The North felt familiar, but Winterfell had changed. There were days when Ned wondered if he could still call the castle home. He had left the North at the age of seven. Now five and ten, he had lived more years south of the Neck than not. Father once told him the North was in his blood, but Ned knew blood alone was not enough, else even wildings could lay claim to the proud legacy of the First Men.
The Manderlys had descended upon him the moment his ship made port, dragging him off to a feast that would have beggared most petty lords. White Harbor had been alive with commerce, the docks filled to near bursting with merchant ships once waylaid by winter. The only thing that changed hands faster than goods was gossip. Rumor was his father had a guest, a Myrish glassmaker who had eloped with a Volantene bride. The man-sized pane of glass sitting proudly in Lord Wyman's solar had lent credence to the outlandish tale. Ned made for Wintertown with an escort of Manderly knights, his mind awash with unease despite his father's apparent good fortune.
A quarter turn of the moon saw him back at Winterfell, assailed by his younger siblings as soon as he reached the gates. Benjen was no longer a babe struggling with his first steps, and Lyanna, now a girl of nine name days, looked so much like their mother. The angle of her eyes, the shape of her face, and windswept hair restored details to memories that were starting to blur, another poignant reminder of his long absence. Ned had embraced them both. For a moment, his fears had felt far away, only to return at the sight of his father.
Rickard Stark lived as a giant in Ned's mind, the North personified in cold strength and quiet dignity. The Warden of the North stood as tall as Ned remembered, but there was a heaviness to his steps and weariness in his bearing that betrayed a man haunted by more than the burdens of lordship. Apologizing for Brandon's absence, the warden had pulled Ned into an embrace much like his siblings, even as an undercurrent of worry overwhelmed the warmth in his eyes.
Winterfell matched what memories Ned had of home, an immovable bedrock of old magic and stone where the cold froze time itself in place. But this was not the Winterfell of his boyhood: Brandon was not practicing in the yard with Ser Rodrik, it was Maester Luwin–not Walys–who greeted him in the Library Tower, and old Fane had been busy overseeing a storeroom stocked not with grain but glass. Question upon question brewed in Ned's mind as he wandered his old home, noticing how guards stood straighter in his presence and servants bowed deeply as he passed, more deference than he received as Lord Arryn's ward.
Brandon returned midway through supper. Entering the dining room garbed in full mail and furs, he should have looked every bit their father's heir. Yet he had moved with leaden limbs that belied bone-deep exhaustion and stared out with shadowed eyes that betrayed trepidation. The younger Stark found himself embraced for the third time, but there had been a desperation in the gesture Ned could not understand. He did not miss the tension in his brother's shoulders when he asked to take supper in his room, nor the pain in Father's eyes when he gave Brandon leave to do as he pleased. Eddard looked to their father as Brandon left, but the Warden of the North gave no answer.
He joined Ser Rodrik in the yard the next day. Father's sworn sword had wanted to assess if he 'had picked up anything worth a damn' during his fosterage. Ned had happily obliged: The prospect of a fight kept his troubled mind at bay. He put on a good showing, besting every man-at-arms Rodrik threw his way before dueling the older knight to a draw in three of four bouts.
Brandon joined them hours later. Though his countenance had improved from the previous night, the elder Stark continued to carry himself with a strange caution and care. The ink staining his hands also caught Ned's eye. Stranger still, the guards grew uneasy as Brandon approached, and Rodrik grew grim when he reached for a blade.
Ned had thought himself decent with a sword, better than most squires and no small number of knights. Sparring with Robert had seen to that, but Brandon had been something else entirely. In his letters, Father had boasted that his brother had become quite the swordsman, and Ned quickly realized how much Father had understated his skill.
Brandon had advanced, blocking Ned's first strike without breaking stride. His second and third swings fared no better. The elder Stark proceeded to counter his feints, forcing Ned back. Desperate, he had tried to bind his brother's blade. Brandon answered by stepping into the bind, angling a strike to the shoulder that opened his guard. The subsequent thrust to the gut saw Ned on the ground. Brandon was at his side in an instant.
As his brother helped him to his feet, Ned's gaze lingered on the guards who had tensed when he fell, eyes fixed on Brandon as if they feared the unthinkable. Ned saw the hurt in his brother's eyes when he realized the same. Gods, what happened while he was away?
"Father, I intend to introduce Ned to Lord Fairchild."
Brandon's words interrupted Ned's musings. The younger Stark had spent the better half of supper ruminating on his defeats: he had challenged his brother to two more matches after the first and lost both handedly.
It had not been a difference in technique but skill. Brandon favored the Northern style of swordsmanship, no different than Rodrik or the man-at-arms. His blows did not rival Robert's prodigious strength, and his footwork did not possess Lord Yohn's polish, yet he had anticipated and countered Ned's movements in a great display of composure—if not calm. The younger Stark had not thought his brother capable of such control.
