"I, Rickard of House Stark, bid welcome to our noble guests from across the sea."

From atop the steps of Winterfell's Great Hall, his voice carried the authority of the old Kings of Winter. Rickard stood surrounded by his children, dressed in their best furs and finery. Lyanna held herself with barely-concealed excitement. Benjen, ever shy, clung to his eldest brother, who carried himself with uncharacteristic calm.

At the base of the steps stood Rickard's long-awaited guests. Lady Evetta towered over the gathered crowd, striking and beautiful, cloaked in umber and sable wool. She wore a brilliant scarlet scarf, bonnet, and gloves in place of her pale-red adornments. Fresh roses crowned her new hat. Where Lady Evetta found blooming flowers so early in spring, the Warden of the North could not say, but she carried three boxes wrapped in bright-colored cloth between her arms, and Rickard could guess their purpose, if not their contents.

The Hunter stood shorter but not overshadowed by his lady wife. The young lord wore a high-collared overcoat, dark olive and almost grey, with a waistcoat that matched his wife's dress. His attire displayed few adornments save the silver chain on his breast pocket holding what Rickard now knew to be his personal timepiece. Like his wife, the Hunter wore a hat, a peculiar three-pointed thing with edges that resembled raven feathers. Yet all eyes fell upon the Hunter's cane, a solid thing of burnished steel. Rickard had first thought the younger man had run afoul of another bear, but the Hunter's steady gait quickly dissuaded him of the notion. The foreign lord carried the cane the way a knight would wear a sword. A mark of status, then.

All were silent as the Hunter removed his cap and placed his cane in the crook of his arm. The Lord and Lady Fairchild bowed as one.

"We thank you for your invitation and hospitality, my Lord Duke."

Murmurs and whispers arose at the foreign address, the air alive with excitement. Rickard's mind warred between exasperation and relief.

The pageantry on display had been the culmination of many weeks' work. His inner circle had spent many a night planning this day and more time than Rickard would ever admit discussing how the Warden of the North would greet their foreign guests. To await their arrival at the gates would have been out of the question, an honor reserved for royalty. To welcome them on even footing would have marked them as equals, which Rodrik had opposed. The warden had agreed: while House Vileblood was likely a great house, House Fairchild was not. Furthermore, Cyril Fairchild was not an acting emissary of his kingdom or city. And yet, it would have been an insult to await their arrival from the high table, as the warden would a vassal. The resulting compromise had satisfied no one, but it was the price Rickard chose to pay.

Much has happened since he last saw the strange lord and lady of the Old Workshop. The Fairchild's gold had proven an unprecedented windfall. Southern grain would soon make its way north, and House Stark's coffers would be no worse for wear. Rickard had further tasked the maester with cultivating potatoes in a small plot below the Broken Tower. Luwin was confident the first harvest would be ready in time for the spring feast, and if the gods were kind, the foreign crop would find its way into the hands of smallfolk farmers in short order.

Elsewhere, progress had been slow. Though he loathed to admit it, Rickard did not have the means to capitalize on the knowledge the Fairchilds provided. Constructing the foreign plows and seed drills would require steel and craftsmen in numbers Rickard simply did not have at hand and could not recruit without garnering undue attention. Similarly, the formulation of fertilizer required volatile substances in quantities more likely to reenact Summerhall than increase the yield of future harvests. The North was changing, in some ways slower than he hoped; in others, faster than he wanted. Whether it was worth a foreign lord building a townhouse at his doorstep remained to be seen.

A servant approached with bread and salt. Once guest rights were honored, the Hunter and his tall, kindly wife ascended the steps of the Great Hall. Once more, the Lord of Hunters stood before the Warden of the North.

"It is good to see you again, Lord Stark."

Rickard returned the greeting.

"My children," he gestured, pride filling his voice as he introduced his son, "Brandon, my eldest."

The heir of Winterfell studied the foreigner before bowing, one the Hunter returned in kind. Rickard motioned to his two young children, "My daughter Lyanna and Benjen, my youngest."

Despite Benjen's nerves and Lyanna's willfulness, both bowed as they had been taught, and Rickard felt his pride grow.

"My second son, Eddard, is sailing up from Gulltown, due to return within a fortnight."

