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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 17: Book 1: Better Days Part 3 of 3
Date: 278 AC
Steffon Baratheon stifled a cough, eyes watering as he regarded the contents of his cup with newfound respect.
"Seven hells, that's a fine drink!" True to his namesake, the stormlord's booming voice shook the old stones of Winterfell. "Here I thought you Northerners lived off yak piss and goat's milk!"
"We know better than to strain a southerner's sensitive stomach with Northern fare," the Lord of Winterfell replied, voice measured and calm.
The Lord of Storm's End roared with laughter as he poured himself another helping of Rickard's whiskey.
"Many thanks." The old oak chair protested under Steffon's massive frame as he leaned back and downed his flask. "You've not left the North in a long while."
"Not since His Grace last summoned me to court," Rickard replied, his reserve a sharp contrast to his guest's spirited–and deliberate–lack of restraint.
"Ah, more's the pity," Steffon waved a hand dismissively, even as his voice conveyed the contrary. "Saw your boys' practicing in the yard earlier. Wrap them in white cloaks and shining armor, and I'd have mistaken them for Dayne and Selmy."
"High praise."
The stormlord hummed in agreement, "What are people calling them these days?"
"The Wolf Knight," Rickard answered, referring to his middle son before turning his thoughts to his eldest, "and the Northern Blade."
The warden's voice echoed pride and incredibility.
Much has changed in the last two years. Brandon's star had continued to rise after the Harvest Melee, and young warriors throughout the North made pilgrimage to Winterfell, hoping to challenge the prodigious scion who had bested Greatjon Umber. The duels had numbered seventeen at last count, but the Lord of Winterfell had long since stopped counting. The result was always the same: victory, decisive and total.
'The Northern Blade.'
Rickard was unsure who had coined the name, but once men started comparing his son to the likes of Arther Dayne, others followed suit. Brandon's deeds only supported the claim: Invited to Bear Island for a hunting expedition last year, his eldest son had arrived to the sight of two longships assailing the island's sole harbor. Aiding the defenders, Brandon had slain the raiders to a man.
Weeks later, Rickard received word that Harren Botley had died at sea.
Not to be outdone by his elder brother, Eddard had earned distinction battling the Burned Men of the Vale. Letters from Jon Arryn had detailed how Eddard had slain a Red Hand war chief in single combat and aided in the rescue of many captured women, among them Jon's niece, Lorra Waynwood. The Warden of the East had seen his ward knighted for the deed, making Eddard the first Stark in centuries to receive the honor.
Proud as he was of his sons, the years had not passed without misfortune: Vayon Poole now oversaw most of his father's duties under the pretense of training, but all of Winterfell knew the old steward spent more days abed than not. Well aware that the greybeard would wave off his concerns and take offense to a well-intentioned dismissal, the Warden of the North prepared himself for the inevitable passing of his long-time mentor.
"Might I trouble you for another bottle?" the stormlord waved his cup, the clinking of glass against his signet ring drawing Rickard from his thoughts. "Cassana likes her drinks stronger than most think proper for a lady at court, but our voyage to Volantis is expected to take some time."
"A voyage you have already delayed by coming north. Unannounced."
Tension filled the warden's solar as Rickard's eyes grew cold, and the easy smile slipped from Steffon's face.
"Your man, Manderly, was asked not to announce my arrival," he explained, implying the request had carried the weight of royal authority. "And yet, Cassana swore she spied a raven flying this way when we left White Harbor."
"No doubt it was meant for House Cerwyn," Rickard replied evenly.
"No doubt," the stormlord huffed. "That even a day's ride from here?"
"Half."
The Lord of Storm's End hummed, regarding his host with keen blue eyes alike mountain lakes after rainfall.
"I have never been a strong study–Cressen can attest to that–but I distinctly recall House Stark having only one glass garden, not two."
"Another is being built. If summer persists, it will be completed in half a year."
Steffon nodded and returned to his drink, seemingly satisfied with Richard's answer, for good or ill.
"Those panes looked sturdy enough to take a swing from my hammer, though I doubt your men would give me the chance, Lord Paramount or no."
Rickard did not dignify those words with a reply.
"Rumors have been making their way down the Neck for some time now. Most have dismissed them as the mad ramblings of sailors drunk on spoiled grog and the rumor-mongering of smallfolk bored of warming their cocks in sheep." The Lord of Storm's End snorted at his own jape, only for his features to grow stern as his next words levied questions and unspoken charges. "But His Grace has grown concerned regarding the happenings in the North as of late."
Rickard scoffed.
'Concerned.' Such a polite term for paranoia and obsession. Aerys' deteriorating state was well known to all who bothered to take note. That the rumors managed to reach Winterfell meant they were common knowledge elsewhere.
Baratheon swirled his glass, forming turbulent waves across its surface.
"Some say you scrounged up the coin to hire a Myrish glassmaker, others that you kidnapped a magister's son. I'm partial to the one that claimed you hired Ironborn to abscond with half of Myr's glass guild. There's even talk of a silver-haired woman visiting Winterfell. I've heard everything from the second coming of the Corpse Queen to the return of a lost Valyrian princess. The less imaginative say you've taken a Lyseni lover."
Silence fell over the room, and the warden allowed it to linger, never turning from Steffon's gaze.
"I am ever at the service of the Iron Throne," Rickard answered at last, voice as even as patience would allow. "A Myrman wishing to escape a family feud offered me his services. The matter had seemed unworthy of the Crown's time."
Rickard had long anticipated this conversation. With the glass gardens too conspicuous to escape attention, the warden and his inner circle had expected to receive queries and royal envoys within a year of the Fairchilds' arrival.
That was before the Defiance of Duskendale.
The Lord of Winterfell would never know what madness had possessed Denys Darklyn to commit treason: the North had stomached far worse without entertaining rebellion, never mind imprisoning the king. Whatever his reasons, amidst the chaos of Denys' folly, Rickard had overseen the construction of his gardens with near impunity.
Already two had been built, the first in Winterfell, the second in White Harbor. The garden in Barrowtown was nearing completion, with the one meant for the Dread Fort not far behind. All that remained was the garden promised to Last Hearth and the third at Winterfell.
Then there were the potatoes. Given to Rickard on a whim, they had proved nothing short of a wonder, sprouting like weeds in frosted and fallow fields. Though they did not keep near as well as wheat, and the smallfolk had not adopted the foreign crop half as quickly as he had hoped, for the first time in living memory, the North enjoyed harvests that bordered on bountiful.
And yet, despite these successes, the Lord of Winterfell had continued to purchase great quantities of southern grain, turning the sweat and toil of his people into silks and perfumes for the South. Though his blood boiled at the thought, Rickard would give the Reach no cause to petition the Crown, nor Aerys any reason to levy taxes or tariffs against the North.
His bookkeepers had kept their records in good order and ensured the Crown always received its due. In the eyes of the southrons, the North would never be above suspicion, but Rickard would keep the North beneath their notice: the Targaryens have long neglected his people, and the warden saw no reason for that to change.
Steffon shook his head in disbelief.
"Gods be good, Rickard. Just what have you been up to?"
"Seeing to the interests of my family, just as you are now."
Winter-grey eyes met stormy blue as neither lord gave ground, unspoken promises and threats passing between them.
The Crown had sent Steffon to Winterfell. Were the envoy of lesser standing, Rickard would have said less than he already had and sent the man on his way. Employing a Myrman was no crime and even if the North were producing glass, the Crown had no right to inspect the Fairchild's Workshop, no more than it had to inspect House Lannister's mines or House Redwyne's winery. The Targaryens never had such authority, even as dragonlords.
Cyril's identity would have held, at least for a time. Rickard doubted Aerys' interest in the North would have survived the coming winter. Even if it had, the snows would have given the warden ample time to see the last gardens erected and, if the need arose, fake foundries built. Come spring, the king's envoys would have found naught amiss.
Aerys had sent Steffon to ascertain the source of the North's good fortune and investigate the silver-haired woman sighted near Winterfell, but Steffon Baratheon had his own reasons for traveling north.
The Lords of Winterfell and Storm's End had known each other for a long time. Their correspondences dated back to the war, and Richard had amassed a great many letters as a result. Whether their contents were incriminating or innocuous hardly mattered; if the rumors of Aerys' temperament held a kernel of truth, their existence alone would be implicating enough.
