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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 13: Sidestory: Plans for the Dead
Sidestory:
The Morning After the Attack:
"I must apologize for what happened."
"You keep apologizing for matters outside your control, Lord Stark," Lord Fairchild's voice carried a familiar air of amusement glaringly absent the night before, "Once you start apologizing for the horrors of the world, you will find little time for anything else."
Under the shadow of the Great Hall, the Warden of the North stood beside the Master of the Workshop. Sporting a clean wardrobe, the younger lord had approached the western gate at daybreak. Were it not for the terrified horses trailing behind him or the set of bloodstained swords the Hunter held, Rickard would have thought the previous night a dream.
"Is Lady Evetta well?"
The Hunter nodded, "She looks forward to resuming her lessons with your daughter. As for your sons, please inform them they have the next two days to themselves."
Something unreadable passed behind his eyes, and–for a moment–the Hunter did not appear so entertained. Rickard found no desire to argue nor words to offer. He instead turned his gaze to the grim contents of the Hunter's hand, no doubt once belonging to the poor fools he found at the camp, "I had hoped you would have left some alive. It would have made matters easier."
"Would it now?" Some levity returned to the young lord's voice as he arched a brow and regarded the warden with doubt, "I must disagree, Lord Stark. You have no evidence, no leads, and the testimony of your guards will not hold against those of high birth. Right now, there is little you can do and no need to act. Evetta and I see no reason for that to change."
The Hunter beckoned a guard forward, handing over the bloodstained swords as a stablehand led the horses away, "I live in the woods, so I encounter bears and wolves aplenty. Yesterday was no different: I chanced upon beasts without fur or fangs but beasts all the same. Those men died for their intent, not the threat they posed."
The Hunter bowed and made to leave, "Put this matter out of your mind. I trust the upcoming feast will occupy enough of your time."
"Lord Fairchild," The warden's eyes bore into the Hunter's back, "I request you take no action against those responsible. Not yet."
The Hunter turned enough to meet his gaze, "I promise to do no more than I already have, Lord Stark."
TBC
Just a small snippet of what the following morning looked like. As you can imagine, it takes about two days for ravens to travel from the Dreadfort/Highpoint to Winterfell. So doing the math...Cyril ends up being a surprising honest eldritch horror.
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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 14: Book 1: Better Days Part 1 of 3
WARNING: The following chapter contains a smidge of smut. We will resume our usual family-friendly programming eventually.
The Greatjon laughed as he swung a slab of iron the length of a man with deceptive speed and skill. A veritable mountain of meat and mail, he roared in challenge.
And Brandon roared back.
The assembled lords watched transfixed as Rickard's sons beset the Lord of Last Hearth.
Brandon sidestepped the giant's strike and deflected a vicious backswing as the pain in his arms and the screams of the crowd set his blood aflame. Ned charged in, giving Brandon a moment's rest. Wondering how this madness had come to pass, the elder Stark quickly chalked it up to good fortune and bad luck.
They had done well. Brandon had bested half a dozen warriors, Medger Cerwyn, Helman Tallhart, and Robett Glover among them, but the battered shoulder and bruised ribs he had earned were taking their toll.
Ned had claimed his own victories against Wendel Manderly and Willam Dustin. Brandon had grown concerned when his brother faced Jorah Mormont, who had distinguished himself against Lord Karstark and numerous lesser men, but Ned stood by his side, and they did not.
When the Greatjon saw Rickard's sons were the last afield, his laugh had nearly roused the Winter Kings from their sleep. He had invited the brothers to attack him together, and they had obliged. Most would have thought it madness, for the Greatjon was more than twice their age and double their combined weight, but the Hunter was stronger and faster by far.
Cyril Fairchild was insurmountable; Greatjon Umber was not.
Brandon gathered himself and charged as Ned gave ground. Forced to contend with both brothers, the Greatjon swung his blade in a sweeping arc. Acting with more daring than sense, the elder Stark ducked under Umber's blade and delivered a thrust to his side. The Greatjon grunted, unable to retaliate as Ned fell upon him. Capitalized on the opening, Brandon half-handed his sword, bound Umber's wrist, and twisted. Hard. The sword fell from Umber's hand as Brandon snaked his blade around the giant's arm until the tip rested against his throat.
The crowd fell silent. Not even Father spoke over Lord Umber's booming laughter.
"Night King's tits! Since when did the wolf pups sprout teeth?"
"About the same time the giant grew long in the tooth, my lord."
The Greatjon's smile threatened to break his face, "I'll let you pups tussle this out. The winner will drink with giants tonight!"
The Lord of Last Hearth departed the field in good spirits, and the Starks were met with thunderous applause.
Brandon regarded his brother.
"You unhurt?
Ned nodded, breaths labored and short, "My blood feels like fire."
Brandon smiled, "Mine as well."
His brother raised his sword; Brandon nodded his assent.
The Doll sat beside her husband, clapping as the elder wolf helped his brother stand.
"Will you go to them, Good Hunter?"
The Hunter shook his head as he placed his hand over her own.
"Let them have their day."
Gregor Forrester immersed himself in the sights and sounds of the Great Hall. He recalled the first time he laid eyes on Winterfell, how he had stood with his mouth agape, and Father had to close his jaw. Even now, as Ironrath's representative and a member of Lord Glover's retinue, the feeling remained much the same.
Banners from every house adorned the walls. Every breath was perfused with the scent of smoke, roasted meat, and wine. The air pulsed with the hearts of a thousand guests, and the swell of their voices drowned out mistrals and music alike.
The melee was the talk of the evening, and Gregor could hardly fault other lords for their fervor. More than the joust, the melee was the source of true prestige North of the Neck, and the Starks had won much today. Lord Brandon and Eddard's duel with the Greatjon befitted the old stories. Like the Kings of Winter, they had laid the giant low. Gregor doubted there had been a greater spectacle since Barristan Selmy unhorsed Duncan the Tall.
Lord Stark's sons did not find themselves wanting for attention. Lord Eddard sat among Lord Dustin and Cerwyns' retinue while Lord Brandon, the champion of the melee, stood surrounded by a throng of Umber and Mormont men. Gregor had yet to approach the elder Stark, choosing to observe from afar. In Wintertown, the heir of Ironrath had heard whispers that Lord Richard's heir was vicious in the yard and graceless in defeat. Gregor knew better than to believe such rumors, but that they existed at all–so close to Winterfell–left him uneasy.
The melee was far from the only topic discussed. Gregor spied many a guest stealing glances at a mild-mannered man in dark clothes and the tallest woman he had ever seen. They had first been sighted last evening before the feast. Slipping into the hall without introduction, they had seated themselves with the Manderlys. The man had danced with his wife earlier, the swirling, sweeping movements turning a great many heads. They had since kept to Lord Manderly's retinue, the man conversing with Ser Wylis and Marlon while Lady Manderly, her goodcousin Lady Hornwood, and gooddaughter Leona Woolfield encircled his wife.
Gregor regarded the scene with a frown. The gleaming buttons of the man's coat and the fist-sized opal on his wife's breast were proof enough that they had not wandered in from the village market, yet they were undeniably foreign. Were there ever a man allowed to break doctrine, it would be Lord Stark's foster brother. Still, the thought of Lord Manderly inviting foreigners sat ill with Gregor, and no doubt others felt the same: The Harvest Feast was a Northern affair, a time for every lord between the Gift and Neck to exchange news and discuss matters of the Realm.
Of course, Gregor knew better than to voice such thoughts. For Lord Manderly to invite the foreigner, knowing full well his fellow lords would disapprove, the man must be a merchant prince of some import, and the Forrester heir knew better than to meddle with the affairs of White Harbor. Lord Manderly was a fair man by reputation, but Gregor would give him no cause to cease trade with Ironrath.
He kept those thoughts in mind as the stranger walked his way.
"Lord Forrester, I presume?"
Small as his family was, the heir of Ironrath had not expected the man to recognize his heraldry. "Gregor Forrester," he corrected, still unsure of the man's name or station, "Lord Forrester would be my father."
"Lord Gregor, then," the man amended, smiling as he introduced himself, "Cyril Fairchild."
Fairchild? Though the name sounded Andal and the man had the coloring of a Stormlander, the Forrester heir had never known a clean-shaven storm lord, much less one that favored such dreary attire. Then there was the man's accent, which resembled no dialect of Common Gregor had ever heard. Perhaps he hailed from Pentos, which controlled much of old Andalos and housed many families of Andal blood.
The reasoning felt sound yet off-target.
From afar, Cyril Fairchild had appeared wholly unremarkable. The man looked handsome enough–as men of high birth tended to be–but he was no Targaryen, Lannister, or Dayne. Nor was he near as tall or powerfully built as half the Umbers in the hall. Yet there was a striking sharpness to his features and a brightness to his eyes that made their shade difficult to discern.