The Hunter beamed at the sight of the children, but it was Lady Evetta who spoke first.

"You have a lovely family, Honorable Lord." Her voice flowed like a melody, a demure smile forming upon her lips with a joy that reached her eyes.

Benjen stared at the lady in wonder, "So tall," he whispered, only to retreat further into his brother's shadow, realizing he had spoken the words aloud when five heads turned his way.

Not to be outdone by her brother, Lyanna broke away from her family and approached the young lord.

"You're the Lord Hunter," she says.

The foreign lord smiled and offered a nod, "I cannot deny the accusation."

Rickard shared a knowing look with Rodrik, who smiled back. Cyril Fairchild had made the mistake of indulging his daughter and would likely be forced to endure the moniker for the foreseeable future. Perhaps forever.

For her part, Lyanna scrunched her nose at the young lord's reply, staring brazenly up at the Hunter, "Your eyes are very bright," she observed, speaking with the candor only a child could, "Do you have stars in your eyes, my lord?"

The Hunter's voice rang with laughter, "Not today, Lady Lyanna."

Benjen stepped forward, borrowing his sister's courage, "Is it true you've hunted bears, my lord?" he asked as he fought the tremor in his voice.

The Hunted nods, "I have."

"Have you ever hunted wolves?" The boy asked again, half fearful.

"Wolves? No, I cannot say I have," the Hunter assured, "Though I have hunted Paarls."

Benjen gave the Hunter a half-puzzled look, wondering what manner of animal a Paarl was, a sentiment shared by all those close enough to hear.

"I like your hat," The boy offered, voice growing stronger, deciding the Hunter was not one of the storied horrors that kept him curled under his furs at night.

"My hat? That is kind of you to say, Lord Benjen," The Hunter looked down at his feathered cap, "I would happily lend it to you. However, I believe Evetta would much rather you helped her with these presents."

Benjen and Lyanna gasped as Lady Evetta placed the brilliantly colored boxes in their eager hands. Brandon, in turn, accepted his gift with thanks.

"Can we open them?" Lyanna asked, looking up at her lord father with eyes that promised he had no real say in the matter.

"Patience," Rickard insists instead, knowing how well-received a refusal would be. Even then, Lyanna soured at his words but kept silent as her father urged her younger brother to unwrap his gift.

Gift-giving was as much pageantry as everything else this day: It was important for the Fairchilds to be seen offering gifts to the ruling house of the North, just as it was important for those gathered to see the gifts given. Every Stark retainer and servant watched as Rickard's youngest son undid the silk ribbon and bright-colored cloth, opening the paper box within. He gasped and with a look of delight, held up a toy wolf. Intricately forged from metal and masterfully painted, it was a fine gift.

"Thank you, Lord and Lady Hunter!" Laughter rose from the crowd at Benjen's exuberance. Lord Fairchild passed his wife a well-pleased smile before turning back to the young Stark.

"Do you see the wind-up key on top, Lord Benjen?"

The young boy frowned, initially puzzled, but he nodded after spotting the strange handle atop his wolf.

"Turn it. Five rotations should suffice."

Benjen followed the Hunter's instructions and nearly dropped the wolf in surprise, "It's moving!" The boy raised the wolf for all to see, and even Rickard was struck, watching the wolf's legs move in unison with the rotating key. Murmurs arose from those close by.

Benjen turned to his father's guest with newfound wonder, "Is it magic?"

The foreign lord shook his head, "Not quite." He produced his timepiece, near identical to the one gifted to Lord Stark save the Hunter's mark carved into its silver lid.

"This is called a timepiece or pocket watch," Lord Fairchild held it low for the child to see, "Notice the metal gears behind the crystal? When I wind the watch, the gears move, and the arms move with them. The same happens when you wind your wolf; the gears inside turn and its legs move."

The young Stark nodded, even as his face belied confusion and slight disappointment that his new toy was not magic.

The Hunter chuckled, "When we find a table, let us see how far we can make your new wolf run."

The young Stark brightened at the idea. He thanked the Hunter again and stepped back to join his brother. The Hunter turned to Lyanna, who eyed Benjen with thin-veiled envy.

"No need for that, Lady Lyanna," the foreign lord laughed, prompting the young girl to unwrap her own present. Lyanna wasted no time. Ribbons came undone; the cloth unraveled and the box opened.

