"Dammit all."

The words came out as a curse, however measured he kept his tone. Rickard Stark sat beneath the heart tree, Ice resting over his knee. He ran a hand along the ancient Valyrian blade in a well-practice motion that brought him calm, if not comfort. The Warden of the North had sought refuge in the godswoods after a silent sham of a supper where Brandon had refused to meet Lyanna's glare or Benjen's gaze. The Fairchilds had left the evening before, and they had taken a piece of his family with them. For all they had given in gifts and gold, for all that House Stark would benefit if the Hunter kept his word, it had not felt a fair trade.

Brandon still lived and remained at Winterfell, but his son was lost to him. The previous day's panic had left his body, and his gratitude had bled away with it. Rickard felt it strange to find himself so close to hating a man who had done him no wrong yet stood at the center of his misfortunes. He was no fool: Brandon had offered challenge and given insult, answering defeat with a stab in the back. As the head of House Stark, Rickard was grateful to the Hunter for mitigating the disaster that befell his house, but as a father, he had always spoken of his children with unbridled pride. Cyril Fairchild had taken that from him.

"Dammit all," he whispered again.

Lost in his thoughts, the warden failed to notice Rodrik's approach until the knight's shadow eclipsed the last glimmers of evening light. Forgoing his usual greeting, Rodrik sat beside his lord and uncorked a waterskin, filling the dusk air with the scent of strongwine. The knight drank deeply before offering it to his liege, a post-battle ritual the two men developed during the rebellion, back when Rickard had been a young, untested lord learning the difference between Northern bandits and veteran captains of the Golden Company.

"Looked like you were in need."

His old friend's voice carried a gruff, familiar edge that had Rickard laughing despite his exhaustion and bitterness, "Have I grown so easy to read in my old age?"

"You've been taking a whetstone to Valyrian steel, Milord."

Rickard could not rebuff the claim. Indeed, the stone in his hand had been ground worryingly thin. He set it and the sword aside. Capable as Luwin was, the Lord of Winterfell had no desire to test the limits of the maester's skill.

"So I have," Rickard accepted the wineskin. He drank, pausing only when his lungs begged for breath, unsure but uncaring if the Old Gods valued temperance. The warden and his sworn sword passed the strongwine between themselves in silence. When the wine at last ran dry, Rodrik untied a second from his belt, only for the warden to wave it away.

"You were right, old friend. I should never have invited the Fairchilds here."

Rodrik scowled, showing how much he cared for his lord's apology, "You couldn't have known what your son had planned. Couldn't have known what Fairchild was capable of either."

'But you should have known what Brandon was capable of.' The words were not spoken, but Rickard heard them all the same, whispered in Lyarra's voice. Sleep would not find him tonight.

The Warden of the North breathed deep and slow, gathering himself, "How bad are things, truly?"

The knight squared his shoulders, "Could be better, should be worse. Whole castle knows your son got up to something foul in the yard, just can't seem to agree on what. We have the good Lord Fairchild to thank for that: him showing up for supper made it hard for those who didn't witness the fight to believe those who did. There's more confusion than outrage, at least for now."

Rickard nodded. After the attempt on his guest's life, the servants had thought him mad when he ordered supper to be prepared as planned. The Warden of the North would not soon forget their faces when Cyril Fairchild entered the dining room of the Great Keep, steps light, eyes bright, and smile brighter. Nor would he forget how Lady Evetta had beamed and clapped when her husband announced Brandon would be studying at the Workshop. The scene would have warranted laughter had the whole affair not been so grim.

"What else?"

"Managed to glean more about the Hunter." The knight all but dropped the fresh wineskin in his lord's lap, "That young lad, Donall, came running to me earlier. Looked like he'd just lost at dice to the Others, and they'd come to collect. Threw a gold coin at me. Claimed Fairchild gave it to him as apologies for his sword. Madman had wanted to replace the blade but didn't think he had anything light enough. Let the boy hold that damn cane of his, and the lad said it weighed almost two stones."