After his imprisonment, Aerys reportedly dismissed the King's Justice. In the same breath, he had named over a dozen courtiers and servants as traitors in league with Darklyn. With the presence of a Red Priest in the royal court and the Crown's patronage of the Wisdoms long confirmed, Rickard needed little help imagining their fate.
The Warden of the North had not prayed for Aerys' health after his capture, nor had he rejoiced at his rescue. Rickard wagered that Steffon–the king's own cousin–had done much the same.
Neither man would profit if Rickard were summoned south to explain himself. The Warden of the North would give his guest no cause to recommend such action.
"I am not deaf to the whispers of southron lords and their courts. For all their love of the game, they are not subtle in their insults of me and mine: a half-feral mutt leashed to a frozen wasteland filled with men both savage and dim."
Rickard spoke each word with care, his voice drowning out the hushed howlings of summer wind.
"Perhaps there is some truth to the rumors. Perhaps the Warden of the North is a fool, easily mistaking the first man to melt sand into half-clear slag for a Myrish glassmaker. Such a fool would likewise mistake any fair-haired woman for a daughter of Old Valyria. No doubt the son of Rhaelle Targaryen would have more discerning eyes."
The warden said his piece. Steffon sat silent and still, an immovable mountain casting looming shadows along the far side of the room. At length, Baratheon wetted his lips with whiskey and heaved a sigh.
"Aerys would likely believe the tale. I suspect he thinks your ilk little better than the wildings and would enjoy having his notions affirmed." The stormlord regarded Rickard with a tempestuous gaze, "But he expects me to return with your secrets strung up on a string. If I told him what he wished to hear, he would make me his Hand."
"Then it hardly matters what I say."
Once more, the eyes of the direwolf and those of the crowned stag met in contention. Silence stretched between them until the Lord of Storm's End threw his head back and laughed. Bereft of his usual cheer, the sound rang humorless, bitter, and hauntingly familiar as Rickard recalled the night he had received six glass gardens and lost an heir.
"Cousin Rhaella is the last good thing left in that cesspool of a city." The stormlord's words seeped through gritted teeth like venom, "And Hand of the King…Tywin would sooner set the realm aflame than be cast aside like a jilted wife."
Steffon placed his cup down and pushed it aside.
"The three of us were as close as brothers. We promised to rule together and bring about a golden age that would overshadow the Conciliator's in every conceivable way." The stormlord scoffed as though he had suffered a poor jape, voice embittered by betrayal. "The things he's done…"
Baratheon grew quiet. Whether his words were meant for the dragon or lion, Rickard could not decide, and that alone spoke volumes of the men in question. The Lord of Winterfell allowed his guest a moment to his memories and regrets.
"I will tell Aerys your story once Cassana and I return from our fruitless task," Steffon conceded, regarding his host with steely resolve. "But I will need assurances."
'Family.'
Rickard dipped his head, understanding what Steffon was asking of him. Of Lyanna.
"I will announce the betrothal at tomorrow's feast."
Steffon nodded.
"I would count you amongst my friends, but I would hate to leave you in such poor company."
Father had no brothers, so Lyanna had no uncles. It was something the young Stark had always known. Even Lord Manderly, who grew up with Father, was a vassal beholden to her family, whom Father had to placate with rewards and favors. The Lord Hunter was different.
The Hunter and his beautiful wife had become constants in Lyanna's life. The Workshop was only a short ride from home, filled with tasty food and wondrous treats. Lady Evetta would always visit Winterfell for Lyanna's music lessons, and her brothers would always ride off to theirs with apprehension. Because even as famed warriors with silly names, they were no closer to defeating their teacher.
Holding Lady Evetta's hand, Lyanna trekked up the lonely hill behind the Workshop. She had fled into the wolfswood as soon as Lord Baratheon had left Winterfell, and Father had not dared to stop her.
Last night, he had announced her betrothal to Ned's oaf of a foster brother and broken her heart. Lyanna had wanted to jump from her chair, fling a bread roll at Lord Baratheon, and storm out of the Great Hall. But Lady Evetta had taught her that being loud was not the same as being brave and that shouting was not the same as being heard.
Had she done what she wanted to, she would have embarrassed Father. Angry as she was, Lyanna had not wanted that.
Instead, the young girl sought out the only man whom she thought could help.
Beneath the Great Tree, Lord Cyril Fairchild read a book by the hazy light of the dawn. Spotting his young guest, he tucked the book away and stood.
"Good morning, Lyanna. What brings you to the Workshop?"
Though the lord smiled, Lyanna wavered under his gaze. She looked to Lady Evetta and received a gentle nod that gave her the courage to step forward.
"I want to become a Hunter."
Lord Fairchild registered her request with faint surprise, but his lack of disapproval gave the young girl hope.
"Whyever would you want that, Lyanna?"
"I w-want to learn how to fight." Lyanna stammered the well-rehearsed answer, struggling to meet the Lord Hunter's eyes as she prayed he would accept the lie.
"I see," came the reply, and for the span of a breath, the young girl thought she had succeeded. But then the Hunter's expression grew somber, and her hopes slipped away. "I am afraid I cannot help you."
The words struck Lyanna like a physical blow.
"Why not?" The young Stark felt her voice rising, her face growing hot as her vision grew splotchy. Hurt and anger overwhelmed her. "You've taught my brothers! You've been teaching them for years!"
"I taught them how to kill." Without raising his voice, Lord Fairchild dispelled the young girl's rage. "The world is filled with monsters, Lyanna, many of whom bear the guise of men. As your father's sons and the North's protectors, your brothers are duty-bound to see them to justice and violent ends. I taught your brothers what they needed to survive the task."
The Hunter stepped forward, and Lyanna stumbled back as though she had ventured too close to a fire or waded too far into a stream. Yet, there was a caution in his movements and a softness to his bearing that resonated care and concern.
"I do not think that is something you wish to learn, Lyanna, nor do I believe that is what brought you here."
The young Stark trembled. She had been fueled by anger since the night before. In its absence, she felt hollow, as though a conflagration had burned through her and left what remained teetering on the verge of collapse.
"Father betrothed me to Robert Baratheon." The words tumbled from her lips as she fought back tears, "I don't want to marry him! I won't!"
Lyanna looked down at her feet, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She wanted to be brave but felt helpless. She wanted the Lord Hunter to tell her that she did not have to marry and that he would save her from this engagement. Instead, she heard leaves crumple under the Hunter as he knelt and wrapped his arms around her.
"It is alright to cry."
He said nothing more as Lyanna sobbed into his shoulder. He held her as she dirtied his fine shirt with tears and snot.
"I've heard what Ned says about him! How he likes to drink and chase skirts! He's a brute! I won't marry a man like that! I don't want a marriage like that!"
She stared up at the lord like none she had ever known, stronger and fiercer than anyone in the world yet kind and caring all the same.
"I want what you and Lady Evetta have!"
The words sounded like a confession to a secret Lyanna had held without knowing. Her words caused Lord Fairchild to hold her tighter, and Lady Evetta joined their embrace. Not for the first time, Lyanna wished that Father had a brother, if only so she might have an uncle.
In a manner that felt strangely routine, Rickard entertained the idea that he had gone mad. Not three years ago, he had permitted a foreign lord to reside just outside of Wintertown. In all but name, he had allowed the Hunter to foster his children. Mere hours earlier, he had watched as Lyanna ran off into the wolfswoods to seek comfort and support he had failed to provide.
Now the Warden of the North stood atop the battlements, overlooking the Western Gate with the Hunter at his side.
"What would you have me do?"
The Hunter frowned. "I would caution you against heeding the words of a fool who stumbled his way into love and happiness."
"I value your advice all the same."
Cyril frowned deeper, looking more discomforted than the warden had ever known him to be. Rickard confessed the sight consoled him more than it should.
Whatever reservations he might have regarding Lyanna's betrothal, the Warden of the North would never have broached the subject to another lord, much less one with a young, unmarried heir. And yet, when the Hunter returned with his daughter in tow and requested an audience, the Lord of Winterfell had never questioned his sincerity.