Closer inspection of the man's drab-colored clothes further revealed intricate stitching and needlework, the threads of wool woven so tight and uniform Gregor nearly mistook them for silk. For all their lack of embellishment, the make of the man's gloves, mantel, and coat was beyond what even Lord Glover was known to wear. The resulting impression was that of artifice, understated but failing subtly, like a cold space amidst a warm room.
"Lord Stark has organized quite the gathering, so very different from what we have at home," the foreigner surveyed the hall as his eyes lingered on his wife, "Evetta and I are fortunate to have received an invitation."
"Indeed, the harvest feast has always been a much-anticipated affair, more so given the length of winter," Gregor continued to regard the foreigner with caution and care, "When you spoke of home, may I ask where that would be, Lord Fairchild?"
He had taken a risk addressing the foreigner with such honors. Were the man merely a well-to-do merchant, Gregor–and House Forrester, by extension–would be the laughing stock of the North, but Fairchild had conducted himself with an ease that betrayed his station. More than his features, clothes, or surname, the man had navigated a gathering of lords with a practiced hand while uttering the name 'Stark' with respect, not reverence.
Gregor's instincts were rewarded when Fairchild recognized the words as his due.
"Across the sea and a bit farther off," the man answered, mischief playing upon his lips, "Lord Mandery would have been less coy and said Myr."
Gregor nodded despite his surprise. Outrageous rumors had reached Ironrath of a Myrman and his runaway Volantene bride seeking refuge in Winterfell. Though the story had reached as far as Deepwood Motte, Lord Glover had dismissed it out of hand, and Gregor had done the same. Clearly, there was some truth to the tale, but the rumor had mentioned a tradesman, where Lord Fairchild looked more a magister's son.
"We have our share of gatherings, everything from grand balls to smaller dances and evening parties, but nothing quite like the melee."
Gregor nodded to his now-named companion, "Indeed, it was a spectacle worthy of song," he looked to the high table, where Lord Brandon was attempting to outdrink Jorah Mormont, a battle Gregor doubted he would win, "Lord Stark's sons are proving themselves the pride of the North. Don't recall being half as good at their age."
"Yes, they did well and still have much room to grow."
The man's voice carried an undercurrent of pride Gregor found strange, nearly as odd as the words themselves. The man hardly looked a swordsman, and the heir of Ironrath had half a mind to ask on what authority Fairchild made such an assessment but thought better of it. The man had offered nothing Gregor wished to gainsay, much less argue.
"You must be well versed with the North, Lord Fairchild, to know even House Forrester of Ironrath," he offered instead and thought the words fair. Father needed to know if Lord Manderly was educating a foreigner on the inner workings of the North.
Lord Fairchild's smile did nothing to assuage his worries, "No need to be modest, Lord Gregor. For your family to be the sole proprietor of ironwood is no small thing, and I confess that I have been looking for a new fingerboard for my cello."
Ah, of course. Ironwood. It always came back to ironwood. "My pardons, Lord Fairchild, but the cello…is that some manner of instrument?"
"Just so. Think of it as a large, free-standing fiddle, though the description hardly does it justice." The words painted an apt picture, though the term 'fiddle' was said with great resignation.
The man looked like he wished to say more but stopped mid-breath, a flash of embarrassment forming behind his eyes, "Apologies, that was unbecoming of me. This is hardly a place to discuss matters of business."
Once more, Lord Fairchild proved himself foreign: The lords of the North had not traveled hundreds of leagues to break bread with House Stark. Winter had left every house an island in a storm, and the feast was always marked by discussions of alliances, betrothals, and trade, but Gregor allowed Lord Fairchild his assumptions. Ironwood was one of the few luxury commodities the North produced and it did not leave the North lightly. By letting the matter rest, Lord Fairchild had spared Gregor the chance to cause offense.
Just as he thought to bid the foreigner farewell, the gathered lords grew silent, heralding Rickard Stark's arrival. As the Warden of the North took his place at the high table, Gregor recalled stories of how their overlord once claimed the heads of three Golden Company captains in a single battle. Rickard Stark lived up to the legends. Tall, long-faced with a strong bearing and cold eyes, garbed in the finest furs, the Warden of the North looked as formidable as the Wall itself, and his voice reflected that strength.
"My Lords and Ladies, I welcome you to Winterfell and the Harvest Feast. Partake in the bounty of my table, the warmth of my hearth, and let tonight hail the coming spring in truth!" The warden raised his cup, "To the long summer!"
The hall erupted in a din of noise as hundreds of fists pounded tables and the Stark name chanted like a rallying cry. The Warden allowed the sound to swell and die.
"Tonight, House Stark bids welcome to an important guest," Gergor's heart nearly stopped when Rickard Stark turned, raising his cup to the foreigner, "Lord Cyril Fairchild comes to us from across the sea. By his efforts, Myrish glass has been brought to our shores. Come next winter, the glass gardens of Winterfell will not stand alone."
Unlike before, his words were not greeted with applause. A stunned silence overtook the hall as the gathered lords turned as one.
"Dear, oh dear, Lord Stark," a smile tugged at the Hunter's lips as a thousand pairs of eyes looked his way, "That was rather outrageous."
Wyman speared a potato and mopped the remnants of venison gravy from his plate. Pleasantly toothsome, hearty yet fluffy in a way parsnips were not, the roasties had proved popular during the feast. Rumors were White Harbor had passed them onto Winterfell last autumn. Alas, Wyman had been unable to enjoy taking credit for the crispy morsels, much less enjoy his meal, as newfound troubles plagued his mind.
Mere weeks before the feast, Wyman had received a missive from Winterfell written in Rickard's hand and cipher. The message bore grim news: Bolton and Whitehill had shown their true colors, orchestrating an attack that Cyril Fairchild had personally repelled. The last detail had given Wyman pause, a feeling made worse when word of Bolton and Whitehill's deaths arrived later that day.
The Lord of New Castle would sooner forgo supper than believe the two traitors had died of natural causes.
His foster brother had not been responsible. Of that, Wyman was certain: Had Rickard wanted Bolton and Whitehill dead, he would not have informed Wyman of the attack on the Workshop. What purpose would that have served but to provide Richard with motive, brewing suspicion where none had existed? No, his brother had not been responsible, which left the list of suspects worryingly short.
Wyman glanced at the foreigner conversing with the Forrester heir while his own kin worked tirelessly to keep the gathering lords from mobbing them both.
The Lord of New Castle had been among the first arrivals at Winterfell, as was expected of Edwyle Stark's former ward. Under the pretense of paying respects to his foster father, he had followed Rickard into the crypts to inspect the stored glass. Wyman had half hoped his foster brother had finally cracked under the strain of lordship, but seeing with his own eyes what Cyril Fairchild had offered the North left no room for doubt.
His foster brother had seemingly aged ten years in half the time, yet it was a wonder how he was alive at all: the tale Rickard retold had chilled Wyman to the bone. For a man to prevail against fifteen armsmen, for the lords responsible to die the same night…It would have been better if the Fairchilds had arrived on dragon back: At least then Wyman would have understood his position, poor as it was. Instead, Rickard was playing host to a foreigner more dangerous than the Faceless and Sorrowful Men put together.
Wyman sighed.
Lords were not murdered; it simply was not done. They died as all men do–from war, sickness, and worse–but it was never meant to be easy. Even the great game had rules that were not broken lightly, not when assassinations risked escalation and invited reprisal.
But now two Northern lords lay dead, dying the same night they attempted treachery, and the implications left Wyman cold. Cyril Fairchild was a man of magical means. Either he could kill men with only a thought or distance meant little to those who reside beyond the Sunset Sea. Either way, Fairchild could have waited: Had Bolton and Whitehill died even weeks after the attack, their deaths days apart, even Rickard would have thought it an act of providence. Instead, the deaths had been conspicuous and intentionally so.
Most of the North would be none the wiser, but Rickard would know. The butchery of Ludd's men and the dead lords that followed had been a warning that armies and castles would not shield a man from Fairchild's wrath.
Wyman prayed the coming days would pass without incident, but after the talks last evening, he feared even the gods would think his request over much.
[The Night Before]
"This where all our taxes are going, Rickard?"
The Greatjon laid his meaty paw against the glass. He questioned the warden with hard eyes while Wyman lamented at what passed for Northern pageantry: Umber's loyalty was beyond reproach–the man once took two goldenheart arrows in the back shielding Rickard from Maelys' archers–but the giants had long made a tradition of testing their overlord, ensuring the wolves they bowed to still had teeth.
Wyman watched as his foster brother held the Greatjon's gaze, daring the man to continue. Umber yielded with good humor as he released his hold on the priceless goods.
