FanFiction.Net
Just In
Community
Forum
V
More
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 10: Book 1: Of Music and Mothers
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.
TBD
Author's Note:
As you can see, the Fairchilds once again have Rickard wishing winter had lasted longer, which I'm pretty sure is a capital offense in the North. Nothing to see here. Carry on.
That said, this chapter was a challenge. First time describing classical music in any detail, and there ended up being a lot of French influence as a result.
Some details from the chapter:
1. Gallia=Latin for Gaul/old France
2. Pain au chocolat=chocolate croissant, also called a chocolatine in the southwest. Puff pastry was not invented until the 17th century, so it would be a novelty to the Starks, who are accustomed to short-crust pastries and bread.
3. Frédéric Chopin and Franz Liszt were among the most famous composers of the Romantic period. Franz and the violinist Paganini exhibited such technical skill that some believed they had sold their souls in exchange for musical talent.
4. Chopin's Etude Op 25 No.11 is also known as Winter Wind
5. Other music mentioned this chapter:
Chopin: Etudes Op.10 and Op.25
Liszt: Mephisto, Mazeppa, Hungarian Rhapsody, and La Campanella
Bach: Goldberg Variations
Tchaikovsky: Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairies
6. Crêpe bretonne is a savory buckwheat crepe and a traditional dish of Brittany.
7. Lastly, regarding the elephant in the room, 'Luca' is inspired by an in-game portrait of Queen Annalise holding a baby. For the purposes of the story, Annalise is not Luca's surrogate, rather his conception is related to the Yharnam Stone Cyril picked up in the Chalice Dungeons.
« First « Prev Ch 10 of 28 Next »
Review
Jump:
Share: Email . Facebook . Twitter
Story: Follow Favorite
Author: Follow Favorite
Contrast: Dark . Light
Font: Small . Medium . Large . XL
Twitter . Help . Sign Up . Cookies . Privacy . Terms of ServiceFanFiction.Net
Just In
Community
Forum
V
More
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 11: Book 1: The Stranger in the Mirror
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.
TBC
Author's Note:
Just a nice, quiet chapter before the spring/harvest feast.
Wanted this chapter to be a character study of the Hunter. When I started this fic, I asked myself what kind of man could transcend the Hunt where so many others had failed. I considered that a scholar would be less inclined to beasthood/bloodlust and more determined to seek out the Eldritch Truth. But ultimately, I felt it came down to luck: Cyril was at the 'right' place at the 'right' time and learned from the mistakes of those who came before. Had he been at Byrgenwerth, he might have joined Lady Maria and the Old Hunters in raiding the Fishing Village. Had he arrived a little later, maybe he would have fallen in the Choir.
Cyril realizes this. His attitudes toward the Hunt were inspired by post-Great War/WWI sensibilities (think All Quiet on the Western Front), where an individual's qualities had little bearing on their survival and great acts of heroism had little impact.
Thought it would be a nice contrast to young Ned's more classical views from a Westerosi/medieval education. Cyril and Ned both have a point, but there come from very different places (literally).
The lesson here: Don't try to iron out moral quandaries with your local Eldritch horror.
Lyssa's disease=earlier name for rabies, named after an ancient Greek goddess.
« First « Prev Ch 11 of 28 Next »
Review
Jump:
Share: Email . Facebook . Twitter
Story: Follow Favorite
Author: Follow Favorite
Contrast: Dark . Light
Font: Small . Medium . Large . XL
Twitter . Help . Sign Up . Cookies . Privacy . Terms of ServiceFanFiction.Net
Just In
Community
Forum
V
More
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 12: Book 1: Black Under the Paleblood Moon
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
Author's Notes:
Chapter summary: With the first harvest rolling in and the feast upon them, Rickard receives the tragic news that two of his loyal lords have died inexplicably of completely natural causes. Fortunately, he's got a new chest of gold and his men get to see (hush money) a nice bonus.
In other news, Cyril's got a new sign outside the Workshop: Dogs/Starks are Friendly, Beware of Owner
Anyways, Roose Bolton was behind this attempted home invasion. Just some quick notes on that:
1. Regarding Roose's age, he was described as "well past forty" by canon, 299 AC. Ned dies canonically at age 36 (crazy, I know), so it's reasonable to assume he's got a decade on the brothers, putting him in his mid-to-late 20s. He's got a few years of ruling/terrorizing/torture under his belt.
2. Bethany Ryswell should still be alive. Domeric should be around 4-5.
3. Regarding the hit job, Bolton caught wind of the Fairchilds (either from Winterfell or White Harbor) and knew that the Starks have/can make glass. He didn't know that the Dreadfort was going to receive a glass garden, but even if he did, Rickard handing them out was bad news: The Boltons have been waiting a thousand years to supplant the Starks. With the influence and goodwill Rickard was about to amass, another thousand wouldn't have made a difference. And unlike Tywin, Roose hasn't shown much concern for legacy. If he saw an opportunity to ruin Rickard's day and make life worse for everyone involved, he'd give it some thought.
4. That said, Roose was working on a tight timetable: The Starks had discovered the Fairchilds at the end of winter, with the spring feast ~4 months away (time for the first harvest). Cyril visits Winterfell a month later, 'almost' gets shanked, and drops off some glass. Fane took another ~2 weeks to get word to White Harbor. By the time news reached the Dreadfort, Roose had ~2 months to make a move, and that's including travel time from Highpoint to the Workshop. Ideally, he needed the Fairchilds dead before the feast: If Rickard announces their presence, and THEN they die, every Northern lord will know what happened.
5. Even if the plan failed, Roose had every reason to believe he would keep his life and lands: You don't convict lords with the testimony from armsmen/smallfolk, and Roose was already a step removed from the Whitehill men. Elizabeth Báthory, the countess/serial killer and one of the major inspirations for Dracula, allegedly murdered 80 women and wasn't investigated until she started targeting members of the gentry and minor nobility. Even then, she was sentenced to house arrest.
6. So as asoiaf assassinations go–compared to hiring a boar to skewer your drunk husband–it wasn't a bad plan. Roose just chose a poor choice of targets.
Lastly, Rickard's reaction to all of this might seem pretty calm—too calm even. That's fair. Just some thoughts on that:
1. While Westeros is pretty standard low-fantasy medieval in many regards (barring the occasional skinchanger), rumors of what goes down in Essos are straight bonkers. The people of Leng are supposedly 8-10ft tall, the Great Empire of the Dawn had tiger-women, and the people of the Thousand Islands (likely pulled straight from Lovecraft) have green skin and shark teeth. Rickard and his council have no reason to assume the west is any less insane. So Cyril demonstrating the strength of a giant and wielding seemingly magical weapons still fits within a very broad definition of human.
2. Furthermore, Rickard has few options other than continuing to forge relations with Fairchild, even from a position of weakness. He's in too deep, and his family's too involved. Moreover, despite everything, Cyril hasn't done anything wrong. Even if Rickard wanted to drive Cyril out, the man had 1 vs. 15. Uninjured. Winterfell's garrison is ~200. Telling your men there's gonna be a ~10% casualty rate to evict your tenant is a hard sell.
Thank you all for your continued reading and support. Your feedback and comments are always appreciated.
« First « Prev Ch 12 of 28 Next »
Review
Jump:
Share: Email . Facebook . Twitter
Story: Follow Favorite
Author: Follow Favorite
Contrast: Dark . Light
Font: Small . Medium . Large . XL
Twitter . Help . Sign Up . Cookies . Privacy . Terms of Service