The Book of the Farm.
A strange name for a book bound in fine red leather and titled with gold ink. Stranger still for such a book to be in the hands of a nobleman, much less the lord of a great house. The thought of young Mace Tyrell poring over such text brought Rickard no small measure of amusement.
But he was of the North, where food and life were synonymous. Any northern lord worth the name possessed some passing knowledge of how bread came to his table. But the contents of this book were beyond him. Likely beyond any well-to-do farmer in what Rickard had believed—mere days ago—encompassed the known world.
The tome contained near a thousand pages. A thousand pages detailing animal husbandry, field irrigation, the formulation of fertilizer, and the rotation of crops–half the names of which he did not know. Every thirty odd pages, Rickard spied illustrations of intricate metal contraptions–drills and plows–seemingly birthed from the minds of the Citadel's brightest maesters and built by Qohor's greatest smiths.
That was to say nothing of the book itself, reams of white paper with uniform text that would shame the works of the finest scribes, the letters seemingly stamped into the page rather than written. The damn thing was better bound than anything in his personal study.
What did it say about a people when they had books on farming better studied and written than those detailing the deeds of House Stark, a line of once-kings?
Rickard sighed in his seat, a growing occurrence of late. He had taken his evening meal with his children only to retreat into his solar. The room had survived the burning of Winterfell by two Red Kings, the furniture within heirlooms crafted from the hull of Argos Sevenstar's flagship, a room that was as much the North as the Godswoods. Here, the books of Cyril Fairchild sat like unwelcome guests.
His solar was silent but not empty. Rodrik and his steward, Fane Poole, kept good if disgruntled company. The knight studied the curiously named Burke's Peerage with hard eyes, as if willing the pages alight with his gaze. Fane pored over the works of several septons detailing the supposed history of the Great Isles.
There was another in the room. Maester Luwin, the newest member of Rickard's circle, had forgone a chair. He instead knelt on the floor, eyes darting between three open tomes. Every long while, he would about-face, scribble illegibly into a scroll, and resume his reading. The maester had done little else save drink and bathe–and only with prompting–since Rickard returned the evening before, books in hand.
"What news do you bring, Maester Luwin?" Fane Poole called, breaking the silence as the candles burned low, hailing Luwin as if the maester had returned from a great journey.
The maester in question stood, gaze somewhat distant. "The Lords of the Lonely Light have long claimed there were lands beyond the Sunset Sea that never knew winter, where every man was his own king." he shook his head, "The tale was always worth a good laugh."
Rodrik shifted uneasily, looking up from his own text. "Fairchild did mention his wife wanted to see snow."
The maester sighed, "To think I would live to see the day the Ironborn knew more than the Citadel." He made his way to one of the far corners of the room, hands reaching for ale rather than water.
The aged steward offered the maester an apologetic smile, retrieving a cup from his own corner. Luwin had forbidden food or drink within ten paces of the books, an edict he ably enforced despite his lack of lordship.
The maester upended his flagon.
"My lords, we stand before the greatest collection of revelations and blasphemy in the Seven Kingdoms." He looked upon the books sprawled about with guarded reverence, "Gods Old and New, if I sent half of these back to the Citadel, the archmasters would throw a second chain around my neck. And hang me with it."
Rickard said nothing, absorbing the maesters words. Luwin took hold of a heavy tome titled The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy. "This book, written by a knight," the word stressed to emphasize the sheer absurdity of the idea, "Shames the life's work of every bronze-linked maester in the last thousand years. The application of numbers to the motion of bodies celestial and mundane is known to us, but nothing to this extent. Physics he calls it."
Luwin set the book aside with care, raising another, the Elementary Treatise on Chemistry. "This book details a manner of alchemy, but not as the so-called Wisdoms know it. No mention of wildfire, but rather the principle of transforming matter by means clearly mundane." He eyed the last book of three, New System of Chemical Philosophy, "Forgive me, Lord Stark, I cannot start to make sense of that one."