Setting aside his good opinion and trust–for the Hunter had both–the man had been a mentor to both Rickard's eldest and heir. Marrying Lyanna to Luca would give Cyril no more influence over Winterfell than he already had. Furthermore, if Lady Evetta's family possessed even a fraction of the wealth her husband displayed, the Vilebloods of Cainhurst would find Winterfell a poor prize. No, Cyril had no need to rob the North of its poverty, which gave Rickard all the more reason to heed his counsel.
As though sharing his thoughts, his companion released a sigh.
"Robert Baratheon is the eldest son of Duke Steffon Baratheon, heir to the Stormlands and second cousin to the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. His connections and pedigree are unquestionable, but what little I have heard of the boy does not flatter." Cyril pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed again, "Likewise, that even Ned cannot wholly endorse his character is no small thing."
The Lord of Winterfell said nothing as the Hunter swiped snow from the castle wall with haphazard sweeps of his cane. Three merlons were cleared of snow before he spoke again.
"Your daughter is a lady of high birth. Privilege is her birthright, marriage her duty." Cyril described the world as it was, not how he wished it to be. "Yet, Evetta and I would see her happy. You wish the same."
The Master of the Workshop turned to the Warden of the North, and a thread of understanding passed between them.
"Speak with her as a father would his daughter," Cyril advised, his words final. "Though I suspect she will hate you for a time, acceptance cannot come without understanding."
The Hunter peered beyond the battlements, tapping his cane against the ancient stones. "I do not know Robert Baratheon well enough to pass judgment, but Lyanna deserves to know the boy you promised her to. Allow her to write to him in a month's time. We will redress the matter if he proves as repugnant as she fears."
The Lord of Winterfell heaved a sigh, recognizing the words as ones he needed to hear, reluctant as he was to listen. Part of him had hoped Cyril would magic away his troubles as he had Bolton and Whitehill, but the warden dismissed the notion as foolish.
Rickard had never been a man to shirk his duties onto another.
Had the world been kinder, Lyarra would have seen to this task. But she was gone and had entrusted Rickard to raise their children. He would see to this duty as he had all others.
The Lord of Winterfell followed his companion's gaze. He looked out to the rolling expanse of the North and found himself at peace, however weary.
"War was easier than fatherhood."
Cyril nodded solemnly even as his eyes shone a bit brighter.
TBC
Author's Note:
Thanks once again to KnightStar for beta reading this chapter! Real happy with how this one turned out. Think it's some of the better prose I've churned out in a while.
Storywise, the South has finally gotten involved. The Crown remains relatively ignorant of the true situation in the North, though not for lack of trying. Varys was still in Essos at this time. Has he heard the rumors of a Myrish glassmaker living near Winterfell? Absolutely. Is that any reason to pack up his operations and move across the Narrow Sea without Aerys' invitation? Absolutely not.
In regards to Steffon's characterization: this was a man who grew up in the Red Keep alongside Aerys and Tywin. His father, Ormund, was the former Hand of the King. Later, when relations soured between Aerys and Tywin, Steffon remained in the king's confidence and might have become Aerys' Hand had he not died at sea. So while he and Robert may look alike, I suspect Steffon was cut from a different cloth.
The conversation between Steffon and Rickard also showcased the 'usual' interactions between Westerosi lords. Steffon is, in all regards, a friend. He has Rickard's respect, and no doubt the feeling is mutual. But as lords protecting the interests of their respective houses, neither man can escape the trappings of power, politics, and intrigue. Thought it would be a nice juxtaposition to Rickard's subsequent conversation with Cyril.
In regards to Lyanna's betrothal, I must thank KnightStar again for reminding me that Mya Stone would not be born until 279 AC. Instead of adding another year to the time skip, I liked the idea that Lyanna would have despised Robert, illegitimate child or no. By Westerosi standards, Robert's behavior is what you would expect from a young, powerful warrior of noble birth. But for Lyanna, who has seen her father stay faithful to her mother's memory and the Hunter's regard for the Doll, Robert falls painfully short.
The final scene between Rickard and Cyril merely emphasized that these are men (well, Rickard, at least) with good intentions, however much their medieval/Victorian values clash with modern sensibilities. Though there are obvious nuances, both men* lived at a time where caring for your children and seeing them married well were often one and the same.
With that, the Better Days saga come to an end. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
There will be more family-friendly programming to come.
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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 18: Book 1 End: All Love Will Wrought
Date: 281 AC
"Lord Fairchild, Lady Evetta, we've come to say farewell."
Lyanna stood in a familiar parlor, Brandon and Ned at her side. Both had grown so tall she had to stand on tiptoes just to reach their shoulders.
The last three years had passed like a dream, blurred at the edges and without detail. Mere moons after Lord Baratheon's departure, white ravens had flown from the Citadel, heralding another long winter.
Yet it had been unlike any Lyanna could recall: the blinding snowstorms that once battered the walls of her home, forcing the household to huddle near the hot springs and hearths, were nowhere to be found. Only the heavy snowfalls signaled the end of autumn.
Father had not sat idle. He had ensured the granaries were stocked to near bursting while the glass gardens continued producing food long after the ground froze over, keeping Wintertown fed even as the settlement grew.
Lords and smallfolk alike sang House Stark's praises, for Father had not been alone. Ned had worked tirelessly at his side, arranging the last shipments of glass promised to Last Hearth and relief for holdfasts needing aid. Brandon had ventured out on regular patrols, his reputation alone dissuading would-be bandits from harrowing farms and villages.
Eager to do her part, Lyanna had spent her evenings helping Lady Evetta ladle soup and hand out bread to the smallfolk.
So the years had passed with the world growing small, silent, and still. Though news of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's marriage to Elia Martell and the birth of a new princess eventually reached Winterfell to modest fanfare, the young girl remembered little else of note.
But winter had not been dull, and the young girl had never wanted for attention: Lady Evetta had visited Winterfell without fail, overseeing Lyanna's music lessons with the same care the Hunter had seen to her brothers' swordwork. It had become something of a tradition for the members of House Stark to gather in Lyanna's room for private performances after supper. If Father ever noticed the gaggle of servants loitering outised the door, he never said.
Likewise, winter had not excused Lyanna's brothers from sparring with the Hunter, for the path to the Workshop always remained bereft of snow.
Today, on the eve of spring, Lyanna stood in a blue dress dyed with winter roses, the case to her beloved violin held between her hands. Both had been gifts from the Fairchilds, who had become all but family.
Eying the three Starks with a playful smile, the lord in question rose from his chair as his wife did the same, leaving breakfast half-finished and well-forgotten.
"Dear, oh dear, it is time already?"
Lyanna nodded and tried to reply, only for Brandon to sneak up and ruffle her hair.
"We'll be leaving in an hour," he supplied, voice now a deep baritone that resembled Father's more and more by the day.
"We have everything packed," she added, paying no mind as both Brandon and Ned glared her way, as though questioning her contribution to the task. She looked instead to the Lord Hunter. "Won't you come with us? Harrenhal is set to be the greatest tourney the realm has ever seen."
The young girl already knew his answer, but she asked all the same and held back her disappointment when Lord Fairchild shook his head.
"As delightful as that would be, Evetta and I would hate to inconvenience your father further."
Lyanna nodded, understanding if unhappy with his words, as she turned towards her music teacher.
"Robert will be there," she explained, craning her neck to meet Lady Evetta's gaze. "I swear I'll give him a chance."
Her hands felt clammy as she gripped her violin with growing embarrassment. "A-and I'll keep practicing while I'm away. I promise!"
Though she loathed to admit it, Lyanna almost looked forward to meeting Robert Baratheon. After learning of her betrothal, she had been angry at Father for some time. It would be weeks before she heeded his advice and wrote to her husband-to-be, half-hoping her letters would go unanswered.
Instead, the oaf had written back. His diction needed work and his penmanship was a travesty, but Lyanna had been strangely pleased, knowing Robert had penned the letters himself–likely with great effort–rather than handing them off to a maester.
Their contents had also been a surprise. The oaf had not tried to woo her; instead, he had expressed his joy at their engagement, how eager he was to meet her and show her the stormlands.
He told her of the forests encompassing Cape Wrath, the clear waters surrounding the Sapphire Isle, and the Slayne River that swelled after every rainstorm.