A moment passed as the Lord of Winterfell took in the words, and he drank deeply when he did. Two stones…Thrice the weight of a greatsword, and the Hunter had swung it like a reed. Though Brandon would have fared no better had the man been unarmed, the thought of the Hunter striking his son with a war mace rekindled the anger in Rickard's chest.

"Have Fane give him a dragon." He would not punish loyal men for his son's misdeeds. The young man-at-arms was either honest enough to surrender a year's wage in gold or intelligent enough to hand over foreign coin he had no means to spend. House Stark had need for such men.

His thoughts turned to the Hunter, taking stock for the foreign lord who was the subject of both his anger and gratitude. The young man had been a scholar, a student of language and history. He regarded Luwin as a senior, such that even lordship did not deter him from displays of deference. The man was also a warrior, a survivor in a land of horrors. Per Luwin's report, it seemed wherever men went, suffering followed. The West was no paradise. Without doubt, there was greatness there: cities that dwarfed King's Landing, wealth that humbled the Lannisters, and industry that overshadowed Braavos' Arsenal. But their horrors seemed just as great: The Vilebloods of Cainhurst had built their city over a tomb inhabited by monsters. Rickard could scarcely imagine what manner of fortress the city must be to fend off a siege from within every night without end. Nor did he wish to consider what manner of foe would force a city to call upon men of Fairchild's caliber.

The man remained a mystery, and the more Cyril Fairchild insisted he was the second son of a middling lord, the more Rickard was convinced it was the least of his titles.

"What does he want, Rodrik?" His question broke the silence, "Gifts, gold, knowledge…Cyril Fairchild has given all that and more. He takes my son from me, not as a hostage but as a favor. He walked into my solar offering glass for a leasehold I would have exchanged for peace." This was not the way of the world, not in the North or South, Westeros or Essos. Good men paid duty onto oaths. The rest returned favors for favors and repaid debts with interest. Time and again, Cyril Fairchild undermined the foundation of the world Rickard thought he knew. "What would he have of me?"

Rodrik mulled over his lord's question, gesturing for the wineskin, which Rickard obliged.

"I distrust the man. I've made no secret of that, but he had us by the bollocks bent over a barrel." The knight's voice bordered a growl, and Rickard had little doubt the word 'us' had been said in courtesy, "Were there ever a time to bugger the North, that'd been his chance. I doubt Fairchild has much interest in Northern land, else he'd be Lord of the Library Tower by now."

The knight paused, "That said, your grandson may not have much say in whose daughter he takes for a wife."

The Warden of the North scoffed.

"Brandon's problem." Rickard's words carried a callousness he did not mean and an exasperation he no longer cared to hide. When his words were met with silence instead of laughter, he turned to see Rodrik wearing the expression of a condemned man.

Realization dawned on him quickly, "Fane and Luwin?"

The knight nodded, "Aye, they thought I'd be more likely to survive this talk. Speaks to their good sense if not their courage."

"You would have me disinherit Brandon."

The knight nodded again, the motion stiff but sure, "Pardon me for saying, Milord, but he can't stay your heir. What he did endangered you all."

'My son endangered no one.' How he wished to say those words without having to lie. If word of what happened got out, Jon and Steffon would distance their respective houses from the Starks. Hoster would follow, halting the shipments of grain. To secure food for their holds, Northern lords would bypass House Starks in their dealings with the Riverlands and Reach. Lyanna would find herself without marriage prospects; Benjen, without fosterage. The very balance of power in the North would change hands, and Winterfell would stand alone. Rickard could see it all: The legacy of eight thousand years brought low by the actions of a day.

None of this accounted for what would have happened had Brandon wounded–much less killed–Lord Fairchild. It would have meant war. Rickard was as proud a Northern as any, but against a people who could cross a sea even the Ironborn feared to tread, who wielded weapons that made castle-forged steel look as soft as bronze, he doubted House Stark would have fared well.

And yet, he balked at the thought of doing what must be done.