Ned did not know what to make of his brother's words. Since his return, he had been adrift in a sea of questions, but neither Brandon nor Father had volunteered answers, leaving his nerves frayed and patience thin.
"The Myrish glassmaker?" he ventured. Lord Wyman had mentioned the Fairchilds during Ned's brief stay at New Castle, and the name had hardly sounded Myrish. After his recent display, Ned had planned on spending more time in the yard. He found it strange that Brandon wanted to introduce him to a tradesman, however skilled.
"He doesn't make glass!" Benjen objected, staring up from his stew, voice insistent. The young Stark looked ready to wave his spoon in protest, "He's a Hunter!"
"He's very strong," Lyanna added excitedly, all while chastising their youngest brother, "Brandon goes to fight him a lot, and the guards say his wife plays the most beautiful music. I want to go and listen, but Father won't let me."
Lyanna shot their father a reproachful look, leaving Ned at a loss. His siblings had implied the rumors false, yet the truth hardly sounded more coherent: What could a hunter teach his brother about swordsmanship? Why would his wife, a supposed lady, practice a minstrel's skill? And none of it explained how their father had acquired a hundred panes of the finest glass Ned had ever seen.
The Warden of the North scrutinized his eldest son while his children sat silently, awaiting his decision. At length, he sighed, breathing life back into the room.
"You are the eldest. Look after him."
A vestige of warmth returned to Brandon's eyes at Father's words, and he turned to Ned with newfound resolve, "Ready your sword, armor, and a change of clothes for tomorrow. We leave at dawn."
The three eldest Starks spent the remainder of the meal placating Lyanna, who insisted on joining her brothers. Riding lessons had to be promised; sweets ransomed, but Ned savored the moment and committed it to memory. For the first time in days, he felt at home.
The brothers rode for the Wolfswoods with six of Father's guards. Brandon had made it a race, though Ned had hardly thought it fair when his brother knew the trail by heart. A great weight seemed to fall from Brandon's shoulders as they left, and Ned glimpsed a vestige of the brother who had inherited Father's stature and Mother's spirit.
Sleep had been fleeting the previous night. Father had barred Lyanna and Benjen from his room the evening he returned, giving Ned time to recover from his travels. No longer constrained by Father's decree, the two had barged into his room after hours, eager to display the gifts they received. And what gifts they were: The toy wolf that moved on its own and the pearly box that spilled forth music…Not even Gulltown, a port larger than White Harbor, could boast goods half as intricate or wonderous. Just who were the Fairchilds to give such things to children?
"Ned, we're nearly there. Focus."
The younger Stark straightened at his brother's words. He made out the edge of a clearing, one he could not recall from memory.
"Remember what I told you."
"They are visiting nobles. Treat them as such." Ned repeated Brandon's instructions, still unable to believe how wrong the rumors were, "And eat everything Lady Evetta puts in front of you."
A smirk tugged at Brandon's lips, which only caused Ned further irritation.
"Is he really a hunter?"
Brandon nodded, "Hunter is his preferred title. But he's a noble in all the ways that matter, just the strangest you'll ever meet." He placed a hand on Ned's shoulder as their horses eased to a trot, "I know you've had questions since your return. Father will tell you everything as soon as he can. There's been much on his mind."
Ned gave no answer, surprised by the guilt in Brandon's words.
One look at their destination and Ned vowed to never again listen to tavern talk.
He had many thoughts about this venture, had pictured their destination half a dozen times. Whatever his mind had conjured fell short of the manor at the end of the road. A veritable edifice of grey stone and clear glass, the windows alone would have financed a well-to-do holdfast. Then there was the fence encircling the premises. Ned had first thought it poorly made, the posts too narrow and the spaces too wide to provide any meaningful defense. Then he remembered that wood did not glisten like iron or steel.
Ned turned to his brother, nothing but questions on his mind, "Brandon, what is this?"
"The Workshop," the elder Stark answered as he unhorsed and waited for the party to follow, "Come, they're expecting us."
They made the rest of the way on foot. The weather mellowed as they approached, yet it was not the warmth that welled up from Winterfell's springs. The air carried a taste and scent as foreign as the manor itself, clinging cloy and damp to his skin. Doubt crept into Ned's mind as his boots clicked against the cobblestone, not a guard or sentry in sight. Were it not so well maintained, the manor would have seemed abandoned.
Brandon, sharing none of his brother's apprehension, approached the gates and heaved them ajar.
The gates opened to a foreyard of white, luminescent flowers that bathed the manor in a pale light. The Northern party continued along the path, passing a fountain bubbling with springwater and burnished lanterns lighting the way.
Brandon turned a brass knob beside the entryway, and Ned startled as a bell rang inside the manse. His brother then opened the door–unlocked, of all things—and stepped through. The guards followed Brandon inside with a confidence that belied routine.