Lyanna had nearly laughed when Robert described how, upon returning from Volantis, his father had arrived in Gulltown and all but thrown him aboard the Windproud, setting sail for Storm's End before Lord Arryn had time to offer guest rights.
Robert was now helping Lord Baratheon govern the stormlands. He had denounced it as an onerous task, but one he fulfilled for fear of his mother's ire, who was more a dragon than his father could ever hope to be, Targaryen blood or not. He wrote of his family often, of his brothers, Stannis and Renly.
Lyanna confessed she had come to look forward to Robert's letters. To be sure, she remained unhappy with the match, but the young Stark knew her duty and thought Robert deserved the chance to prove himself more than what the rumors described.
Her music teacher stepped closer. The young girl found herself enveloped in a pair of familiar arms, and her worries slipped away.
"Take care, dear child."
Lyanna returned Lady Evetta's embrace.
The Hunter stood some paces away, giving the young girl time with his wife. Only once Lyanna returned to her brothers' side did Lord Fairchild turn to his students.
"How long will you be away, Eddard?"
"Three moons, give or take," Ned ventured, sounding a touch too happy about escaping the Hunter's lesson, forcing Lyanna to stifle a laugh. "Will that be a problem, my lord?"
Lord Fairchild shook his head.
"Not at all. I am sure Evetta and I will find some way to occupy our time," he answered, causing Ned to look more alarmed than relieved. "Come, I will see the three of you off."
The Lord Hunter led the way back into the foreyard. Each of the Stark children received a parcel of sweets and another embrace from Lady Evetta as they stepped out the door.
"Brandon, before I forget," the Hunter's voice stopped the children at the gates and garnered the attention of the nearby guards, "I will have a Hunter's contract ready for you the next time we meet."
The eldest Stark stood stock still. Ned turned to him and then their mentor with askance, but the Hunter was already making his way back to his wife.
"Off you go," he said, waving as he went. "Evetta and I will be here when you return."
Standing amidst the last of winter's snow, the Doll waited outside the Workshop. The children had left hours earlier, and the sun had fallen from the evenfall sky. All around, the North slept, saturating the air with dreams of summer and nascent spring.
With eyes once fashioned from gemstones and glass, the Doll waited as her husband locked the gates of the manor. A smile graced her once-painted lips as he oversaw the task with care, miming the motions of a man leaving home.
"Three moons will be time aplenty."
The Good Hunter lent his voice to the silence, every word straining the world with all they implied. Turning from the Workshop, he beheld his wife with an expression well-meaning and near serene. Glimmers of their idyllic, shared dream reflected within his starlit gaze.
The Doll nodded her assent as the ground beneath their feet rippled. Ether supplanted stone, and the Little Ones clambered through the undulating forest path, heeding the Hunter's call. With reverent fervor, they hoisted a greatsword aloft.
The Good Hunter grasped the weapon, and the world came undone.
Fissures formed within the air and earth as reality unraveled at the seams, forced to accommodate a shard of the cosmos given terrible purpose and form.
Closer to the left-behind Great Ones than a mere Hunter's tool, Ludwig's keepsake bathed the wolfswoods in a light never meant to illuminate the Waking World. The legacy of Great Isz beckoned a constellation of foreign stars onto the realms of men, forging a blade that sundered the boundaries of prophecy and natural law.
The Good Hunter allowed the weapon to fall from his hand. The sword dispersed, but its presence lingered, unseen yet palpable, tainting the evening air with the promise of miracles and impossibility.
The Holy Sword of Moonlight was now the Hunter's to wield as surely as the limbs he pretended to have and need.
"We will be back in time to welcome the children home."
Once more, the Doll dipped her head. Her husband offered his hand, and she reached out with arms cast from bisque and bone. Together, the Moon-Scented Hunter and Plain Doll walked northwards, onto the Land of Always Winter.
281 AC would be a year well-remembered in the annals of history, mired by deeds great and terrible, committed by men much the same. Time would march on, trampling mankind's every achievement underfoot. The age of the Seven Kingdoms and the legacy of House Stark would fade into legend. The beloved memories of Rickard, Brandon, Eddard, and Lyanna would fall into myth.
But none would forget the year that marked the death of Winter.
END of Part 1
Chapter Summary:
For the sake of the Stark family they've come to cherish, the Fairchilds ensure the Long Night will never return. For mortal men–even a child of prophecy–this would be a harrowing task. But for a Hunter who counts Living Nightmares amongst his prey, it's a chore. Make no mistake, the Others will die.
At the same time, the Stark children travel to Harrenhal under the watchful eye of Rickard's guards and bannerman. Safe.
Unrelated quote:
"It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life."
Next time of Thy Good Neighbor: Harrenhal
As always, many thanks to KnightStar/NightOracle for editing this chapter.
Description of the Hunter's Weapon:
"An arcane sword discovered long ago by Ludwig. When blue moonlight dances around the sword, and it channels the abyssal cosmos, its great blade will hurl a shadowy lightwave. The Holy Moonlight Sword is synonymous with Ludwig, the Holy Blade, but few have ever set eyes on the great blade, and whatever guidance it has to offer, it seems to be of a very private, elusive sort."
- Holy Moonlight Sword
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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 19: Book 2: The Bridges of Boyhood
'Steel sharpens steel.'
Willam Dustin frowned as he recalled his late father's words, finding them more stifling than the warm southern air. He rode alongside his foster brother at the head of the North retinue, a place of supposed honor that felt unearned and misplaced.
Though he sensed his companion's gaze upon him, Willam focused on the road ahead. The young lord of Barrowton hardly needed eyes to see how much Brandon had changed and how he had failed to keep apace.
For over a moon, the Dustin lord and Stark heir had traveled together, parsing only the most basic courtesies. There was no quarrel between them, no great wrong that required recompense. Willam simply had no words for the Northern Blade, not when he had only ever known Brandon Stark.
Five years had passed since the Harvest Melee. Willam could still recall how Brandon and his trueborn brother had overwhelmed the Giant of Last Hearth, how the elder Stark had fought like the veteran of a dozen pitched battles. Gone was the spirited boy whose temper flickered and flared like a storm-caught flame, who would skip evening lessons to charm maids at the local tavern. Willam had not recognized the man who stood in his place.
He had cornered Brandon after the fight, had demanded to know how he gained skills never taught and learned techniques unknown to even Barrowton's master-of-arms.
'I trained with Ned and found a reason to improve.'
Brandon had said nothing more, and Willam had thought the answer absurd. Yet he had dueled the younger Stark himself, losing the exchange after a mere four blows. If the elder Stark were the better blade, Willam knew he was not skilled enough to discern the difference.
Robard Dustin had welcomed the change in his former ward, convinced his foster son had abandoned his boyish whims upon finding a proper rival and challenge. That Willam had failed to provide either went unsaid.
'Steel sharpens steel.'
The young lord's grip tightened against his reins as his father's words rang unwanted and true: In their attempts to best one another, both Starks had achieved greatness. The deeds of the Wolf Knight and Northern Blade spoke for themselves.
Before the Targaryen and their dragons, the direwolves had been kings, but they had not been the first rulers of the First Men. That honor had belonged to the Barrow Kings, whose blood still ran through Willam's veins. Mummers sang of the Thousand Year War that humbled his ancestors, but Willam could not fathom the conflict lasting even a decade had Winterfell fielded men alike its current heir. Had the Starks always possessed such strength or had William fallen short of his storied lineage?
The voice that replied was not his own.
"How is your wife?" His companion's words carried a weight that belied more than friendly inquiry, "Father mentioned you were expecting a child."
William turned and near glared at his foster brother. After weeks of silence, this was what he wished to discuss? Time had made Brandon less brash but no less blunt.
"Barbrey is well," he answered. "She thinks it's a boy. Maester Gareth believes the same." He thought to mention this was the first time the two had agreed on anything save the time of day, but this was no place for japes.
His father had arranged the match shortly before his passing, and Willam remained unsure if he felt anger or gratitude. Since their first acquaintance, he had found Barbrey stunning, yet he had been forced to admire her from afar, knowing her heart lay elsewhere.
Then came the Harvest Feast, where Lord Stark had banished Bowen Ryswell from his keep, never again to find warmth or welcome within Winterfell. Death would have borne lesser shame, but when Willam recalled the newly-built garden within Barrowton and considered the boons they had nearly lost, he could not fault the warden's judgment.