Robard Dustin and Bethany Bolton were not so bold, but they regarded the exchange with guarded intrigue. After all, House Stark was not known to host its vassals in a storeroom, much less one that housed more wealth than an Iron Bank vault.
The Warden of the North addressed his guests.
"My lords, I thank you for gathering this evening. The North has weathered another great winter, and it is through your sacrifices that our people yet live. House Stark thanks you, but we must remember those who gave their lives in service."
Grey eyes settled upon Roose's widow, "I offer my deepest condolences, Lady Bolton. Your husband's passing was a surprise to us all."
"Thank you, Lord Stark. His death has greatly affected our families."
Wyman eyed the woman with pity as he recalled the meek yet vibrant girl who trailed behind Rodrik Ryswell many summers ago. Bethany Bolton née Ryswell was a waif of a woman with sable hair and pallid skin. Despite the creases on her brow and strained lines of her face, she appeared calm and likewise relaxed, as though recently relieved of a great burden. The Lord of New Castle allowed himself a moment's guilt before stepping forward.
"I wish to offer my sympathies as well, Lady Bolton. White Harbor is prepared to aid the Dreadfort during these tumultuous times." Wyman dipped his head, "House Manderly further extends an offer of fosterage to Young Domeric, so that we might strengthen relations between our esteemed houses in the years to come."
When Lady Bolton and his fellow lords reacted with surprise, the merman wore his best smile, even as Bethany looked to their liege, "Both my sons are knighted and grown. Young Domeric would find welcome at New Castle."
Bethany Bolton carried herself well despite her surprise. Caught off guard as she was, Roose's widow held her poise, mouth growing thin as she surmised the merman's intent.
"My father and I thank you for your kindness, Lord Manderly."
Wyman nodded, admiring the lady's noncommittal reply. Rodrik Ryswell had not raised a fool, but this was not an offer the Lady of the Dreadfort could readily refuse.
Roose Bolton had barely been buried. For Wyman to make so bold—some would say shameless—an offer, Rickard must have given his approval, and the recently-widowed Lady Bolton could ill afford to anger their liege: With the blood of the Red Kings reduced to a single babe, the Ryswells needed Winterfell's support to keep Roose's former vassals from bucking, and the warden had declared his position without uttering a word:
'Bury the history of your house alongside your husband, or I will allow your lords to do as they please, and your son will not inherit a fief worth the name.'
In truth, Wyman had not considered taking a new ward. He had counseled Rickard to foster Domeric while their old mentor acted as regent of the Dreadfort. His brother had deemed the plan impossible: Following Roose's death, Lady Bethany had petitioned for a Ryswell cousin to assume the regency, and Rickard had no grounds to refuse. House Ryswell had been loyal. For all the world knew, House Bolton had been the same.
Furthermore, Fane was not someone Rickard could afford to lose. His son Vayon was capable, but an untested steward could not be tasked with transporting glass as far as Last Hearth and New Castle without suspicion. As much as the greybeard had earned his rest, House Stark still required his service, and Wyman's old mentor had accepted without hesitation.
Then there was the simple fact that a Bolton could not be allowed within Winterfell, where he might catch Lord Fairchild's eye. That the young boy had not shared his father's fate was a good indication that Fairchild did not intend to destroy House Bolton root and stem, but the converse was of equal concern. Four moons under the foreigner's tutelage had made Rickard's sons a match for the fiercest warriors in the North, and young Domeric could not be allowed to acquire such skill.
Wyman had no reason to protest the arrangement: This was a chance to bind New Castle and the Dreadfort through commerce and blood. The next Lady Bolton may well be a merman rather than a wolf. Rodrik Ryswell would no doubt oppose Wyman's growing influence, but the Lord of the Rills did not have near enough men to govern his late goodson's lands, not when his own holdings lay so close to the Iron Islands. White Harbor had no such concerns, and the merman would happily lend his support. Roose's death had already left Wyman uncontested as the greatest of Rickard's bannermen. Patience and planning would cement House Manderly's prominence forevermore.
The Warden of the North regarded Lady Bethany a final time and considered the matter done. Once more, he turned to the Greatjon.
"Lord Umber, to the question you asked, worry not: The glass you see was not purchased but instead payment for promises already fulfilled."
The warden's words sparked a keen look in the giant's eye, "So there was something to the rumors then?" He cracked a smile that showed great rows of yellowed teeth, "Managed to filch yourself a glassmaker, my lord?"
"He is my guest," Rickard corrected, voice curt, "You no doubt caught sight of him last evening."
"The man hardly looks Merish," Lord Dustin remarked. Well over fifty, the old Lord of Barrow Hall had been one of Rickard's strongest supporters after Lord Edwyle's passing. Even with his strength long gone, the old warrior commanded respect, "Were he more dour, I'd have taken him for a Braavosi banker."
"Andal blood runs through more of Essos than any of the Free Cities would ever admit. Coin and influence have always counted for more than coloring east of the Narrow Sea," Wyman explained.
Umber glanced his way, "You familiar with the man, Manderly?"
"I would hope so, considering I introduced him to our lord."
Rickard affirmed his words, "It was four years ago, during the last months of autumn, when Lord Manderly sent word, and I agreed to an audience with Lord Fairchild."
"Fairchild?" Wyman found himself once more with Umber's attention as the giant reddened with rage, "The man's name was Fairchild, and you thought him Myrish! Allowed him within arm's length of our lord?"
"I know my trade well, Umber," the Lord of New Castle made a show of outrage. As often the case with Umber, little acting was needed, "I can spot a mummer faster than you could a wildling. Men may have secrets without harboring deceit, and charlatans are not known to carry proof of a glassmaker's craft."
"Peace, Wyman," Robard Dustin raised a hand, silencing them both, "Lord Umber was right to voice concern, but none here question your judgment, much less the results of your work."
"And this is the work of a master," Bethany ran a hand along a pane longer than she was tall and held Wyman with questioning eyes, "Why did he leave Myre for our shores?"
"The man wishes to distance himself from family and friends who had disapproved of his marriage to a lady of Volantis' Old Blood." Wyman would never know how Rickard convinced Lord Fairchild to agree to this mummer's farce.
The Greatjon barked a laugh. "The lengths a man would go to for a pair of long legs and pretty tits. Finally, the story makes sense," the giant looked well-pleased with the jape, even as Wyman grimaced and Rickard bristled at his words, "We're harboring him, then?"
The warden shook his head, "House Stark has welcomed Lord Fairchild as a guest, and he has kindly provided glass to the North during his stay." The meaning of his words was not lost to the lords: To harbor a fugitive was to invite reprisal and retaliation, but who was Myr to demand the North surrender a guest, much less dictate the duration of his stay?
Rickard motioned to the nearly two hundred panes of glass that left his lords spellbound, "What you see here is a fraction of what has been made and promised."
"You supplied him with a foundry." Lady Bethany's face betrayed newfound respect and wariness. Wyman saw the same pass over Umber and Lord Dustin as they realized Rickard had concealed a secret of this magnitude under cover of winter.
Wyman's brother did not deny the claim, "The Workshop rests within the Wolfswoods, where Lord Fairchild and his lady wife have taken up residence. House Stark has staked much on this venture, and I would ask that none disturb his work."
The warning was clear: glass was being forged in the North under Stark patronage. To contact the Fairchilds without Rickard's approval was to undermine House Stark.
Lord Dustin passed a hand through his beard.
"Strange stories sprout from the snow each spring, but I've not heard stranger in quite some time. For the North to have its own glassmaker is welcome news, my lord. But I must ask–for this was clearly the work of a great many men–does this Myrman treat his laborers as ordained by the Old Gods and New?"
Once more, Wyman interceded, "Worry not. Fairchild brought only freeman. Slaves can be bought and sold, and Volantis has more coin than the Three Daughters put together." He allowed his words to imply the rest.
When the old warrior expressed doubt, Rickard lent his voice to the matter, "Lord Fairchild did not come to the North on a whim. Unlike the South, we have few dealings with Myr. Were trade to cease, he knew we would not feel compelled to see him home for want of Myrish carpets or lace, just as he knew we needed glass for more than ornamentation and finery," Rickard's face remained a mask of calm as Umber and Dustin's face darkened at the thought of a foreigner using the North for his ends, "But in coming to the North, Lord Fairchild has placed himself at great disadvantage: He is without connection or support. The Braavosi traders who frequent our shores are no friends of Myr, and our need is not so great that we would entertain the sanctimony of the so-called Free Cities. Lord Fairchild understands his position as well as our own,"
The warden's grey eyes passed over his lords as burgeoning anger was replaced with grudging respect, "The fruits of his work will not be enjoyed by House Stark alone."
