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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 1: Book 1: Rumors and Invitations
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 dead 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, black-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, a boyhood habit he developed after learning 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 called you '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.
TBC
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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 2: Bread, Salt, and Sacred Hospitality
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 Rodrik 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 Rodrik had swore on his life had not been there the day before. The men had half-suspected sorcery until Rodrik 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 rare commodity, 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 is 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 Rodrik 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 Rodrik 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 Rodrik 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, "Marquess." 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 marquess. House Forrester and Whitehill came immediately to mind.
"At the rank of marquess 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 richly 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 Rodrik'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. Rodrik 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 Rodrik 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 must 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 alike. 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. Rodrik 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 Rodrik'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 cup, "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."
TBC.
Author's Note:
If anyone's wondering if Yharnam is actually west of Westeros, note how the Hunter words his replies. Hope this Good Hunter is to everyone's liking.
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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 3: Book 1: Maps and Bookwork
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 sense 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 from 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 glean?"
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 said 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, therein lay the problem. Wildlings were a known element; the Fairchilds were unknown. Undoubtedly wealthy. Seemingly kind, 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 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."
TBC
Author's Note:
A slower chapter, but I thought it important to get into the heads of the Northerners before the Fairchilds came calling. Actions are only as important as the reactions they cause, after all.
Furthermore: The map in question is the one of Boletaria from the opening of Demon souls. In the original Bloodborne demo, Father Gascoigne's dialogue included 'Umbasa,' an homage to Demon Souls that was cut from the final game. I took the liberty of joining Bloodborne+Demon Souls to enrich the soulsborne side of the story. The Western coast does resemble Westeros (if you want it to).
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