"Another box?" Lyanna was already frowning as she held up an ornate box just small enough for the young girl to lift with both arms. To Rickard's eye, it was a beautiful thing, inlaid with ivory and nacre that would have been the envy of many a noble lady. A jewelry box, perhaps?

Lady Evetta stepped forward, offering the young girl a silver key with red-gloved hands, "Open it, dear child. Your gift lies within."

Lyanna took the key from the giant lady, disappointment overtaken by growing curiosity. She socketed the key and lifted the lid.

Music.

Music poured from the box, a set of chimes struck by a half dozen hands to a rhythm and melody unlike anything Rickard had ever heard. It should have been impossible. And yet the mesmerizing melody, more complex than anything a minstrel could produce, continued to flow from the box, ensnaring every man and woman in a rapturous spell.

When the music at last came to an end, Lyanna nearly stumbled in surprise. She clutched the box to her chest, desperate to keep it safe.

"An Impromptu Fantasy," the Hunter explained, giving the music name and form, "Is it not beautiful, Lady Lyanna?"

Under his voice, the spell broke. The crowd came alive, whispers and talk of magic filling the silence left in the music's wake. Rickard grew concerned when the whispers bordered accusation, but Luwin chose that moment to step forth.

"Is that a phonograph, my lord?" The maester spoke in a raised voice short of a shout, silencing the crowd as respect was paid to the learned man.

The Hunter regarded the maester with interest, standing much too calm for a man nearly accused of sorcery in Lord Stark's halls.

"You have a good eye. Yes, Evetta and I thought Lady Lyanna would enjoy her own music box. It contains a phonograph cylinder," to the further surprise of many, the Hunter inclined his head, "Maester Luwin, I presume?"

"You presume correctly, Lord Fairchild," The maester of Winterfell bowed low to counteract the Hunter's unprecedented misstep: Lords did not bow before maesters, after all. He then turned to the Warden of the North, voice loud enough for all to hear, "This is a rare gift, my lord. You would be hard-pressed to find a phonograph outside the Citadel."

Rickard recognized the half-truth of Luwin's words and the great service the maester had just rendered House Stark. The murmurs died with Luwin's explanation, accepting the maester's word out of hand. Order had been restored without intervention from Rodrik or his guards. Lyanna thanked the Fairchilds like her brother before her but continued to steal glances at the lady who gifted her the music box. All eyes turned to the last and eldest of the Stark children.

Brandon unwraps his gift without ceremony, revealing a leather-bound book, black with silver lettering.

"Fechtbuch," he read and stared at the foreigner with askance.

"A combat manual," the Hunter explained, earning Brandon's attention, "The author was a swordsman of great renown who served as instructor to many a knight and lord, including the Duke who commissioned this treatise. I was told you have the makings of the finest swordsman the North has seen in a generation. I hope you find this book helpful or at least of interest."

Brandon regarded the foreign lord with a silence Rickard had never known the boy to have. He runs a hand across the book's spine, studying the lettering again before meeting the foreigner's gaze and nodding.

"You have my thanks, Lord Hunter,"

The Warden of the North worried for his son. Brandon alone knew the truth of the Fairchilds, of the map detailing lands beyond the Sunset Sea, now secured in a lockbox guarded on rotation by Rodrik's most trusted men. Rickard thought it only right for his eldest and heir to know his plans, of the talks ahead that could decide the future of the North for generations to come. The boy had been strangely quiet since then, and Rickard feared he had erred. Yet the head of House Stark could not afford to allow fear or doubt to plague his heart. He trusted Brandon to know his duty and honor his word as a Stark, however suspicious he was of his father's guests. Guests who had given his children gifts that would be the envy of princes and kings alike.

"House Stark thanks you for these gifts and the kindness you have shown the people of the North." He gestured the Hunter and his wife into the Great Hall, "You will find welcome here at my table and hearth."

Pageantry had been observed. Guest rights honored and gifts given. It was time for the Fairchild's visit to Winterfell to begin proper and true.

TBC

Author's Note:

Ages of the Stark Children:

Brandon: 15-16

Eddard: 15

Lyanna: 9

Benjen: 8

Age of Cyril Fairchild: None of your business.