His voice echoed finality, and the shock that followed was palpable. No doubt, the lords hoped for this from the start, guessing Rickard's intent the moment they laid eyes on the glass. But assumptions were not an offer in hand or formal decree.
The Warden of the North spoke through their silence, "My lords, Lady Bolton. Your lands represent the most productive in the North. You have fed our people through winter, defended them from wildings, and worse. House Stark will see such service rewarded."
"You honor us, my lord," Lord Dustin fell to his knees, only for Rickard to shake his head.
"The reward for service is greater service. Winter has passed, but it will come again. House Stark will call upon you and expect you stronger than you were today."
Perhaps a Southerner would have balked when such grand gifts accompanied such grim words. But this was the North, where life meant duty, and duty meant death. Rickard's words met only approval.
The Greatjon knelt, "House Umber has followed House Stark since the days before the Wall was built. We'll follow you til the day it falls, unto whatever comes thereafter."
Lady Bethany and Wyman followed his example. The Warden of the North accepted their words as the oaths and promises they were. He motioned for them to stand, and Wyman knew there was one matter left to discuss.
"In light of the great service he has rendered to the North, Cyril Fairchild will be afforded all the courtesies of a lord and guest of Winterfell."
The Greatjon huffed as he nodded, "Aye, you've made it clear, calling him 'Lord' as much as you have. A wildling would have caught on."
Wyman shot the giant with a glare, "You saw the man. Does he have the look of a smallfolk tradesman? The head of each glass-forging family sits on Myr's conclave of magisters. Lord Fairchild cannot be far removed from the most prominent of those lineages to offer us what he has. There is also his marriage to a lady of Volantene nobility–a scandal, to be sure–but hardly a mismatch."
"Lord Fairchild has abided by our laws, respected our customs, and shown every courtesy in his dealings with House Stark. He offers a gift that cannot be bought for all the gold of the Rock," Rickard Stark regarded his lords, his expression glacial with eyes like chipped ice, "Let it be known that any man who offers the Fairchilds insult will guard the Wall until his dying day. Should any man intend them harm, I will personally see him bled out before a heart tree."
[Back to the Feast]
"If that man's Myrish, then I'm a Lyseni whore."
Wyman passed a glance at his dining companion for the evening. He would have preferred to sup with his lovely wife or beloved sons. Regrettably, he had been seated beside the Greatjon and thus made a show of looking the giant up and down, "You would go hungry."
Lord Umber smiled, "You Manderlys aren't half as clever as you think."
"Nor you Umbers half the fools you look."
The Greatjon laughed, motioning a serving girl for more wine, "Play your games, Manderly, but keep Rickard out of trouble," He took the jug off the girl's hands and waved her off, "When it all goes to shit, just point me at the men who need killing. We Umbers will take care of the rest."
The Greatjon upended his drink; Myman raised his own, and a deal was struck.
Outside the Great Hall and far from prying eyes, Brandon focused on breathing, trying to will wine from his body with every breath. Seeing how he could still think and his thoughts did not float, the Stark scion thought he did well.
His victory over the melee had made it impossible to escape attention. Every lord in the North had wanted a word. The Umbers had made good on their promise, dragging him to their table. Jorah Mormont had gotten involved along the way, the Karstarks and Tallharts following suit. Brandon had slipped away in the ensuing contests of strength and one-upmanship.
Four moons ago, the thought of fleeing a feast had been unthinkable, just as defeating the Greatjon had been but a dream. Had he bested the giant back then, Brandon would have recounted the tale until his dying day. But the feat no longer felt so grand, and the praise he received rang false, like blind men mistaking the warmth of a fire for the sun.
He had faced the best warriors in the North, each a match for the finest Southern knight. Taking their measure, he had found them all wanting, for none could compare to the Hunter.
Father would not speak of it, neither would Ser Rodrik nor the guards, but Brandon would never forget the night his mentor defended the Workshop from a near-score of men. Brandon recalled the bodies he left in his wake, remembered seeing the Hunter's strength in truth and feeling betrayed.
Brandon knew he had no right to feel as he had, but the feeling remained. He was no longer Father's heir, and being the Hunter's student was all that remained. He had hoped–with work and training–that his mentor might see him as an equal.
Those hopes had died that night. The greatest swordsman Bradon had ever known favored a weapon he could never hope to lift. Perhaps it was the magic that had allowed the Hunter to murder Lord Bolton and Whitehill, leaving his involvement undeniable but without proof. Perhaps it rested in his blood, a veritable ocean of power compared to the paltry legacy of greenseers and wargs that dotted Brandon's own.
The results were the same: A man without a tongue could not speak, no more than one without eyes could see, or one without legs could run. No amount of work would help Brandon stand where the Hunter stood.
The young Stark shook his head, willing the thoughts away. He would never be Lord Fairchild's equal, but he was still his student, and Cyril Fairchild remained his mentor.
He leaned against the wall of the Old Keep, closed his eyes, and focused on breathing. He counted thirty breaths before a familiar voice drew him from his thoughts.
"There you are."
Brandon opened his eyes, and Barbrey Ryswell came into view. She wore a gown bearing her house colors, red and gold, on a field of dark blue bordering black. The dress hugged her figure; the high collar and low neckline accentuated her height, rivaling his own. Her hair, coiled in a tight coiffure, accented her cheekbones, chin, and the sharp lines of her brow, the result more regal than soft and Northern in all regards.
She approached him, deftly skirting a puddle in her path while holding a goblet.
"Whatever possessed you to come here?"
"Attempting to escape unwanted attention," he offered and blamed the wine when the words came too quickly.
"Is my attention unwanted?" Her voice came more challenging than cloying, and Brandon allowed himself a laugh. He had missed her. Formally, they had exchanged words during Lord Dustin's visits to the Rills on business. Away from his foster father and Lord Ryswell's prying eyes, they had exchanged light touches, kisses, and the promise of more.
She took a spot against the Old Keep and raised her cup, "To the champion of the melee."
Brandon scoffed, "Ned had helped."
"And you landed every blow that mattered," Barbrey sipped her cup, and Brandon noted the burgeoning warmth in her eyes. The small smile that began to show meant more to him than the praise of a thousand lords, "You've not visited in a long time. A lady might think you were avoiding her."
"Father needed me home."
'Needed, not wanted, a shame he had to hide.'
She studied his face and considered his words but did not push for more. Brandon was grateful for the silence until she passed him the goblet. They were far from the Great Hall and patrolling guards. She had sought him out. Brandon knew better than to drink more than he had.
He took the cup and drained it.
"You've visited my home. This is my first time in yours," Barbrey reached for his hands as she turned to the Broken Tower, "Show me where you like to hide."
Drowning in her perfume, Brandon no longer minded sitting atop a tattered bed in an abandoned room. Barbrey lay against him, her long skirt bunched to her waist. Encircling her back and pressing her close, Brandon found her soft, warm, and wanting.
He should not be here, doing what he was. He was destined to leave the North. Other men–better men–would have promised Barbrey the world. Willam, his foster brother, had been smitten with her, but that had not stopped Brandon from pursuing her. He had been the heir of Winterfell then, but so much had changed.
He did not deserve her now. Brandon was beginning to doubt he ever had.
The wine had dulled his senses, but his mind was his own. He should not have followed Barbrey into the Broken Tower; he should have pushed her away. This would ruin her.
But she wanted him.
Father no longer wanted him for an heir, and Winterfell did not want him for a lord. Soon, Ned would not want him for a brother.
But Barbrey wanted him, desired him. He could have this.
They shared a single breath as they kissed, and Brandon lost himself in the quickening pulse beneath her skin, the way she gasped under his touch.
Then her breath hitched as the door swung ajar.
"Good, both of you are dressed."
Cyril Fairchild stood in the doorway.
"Now we have to make both of you decent."
"Who–" Barbrey was on her feet faster than Brandon could follow, her expression shifting from surprise to recognition and rage, "You're the Myrman. Why are you here?"
His mentor spared Barbrey a glance, his expression more contemplative than damning despite the judgment in his eyes. Lord Fairchild stepped forward, and Lady Evetta followed him through the door, her saddened glaze and pursed lips cutting Brandon without a word.
Lord Fairchild motioned to Barbrey and then the door.
"Lady Manderly and Lady Hornwood are waiting downstairs. They mean to tour the godswoods," His mentor spoke with a clipped tone, bereft of the courtesy he had maintained after murdering fifteen men, "Please make yourself presentable and join them."
Barbrey mistook his words for a challenge.
"Who are you to command me?" She stepped forward, and Brandon hated himself for finding her beautiful. Though caught unawares, flushed, and beset with indignation, she stood steadfast and prepared to fight, "I am Barbrey Ryswell of House Ryswell. Who are you to dismiss me like a serving–"
"Barbrey, please go," His voice bordered a plea, "Your words won't sway him."