"Cloaks on the hanger, and dust off your boots."
Ned only half-listened, too occupied with his surroundings. They stood in a hallway with plaster walls painted pale, warm colors that extended to the intricate moldings of a high ceiling; the floor was a complex overlay of lacquered wood normally reserved for a lord's favored table. The staircase off to the side had newels and balusters so dark Ned mistook them for ironwood.
"The Lord and Lady are likely in the back parlor."
The Northerners followed Brandon's lead, every room they passed leaving Ned in a different state of shock. The first had been a library lined with shelves that touched the vaulted ceiling. The other had displayed cabinets with porcelain of every shape and size, the centerpiece of the room an oddly-shaped black table with three legs and a polished lid, unlike anything Ned had seen. Then there were the paintings and portraits that lined the walls, rendered in a style so lifelike their seemingly captured places and moments frozen in time. The manor had clearly been built for comfort, the many windows illuminating each room with natural light, strangely reminding Ned of Lord Arryn's hunting lodge despite housing more luxuries than the Grafton's personal estate.
Brandon opened the final door at the end of the hall, revealing a room much like the second. One glance at its occupants and Ned realized the rumors had left him grossly misinformed about the happenings of his house.
Standing nine heads tall, the lady of the manor at least looked Valyrian. Or rather, she looked how most would imagine a descendant of Old Valyria: Stunning and statuesque with skin like alabaster, hair like silver, and eyes the same shade.
The lord of the manor looked no more Myrish than Father did. The fair-faced man stood as tall as Rickard Stark, though his stature was more lean than broad, bordering thin. His clothes befitted a man expecting a cold day in Dorne, his waistcoat the closest thing to proper Northern garb. Yet his bearing was relaxed, almost playful, his gaze conveying quiet amusement.
"Good morning, Brandon," the lord welcomed, his voice warm and accented in a way Ned could not place, "Have you been well?"
"I have, my lord" Brandon answered, bowing as he spoke.
Strangely, the show of respect garnered a frown, "One day, I will have you call me 'Teacher,'" Brandon shrugged noncommittally, and the lord let the matter rest, peering at Ned instead, "You brought a friend."
Brandon nodded, "My younger brother, Eddard Stark, recently returned from the Vale," he then motioned to the foreign lord, "This is Lord Cyril Fairchild, a Hunter of Yharnam, and his wife, Lady Evetta Fairchild, formerly of Cainhurst. Lord Fairchild has been my sword instructor for the better part of a moon."
Ned dipped his head to the now-named Lord Fairchild and then his wife. Both bowed in turn.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lord Eddard. Evetta and I will be staying in the North for a short while." The words were kindly said, yet phrased as though no one had much say in the matter.
"My brother said you hail from Yharnam, my lord? Not Myr?" Ned ventured the question, desperate to reconcile the rumors with the man standing before him.
Lord Fairchild laughed softly, "Yes, that rumor has been making rounds in town. Evetta and I frankly find it entertaining. If the story means less work for your father, I hardly see the harm."
The answer left Ned speechless. Years of etiquette kept him from standing with his mouth agape, but only just. He shot a withering glare at his brother, who looked damningly amused.
Lord Fairchild, oblivious to the exchange, pointed to a side door, "Go wash up. Breakfast will be ready when you return."
Plumbing. The manor had plumbing. That was Ned's first thought after cleaning his hands in a wash basin attached to what he could only describe as a small fountain.
He and Brandon returned to the parlor where Lord Fairchild was preparing the table. He beckoned them to sit, and Ned found himself peering over a porcelain plate piled high with bacon, pork and blood sausage, fried eggs, mushrooms, and some manner of red fruit similarly fried and glistening with grease. The lady of the manor returned with cups of tea smelling pleasantly of citrus and a small fortune in cream and white sugar.
"A proper hunter's breakfast," Lord Fairchild helped himself to a cup while passing Ned a small platter of buttered bread, "Your brother visits us quite often as my student. Consider our home and hospitality your own."
Ned took the bread with thanks, understanding guest rights would be a standing affair. Jon Arryn had offered the same during Ned's fosterage.
The lord and lady of the manor enjoyed their tea while the brothers ate. Lord Fairchild waited sometime before speaking again.
"Your father mentioned your fosterage when we visited Winterfell. Evetta and I have only started learning about the other kingdoms, courtesy of Maester Luwin. Tell us, what is the Vale of Arryn like?"
The question came as no surprise, but Ned chose his words with care, "The Vale is a land of high mountains and fertile valleys. It reminds me of the North in many ways. The cold sweeps in with the wind rather than the snow, and the people of the Vale are no less strong.
It is the heart of knighthood and knightly tradition in the Seven Kingdoms, regardless of what the Reach may say. House Arryn ruled the land as the Kings of the Mountain and Vale for thousands of years and now act as the Wardens of the East. Their seat, the Eyrie, sits upon the Giant's Lance."