"The matter is settled. Lord Fairchild's magnanimity saw to it." Rickard Stark spoke words he did not believe, words that would have been lies were he attempting deception, "The commotion will die once Brandon begins his tutelage. The whispers may spread to Wintertown, but no further. Word travels slowly in the North."

"News travels slow, but rumors fly with the wind. And you and I will be the last to hear of them, Milord." Rodrik regarded his liege with the hard eyes of a man prepared to stand his ground, "Whispers have already reached Wintertown. Several merchants have made it their home, and all Northern trade worth a damn eventually makes its way to White Harbor. Wyman may be your foster brother–hells, I like the man–but don't tell me you'd trust him with what happened here."

The Warden had no rebuttal. The Lord of New Castle had spent his boyhood at Winterfell. Though Rickard would never doubt his loyalty, the merman was too sharp and shrewd to be trusted with such damning information.

Rodrik spoke unabated.

"Even if word of what happened never left these walls, we're expecting the first harvest in three moons and the spring feast soon after. Every lord in the North, great and petty, will gather under your roof. Someone will talk. When talk leads to more talk, your bannerman will have questions." Rodrik spoke with solemn resolve, "Twenty years I've been your sword, Milord, and I've never known you to be a liar. Are you prepared to look each man in the eye and deny the rumors?"

The knight got to his feet, "Say you managed it, would you trust Brandon to do the same?"

Silence followed. The two men did not move even as the winds grew strong and the world dimmed. The Warden of the North said his piece.

"Brandon challenged Lord Fairchild to a spar. Tempers flared, and my son conducted himself in a manner beneath his station. Thankfully, Lord Fairchild took no offense, even offering to take Brandon as a student on account of his skill." The words offered the barest inklings of truth, enough for him to choke out the words without accompanying bile, "That is all he will say on the matter."

Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, stood and passed judgment. "In six years' time, Brandon will abdicate. He will find himself uninterested in lordship, and Ned will assume the mantle of warden upon my death."

The gods would damn him for this. But Rodrik had spoken truth: Even as a rumor, muddled by Lord Fairchild's magnanimity, whispers of what happened would follow Brandon for the rest of his days, a weapon his enemies–and allies–would wield against him. His reputation would be forever tarnished. Too many were involved to keep everything wholly secret: Rickard would have to lie; Brandon would have to lie. Most importantly, Lord Fairchild would have to corroborate this mummer's farce. Rickard could not allow any man to hold such power over House Stark.

But there was a simpler, more horrible truth: Rickard could no longer trust his eldest with the future of their family and house. Whatever others believed, Rickard knew what Brandon had done. He could no longer trust his son to do what duty dictated and justice demanded.

Rodrik nodded gravely, "Will the boy agree to this?"

"He will." The warden spoke with finality, "If he still respects my judgment, he will stand here in the morrow and swear it before the Old Gods and his father."

Again, Rodrik nodded, "And what's to become of him after?"

"He will leave the North and sail east. I will see him off in a Northern galley well-supplied with men and gold. He will be free to reestablish himself wherever he chooses."

The knight squared his shoulders. "And if he chooses to join the Company of Roses?"

Rickard glared at the man who had been his closest confidant, wondering if a lifetime of friendship could survive the words to follow, "Then that is his choice. They are not the Golden Company. The Roses have not set foot on Northern shores in three centuries. They have no claim here."

"No, but you'd give them one," Rodrik's voice rose just short of shouting, "Hells to it all, I trust your boy, even after all that's happened. If he swears to abdicate, I trust him to. But what of his son? His son's son? Ned's line could face a foe with greater claim to Winterfell than any Blackfyre had to Kings Landing!"

"What would you have me do?" Where Rodrik's voice had risen, Rickard's took on a cold, hard edge, "Never has an heir of Winterfell joined the Watch. Never has a firstborn son been set aside for the second. To have him take the Black would be as good as admitting guilt, and banishing him would mean the same. What would you have of me? Take him hunting and arrange for an accident?"