She turned to him, ready to protest, but he held her gaze. Perhaps she heard the defeat in his voice. Maybe she saw how he was more afraid now than he ever was facing Lord Umber. None of that mattered. When Lady Evetta came forward to comb her hair and smooth her dress, Barbrey had not protested, allowing the foreign lady to guide her away.
She turned to him one last time, and he offered what assurance he could.
"Go, I'll make this right."
The Hunter allowed the tension to linger as the ladies disappeared from view, the sound of their steps turning into echoes in the evening air.
"Seeing how our customs differed, I never thought it my place to educate you or Eddard on matters of courtship, but the impropriety of trysts atop a moth-eaten featherbed is somewhat universal."
"Why are you here?" Brandon knew he had no right to the question, yet he asked all the same. The sweet wine had long turned bitter in his gut.
"To protect my best student," His mentor answered, sincerity reflected in his features when Brandon dared to meet his gaze.
Lord Fairchild approached the half-ruined nightstand beside the bed. He tapped the tabletop, and Brandon winced from the sound.
"Have you considered the possibility that Marquess Ryswell might hear of this? Likely from Lady Barbrey herself?" More fingers drummed against the rotten wood as the Hunter gave Brandon time to consider the question, "That this might have been her intention? Or his design?"
Lord Fairchild demanded answers, but Brandon had none to give. He considered all the times he and Barbrey had slipped away with her guards conspicuously absent. Lord Ryswell's intentions had not been hard to discern, but Brandon had simply not cared. What had he to fear as the heir of Winterfell?
'But you are no longer heir. You are not what she wants, and she would spurn you if she knew.'
The Hunter struck the table again. Through the maddening sound, Brandon regarded his mentor with cold eyes and gritted teeth.
"After your dalliance with his daughter, the marquess would be within his rights to see the two of you married and demand a duel if you refused."
"Let him try!" he snarled back, "I beat the Greatjon. He won't fare better!"
Even as he spoke, the words felt desperate and pitiful, like a beggar brandishing a crude blade with trembling hands. More than ever, his triumph over Lord Umber felt petty, his victory at the melee hollow. All his training and strength of arms would not avail him of his mentor's judgment. Cyril Fairchild said nothing, yet Brandon felt small under his gaze, just as he had in the training yard mere moons ago.
"Do you think whatever affections Lady Barbrey might have for you would survive the wounding of her father?"
Brandon shot to his feet. He was unsure what he had intended. Perhaps he had meant to lash out; perhaps he had planned to scream or leave. But the choice was taken from him. Nausea struck him as soon as he stood, and the room spun as he fell.
The Hunter did not move from the nightstand.
"Is that the extent of your control?" he asked, "I fear for the future of House Stark if this is all the restraint its heir can muster."
Brandon heard the question and laughed. The ugly, rasping sound left him hoarse, and he almost wished to see the Hunter's expression but knew there would be little to see, "Then you needn't worry, my lord," his words dripped with scorn, directed both outwards and in, "Ned will be the next Warden of the North."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"I am no longer Father's heir!" He shouted back, "I haven't been since the day you visited Winterfell!"
The words felt strange to say, much less confess. Brandon had never told a soul of the vow he had made beneath the heart tree, and he found no relief in the admission, only weariness.
"I see."
A hand wrapped around him, and the Stark scion was helped to his feet. The Hunter's face betrayed little, but something ponderous passed behind his eyes, "Brent will bring you to Maester Luwin. If anyone asks, you felt unwell and sought his help after your last contest with Marquess Umber's kin."
His hold grew gentle.
"Sleep tonight. Allow your thoughts to settle and blood to cool. We will speak in the morrow."
Greatjon Umber helped himself to his tenth tankard of ale and eighth ham hock of the evening. He had also liberated several roasties from Manderly's plate, if only to see the man's mustache droop whenever he frowned.
Just as he signaled a servant for more ale, the Lord of Last Hearth spotted a peculiar sight.
The towering lady from Volantis had returned with her husband in tow, and neither looked terribly pleased. The pair had disappeared not long ago with no one the wiser. Small wonder how they managed that: a warrior with Lady Fairchild's height could have served as his own banner on the battlefield.
As the night wore on, men and women from every station had retreated to their rooms–and places of lesser repute. To be sure, the coming days would see many hastily-arranged marriages and the births of as many children true and bastard-born.
So while the foreign lord's departure with his pretty wife had hardly been a surprise, their hasty return was a touch strange. Of course, the Greatjon was not fool enough to comment.
Alas, not all Northerners were so wise.
"You two back already?" a knight wearing Ryswell colors slurred as the foreign couple approached, catching the attention of passersby, "Mustn't have been much of a ride! Guess your husband's more gelding than stallion!"
With his drinking companions roaring behind him, the man grew more bold, "How about trying your hands with a horse of Northern stock?"
As light laughter echoed from those nearby, the Greatjon cursed. The fool's words were hardly the worst spouted that evening, but to direct such insults at a lady was not to be borne. Maege Mormont had brained men for less.
No, if the fool got himself thrown from the feast, that was hardly the Greatjon's concern, but what sure as fuck was were the two Umbers–Uncle Mor's sons at that–sitting beside the feather-brained fool, laughing and goading him on! Old God's bones, he had warned them before the feast!
If House Umber lost its glass garden for this insult, he would drag them both to Eastwatch by the ears!
Just as he entertained the thought, the Lord of Last Hearth realized something was amiss: The laughter had died too quickly. The Great Hall had gone so quiet he could have heard snow melt. He spotted movement from the Stark guardsman and recognized the resignation of men readying a charge. The sound of a shattered pot turned his attention to a serving girl trembling with naked fear, and Manderly had turned the color of whale wax. By the Wall, what was happening?
Farther down the hall, Lord Fairchild stood eerily still. Though he gave no retort, his expression told Umber he heard the fool well enough.
The foreign lord advanced on the knight, but his wife stopped and overtook him, a deep frown upon her face.
Even the fool seemed puzzled by her approach until the towering woman grabbed him by the waist and hoisted him up like a squealing babe, surcoat and all. Without a word, she carried the flailing man over to the corner table reserved for children. Young Lyanna jumped from her seat and offered her chair. The towering noblewoman deposited the man in the chair as he thrashed, cursed, and tried to stand, but she held him in place until he ceased.
The lady then turned, bowed to Lord Stark, and returned to her husband, guiding them to seats just beneath the high table.
One man laughed, and more followed until the hall shook from the sound. The Greatjon would have joined the rumpus had he not caught sight of Rickard and the murderous look affixed upon the warden's face.
When those grey eyes fell upon him, the Lord of Last Hearth turned instead to his lackwits cousins and downed his ale.
Others be damned, House Umber would get its glass, and if he had to return home two men short, so be it.
They had stayed just long enough to be seen. Then her Hunter led them into the cold. He held her hand, leather on silk.
"Thank you." He repeated the words once, then twice more.
"Read to me tonight, Good Hunter."
Her husband inclined his head and guided them home.
The following morning found Brandon at the Workshop, seated in Lord Fairchild's parlor. He had spent the night in Maester Luwin's study, but the guards had passed word of what had happened in the Great Hall.
Officially, he was here on Father's behalf to offer gifts and apologies for Bowen Ryswell's behavior. That Brandon had personal matters to discuss was mere happenstance.
Already rumors ran amuck. By choosing not to leave immediately after Bowen's insult, the Fairchilds had saved House Stark considerable face. However, their decision to decline the guest rooms Father had prepared left many wondering if they would return for today's festivities, much less the feast at large. Brandon knew there was little to fear: Despite spending the night in Winterfell's dungeon, the Ryswell knight and his friends had all been alive come morning.
Most would be none the wiser, but that alone spoke volumes of the Hunter's mercy and the depths of his control. Brandon was forced to consider how poorly his own compared.
This was another wrong House Stark had to rectify, and Richard's eldest son was not ignorant to his own involvement. For Lady Evetta, Father had sent a bouquet of winter roses, the last from Winterfell's garden. For his mentor, the warden had prepared the largest slab of ironwood Fane could procure. The latter now occupied the sidewall of Lord Fairchild's parlor.
"This is a generous gift," the Hunter traced the dark grains that ran like rivers through the wood, "I had only hoped to replace the fingerboard to my cello, but there is enough ironwood here for a double bass."
The Hunter wore a smile that fell short of delight, the amusement in his voice muted and weary. In that moment, his mentor looked older than his thirty-odd years would imply, but that was not for Brandon to say.
"My father apologizes for what happened last evening."
"If Lord Stark offers any more apologies, he will have none to give when it truly matters."
If the words caused the guards to waver, Brandon pretended not to see. Lord Fairchild turned from Father's gift and returned to his seat at Brandon's side.