The foreign lord remained silent as Ned recounted his time in the Eyrie, Gulltown, and Runestone.
"It sounds like a wondrous place," he said at last, "Perhaps Evetta and I should visit once we leave the North." He smiled at his wife before turning back to Ned, "Your Father was kind enough to lease us a parcel of land for the next six years. Do you think Lord Arryn would be amenable to a similar arrangement?"
Ned suppressed a veritable mountain of questions as he formed a reply, "I cannot speak for him, my lord, but I am doubtful. Land ownership, however temporary, usually accompanies oaths to a lord and the Crown," Ned did not mention that Father had clearly made great exceptions on Lord Fairchild's account. Their agreement was unprecedented and unorthodox, "But even if he were to agree, I would advise against it."
"Why is that?" The lord arched a brow, more amused than insulted.
"The Vale, for all its beauty, is not safe for travel. Mountain clans dwell in the foothills and haunt the high road."
Lord Fairchild tapped the table as if grasping something from memory, "Those are the hill tribes that descended from the First Men who refused Andal rule?"
Ned knew Northerners–namely Umbers–who would have drawn steel at the question and what it implied. Yet, the curious look on Lord Fairchild's face was telling enough that he had meant no offense, however much the question irked Ned all the same, "Though they descended from the First Men, the mountain clans have long forgotten our customs, traditions, and honors. They do not pray before the weirwood. Instead, they attack travelers and raid villages, stealing animals and women before torching what remains."
The Hunter nodded, "Have you faced them?"
"I mean to. Lord Arryn plans to have me and Robert ride out with his knights next year."
Lord Fairchild nodded once more, "I understand. Maester Luwin lent me some fascinating books on the First Men, and I had hoped to learn more. A shame their descendants have become mere beasts," the foreign lord refilled his cup, the tone of his voice light despite the words he spoke, "May I ask who were your sword instructors in the Vale?"
Ned sat straighter in his seat, "I mostly received lessons from Lord Arryn's master-at-arms. Lord Arryn saw to my instruction personally whenever he could. I also studied under Lord Yohn whenever he visited court."
The lord blinked in surprise, "The Marquess of Runestone? I heard he is quite the accomplished knight. Perhaps there is nothing for me to teach you."
"I beat him three times yesterday," Brandon interjected, "He needs your help as much as I do."
Ned could only swallow a curse as Lord Fairchild laughed lightly, handing Brandon a strange, circular object as he rose from his seat, "Finish your breakfast, and meet me outside in twenty minutes."
The brothers ate their fill before returning to the front of the manor, where Lady Evetta stood holding their cloaks and a pair of wooden swords.
"The Good Hunter awaits you at the foot of the Great Tree."
Three guards accompanied the brothers behind the manse, where the Workshop's flowers had overtaken the glade. Beneath a bare tree atop a lonely hill, Lord Fairchild sat with a book in hand. A greatsword wrapped inexplicably in canvas rested at his side. He caught the timepiece Brandon threw his way as he stood.
"Let us begin," the foreign lord offered no further preamble, directing the younger Stark to a nearby pell, "Run me through your usual drills, Eddard. I will be formulating a lesson plan for the coming weeks and need to know where you stand."
Unfamiliar with the term but understanding its meaning, Ned approached the post, wooden sword ready. Strange as circumstances were, the young Stark quickly fell into forms and drills his body had committed to memory. Neither Lord Fairchild nor Brandon spoke as Ned struck the head, neck, and underarms of an imagined foe to a steady, internal rhythm.
The young Stark performed for his silent audience until a hand clasped his shoulder, stopping him mid-swing.
"That will suffice," Lord Fairchild turned to his brother, "What do you think, Brandon?"
The elder Stark startled at the question, not expecting to participate in his brother's instruction, "He fights like a Vale knight," he began, "Good form, strong footwork, better than mine or Willam's, to be honest. But he's not stepping into his swings enough and lacks the aggression of Northern swordwork."
"Not necessarily a bad thing, but a fair assessment," Lord Fairchild patted the younger Stark on the shoulder, "And a fine display, Eddard. You are a credit to your instructors."
Not expecting praise, Ned stammered his thanks, leaving the foreign lord more amused.
"Truthfully, I believe you are well prepared for the fights ahead, though it never hurts to know more ways to dismantle a man," Lord Fairchild gave Ned no time to consider his choice of words. Instead, he pointed his sword at the elder Stark, "Join us, Brandon."
The rest of the morning was spent drilling stances and forms. The brothers practiced attacking from various guards and their associated counters, switching roles and repeating the techniques to Lord Fairchild's satisfaction. Most of the movements felt familiar, some did not, but Lord Fairchild made every turn of the sword and cardinal cut an exercise all its own. Ned committed himself to the motions. Whatever his doubts, the lesson had an organization and structure he found welcome.
