strands of sinew. Its chest had been reduced to a gaping hole, pierced by the great spire.  What little remained displayed the base of an exposed rib, where scraps of a lung drifted like a tattered rag.  

There was not enough left of its body to raise a wight. Yet the trespasser stood all the same. And when it lifted the severed stump of its arm and remaining hand, a clap sounded through the air. 

“Impressive.” 

Though the monster’s face lay in ruin, the wraiths heard its words, carved into their minds like glyphs, branded upon their still-beating hearts.

“Strength to match a Pthumerian descendant. Arcana to rival an elder,” the trespasser mused again, its words ponderous and bordering praise, “It seems I was right to come here.” 

A wraith, the one nearest the monster, sensed the shift in the air. Driven by instinct, it rose and charged, blade raised in desperate defiance of the inevitable.

It was not given the chance to approach. 

The trespasser raised what remained of its arm, and a gaping fissure formed in place of its hand, sundering the fabric of the Waking World. Dark, writhing tendrils spewed forth from the ether, striking the wraith with a force that reduced it to dust. 

The warrior died, and the tendrils withdrew, but the fissure remained. Reality buckled under the strain and the very air shattered, forming spider-like cracks that distorted the monster’s visage. The wraiths could only watch as the innumerable wounds that marred its body fractured, splintered, and fell from its form like shards of glass.

Piece by piece, reason, causality, and the underpinnings of natural law fell at the feet of the trespasser, replaced by a reality fashioned from its whims and will. It stood unharmed and whole, as though never wounded. Its weapons rested in its hands, and a tall figure in the shape of a woman stood at its side.

A new presence, vacuous yet suffocating, pervaded the land. Against the great curtains of frost that blotted out the sky, a blood-tinged moon formed behind the Hunter, hovering just overhead, eclipsing the sunless realm in its boundless shadow. 

In that moment, the children of the Dark Mother, who had never known the hearts of men, learned of hope through its absence. Doom reflected in the starlight eyes of a being beyond their reach, one who saw them only as prey.

Swords and spears fell from their hands, and the trespasser– the Hunter –stepped forth, heedless of their despair.

“Come, let us continue,” it urged as cloth unfurled from its blade, and the sword gleamed with an ethereal glow, “The Night is still yet young.”