"Please inform Lord Stark that we thank him for the gifts and request he abandons whatever designs he has for Bowen Ryswell."
"My lord?" His mentor's response came as measured as expected, but that did not make the request easier to believe.
The Hunter helped himself to a cup of tea, "The man spouted filth at Evetta, and she deemed his humiliation punishment enough. There is nothing more for your father to do unless he wishes to question her judgment."
Brandon breathed deep and nodded, acknowledging Lord Fairchild's warning for what it was, confident the guards felt no better as the Hunter waved them away.
The room fell silent. As his mentor finished his cup and poured another, Brandon reached for his own. The cup had grown cold, but he drank it all the same. Though he would never take the drink like a calf to milk, he had grown to appreciate the ritual of draining the bitter draught.
"How are you feeling?"
He did not say he was well, knowing his mentor had little patience for platitudes and less for lies.
"I'm sorry," he said instead, "Not just for yesterday, but for what I did the day we met and everything since."
"There is nothing to forgive. When facing a monster, yours was the correct response. It saddens me that Lord Stark does not understand or feels that he must act regardless."
Brandon tried to protest the Hunter's claim regarding his nature, but the words failed to form.
"In six years, I will renounce my claim to Winterfell, and Ned will become Father's heir."
Though a dangerous truth to share, the young Stark knew the Hunter would keep his confidence. Cyril Fairchild had all he needed to ruin House Stark a hundred times over, but the man desired nothing from his family. Time and again, he had shown kindness without exchange.
"Eddard does not know," his mentor concluded, and the words held no question, "Would you like me to speak with your father regarding this?"
Brandon turned to the Hunter, and the man's gaze told him this was no test. The eldest son of House Stark allowed himself to imagine what he stood to gain–regain–if he accepted his mentor's help. He would have Winterfell, the North, and even Barbrey. They flashed through his mind as he shook his head.
"I made a vow before the Old Gods."
The Hunter nodded, eyes bereft of judgment, "Very well, I have taken much from you. I will not take your gods as well." His mentor set his cup aside, "But you never did answer my question."
A pregnant pause permeated the room.
"I was angry," he confessed. The words felt ugly and raw but sincere, "I still am. I've lost everything, and I resent you. But I am also grateful, maybe even relieved."
The last words rang truer than the rest: For all that he had desired Winterfell and the North, Brandon had never wanted to rule. He had witnessed the burdens Father bore every waking day and knew they would have broken him, even with Ned's help. With his disgrace, there had been a strange solace knowing he could not fall further in Father's eyes.
"What do you wish to do?"
"I will protect my family," the answer fell from his lips, "Even if it means leaving home." Again the words rang true. He had only ever wanted to defend his family, but his actions had always fallen short of his intent. He had challenged the Hunter, broken guest right, and left Father indebted to a foreign lord.
"Have you considered becoming a Hunter?"
Brandon met Lord Fairchild's gaze and did not dare believe what the question implied, even as hope welled dangerously in his breast. Already Lord Fairchild had forgiven him for crimes the gods would not. That he would offer Brandon this after all he had done…
The young Stark laughed and found himself unable to stop. Nothing else came to mind as he was offered an honor he did not deserve and could scarcely believe, "Did you even leave beasts enough to hunt?" Foolish as he felt for asking, he could not fathom his mentor leaving a task half done.
"I have killed many," the Hunter admitted, "Luca helped with the rest, but so long as there are men, there will be monsters and need for Hunter's work."
Cyril Fairchild stood, and the hand that fell on Brandon's back felt like absolution.
"Give the matter some thought. You have time," his smile was warm, his starry eyes kind, "Whatever you decide, you have my support, and there will be a place for you here."
Rickard's eldest son allowed his head to fall, concealing the dampness that clouded his gaze, "Thank you, my Teacher."
TBC
Author's Notes:
Sorry for the wait. Been busy. This chapter took some brainstorming: After the massacre at the Workshop, I felt that having violence break out during the feast would have been gauche. After all, making a scene/being the center of attention at someone else's party (sometimes even your own) was a major Victorian faux pas. Thus, I double down on the drama, splitting the chapter between Northern intrigue and the smaller interactions between Brandon and the Hunter. Hoped you all enjoyed the Greatjon and Barbrey's characterization.
The chapter was a good chance to show Rickard in his element and why the North holds the Starks in such high regard. He had the unenviable task of introducing Cyril to North, concealing his true origins while ensuring the Hunter received due respect from his vassals. He knew there was NO way he could pass Cyril "I Have Paleblood, But I Bleed Blue" Fairchild off as a tradesman. The scene with Gregor Forrester showed that within a few words, Gregor was confident Cyril was part of the "right" club.
Richard and Wyman did their best to create an identity that accounts for Cyril's high standing and foreign nature. Rickard further credits the Manderlys with bringing Cyril to Winterfell, allowing him to reward Wyman for getting in on this charade (i.e., the glass, Domeric's fosterage, and possible marriages for the grandkids). Rickard also specifically describes Cyril as his guest, giving them some social leeway (i.e., "I don't care if you're a knight or a lord: the man's Lord Stark's guest. Act accordingly").
Lastly, the scenes between Brandon and Hunter were a long time coming. We haven't really delved into Brandon's character after Chapter 5. Moreover, I wanted to show Cyril as a mentor, how the Stark children benefit as much–if not more–from Cyril the assistant professor as Cyril the Hunter.
Final Note: The Fairchild's staying after the insult was especially important detail that showed their anger was directed at a fellow guest and not the host. Had they left right away...bad things might have happened.
Thank you all for your continued support. I appreciate all the comments and feedback.
Next Time on Better Days, Part 2 of 3: Benjen's Nameday
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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 15: Sidestory: The First Farewell
Sidestory:
The evening after the fifth and final day of the Harvest Feast, Ned stood in a familiar library as Lord Fairchild stoked a flame. They spoke in private mere weeks ago, and the young Stark considered all that had transpired. Now more than ever, Ned feared his mentor, but his respect remained.
"I understand you will be leaving us, Eddard?"
The young Stark nodded, "I will depart with Lord Manderly tomorrow and sail to Gulltown from White Harbor." He had wanted to stay for Benjen's name day, but that was two moons off, and Lord Arryn was expecting his return. "I came to thank you for your tutelage and hospitality. I've improved more than I thought possible."
"It was my pleasure," his mentor assured. "You have supplied me with a strong foundation to build upon." Turning from the hearth, Lord Fairchild smiled, and Ned warmed from the praise.
Bright eyes reflected mild interest as they spied the steel sword on his belt, "You will not be bringing your new blade to the Vale?"
"I left it in Father's care until my return," the young Stark answered, somewhat abashed. Though he loathed to part with the silver sword, Ned had found no way to explain its origins. Claiming he had found the sword near Winterfell or its crypts would have southron lords demanding House Stark return 'Andal heirlooms' taken by the Hungry Wolf and other Winter Kings. Ned would learn to live without.
"Probably for the best," The Hunter's voice conveyed approval, "Against ordinary men, such a sword would do you a disservice. You will never learn if every enemy fell on the first swing."
Ned chose not to consider what that implied about Lord Fairchild and his foes.
Standing to his feet, Lord Fairchild grabbed a small parcel from a nearby table and handed it to his student. "Evetta prepared some pineapples from the garden, and we candied them this morning. There should be enough for you to share with your travel companions."
The young Stark offered his thanks, knowing the 'garden' in question was the small glass house–conservatory, the Hunter had called it–that had sprouted up beside the Workshop sometime between the first and last day of the feast.
When asked about the new addition to the manor, his mentor explained that Lady Evetta had started cultivating cuttings from the winter roses she had received from Father. None had dared to question him further: magic was a sword without a hilt, but Ned knew how well the Hunter wielded a blade.
"I understand you will be riding out against the mountain clans alongside Duke Arryn's knights?"
The question spared Ned from contemplating his mentor's aptitude for swordsmanship and spellcraft. "Every lord in the Vale is charged with protecting his lands and people, and every lordling must learn the same," Ned offered, hoping the answer sufficed.
His mentor placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Then I expect to see you safe, healthy, and whole when we resume your lessons next year."
Lord Fairchild turned his attention to one of the bookshelves. His student, understanding the words to be both warning and encouragement, bowed and made to leave.
"Eddard."
The young Stark stopped, realizing his mentor still had more to say.
The Hunter lingered on his name, and Ned observed his mentor consider his words with care. "The first time you kill a man, you will be surprised by the ease of it. Most simply fall as their bodies fail them; others do not have time to scream. Do not dwell on it: kill the next man and the next until only your comrades and you yourself remain."
Lord Fairchild smiled and looked almost sad.
"You may feel something afterward when you realize that someone who once lived lives no longer, and you are responsible. Allow yourself to mourn not only for your enemy but also yourself, and know whatever pain you feel to be the conscience of a good man."