Lord Stark had stayed his hand from further punishment, but all knew House Ryswell had lost its liege lord's favor. No lady of the Rills would sit beside the Lord of Winterfell for at least a generation. With a few bandied words, the Ryswell knight had ruined his niece's prospects.
Robard Dustin had sensed opportunity. Disfavored as they were, the Ryswells remained one of the North's greatest houses and Barrowton's strongest neighbors. An alliance between their families was meant to combat House Manderly's growing influence: With Domeric Bolton fostering at White Harbor and his betrothal to Wynafryd Manderly all but assured, the might of the merman could not go unchallenged.
Understanding his father's decision had not made Willam's duty easier to bear. The marriage was announced and the wedding arranged far faster than Willam had thought proper. And what a wedding it had been with Eddard and Lord Stark in attendance. Willam recalled nodding absently at whatever excuse the former had offered for Brandon's absence while his stunning bride fought back tears.
Barbrey had been brave, managing a smile as they paraded past endless throngs of well-wishers, but when they were at last alone, her strength had been spent.
It would be weeks before they became husband and wife in truth, longer still for Barbrey to view their marriage as more than duty and regard him with some semblance of love. Now she carried his son.
Willam turned to his companion, the man his wife had wanted, the foster brother who had grown great only after leaving Barrowton.
Neither man had wronged the other, yet there were wounds between them all the same.
Brandon received the news with ponderous silence as he held his companion's gaze.
"I am happy for you, Willam," he said, and the words rang true.
Willam dipped his head, "Thank you, Brandon."
The Northern Blade nodded and turned back to the road. The Lord of Barrowton followed his example.
He no longer recognized the man who rode beside him. But they had shared a boyhood, and for that, Willam could call him brother. When the day came for his brother to assume his birthright, Willam could call him lord and follow him through triumph and ruin.
Urging his destrier onwards at a languid pace, Eddard trailed behind the vanguard, failing to maintain formation–or appearances—as other troubles harried his mind.
'I will have a Hunter's contract ready for you the next time we meet.'
After five years, the young Stark had thought himself accustomed to his mentor's proclivities. The Hunter's words and actions often elicited alarm, but his promise to Brandon had shaken Ned to his core. Worse yet, his brother had refused to discuss the offer and all it implied.
Eddard knew frightfully little about his mentor's profession, only that it entailed perils he would not wish upon his kin. Were that his only objection, Ned would respect Brandon's decision, whichever he made, for the Starks have never shied away from death or duty. Instead, Ned feared for what Brandon stood to lose: Hunters preyed upon beasts found west of the Sunset Sea, far from the North and the only life his brother had ever known.
Ever since Ned's return from the Vale, Father had requested his presence at council and court, entrusting the young Stark with more duties than most second sons saw in a lifetime. Recognizing the tasks as training, Eddard believed he would one day serve as Brandon's hand, just as Kevan Lannister acted as Lord Tywin's shadow.
He had thought the reasoning sound: Lord Fairchild and Lady Evetta were the first Yharnamites to visit Westeros, but it was foolish to believe others would not follow. Their son, Luca, would inherit lands that made paupers of most great houses. Once the Hunter returned west, news of the Seven Kingdoms would spread. Maintaining cordial relations with these newfound powers would prove a headache once the South interfered.
Eddard had thought this to be his burden when Brandon assumed his birthright. He had hoped Father would grant him lordship over the Stony Shore to facilitate correspondance between Winterfell and the West. Now, Eddard suspected Father had made arrangements he was only now beginning to grasp, for when Lord Fairchild had made his offer, Brandon had not shared his brother's surprise.
Ned shook his head. Not even in his dreams did he dare to imagine himself seated upon his father's chair, knowing the tragedies necessary for that to pass. Now he was presented the prospect without the promised tragedy.
The young knight recalled the day he had received a silver sword, how the weapon remained in his possession despite the threat it posed to his future kin.
With a tired sigh and shake of his head, Eddard urged his steed into a gallop. He passed the other lords and took his place at Brandon's side. There would be time to press his brother for answers, to insist he decline Lord Fairchild's offer and volunteer himself for the task. Their teacher would understand, being himself a second son
Eddard allowed his thoughts to calm and mind to rest as five misshapen towers appeared against the horizon, piercing the dawn.
Harrenhal lay within view.
TBC
Author's Note:
Hope you've all been well. Been busier than usual, but trying to resume the story despite work (and Lies of P) keeping me preoccupied.
This is the prologue to Part 2. The outline for this chapter was just "Northerners arrive at Harrenhal." Used this opportunity to do some world-building, highlighting the importance of reputation in medieval/Westerosi life, exemplified by the far-reaching consequences of Bowen's misconduct.
I also wanted to show the Stark children growing up and all that entails, including the distance that has formed between once-close friends: Bridges don't have to burn to fall into disrepair.
Anyways, hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Next time, we'll be visiting Harrenhal properly. As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his help.
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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 20: Those Who Sing the Song of Earth
Sidestory:
Leaf shook off Ash's hand. She turned away from the others, who followed her with eyes forlorn and worried. Leaving her kindred to their songs, the Last Singer drew her cloak close as she scurried toward the mouth of the cave.
It was coming.
They called it the Great One, for they did not know its name and dared not ask. They knew not what it was or from whence it came, only that the Great One did as it pleased, and none had interfered. Not the cruel creature that lurked under the sea nor the baleful flame that dwelled beyond the shattered arm of the Empty Lands*. Even the venerable voices beneath the earth had remained hushed and silent.
The greenseer seldom spoke these days. He slept, but Leaf doubted he dreamed. Leaf herself had not for quite some time, for she and her kin were standing upon a shore, awaiting a wave that would reach a hundred leagues inland. What were dreams in the face of such certainty?
As the ground grew cold and her destination closer, the Last Singer thought of the others, of Ash, Black Knife, Coals, Scales, and Snowylocks. Those were not their names, but names they would be given by the last greenseer. Now, the last seer might never be born, and the Final Battle would never come to pass.
Claws scraped stone, and fingers trembled as Leaf reached the entrance.
She would never forget the night the Great One pierced the dark space between stars, casting constellations eons old into disarray. In the span of a single breath, it had subsumed the moon overhead and descended upon the lands stolen by Men. An unfathomable weight had pressed upon the very fabric of the world, unraveling countless songs yet unsung like poorly spun thread.
Leaf had once wandered the land. Though young by the measure of her people, she had witnessed the dying days of the dragons and shared in the visions of the three-eyed crow. Though she knew of events past, present, and promised, Leaf had beheld the shadow of the Great One and foresaw the world's end.
The ruin she feared never passed. That night, the Great One would cede the sky to the morning sun, but the songs would never return, hushed by a foreign power, runoffs from a leviathan settling within a shallow pool. Leaf had felt its power wash over her, suffusing her senses yet still out of reach, a strength she could not borrow, no more than she could quench her thirst from the sea.
The Enemy had lashed out with winter and wroth. But their struggle proved fruitless, for the Great One had turned its gaze northwards, and Leaf had never felt the stirrings of something so great and terrible.
There was no hope for the Enemy. All that remained was to learn if she and her kindred would share their doom and die this day.
The others had chosen to stay within their home, to sing, lament, and remember, awaiting whatever came. Leaf could not do the same. She had been born the last of a waning people. She had wandered the world and learned the Common Tongue, all to prepare the last greenseer for the Final Battle. That purpose had been taken from her, but Leaf had been born to witness the world. If Death came for them all, she would witness her own end.
Gathering her courage, the Last Singer left the protection of her home.
She stopped midstep.
Gone were the wind and cold, and in their place?
A vacuous silence.
There was no frost to nip at her skin, no moist earth to hush her steps. The cave just at her back now felt out of reach. Her ears discerned no sounds, her tongue no tastes, her nose no scents. And before her eyes stood a figure in the shape of a man.
"Good evening, young miss."
The sound reached her ears, and to her shock, Leaf recognized them as words, a greeting in the Common Tongue.
"Are you in need of anything?"