The sun hung well overhead when they broke for the midday meal. Lady Evetta had made her way up the hill with a basket. Producing a quilt, she had motioned the brothers to sit. A pitcher was placed between them, and Ned was handed a plate of arrayed meats and greens nestled between slices of buttered bread, the whole affair uniformly cut and beautifully arranged.
"Tea sandwiches and lemonade," the foreign lord explained, noting Ned's confusion, "Ham and mustard, egg and cress, cucumber, smoked salmon and coronation chicken–a personal favorite."
He regarded his wife with mock disapproval, "You spoil them."
A smile formed on Lady Evetta's lips, matching the one in her husband's eyes. She offered her hand, which he took in earnest, tracing the back of her glove.
Lord Fairchild spared his students a passing glance. "Ned, Brandon, enjoy your lunch. Evetta and I will be in the garden."
Ned followed their retreating forms until a jab turned his attention.
"Eat slowly," Brandon warned through bites of salmon and ham, "We'll be sparring with the Hunter after this. You'll want your stomach to settle before then."
Lord Fairchild returned accompanied by the guards who had remained at the manse. Ned noted the sluggishness in their steps as the men relieved their fellows. No doubt they had enjoyed the midday meal as much as he had.
The foreign lord, steps ever spry, approached his students, "Ready, Brandon?"
The elder Stark stood, nodding with confidence, resolve set in his eyes. Ned stood as well, miming his brother, only to watch in alarm as Brandon drew live steel, leaving his practice sword where it lay.
Lord Fairchild answered by unfurling the canvas from his blade, and Ned near gasped at the sight. The sword was undoubtedly a prized heirloom: Ornate etchings adorned the crossguard and ran along the entire length of the fuller. The blade rivaled a greatsword in length despite its slender profile, shining paler than steel yet darker than House Dayne's fabled Dawn. If anything, the blade seemed like silver, however impossible that might be. But the sword, however beautiful, was not Ned's concern.
"My Lord, you're unarmored."
Brandon answered before Lord Fairchild could reply, "Don't worry. I'm not going to cut him."
The lord frowned, "Have more faith in your abilities, Brandon," his voice offered alarming encouragement, "As your brother said, Eddard, no need to worry. If you manage to cut me down, please inform Evetta. Her great-aunt will see you knighted immediately."
Before Ned could further protest, Lord Fairchild beckoned his brother.
"Come."
Brandon needed no prompting. He charged, readying a slash to cut the man from left hip to opposing shoulder. The foreign lord answered with a thrust, sword outstretched but off-centered to avoid skewering his student. The precaution proved unneeded: Brandon intercepted the blade. Swinging upwards, he forced the silver sword back, leaving Lord Fairchild open. Wasting no time, the elder Stark stepped into his opponent's guard. Sword held high, he drove the hilt downwards. When Lord Fairchild evaded the blow, Brandon turned the bash into a rending cut by rotating his wrists, forcing his opponent to block and tilt sideways as the sword angled for his face.
"Very good, Brandon," Lord Fairchild praised, voice conversational despite the blade beside his head, "Good aggression. A little reckless, but you used it to your advantage, anticipating my counter and acting accordingly."
Rather than answer, Brandon withdrew from the bind. He stepped back, assuming a gated guard. Lord Fairchild nodded with approval.
"At your leisure."
The elder Stark charged again, leading with solid, rending strikes. Lord Fairchild weathered the onslaught, parrying four blows before delivering a thrust to Brandon's side. The flat of the blade scraped against mail, forcing Brandon back, momentum lost. Lord Fairchild closed the gap and struck again, aiming for his student's shoulder, but Brandon was ready. Changing his grip, the elder Stark seized the flat of his blade like a staff, bracing against the blow. Despite grunting under the strain, he batted the silver blade aside before driving his own at Lord Fairchild's throat. The attack would have ended most men, armored or otherwise. But Lord Fairchild stepped back while withdrawing his sword, evading the first stab before blocking Brandon's second attempt at his neck.
"Excellent application of half-swording," the lord commended, smiling even as Brandon's breath came in stunted puffs, "A marked improvement from last week."
The display left Ned stunned and mute. Brandon had attempted no less than four lethal blows in the span of two exchanges. He did not know some techniques, but the ones he recognized were forbidden in the yard and barred from most tourneys. It became clear that his brother had held back the day before, however much it wounded his pride. Then there was Lord Fairchild, who had fended off Brandon's assault with a speed and precision Ned found hard to believe. If the way Brandon had to brace against the last blow was any indication, the foreign lord was also far stronger than he appeared. How he wielded the long blade like an arming sword highlighted that strength.
Glassmaker…when he returned to White Harbor, Ned vowed to box the ear of the man who spread such rumors.