The Warden of the North listened wordlessly as Luwin spoke. When added to his own findings, he disliked the picture it painted. Here were forty books. How many lords in Westeros could claim to own a hundred and part with nearly half without care? Then there were the contents of the books themselves. Already Rickard could see in his mind a kingdom that rivaled Valyria in wealth and knowledge, where winters were blissfully short.
'What crime did our forefathers commit to be so cursed and they so blessed?' He fought the welling sense of bitterness.
Worse, the land was young: if the Peerage were to be believed, the Kingdom of the Great Isles was united a mere eight centuries ago. There was no mention of House Fairchild until four centuries after. House Tyrell had served as High Stewards of Highgarden for five times as long. Yet it hardly mattered.
'A land where every man is his own king.'
The thought should be absurd. And yet Lady Evetta had given him two gifts when he left the Workshop, tucked away with the books like mere trinkets from a village market. The first was a silver cylinder ending with a fine, tapered tip. The Hunter had called it a fountain pen, a writing instrument that held its own reservoir of ink. Rickard had not needed an ink well in over a day and marveled at the fact.
Yet, even the pen paled when compared to the small, circular object now resting in his hand. Pressing a side trigger revealed a face with twelve numbers and two center arms that revolved at a steady, constant pace. Lord Fairchild had named it a timepiece and it did as the name implied, every full rotation of the short hand marked the day from dusk to dawn. Dorne had its sundials, the Riverlands its water clocks, and the Reach favored their expensive, marked candles. But the Warden of the North now knew the hour, wherever he may be. Rickard would have thought it sorcery had the glass face not displayed the intricate copper gears that spun whenever he wound the timepiece each morn.
The device was as beyond Westeros as Valyarian steel.
"It is as you say, Maester Luwin," Rickard broke his silence, "But remember this is knowledge Lord Fairchild chose to show. I am interested in what he wished to hide."
Fane Poole nodded, stroking his greying beard, "I fear we may be losing the forest in the trees. There is likely more information here than the four of us could ever hope to manage, learned though we are. Perhaps that was by design."
Rodrik grunted, "So the bastard wanted us distracted. Alright, what did he leave out?"
"History," Fane replied easily, "Based on the dates of the more recent works, there are nearly six centuries unaccounted for. Most texts end less than two hundred years after the founding of the Great Isles. Imagine a history of Westeros that made no mention of the Dance."
"Furthermore," the steward continued, "While I find it curious that the history of these lands were recorded by septons, I find it moreso that no holy texts made their way into this collection."
"I reckon that was probably for the best, maybe even a courtesy," Rodrik offered. He said no more but Rickard agreed. The North and Westeros fared poorly with new faiths: First came the Andals and their Seven, and now there were whispers of a Red Priest in Aerys' court.
"What did you glean?"
Fane regarded his lord, near apologetic, "There were allusions to a singular God and his temple, but little else."
Rodrik snorted, "So everything from the Seven Who Are One to the Black Goat of Qohor."
"I am afraid so."
Luwin chose that moment to speak, "My Lords, I fear there is another important matter we've yet to discuss." The maester struggled again to his feet, the rattle of his long chain sounding through the room. He joined the other members of Rickard's circle and studied the great prize upon his desk.
A map of the West.
Even now, after a day of study, Rickard could scarcely believe his eyes. A great landmass spanned one end of the map, giving way to a eastern coast dotted with islands that denoted the Great Isles. They sat amidst a span of water near twice the size of the Narrow Sea. And on the eastern end, Rickard made out the Stony Shore, inaccurate and without detail, but there all the same. Here was the Shipwright's dream realized. The map was not his to keep, he knew this. But a copy would be made and archived, bringing some closure to House Stark's greatest shame.
Luwin placed a hand on the great western mainland, hovering over the word 'Yharnam' written in foreboding red. "Lord Fairchild disclosed nothing regarding this city or his Hunter's Order, not even a bestiary of the monsters he claims to hunt. There is also no mention of Lady Evetta's house, the Vilebloods of Cainhurst."