TBC
Author's note:
Got this out before the week started. I would like to thank KnightStar for volunteering to be a beta reader for this side chapter and those moving forward. Your help is really appreciated.
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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 16: Book 1: Better Days Part 2 of 3
"Slow down!"
The warning only spurred Benjen to pedal faster.
"You can't catch me, Brandon!"
"Won't be hard when you topple over!"
The young boy squealed as he rounded the corner, and his older brother disappeared from view.
Rickard watched as his youngest son raced down the cobbled path on his safety bicycle, a name day gift from Lord Fairchild and his lady wife. The Lord of Winterfell had first thought the name inapt for such a masterwork of craftsmanship, but those notions had died a quick death once the Hunter showcased its predecessor, a high-wheeled monstrosity that left the warden grateful Lord Fairchild had not gifted Benjen a penny-farthing.
Rickard sighed into his glass of sparkling wine.
With the Fairchilds teaching three of his children, the warden knew his youngest son had felt excluded from the excitement. He had not been surprised when Benjen asked to visit 'Lord Hunter's house,' nor had he batted an eye when Lyanna relayed her brother's wishes to Lady Evetta before Rickard could send a messenger.
Now, on the eve of Benjen's name day, the Lord of Winterfell found himself a guest at his own son's party. Paper lanterns and brightly-colored ribbons decorated the grounds of the Fairchild manor. Tables laden with cake, sugar-covered confectionaries, custard apples, and other exotic fruits dotted the foreyard. Even the fountains had been dyed a rich, violet hue.
With no vassals to impress, ceremonies to observe, or demands to entertain, Rickard felt he had stepped into a blissful dream. Lyanna and Benjen had laughed as they sailed kites nearly four men across while Brandon ensured his siblings did not fly off like ships in the wind. During the game of rats and cats that followed, Benjen attempted to scale the steepled roof of the Workshop, thwarted only by Lord Fairchild's timely intervention.
Then Lyanna had played the piano, urged on by Lady Evetta's silent encouragement. Though his daughter had only a few months of practice, the simple melodies had sounded beautiful to Rickard's ear, and Lord Fairchild's praise—that Lyanna could grow into a great talent—had not felt like flattery.
"Though your daughter has proven herself gifted, I suspect Benjen might be the most talented of your children, Lord Stark." The Hunter helped himself to a custard tart, eyes agleam with merriment and mischief, "It took me three days to learn how to ride my first bicycle. Your son has not been on his for a full hour."
"We all have our strengths," Rickard replied with tact, even as a smile tugged at his lips."Thank you for arranging this gathering. It means a great deal to my family, and Benjen will no doubt cherish the memory."
The Lord of Winterfell spoke and meant every word. A name day feast would be held in the morrow. Lord Cerwyn was due to arrive alongside the masters and knights that governed Rickard's lands, but a third son seldom garnered great attention, and the celebration was always a modest affair.
"It was our pleasure, Lord Stark," the Hunter assured, sparing the warden from somber thoughts, "Your children are a delight, and the Workshop would be much too quiet in their absence."
Acknowledging the Hunter's words, Rickard witnessed Lady Evetta holding Lyanna aloft as she wrangled three kites at once while Brandon recruited more guards in a vain attempt to outmaneuver his brother. While evading his pursuers, Benjen turned to his father and waved.
Rickard smiled and prayed that the joy reached his eyes.
Hours after their return, after the family supper and his children had retired to their rooms, the warden sat alone in his solar, his desk cleared of parchment, letters, ledgers, and ink. All that remained was a single candle, a long-forgotten cup of watered ale, and the keepsake clasped in his hand.
From the tapestries of the Great Hall to the furnishings of the Great Keep, Lyarra Stark had left her imprint on Winterfell. After her passing, Rickard had left everything untouched to remind himself of the years his wife had walked and ruled these halls, not the final days when she lay bedridden.
The arrowhead in his hand was one such memento, a shard of dragonglass he had recovered the first time they ventured into the crypts, searching for the Builder's fabled tomb. He had been younger than Benjen at the time and had urged her to turn back, but Lyarra would not be deterred, leading them onward by candlelight. Her excitement had nearly been worth the caning they both received. Rickard smiled as he gazed into the roaring hearth. This was how he wished to remember her: strong, daring, and brave.
Tomorrow was Benjen's name day. Rickard would welcome his lords with warmth and good cheer, but tonight, he allowed himself to ruminate and reminisce.
The fire had dwindled to embers when a knock at the door disturbed the silence.
Rodrik appeared, brow furrowed and mouth affixed with a scowl.
"It's Fairchild, Milord. Asked to see you," the knight said, words more an apology than a report. "Shall I send him away?"
Closing his eyes, Rickard considered what he wanted and what was wise before allowing himself a moment to make peace with the latter.
He shook his head.
"Have the guards see him in." Even now, his voice echoed resolve, leaving no room for argument.
Rodrik nodded and departed without further protest. He returned a short while afterward, Cyril Fairchild following closely behind. The Hunter bowed as he entered the room, and Rickard returned the greeting, schooling weariness behind well-practiced courtesy.
"Has something happened, Lord Fairchild?"
The Hunter shook his head.
"Nothing so serious, Lord Stark."
The younger man produced a bottle of amber liquor, the words 'Glenlivet' and 'Whiskey' etched into the flawless glass. Two crystal tumblers followed suit, finding their place on the warden's table.
"This is more of a social call."
The Hunter uncorked the bottle and poured a sliver into each glass. Rickard stopped his sworn sword from interfering as he scrutinized the tumbler pushed his way.
"Will this kill me?"
He asked nothing else.
The Hunter smiled. "Not without concerted effort, and certainly not tonight."
The answer sufficed.
The whiskey tasted of honey and smoke. The rolling warmth that tumbled down his throat reminded Rickard of Tyroshi brandy, only more potent and less sweet.
The Warden of the North sipped his glass, grey eyes lingering on the hearth. The solar was silent save the occasional embers that flared up from the low-burning flame, but the Hunter did not press him for conversation.
"This is rather forward of you, Lord Fairchild."
Acknowledging the accusation, his guest made no play at subtlety.
"Tomorrow commemorates more than Benjen's birth. Your vassals will hand your son their gifts and you, their well-wishes, but it will not be their place to offer more."
The Hunter turned the contents of his tumbler with disinterest as he regarded his host with an unwavering gaze.
"Brandon has helped me understand how much I have inconvenienced you, Lord Stark." His expression grew pensive, "If there are any words you wish to offer an empty room, all the world will believe you were alone tonight."
The words were more of an apology than Rickard had expected from a man who owed him none. The offer of confidence sounded no less strange, given all that had passed between them. Respect warred with resentment as the Hunter once more proved his character a match for his strength.
The Lord of Winterfell ruminated into his cup, tallying all he had lost and gained since the Hunter's arrival. He reached the same conclusion he had months before: House Stark owed Cyril Fairchild a debt, and the man bore no blame for Brandon's disgrace. But the truth did not bring closure, and the liquor failed to tip the balance of Rickard's gratitude and frustration.
"We grew up together. Here in Winterfell," he ceded at last. What need did Cyril Fairchild have for his demons? With the secrets already between them, what was one more but another ship lost amidst the Smoking Sea? "Her father was the youngest son of Beron Stark, my great-grandfather. She was my constant companion and accomplice in all manner of mischief that drove my father to drink."
The Hunter smiled at the tale, "Only yours?"
Memories of the Wandering Wolf teaching them every secret passageway within the Great Keep drew a low laugh from the warden, "Great-uncle Rodrik was encouraging in all the wrong ways."
His thoughts grew somber as he recalled a young Lyarra holding Winterfell together after sickness had claimed his parents and the last of their kin. He remembered how she had governed the North alone while he marched off to war, desperate to prove the blood of the wolf had not waned or weakened. She had brought their youngest son into the world healthy and whole, knowing full well what it would cost her. And him.
"Lyarra was strong in a way I have known no one to be, and I have known none stronger since her passing."
Rickard held the Hunter's gaze and met no challenge. The young man instead raised his glass.
"To our better halves."
The warden drained his cup, and silence reclaimed the room. It became clear that the Hunter would offer no further conversation without prompting.
"How did you come to meet Evetta?"
The question felt bold to ask, for it was more than the Hunter had offered to give, but Rickard was tired of surrendering secrets for Cyril Fairchild to keep.
For half a year, he had grasped at hearsay and conjecture in a vain attempt to understand the man who had upended his world.
The Hunter leaned back, tapping his glass as he considered the question.
"During my first night in Yharnam, beasts attacked Iosefka's Clinic while I was receiving treatment. I was still on the maester's table when they battered down the door. Feverish and unarmed, I fled into the streets and made my way across the Great Bridge. There I was beset by a beast, the size of which I doubt you would believe."