Lord Fairchild and Brandon sparred for the better part of an hour. The foreign lord alternated between teacher and opponent, giving the elder Stark instruction and time to breathe between bouts. True to Brandon's words, both combatants held clean blades by the time Lord Fairchild dismissed him and instructed Ned to draw his sword.
"At your leisure, Eddard."
Rather than attack, Ned assumed a low guard, blade pointed at his opponent's throat to prevent his advance. Standing before Cyril Fairchild was entirely different from watching the man fight. The foreign lord had not assumed a stance, yet every opening felt like a trap, the relaxed lines of his body a threat all their own.
Lord Fairchild sighed at his hesitation, "Eddard, if you do not plan on attacking, I will take the initiative."
He received no further warning. Lord Fairchild brought his sword down in a well-telegraphed swing. Ned sidestepped and deflected the attack. The younger Stark felt the strain on his arms as the blades made contact. Gods, the man was as strong as Robert–stronger, even. Had he employed a proper two-handed grip…Ned severed the thought: his parry had forced Lord Fairchild to overreach. Seizing the opportunity, Ned aimed an attack at his side, only for Lord Fairchild to mime his footwork and step out of the way. The foreign lord attacked thrice more. Each time, Ned managed to deflect the blow but missed the counter.
"Good defense," the foreign lord complimented even as the younger Stark maintained his guard, "You seem accustomed to fighting those stronger than you."
The lord's voice bore no question, and Ned ventured a nod, "My foster brother favors the warhammer."
Lord Fairchild chuckled, "Patience and composure coupled with excellent defense…You have the makings of an exceptional warrior, if not a Hunter."
The young Stark did not know what to make of the man's words, but Lord Fairchild did not wait for a reply, merely readied his weapon.
"Fortunately, there are ways around a strong guard."
The silver sword came down; the attack again well-telegraphed. Ned readied himself to counter, only to feel the flat of a blade against his brow.
It took him a moment to realize what had happened: Lord Fairchild had changed the alignment of his footwork midswing, altering the path of his blade to bypass Ned's guard. The technique, simple yet seamlessly executed, marked Ned's defeat.
"Come. Losses here are learning opportunities, unlike those on the battlefield."
Over the next hour, Lord Fairchild disarmed the young Stark no less than six times. Ned took some solace knowing that his matches lasted longer than Brandon's, though he was well aware it was more a matter of technique than skill: Bouts where he assumed the offensive seldom ended well.
Ned felt the silver blade slide underarm after Lord Fairchild feinted a false-edge cut, ending their last bout. The foreign lord beckoned Brandon to join them, smiling as both brothers looked his way, "Fighting alongside an ally is a skill in itself. Come, a match or two should see us to supper."
"Ned!"
The younger Stark stepped back as Brandon charged in to take his place. He used the moment to regain his breath and master his heart.
The situation seemed grim. The brothers were fairing no better together than alone. Superior numbers had proved no advantage, and they had given up on attacking together after their earlier attempts nearly saw them killed: Lord Fairchild had redirected Ned's first thrust at Brandon's head. Had their instructor not simultaneously kicked Brandon out of the way, the next Lord of Winterfell would have lost an ear.
After the subsequent attempt nearly cost Ned an eye, the brothers changed tactics. The elder Stark led the charge, beating Lord Fairchild back with vicious blows, but for all of his strength, it was never enough. The foreign lord would ward off every attack and retaliate, breaking Brandon's momentum and forcing Ned to step in. Together, they had managed a stalemate, but defeat was a foregone conclusion.
The brothers were already the best swords the North had produced in a generation, yet they were tiring. Ned had never heard of a knight sweating through a mail shirt, yet he was confident his was starting to rust. Brandon kept a brave face, but his strikes were growing slow and worryingly sloppy, forcing Ned to intervene more frequently while their opponent looked no worse for wear.
Cyril Fairchild continued to strike and move to a cadence neither brother could maintain. Sweat was not even forming on his brow, as if the man had not exerted himself since his midday walk with his wife.
"Why are you hesitating, Eddard?"
Ned startled at the question, carried with an undertone of disapproval. He stared at Lord Fairchild's back, Brandon breathing heavily some steps away.
"Your enemy is distracted. Why are you hesitating?"
The young Stark looked to the lord in confusion, then nearly dropped his sword in shock. Brandon froze, no doubt sharing Ned's horror at what Lord Fairchild proposed.
"I will not stab you in the back, my lord!" in his disbelief, Ned barely managed the words.
Lord Fairchild turned to face him, frowning, "Whyever not? I am your enemy, and while you both have fought well," He pointed his silver sword at the younger Stark, "Do you believe you can win against me as you are?"
Ned shook his head.
"Then my question stands."
Eddard replied with certainty, reciting a lifetime of learning and expectation, "There are things a man mustn't do, even in the face of death or defeat. You are my brother's instructor and Father's guest. I will not dishonor my family or myself with treachery."