Fane waved a hand, "Your first point can be explained away easily enough. Guilds and knightly orders have their secrets. You would not expect the Kingsguard to hand over the White Book to anyone who asks, even if it were the Sealord asking." His countenance grew serious, "But your point regarding the Vilebloods is well made."
The aged steward looked to his liege, "If Lord Fairchild speaks truth, then the inheritance of titles is as stringent as that of land. No lord, however small, would willingly wed his first-born daughter to a landless second son. Moreso if the son had no title to his name. I find it likely Lady Evetta was the second or third daughter of Lord Gehrman Vileblood, and for her to retain the title of lady speaks to the strength of her house."
"So Fairchild married well above his station." Rodrik concluded, "I take it future discourtesies should be discouraged?"
The steward nodded, "A sure way to start a blood feud with a people we've not even met."
The knight gave no reply. Instead, he made for his own drink, passing a glance at Rickard that said a point was made: The kindly and demure Lady Fairchild was not to be underestimated. The Starks had poor history with houses that favored pink and pale red heraldry, and Rickard doubted the name Vileblood was earned through kindness.
"There is one last matter I must discuss, Lord Stark." Fane spoke slowly, as if searching for the words, "A keep was built in the Wolfswood."
All attention turned to the greybeard.
"I am no maester. I have no links of lead or iron. Nor do I know what is needed to build a manor during a winter storm, much less how to conceal its construction from a neighboring lord. But I have been Steward of Winterfell since the days of your father, my lord. I know what is required for a castle's upkeep during a Northern winter. I set two hundred men and women to the task each day before dawn, to say nothing of the men who staff the garrison."
The steward sighed.
"Ten men. I would assign no less to manage and guard a keep as you described, my lord. But I am to believe Lord and Lady Fairchild see to it themselves, as smallfolk would a thatch hut?"
Fane Poole looked to his lord, beseeching him for answers. The Warden of the North had none to give. The old steward had not spoken a thought Rickard did not share. Yet, answers eluded him, as if his mind feared whatever truths he may find.
"Could the guards live elsewhere perhaps?" Lewin proposed. "A garrison separate from the Fairchild manse?"
The steward shook his head, "It would be the height of foolishness to station men so far from their charge. You would be inviting disaster."
"Could be magic."
Three heads turned to Rodrik, now pouring his second cup of watered ale.
"They call the North the land of grumpkins and snarks. Just as they say the Rhoynar practiced water magic, the Valyrians fire, and the cursed fucks in Asshai birth shadows. They also say magic's gone from the world but the world just got bigger. Who's to say?"
Tension fell over the room. The words were spoken and could not be unsaid.
Rickard released a tired breath, "You are awfully calm saying this, Rodrik."
The knight scoffed, taking a mighty gulp before topping his cup and offering it to his liege, "Already said this was sounding like one of Old Nan's tales."
The Warden of the North drew a long draft of ale. The thought had crossed his mind, but he feared giving it a voice. Words had power and silence was a language all its own.
Magic. It made a strange matter of sense. Wargs were a known factor among the wildlings north of the Wall. They were the bane of many a ranging party but little more. In the end, therein lay the problem. Wildlings were a known element; the Fairchilds were unknown. Undoubtedly wealthy. Seemingly kind, but unknown all the same. And little else gave the Warden of the North more cause for concern, but that in itself was no crime.
"Lady Fairchild fed our people with bear meat her husband hunted. Their manor sits on a small plot of land, the worth of which Lord Fairchild has paid five times over. The matter of poaching is similarly moot." The words did not come easy, "They will visit Winterfell within a moon. The conditions and duration of their stay in the North will be discussed. I admit their appearance in the Wolfswoods strange and without precedence. But suspicion is not proof. And I will not condemn the daughter of a foreign great house nor the leader of a knightly order on suspicion alone."
Fane studied his lord, "You see opportunity."
Rickard looked to his new timepiece and pen.