A smile overtook the young man's features as the memory played out behind his eyes. "I awoke in the Old Workshop, Evetta standing over me. She gave me the strength to venture back into the city, where the Scourge had left fathers unable to recognize their sons and mothers, their own babes."
The Hunter recounted the tale with the ease of a greybeard recalling his youth, voice awash with nostalgia despite the horrors his words implied.
"Evetta would welcome my return after every battle won and lost. Though she cared for all of Gehrman's students, I allowed myself to believe she waited for me alone. It was reason enough to retake a city most thought damned beyond hope."
The warden listened as his guest recounted a tale befitting heroes from a bygone age. The thought of defending a city from enemies that could drive the likes of the Hunter to desperation invoked images of the Long Night, of battling the Others with the realms of Men long lost.
The Hunter's deeds were beyond him, as they were for most living men, but Rickard understood Lord Fairchild's regard for his wife; the memory of Lyarra had kept him alive through many a battle when the war had weighed on his soul and death no longer seemed a poor substitute for sleep.
As the Hunter had done before, the warden raised his glass.
'To our better halves.'
The younger man mirrored the gesture, even as his smile faltered.
"Evetta took my name after Gehrman's passing," the Hunter's features darkened with a familiar pain, as though coarse wool had been brushed over an old wound, "Though my former mentor was a peerless warrior and an apt teacher, he was a callous man and worse father. With his grief came neglect, such that Evetta never knew life outside the Workshop. Upon his death, Gehrman left me to inherit everything he owned."
The Lord of Winterfell listened and felt his anger flare. Lyanna had told him about Lady Maria, the mother Lady Evetta had never met. He understood the pain of losing a wife and knew it to be a poor excuse for a father's mistreatment. Even as a great lord, Rickard fretted over the prospects of his youngest son. What madness would possess the First Hunter to disinherit a daughter, leaving her destitute?
"Did he know your intentions for her?"
"Whether he knew or not, he left Evetta no choice but to love me."
The young man refilled their cups as his words hung between them, haunting and unkind.
"Evetta refused my attempts to return what was rightfully hers. She refused enough times that I eventually stopped trying, yet she agreed to marry me when I mustered the courage to ask." The Hunter paused, his subsequent words laced with conviction, "Regardless of the circumstances that brought us together, Evetta and I have made a family and turned the Workshop into a home. I wish for her happiness, as she has always seen to mine."
Rickard thanked the Hunter for his confidence. For all it meant to the North, Cyril Fairchild had parted with gold, gifts, and glass without care. He had not parted with his personal history near as easily, and Rickard recognized the worth of those words.
"I understand you have a son." The warden lived for his children, and Cyril Fairchild seemed the same.
"Luca," the Hunter affirmed, spirits improving as he uttered the name. "The boy is studying under his Great-grandaunt Annalise at Cainhurst. We call her 'grandmother' as a courtesy."
"The Great Isles have a tradition of fosterage?"
The younger man shook his head.
"The institution was never commonly practiced and is considered antiquated. Luca's circumstances are somewhat special as Annalise has named him her heir," the Hunter explained, no doubt noticing the sudden shift in the warden's bearing. "The main branch of Cainhurst has not produced a child in quite some time, and Annalise is quite fond of her 'grandson.'"
"That is a great honor," Rickard offered despite his surprise.
"It made Luca happy," The Hunter remarked, as though inheriting the lands and titles of a great house was not a marked change in his son's fortunes. "The boy always had a keen interest in his mother's family. I only hope Annalise does not spoil him over much. Evetta and I see to that well enough ourselves."
"A fool's wager."
The Hunter smiled, "Allow a father to dream, Lord Stark."
Another spell of silence fell over the room. More whiskey was poured, and the bottle dwindled as the night grew long. Rickard's thoughts turned to his children.
"Do you ever fear for him?"
The Hunter arched a brow.
"But of course," he spoke as though the answer were obvious, "I would think it the privilege of every father to fear his children might inherit his flaws and repeat his failings." The Hunter tapped the lip on his glass, causing the liquor to ripple and distort his reflection upon its surface. "Luca is a sweet boy when he chooses to be. He has much of Evetta's looks and temperament and a good deal of his father's stubbornness and strength." The words carried an exasperation and fondness the warden knew well. "But slow as he is to anger, he is slower to forgive, and the boy always had a unique fondness for the sadder sorts of stories."
"Have you other children?" Rickard asked, unsure if the Hunter had described his heir with praise or censure.
The younger man shook his head. "Luca's birth was a difficult one. Evetta and I are content with one child."
Rickard acknowledged the words with newfound envy. The North was a harsh land where parents too often buried their children, and no Northerner could entrust his legacy to a single son, the Lord of Winterfell, least of all. But Rickard's line had been secure: he had two sons, a daughter, and a wife. Lyarra had seemed so strong when they had tried for a fourth child.
Three children...it would have been enough.
Rickard closed his eyes, releasing a strained breath. He would not surrender his youngest son for the world, but in his weakest moments—the long nights he sat alone at his desk without the warmth of a familiar hand upon his shoulder, the long days of holding court without the words of his closest counsel—the Lord of Winterfell imagined himself a father to three children and a husband to a still-living wife. The dream was never worth the guilt that followed, and Rickard lived in fear of the day he visited the dream without remorse.
"You are a good father, Lord Stark."
The words cut through his thoughts like a deluge of wind and cold water. The Hunter regarded his host with knowing eyes bereft of judgment.
"Evetta and I have had the pleasure of knowing all four of your children and the privilege of teaching three. They have keen minds and kind hearts, each a credit to their parents." The Hunter's voice conveyed respect, "As one father to another, you have every reason to be proud."
Rickard met the Hunter's praise with silence, wondering how much he deserved and how much he merely wished to believe. He loved all his children, and that never changed, not even in light of Brandon's transgressions. But even those the warden had long forgiven.
Rickard recalled standing between his sons and the Hunter after the latter had split a man in two. Ice had felt like a stick in his hands, and he finally understood what his eldest son had faced in the yard all those moons ago and thought he was defending his family from.
Cyril Fairchild could have wrought ruin upon Winterfell as surely as Balerion had upon Harrenhal. Instead, the Hunter had made Rickard the most powerful Stark to rule the North, greater than many Kings of Winter. Brandon and Eddard would soon be the best swords the realm had seen in an age. Even Lyanna had benefited from her lessons with the Hunter's wife, displaying more patience over the last month than Rickard had witnessed all winter.
"Brandon has informed me of what you offered him," he spoke the words into the silence of the evening air. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done."
"The choice is his to make, and he has many years to make it." The Hunter accepted the warden's gratitude with measured grace, "Should he choose the path of a Hunter, there will never be another Scourge." The younger man spoke with conviction, as though the world would bend and break to accommodate his words and will. "Whatever monsters Brandon may face, know he will never become one under my care. That, I promise you, Lord Stark."
"Just Rickard," the Lord of Winterfell corrected, holding the Hunter's gaze to ensure the meaning was clear.
"Rickard," the Hunter amended, amusement alight in his eye like a fistful of stars.
"Just Cyril, then."
TBC
Chapter Summary:
The Hunter lends our favorite warden a sympathetic ear and the two end up on a first-name basis.
Author's Note:
Another drama-heavy chapter, but at least we're back to the family-friendly content this story is known for. Eldritch though he may be, Cyril is sharp enough to realize (some) of the problems he's caused Rickard after speaking with Brandon. It was high time man and cuttlefish sat down for a talk.
Rickard's characterization was more challenging to pin down this time: he's a man with regrets trying to do right by his family, and sometimes, he fails. The Hunter has made his life better in many ways and worse in others. This chapter highlights this strange relationship.
With Cyril, I decided to flush out his past and his relationship with Evetta/the Plain Doll, drawing inspiration from one of the most haunting lines from the game:
"Hunters have told me about the Church, about the Gods and their love. But, do the Gods love their creations? I am a doll created by you humans, would you ever think to love me? Of course, I do love you, isn't that how you've made me?" -Plain Doll
This brings up some very troubling implications about the parameters Gehrman set when 'making' the Doll and how it may/may not have affected her disposition, which likely bothers Cyril more than any threat of bodily harm.
Rickard also learned more about Luca, the Hunt's very normal, very human son.
Final Notes:
The safety bicycle was invented in the 1880s, named and marketed for being safer than the penny-farthing/high wheelers they slowly replaced. Not a whiskey drinker, but Glenlivet is a relatively old (founded 1824) and very respected distiller of single-malt scotch that seemed period appropriate.
Last but certainly not least, I would like to thank KnightStar for beta reading this chapter. Really appreciated your help with this one!
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