Silence followed his answer. Lord Fairchild studied him, eyes no longer so amused.
"Gather your strength."
The spar continued. Brandon attacked Lord Fairchild with renewed vigor, refusing to give ground. Ned remained vigilant, intercepting any attack that slipped past Brandon's guard. Both brothers gave everything they had, but Lord Fairchild continued to push them back. Twice, the foreign lord managed to separate the brothers; twice he gave Ned his back. Each time, the younger Stark did as he promised.
Suddenly, moments away from besting them both, Lord Fairchild retreated. Offering no answer to their puzzled gaze, the foreign lord raised his sword to the evening light.
"You held to your principles, knowing they would not avail you. Admirable. Perhaps I spoke too soon regarding your future as a Hunter." Despite his words, Lord Fairchild's voice failed to convey praise. Instead, it carried a strange intonation of dispassion while a look of detachment formed behind his eyes. There was a change in the air and a newfound tension in Brandon's bearing.
The Hunter regarded his first student, "I will be bringing this lesson to a close. Be prepared."
Whatever his brother cursed, Ned failed to hear as Brandon shoved him back. Then came the deafening screech of steel.
The elder Stark barely managed to bring his sword to bear, left hand bracing against his blade. The silver sword struck just above Brandon's arm, cutting his blade down to the fuller before shaving the false edge and tip clean off. The impact sent him staggering back, weapon ruined.
He was given no time to recover. The Hunter struck again, sword raised high. The descending strike missed Brandon by a hair; the sheer force of the blow buried the blade in the ground. Such a thing should have left the Hunter open, vulnerable, but the first attack had robbed Brandon of his bearings. The second stole his footing. Discarding his weapon, the Hunter charged his prey.
Ned watched in horror as the Hunter lifted his brother–all twelve stones of him–with one hand and tossed him aside like a fistful of wheat. He could only scream as his brother tumbled down the hill.
"None of that now. Brandon has taken worse falls from me," the Hunter spoke, the cadence of his voice calm despite his savage display. He eyed a guard as he retrieved his half-buried blade.
"Brent, please go help Brandon. I will be finishing things here with Eddard."
Despite the tension and stress lining his face, the guard did as he was told. His remaining fellows gripped their swords but made no attempt to intervene. Ned knew they could not save him.
It felt like drowning, like falling through black ice over a lake. The Hunter stepped closer, and Ned felt himself being dragged further down, his limbs cold and lungs aflame. Strength deserted him, leaving his breathing as erratic as his thoughts. He looked upon the Hunter and discerned neither anger nor joy behind his eyes. Only danger. He could not fight the Hunter, no more than a drowning man could fight for air.
The first strike nearly shattered his wrists, cleaving the tip from his sword. The second rent his blade in two, and the third left him holding a dagger.
Ned charged the Hunter, giving no thought to strategy or technique. Reason had abandoned him, and years of training fell away. All that remained was a desperation to do something–anything–in the face of death. Ned lunged, mouth open in a scream he could not hear over his hammering heart.
Then he was on the ground, the air driven from his lungs, the Hunter looming above with his silver blade pressed against Ned's breast.
"Y-yield," it was all he could say.
"Noted," the Hunter spoke without withdrawing his sword, mindless of the guards drawing near, "But the lesson is not over."
Ned felt the blade move, separating the links of his mail like silk. His gambeson offered no protection. The blade scraped across his sternum and traced along a rib before resting over his heart.
The thought of death, having only started to subside, returned in force. Ned fought his rising panic. Lord Fairchild would not…He was Father's guest, and Ned was his. He was only half a league from Winterfell. He had just returned home, and he hardly had a chance to speak with Father. Surely…But the thought remained, the fear grew, and the Hunter's gaze offered no assurance.
"Ple–"
Ned clamped his jaw shut. The shock of what he nearly said pushed past the fear. Rickard Stark was his father, Lyarra Stark his mother, and he was a Stark of Winterfell. He would live up to the name or not at all.
Ned held the Hunter's gaze, watching as amusement returned to his eyes.
"Remember this feeling," the Hunter's sword tapped Ned's rib as he spoke, "Commit it to memory. Master it, and you will never fear a fight against monsters or men."
The Hunter finished his lesson just as a ruined blade appeared at his shoulder.
"Lord Fairchild, I believe supper is ready."
The Hunter nodded, withdrawing his sword while turning to Brandon, uncaring of the blade poised at his neck, "You are right. Please show Eddard the washroom upstairs. Evetta has already drawn the bath for you both. I will help her prepare the table."
The tension bled from Brandon as he ran to help his brother.
"Also, Eddard," the Hunter held his sword by the blade, offering Ned the hilt, "Your present."