Daring to raise her gaze to the speaker, Leaf felt her vision blur. A sharp pain bloomed behind her eyes as she beheld a man unremarkable by any measure, dark of hair and slim of frame. His clothes did not glimmer with ill-gotten gains, nor were they adorned with the macabre remains of fallen foes. But the way the air moved–failed to move–about him, the way snow fled from his feet as he stood unstirring conjured feelings of a terrible stillness, a false peace forced upon the chaos of the natural world.
Then there were his eyes. Though the crow had a thousand and one to peer through time, their perception was that of a mortal man. How could they compare to those that held captive the very stars within their gaze?
Leaf looked upon the visage of the Great One and bit back bile as she fought for breath.
How? How had this being lived among the humans? How had they not realized what had stood in their midst? Had Brandon's get truly grown so blind? Or was it that blindness that compelled the Great One to live amongst them, unbothered and unseen?
The questions fled her mind as she recalled the Great One's own. A new fear overtook Leaf as she made sense of its words.
'Are you in need of anything?'
What was she to say? What answer could she possibly give when the fate of her people hung in the balance?
'Please, spare us.'
'Please, help us.'
'Save us.'
Desires centuries-old welled in her heart, but when she at last opened her mouth to speak, none passed her lips.
"Please," she whispered, beseeching the Great One with a voice raw and weary, "leave us be."
'Men have taken the world from us. It is no longer ours to live in. Leave us to our long dwindling.'
Leaf's vision turned bleary as she awaited the Great One's reply. The unfathomable being regarded her for the barest moment before turning away.
"Very well." It waved a hand before departing. "Then I wish you well."
The Last Singer remained silent and still as the Great One left the clearing, joined by another seemingly god-forged and god-touched. Only when the Great One disappeared did Leaf dare to collapse, falling to her knees as sound and sense returned to the world. With trembling hands clutching her cloak, Leaf did all she could to quiet her heart, unsure what she had done, whom she had spared or doomed. The songs were gone, the future mired with frightful uncertainty. And yet Leaf knew she would have made the same choice, however many times the Great One offered. The Last Singer only prayed she was strong enough to bear the consequences that were to follow.
TBC
Authors Summary:
I wanted to play around with the more mystical aspects of the asoiaf setting, a tricky thing to do when there's so much we do not know (hence what makes it mystical). Also wanted to illustrate how terrifying the Hunter must appear to those with the tiniest bit of magical insight.
Just some notes:
1. Those Who Sing the Song of Earth is the name the Children of the Forest gave themselves in the True Tongue.
2. *The Shattered arm of the Empty Lands alludes to the Arm of Dorne, a land bridge between Westeros and Essos shattered during the Children's war with the First Men.
Many thanks to KnightStar for his help.
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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 21: Book 2: Northern Deeds, Southern Stars
Ned stood at Brandon's side. The two exchanged glances when Robert rushed the dance floor with Lyanna in tow.
"What do you make of him, Brandon?"
"Not much. Been busy finding a place to hide a body that big."
The younger Stark breathed a sigh partway between amusement and defeat. He trailed their fast-departing sister with vigilant eyes, pointedly ignoring the self-satisfied smirk on Brandon's face.
It was the eve of the tourney proper, and the festivities were well underway. A veritable sea of banners flew over the darkened skies of Harrenhal as notable guests flooded the Hall of a Thousand Hearths–a grand structure that could house the Great Halls of Winterfell and Eyrie with room to spare. Overhead, many-coloured tapestries displayed the heraldry of noble families great and small. Above the high table, eclipsing them all, hung the three-headed dragon in sable black and red.
Teams of servants hoisted platters of whole-roasted boar onto lavish banquet tables while a pond-sized fountain bubbled with well-aged wine. A small army of minstrels filled the hall with music as lords and ladies encircled entire troupes of mummers performing on a makeshift stage, their voices growing ever louder as they vied for attention and applause.
Westeros had not witnessed such a gathering since the last Great Council, and Ned found himself swept up in the spectacle.
Robert–no doubt at Lady Cassana's behest–had greeted their party sporting a lavish, form-fitting doublet that hampered his every step. The massive Baratheon had all but staggered into a stiff bow, and Lyanna had appraised her betrothed with the scrutiny of a merchant inspecting a potential purchase. The sight had nearly spurred Ned to laughter.
Now he and Brandon stood amongst Lord Whent's honored guests, eyeing their dear sister and goodbrother-to-be. With every man sworn to the Baratheons and Starks shadowing their every step, Ned doubted either would misbehave and allowed his attention to wander, trusting Brandon to keep watch.
He surveyed the hall as guests in recognizable colors came and went. The sights and sounds soon blurred together, forming an idle backdrop for the young knight's musings.
Then, a stir among the nearby lords caught his attention. Their heads turned as one, and Ned followed suit, nearly staggering at the sight that held their gaze.
'Beautiful.'
No other thought came to mind as a lady descended the high table, her sun-kissed face set with haunting violet eyes. Tumbling dark hair draped her bare shoulders, falling over a lilac dress cut in the Dornish style, clasped with silver breastpins depicting a white sword and star.
The Wolf Knight's breath caught in his throat, and his pulse thrummed through his fingers when the lady of Starfall surveyed the gathered lords. Her gaze passed over him, and Ned was sure he only imagined the smile that graced her lips.
The young Stark had heard whispers of Ellia Martell's companion at court, a beauty said to rival Lord Tywin's daughter. Seeing the truth for himself, Ned thought the rumors wholly inept, for the lady before him was beyond compare.
"She's a comely one."
Brandon clasped his shoulder, drawing Ned from his daydreams. The gesture, warm and seemingly harmless, had the younger Stark praying to the gods for strength.
"That's Ashara Dayne of Starfall."
"I wasn't aware," Brandon assured, his tone wholly insincere as he flashed a smile that left his brother wary. "Trying to lecture me on heraldry, Ned?"
The younger Stark had no rebuttal, and to his immense misfortune, Brandon pressed the issue.
"You should ask her for a dance."
Ned faced his brother with a look of horror.
"She's Arthur Dayne's sister!" he hissed, "Princess Elia's lady-in-waiting!"
"And you are a Stark of Winterfell and a knight with feats rivaling those of the Kingsguard."
"Brandon–"
"Go."
The hand on his shoulder suddenly appeared at his back. The harsh shove that followed sent Ned stumbling forward, well past Lady Ashara's other admirers.
Innumerable guests turned his way. The ensuing tittering and laughter even drew attention from the high table.
The young knight shot his brother a withering glare, the sense of betrayal only dampened by the severity of his plight. Were the situation less dire, he might have appreciated the irony of a Stark being thrown to the wolves.
He had no choice but to advance: to retreat now would be deemed an act of cowardice no better than deserting the battlefield. Worse, by many accounts.
'Let it not be said that a Stark died without dignity.'
Making peace with his predicament and cursing Brandon with every breath, Ned stepped forward. His boots clicked against the slate-tiled floor, the vast hall suddenly much too quiet as he reached the steps.
"My lady," he greeted, bowing low and suppressing his nerves as best he could, "I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
For the briefest moment, the fair lady said nothing, and the world stood still, waiting. When she finally spoke, Ned could no longer deny the glimmer of interest within her eyes.
"Ashara Dayne of Starfall," she offered, and how her voice flowed like a melody, "It is a pleasure to meet Lorra's savior."
'Ah.'
Warmth bloomed in Ned's breast as the pieces fell in place. As he rose, holding Ashara's gaze, he vowed to thank Lady Waynwood for this kindness.
"May I have this dance, my lady?"
Confident that Ned could fend for himself, Brandon returned his attention to Baratheon, contemplating how he might murder the man if the need arose. Explaining the exercise to passersby had allowed him to decline the overtures of several ladies with minimal offense and measured grace.
"And here I was thinking the evening's festivities lacked flair." A new voice disturbed his vigil. "Imagine my surprise when you Northerners volunteered yourselves for the main event."
The Northern Blade turned, greeted by a stranger who was decidedly not a lady vying for the attention of Winterfell's heir. A tall, slender man stood several paces away, his face set with sharp eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thin smile that warned of a keen mind and mercurial temper. He strolled forward at a languid pace, hands relaxed at his back, Dornish guards trailing his every step. He wore Martell colors, but Brandon hardly needed help recognizing a man of such infamous reputation.