Rickard's heart twisted with ugly satisfaction as Rodrik recoiled at his words, but it was short-lived, turning bitter in his gut. He had not decided the timeframe of his son's abdication frivolously: Deep in his heart, he hoped that the Hunter would take his son as a formal apprentice, that Brandon would accompany the Fairchild's when they returned west in six years time. It would allow him to leave with honor. But he could not ask this of the Hunter, not after all the man had already done.

"Brandon will abdicate. Let that be enough."

'Do not ask more of me.'

The Warden of the North left the godswoods empty-handed, leaving Rodrik to retrieve his family sword. His burdens were heavy enough without a physical reminder of the legacy he had nearly brought to ruin.

Loud knocks at the door awoke him from fitful sleep. Rodrik entered the room, looking as tired as Rickard felt. The knight bowed dutifully, as if the argument last evening never occurred, "Milord, you are needed in Wintertown."

"What happened?"

"You'd not believe me if you don't see it yourself," the knight sighed, "Fairchild delivered his rent."

Rickard rode out at first light with twenty men, a tenth of his household guard. They made their way down the muddied streets, past squat houses of snow-stained wood and naked stone into the market square. Though most smallfolk had returned to the fields, all who remained had gathered in the public square, the focus of their attention clear.

Six wooden crates rivaling the size of nearby houses occupied the space. Already his men had one opened, revealing its contents for all to see: Great stacks of glass as clear as lakeside ice lined the crate from floor to ceiling, each layer protected by large sheets of wool. Fane Poole and Maester Luwin scrutinized a pane the height of a man and half the width, bowing as Rickard approached.

"The local tanner alerted the guards to the crates last evening near the hour of the owl." The steward reported, "There were no prior sightings, no witnesses, and the guards on duty likewise reported nothing."

The Warden of the North surveyed the clearing. There were no furrows in the muddied road, no tracks from a horse or carriage, no indication at all that the delivery was the product of human labor.

"What of the glass itself?"

Luwin stepped forward, "Its strength and clarity puts the work of Myr to shame, Milord. From my readings, I believe this is polished plate glass. The cost of even a single pane is ruinous, my lord."

Fane nodded his ascent, "By our estimates, there is enough glass in each crate for a new glass garden apiece."

Six glass gardens. Six glass gardens for six years in the North. Cyril had offered glass, and Rickard had accepted. They had not discussed details, and Rickard had been content to let the matter rest, too preoccupied with Brandon's fate to care. The Hunter could have handed him a cracked vase, and the Lord of Winterfell would have considered it payment enough. Furthermore, he had thought Lord Fairchild would require time to facilitate the trade.

"Some of the panes look to weigh as much as six stones. We requested the services of the master mason to oversee transport and ensure no one comes to undue harm."

The steward's voice shook Rickard from his musing, "I trust you to see it done."

Fane and Luwin bowed deeply as the warden returned to Rodrik, whose men were ordering the smallfolk to disperse and readying wagons for transport. The knight fixed his lord with a question uttered too low for others to hear.

"Magic?"

A nod was the only answer he received.

Later, when Rickard stood alone on the battlements, watching pane after pane of glass make its way through the gates of Winterfell, he found himself laughing. It was a hollow thing, bereft of merriment or joy. House Stark acquired its glass garden a thousand years ago, when his ancestors seized the holdings of the Greystarks after the last Bolton Rebellion. It had taken the extinction of a noble house to fund a single garden. Now he had six, one to build in Winterfell and five to give. History would remember him for this. The North now had the means to grow food during winter on a scale unseen in all its history, and House Stark's position had never been stronger.

Was it wrong that he would give it all away to see his family whole again? No answer came to him as day turned to night, the shadows growing long under the soft light of the paleblood moon.

TBC

Author's Note:

Meanwhile, the Fairchild's were celebrating their first student.

A bit of a more somber chapter. Unfortunately, actions have consequences, and this being Westeros, second changes are hard to come by.