Ned barely recalled what happened afterward, only that Brandon had half led and half dragged him back to the manor. Lady Evetta had been waiting at the door, frowning slightly at their sorry state. Brandon had guided him up the staircase and past two sets of doors into a room Ned could only guess served as a garderobe.
"Is that a porcelain bathtub?" The question sounded absurd, given what had happened, but it was all he could say.
Brandon nodded, "Not the only one, either." His voice seeped exhaust as he loosened his hold while ensuring Ned could stand, "Wash up and try not to drown. I will be in the guest room across the hall."
Ned gripped the sides of the tub as he settled himself in the steaming bath, desperate not to dwell on his brother's poorly chosen words. He focused on drawing in breaths of warm, humid air, concentrating on the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet and the tub wall against his back. Again and again, the young Stark assured himself he would not sink.
Ned stayed in the bath, collecting his thoughts while losing track of time. Brandon eventually returned, standing against the doorway in a clean doublet.
"It gets easier," the elder Stark said when Ned refused to speak, "You'll still lose, but you get used to losing. Sometimes you even lose gracefully."
"What is he?" Ned's voice trembled, and he failed to meet Brandon's eyes.
"You said yourself, he is Father's guest and our sword instructor," his brother's voice carried a strange confidence as he combed a hand through his damp hair, "You did well today. Father will be proud."
"Proud?" There had been no mockery in his brother's voice, but Ned heard it all the same, "Brandon, I was afraid. I lost my nerve."
Frustration and shame bubbled to the surface as the young Stark rose, spilling water as he stood, "I almost," he struggled to choke out the words, "I almost begged for my life."
Brandon stood unmoved at his confession, "You did well," his brother's tone conveyed admiration and envy, leaving Ned lost, "Far better than I ever have."
"Are you unwell, Young Wolf?"
Ned startled at the question, suddenly finding three sets of eyes upon him.
Lady Evetta had prepared a supper as remarkable as the midday and morning meal. Pot au feu, she had called it in a foreign tongue. Slices of braised rib meat and roasted marrow bone rested over tender carrots, asparagus, and parsnips. Nestled in a pool of light broth and adorned with a sauce of spiced mustard, the dish filled the dining room with warm and inviting smells, but Ned had no stomach for food.
Unhappy with his silence, Lady Evetta rose from her seat. Walking to his side, she patted his head, leaving the young scion more mortified than soothed.
The lady of manor regarded her husband with a hint of reproach, "You frightened him."
Her voice carried a wisp of fire, and Ned thought he would die of shame when Lord Fairchild dipped his head as he left the room, returning with a drink that smelled sweetly of ginger and bubbled like pickled brine.
"Ginger beer. It helps settle the stomach," he set the copper cup done before glancing at Ned's untouched plate, "I will have some stew ready for you to bring home, else you will be hungry before the end of the evening."
Ned nodded his thanks, nursing the cup while his brother and hosts resumed their meal.
Supper came to a close before Ned spoke again.
"Lord Fairchild, had I done as you said, forsook all I've been taught and struck you from behind, could we have prevailed against you?"
Cyril Fairchild smiled, strangely sad, "No, I doubt it would have mattered."
Father was at the gates when they returned. He hugged them both the moment they unhorsed.
"He did well," Brandon spoke before the younger Stark could intervene.
"I didn't—" Ned tried to protest, but Father stopped him.
"Brandon said you did well, and I trust him at his word," a moment passed between Father and his elder brother, one that left Brandon trembling after Rickard turned to his second son.
"I see you have a new sword," The words echoed weariness, and Ned detected no small measure of exasperation in his father's voice, "Go rest. Benjen and Lyanna missed you both."
The brothers made their way past the gate. Despite Father's instructions, Ned headed to the kitchens, where the head cook had outright refused to heat Lady Evetta's fine ceramics over an open fire. The cook had transferred the contents to a copper pot, and Ned waited patiently for his meal to warm. Though he loathed to admit it, Lord Fairchild had been right: He was famished.
TBC
Chapter Summary:
Local boy fights cuttlefish and lives. This chapter was a tough one and required a bit of research. Had to read up on fencing. Also learned that baked beans weren't a popular part of the English breakfast until the 1900s. Fun stuff. The Starks are quickly learning that the chief export of the Workshop isn't glass or even gold. It's trauma.
Additonal Notes:
Cyril's practice yard is gehrman's boss arena
Ned's gift is the sword part of an unslotted +10 kirkhammer. So if you're wondering why a silver blade cuts so well, it's because the Hunter hammered a blood rock into it.
"A trick weapon typically used by Healing Church hunters. On the one side, an easily handled silver sword. On the other, a giant obtuse stone weapon, characterized by a blunt strike and extreme force of impact. The Church takes a heavy-handed, merciless stance toward the plague of beasts, an irony not lost upon the wielders of this most symbolic weapon." -Kirkhammer item description, Bloodborne