"It is too soon to say." Much remained uncertain, but he did not deny the claim. The North was poor, oft too poor to see its people fed, nevermind restoring Moat Cailin and the Western fleet. White Harbor was but one city and for all its trade, the taxes and tariffs of a single city could not support the largest of the Seven Kingdoms.
No help would come from the Crown. Aerys had proven himself a poor friend to the North. Rickard would have been disappointed had things ever been different. House Stark had kept faith with the dragons through the Dance, through five Blackfyre rebellions. And what had that earned them? Silence whenever the Reach raised the price of grain to the point of ruin. Warnings and thinly-veiled threats when Rickard raised the price of wool, whale oil, and lumber in turn.
And now the west was known, mapped and untread. The Fairchilds could prove a valuable connection, introducing the North to new markets: The son of an earl an avenue into the Great Isles, daughter of a duke a throughline to the mainland. Were that possible, Rickard could see his promise to Lyarra fulfilled, perhaps even live to see Brandon inherit a strong North. For such a thing, he could overlook much, including magic.
But he would not be blinded by dreams.
The head of House Stark stood and all rose with him.
"I will have your oaths, on your lives and honor, that nothing seen or spoken tonight leaves this room." The knight, maester, and steward looked upon him with alarm, but not surprise. "The Lord Hunter and his lady wife hail from beyond the Sunset Sea. Of this, there is no doubt. But that does not mean they are who they claim."
He met the eyes of each man.
"Until more is known, I will have your silence." To invite rumors now was to invite ruin. Already there were whispers of Aerys refusing marriage between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei Lannister. The South would soon be a balefire. He would not have the Crown's attention turned north.
Grey eyes fixed upon Luwin, "We could announce all we know to the Realm at daybreak. But should a single claim prove false, our words would be wind forever thereafter."
The maester had the good sense to nod his understanding. Oaths were sworn in uttered breaths, in growing shadows and dimming candlelight.
"Luwin, Fane, I bid you both goodnight. I will have need of your counsel in the coming days." He turned to his sworn sword, "A moment of your time, Rodrik.
The Northern lord and his knight stood alone, not unlike how they had mere days ago, when the world had suddenly changed, growing larger and less certain.
"Thank you, old friend."
Rodrik Cassel eyed his liege as if he had grown two heads.
"Just doing my duty, Milord."
"You disapproved of my invitation to Lord Fairchild."
Rodrik nodded, "Aye, I did."
"Yet you said nothing."
The knight huffed, "I am your sword, Milord. 'Tis my duty to keep you alive, offer good counsel when you ask it, and offer better when you don't. Not my place to question your authority when a decision's been made." He paused for but a moment, as if committing himself to his next words, "But were it up to me, I'd not let Fairchild set foot in Winterfell."
"Lord Fairchild," Rickard corrected, allowing himself a smile as Rodrik scowled in distaste. It did not last, "You suspect treachery?"
The knight shook his head, "I'd hardly accuse a Golden Company war elephant of treachery. Doesn't mean I want it near me and mine."
Rickard nodded, "A dangerous man."
"So you agree." 'Yet you invited him' went unsaid.
"They honored guest rights." Rickard said simply, "To bar them from Winterfell would have been an insult and present dangers all its own. I will not make a certain enemy of a potential friend."
Rodrik sighed, "You play a dangerous game, milord."
"Then I trust you with my back, old friend."
The knight scoffed.
"I fought at your side against Maelys and the Golden Company. I will hold my own against a lone Hunter."
TBC
Author's Note:
A slower chapter, but I thought it important to get into the heads of the Northerners before the Fairchilds came calling. Actions are only as important as the reactions they cause, after all.
Furthermore: The map in question is the one of Boletaria from the opening of Demon souls. In the original Bloodborne demo, Father Gascoigne's dialogue included 'Umbasa,' an homage to Demon Souls that was cut from the final game. I took the liberty of joining Bloodborne+Demon Souls to enrich the soulsborne side of the story. The Western coast does resemble Westeros (if you want it to).