"Prince Oberyn," Brandon greeted. He offered a nod but nothing more. A prince the Martell may be, but a prince of Dorne was not a prince of the Realm, and a Stark did not lower his head on a whim.
"Lord Stark," came the reply, the greeting improper and intentionally so. "Or would you prefer the Northern Blade?"
The Dornishman exuded mirth. He made a show of scanning Brondon with an appreciative gaze before finally dipping his head. "Your reputation precedes you."
The eldest son of Rickard Stark regarded the Red Viper, who had earned his moniker after poisoning Edgar Yronwood in an ill-fated duel, leaving his nephew a ward–a hostage–of their family's ancient enemy. Brandon would have thought worse of the man were his own crimes less severe.
"I could say the same."
Oberyn smiled, and the amusement in his eyes pricked at Brandon's anger. The prince's levity and unguarded mannerisms reminded him much of his teacher, but the comparison felt unearned, for Lord Fairchild had always regarded the North, regarded Father, with curiosity, candor, and respect. Oberyn, in contrast, carried himself with a certainty that belied conceit and a quiet disregard that bordered condescension.
Brandon schooled his expression as the prince surveyed the crowd.
"Rare is it for our peoples to cross paths," the Donishman mused. "I would introduce you to dear Elia and my uncle. Alas, royal duties demand their attention."
"My family had the privilege of meeting the royal family when we arrived," Brandon remarked, motioning to the high table, beset by nobles eager to greet the princess and crown prince. Oberyn turned on his heels, barely acknowledging the reply.
"My men managed to liberate a choice vintage from Lord Whent's personal stores, one I've been meaning to try. Care to partake, Lord Stark?"
Already weary of the man, Brandon thought to refuse, but he knew better than to spurn a man so close to the royal family. Departing the dance floor, he spared a glance at his siblings, garnering a laugh from the prince.
"Worry not. I'm confident Lord Dayne's men will safeguard your brother's honor."
Grey eyes watched as Oberyn poured two generous goblets of richly-colored wine, bringing both to his lips before slipping one across the table. Brandon accepted the cup but made no move to drink: the wine was mere pretense for whatever Oberyn wished to discuss, and the prince did not keep him waiting.
"The Northern Blade." The Martell tested the name on his tongue, savoring words seemingly more flavorful than the wine on his lips, "Rumors say you're the best sword House Stark has produced since the last Cregan. It's quite the boast, one I'd almost not believe."
"And yet you do," Brandon countered, noting how Oberyn had omitted his better-known contemporary, Arthur Dayne.
"I'm afraid your reputation has little to do with it." The prince motioned behind him, where Ned and Ashara were still dancing, well after the first song's end. "While I'm sure any Northerner would happily inflate your reputation to curry your father's favor, the Valemen are a proud, dull lot. Their knights would sooner bed a mountain raider than admit an outsider bested one of their own."
Oberyn studied his companion with keen, dark eyes.
"Yet word has it your brother has beaten Bronze Yohn on several occasions."
Brandon held the Viper's gaze, having nothing to say. When compared to his brother, Brandon was the better blade, but that reputation had not reached the South. What Oberyn knew of the Northern Blade derived from rumor and hearsay. In contrast, Ned had made his skills known during his travels through the Vale and Stormlands. Brandon would freely admit his brother was the warrior of greater renown, a reputation that would serve him well.
"And yet, for all of your brother's accolades, for all I've heard of your skills, neither of you are betrothed. I've not heard rumors of a paramour or even a bastard, not one. It's all so very dull." The Donishman swirled his wine, eyeing his companion over the rim of his cup. "Tell me, Lord Stark, does your father have reason to fear for his legacy?"
There was a time when Oberyn's words would have driven Brandon to violence. Even now, the wolf's blood simmered in his veins as he tested the weight of his goblet, entertaining the thought. But while Brandon hesitated to claim the years had changed him, there was no denying he had grown: Even if he managed to crack the Dornishman's head open, it would still mean defeat by every meaningful measure.
Brandon was no stranger to desire: He had traversed much of the North, often at Father's behest. He had visited distant keeps and driven bandits from remote villages. Many a smallfolk had been grateful for his efforts. More than once, he had been propositioned, and Brandon confessed there were times when his discipline faltered.
He had been careful, seeking only experienced women who knew their trade and plied it well. There had been highborn ladies who had offered the same, but Brandon had refused their advances, for the pain of losing Barbrey still lingered, to say nothing of the consequences of siring a bastard of noble birth. He would not subject Ned to such a burden.
A great number of Northern lords had grumbled, wondering why the heir of Winterfell remained unwed. Just as many questioned why their liege lord had refused lesser matches for his younger son. They would not have to wonder long. Once Brandon returned North and renounced his claim, Ned would take his place at Father's side. Whether or not the future Lady of Winterfell happened to be Dornish, Brandon wished for his brother's happiness.
The thought assuaged his anger. Now more than ever, Oberyn's words rang hollow.
"I've heard it said that winter freezes a Northerner's heart in his chest, yet my lord father has four children to his name." Brandon's words echoed a calm, cold certainty. "I have also heard that the southern sun roasts a Dornishman's brain in his head."
A guard stiffened at the prince's side. Brandon paid him no mind as he drank from his cup.
"You have yet to offer me words that discredit the claim, my prince."
The guards stirred as one. Some reached for steel, only to stop when their prince released a ring of laughter. Brandon waited for Oberyn to master his men.
"You are not what I had expected," the Viper praised, eyes bright with newfound intrigue like a snake realizing his prey bore fangs. "Perhaps there's hope for Lord Rickard's legacy after all."
Nothing more was said as both men drank. The Martell poured more wine. Well aware of his reputation, he again offered to sample his companion's cup, which Brandon found no reason to refuse.
"Brave of you to offer your brother up to Ashara," Oberyn mused after a time. "Putting him in her sights…I'm unsure if I should offer you a toast or accuse you of kinslaying now that he's gained Arthur's attention."
"I fail to see how that would matter."
"So you say," the prince replied, and for the first time, Brandon detected a hint of fire behind his voice. The Martell rose from his seat, having nothing more to say. The Northern Blade bid the Red Viper farewell as the Dornishmen made for the high table.
"Oh, and Lord Stark," Oberyn's voice forced Brandon to turn. "It's not a Northerner's heart that shrinks in the cold but rather his head."
Brandon waited for the Dornish prince to disappear before breathing a sigh, grateful for the absence of Martell gold, orange, and red. He was not made for such battles, to spar with veiled insults and japes, wagering his family's reputation with every word and breath. He would much rather face the beasts of his teacher's homeland and whatever horrors that entailed. If nothing else, the claws of a beast would offer a swifter death than embarrassment at court.
Ned sprinted down the hall, his armor clattering with every step. He had awoken barely an hour earlier, closer to midday than daybreak. The servants had barely helped him into a spare suit of armor before he made a mad dash for the yard.
It was the first day of the tourney. Though the melee was three days off, every worthwhile warrior would be spending that time displaying their skill and prowess. Challenges would undoubtedly be issued while ladies spectated the ensuing duels. The coming days would be no less important than the melee itself.
And Ned had overslept.
He reached the battlements overlooking the sparring ring in good time. There, he met his brother, dressed in plain yet well-crafted plate, the barest hint of sweat upon his brow.
"Morning," Brandon greeted with an innocuous wave and guilty smile.
"You told the guards not to wake me."
Brandon did not deny the accusation, much too pleased with himself.
"You had a busy night. Thought you needed the rest."
"It was only a dance."
"It was three. Practically a scandal."
Well aware this was an argument he could only lose, Ned stared out into the yard, where Robert was engaging a Hightower knight.
"What happened while I was asleep?"
"Heard that the king would be arriving for tonight's feast."
Ned nodded, not at all surprised. He would have thought it stranger had Prince Rhaegar tried to host the grand tourney alone.
"Benjen also enjoyed himself," Brandon added with a wry smile. "Thought you should know."
Once more, Ned found himself speechless and similarly abashed. Distracted by last night's festivities, he had neglected their youngest brother, who had spent the evening amongst the pages and junior squires.
The younger Stark stewed in his guilt until his brother once more demanded his attention.
"Ned," he said, and the Wolf Knight startled at how his tone changed.
"We are not the challengers here."
Nothing more was said, yet an unspoken understanding passed between them.
A mighty roar sounded through the yard as the heir of Storm's End bludgeoned his opponent into the dirt with a wooden mallet.
"Stark!" He bellowed, directing his hammer at Brandon while stepping over his fallen foe, "Get your ass down here, so I can buff a new dent into your head!"
"Go fetch yourself a drink!" Brandon barked back. "I won't have your bannermen claiming I caught you winded and half asleep! What's more, Ned here needs a proper chance to wake up!"
A cacophony of jeers and laughter accompanied Brandon's words, and whatever Robert shouted back, Ned failed to hear as he made for the yard.
He descended the steps, marched up to the sparring ring, and nearly groaned aloud at the sight of the opponent awaiting him.
"Well met, Ser Eddard."
The Wolf Knight stood amidst the sons of Westeros' most prominent houses. At a glance, Ned recognized the colors of House Royce, Bracken, Mallister, Lefford, Swann, and Brax. Each man sported a spare suit of polished plate, a luxury beyond the means of most landed knights.
Yet his opponent wore armor beyond compare, its gilding alone worth more than all the others combined, befitting a warrior famed for cutting down three veterans of the Golden Company at the age of ten. Ned would consider him the Westerlands' finest knight, his reputation only dampened by his nephew's meteoric rise.
"Well met, Ser Tygett."
The Lion of Casterly Rock drew his sword, and Ned followed suit.
The Westerlands were the wealthiest of the Seven Kingdoms. Ned would never refute the claim, but they were far from the most prosperous: where the verdant fields of the Reach yielded wheat without end, the Kingdom of the Rock was a canvas with rolling hills, steep crags, and shallow valleys. Smallfolk toiled on small farms mired with grit and gravel while the gold beneath their feet saw the kingdom assailed by reavers as surely as the North saw snow.
From the heights of Casterly Rock, the Lannisters governed a harsh land made harsher by Tywin's rule. The swordsmanship of Westerland knights reflected its history, and Tygett Lannister exemplified its martial tradition: he struck with a stony discipline that lacked the artistry synonymous with Reachman and Dornish knights. His unshakeable footwork, like those of a Stormlander, emphasized aggression over evasion or feints. The Lannister attacked with frightening precision, each blow banishing the legacy of Lord Tytos' misrule.
But for all he knew of war and battle, the lion knight had never faced a foe who outclassed Maelys Blackfyre in every regard. Nor had he witnessed his own death play out behind bright, starlit eyes and raised his sword in defiance, knowing victory would be measured in the moments abating defeat.
So when Tygett struck, Ned answered. The Lannister sought the gaps within his armor, but Eddard batted the gilded blade aside, warding off a vicious cross-cut to his chin before redirecting a parting slash from his knees and another from his hand. Steel screeched as Eddard denied Tygett a blow meant to crush his fingers within their gauntlets.
The spectators stood silent as Lord Stark's second son parried and repelled Tygett's onslaught, never expending the energy to block or bind the lion's blade. Lord Fairchild would have overwhelmed his guard in an instant, but against the Lion of Lannister, Ned refused to give ground; Every step backward was one he would reclaim before the next blow.
Yet Ned knew he would not outlast his foe, for Ser Tygett was a knight to rival any member of the Kingsguard, and Ned had to wonder how far he would have risen in an era when Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne had not lived. Even now, his arms ached despite deflecting the brunt of each blow, a testament to Tygett's strength.
Allowing his opponent to dictate the pace of their duel, Ned waited as the Lannister adapted to his defenses faster than any Vale knight he could recall. When the flash of gilded steel crew closer and nearly struck true, the young Stark feigned a poorly-timed parry, allowing himself to be driven back.
The lion knight raised his blade, committing his strength to a final blow, only for Ned's arms to form a fool's guard. From the low stance, he leveraged the fulcrum of his blade, transitioning seamlessly into an upward thrust that sought Tygett's throat.
The Lannister narrowly evaded the deathblow and answered by bringing his blade down on Ned's exposed head. But the young knight stepped forward and finally bound their blades. Mustering his strength, Ned drove both swords to the ground, entangled at the hilt, and brought his full weight to bear, driving his shoulder into the knight's breastplate.
A dull sound echoed through the ring as Ned's pauldron dented gilded steel. Tygett staggered, forced to relinquish his blade to stay upright, righting himself only to realize he had been disarmed.
For a moment, none spoke.
The lion knight glared at his opponent, his eyes alight with anger and wounded pride. But his rage was short-lived. Tygett calmed himself with a steely breath, inclining his head to the younger knight.
Ned mirrored the gesture, returning Lannister's blade hilt first.
"Well fought, Ser Tygett."
"You moreso, Ser Eddard," came the reply. "It seems your reputation is well-earned."
Nothing more was said as both warriors left the ring. Ned was assailed by his fellow knights, offering congratulations and seeking advice. Yet their praise fell on deaf ears as Ned waded through the crowd toward the balcony overlooking the square. There, he spied a now familiar face.
Ned raised his hand, and when Ashara waved back, he thought her smile the most beautiful thing.
TBC
Author's Note:
Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays, everyone! Hope you're all spending some well-deserved time with friends and family.
This was a fun chapter to write. Really it's the first time we see the Stark children without the 'adults' around, so to speak. Dear old Dad is sitting at home, and the friendly neighborhood Hunter is taking care of business going on safari beyond the Wall. Thus, the dialogue has an element of levity and 'juvenile' humor that highlights the children being 'on their own.'
But despite Cyril's absence, our favorite space cephalopod casts a large shadow, and it felt important to show how his mentorship helped shape Brandon and Ned as young adults.
Ned and Ashara:
Where canon left Ned and Ashara's relationship ambiguous, here it's far less vague. As Brandon alluded to, a lady accepting a dance at a formal event is considered a courtesy. However, a lady accepting multiple dances from the same partner sends a different message.
Like in the previous prologue, this chapter demonstrates the importance of reputation, and thanks to Cyril's influence, Ned's reputation is very different from his canon counterpart's.
Remember, before Robert's Rebellion, Westeros had enjoyed two decades of peace, and most young knights would have earned their spurs fighting off bandits or winning tourneys. Arthur Dayne, arguably the most famous knight of that era, was best known for killing an infamous outlaw. Compared to that, Ned's daring rescue of Lorra Waynwood from the clutches of the mountain clans would have been seen as something exceptional.
Brandon and Oberyn:
Another fun exchange. I wanted to demonstrate the sharp contrast between how Brandon treats family and how he engages a potential enemy. Again, reputation plays a big role here: the Red Viper is a man best known for sleeping with Lord Yronwood's mistress, then (allegedly) poisoning said lord when he demanded a duel. Frankly, it's not a great reputation, and this is a young (~22yo) Oberyn we're dealing with here, not quite the lovable prince Pedro Pascal played a little too well. Furthermore, Oberyn's now Prince Rhaegar's brother-in-law, and Brandon knows that anything he says could make its way back to the king.
Like with Eddard, the scene helped show Cyril's influence on Brandon. Make no mistake, he's still short-tempered and impulsive, but there's a maturity there as well. Wanted this Brandon to ring true to his canon counterpart, rather than feel like a complete character overhaul.
Of note: Oberyn's motivation for approaching Brandon (while hinted at) will be expounded in future chapters, and yes, he is being intentionally difficult:
Lord [last name] is reserved for the head of house, i.e. Brandon should be 'Lord Brandon' and NOBODY should be calling Rickard just 'Lord Rickard.'
Disclaimer: this fic will not have 'character bashing,' so to speak. If there's one thing asoiaf has, it's monsters, and they're everywhere. I don't need to make more.
Ned vs Tygett:
This was our first action scene in a while. Thought it would be fun to include one of Tywin's lesser-known brothers. This one happened to kill three knights before he was old enough to squire (yes, asoiaf feats are insane). Tried to show the Stark brothers at their best while keeping their skills believable. Cyril's mentorship may have done wonders for the boys, but victory is something that remains hard-earned and hard-won. Wouldn't be fun otherwise.
Aside note: Been watching Frieren: Beyond Journey's End, a wonderful Tolkien-esque show with a flavor of fantasy that really resonates with me. Highly recommended.
As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his help.
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