Rickard Stark frowned as Brandon and Eddard left Winterfell with his only daughter in tow. He watched as they disappeared from view, certain that his hair would be more white than grey by nightfall.

Cyril Fairchild was fostering his two eldest sons in all but name, an honor which–mere months ago–Rickard would never have bestowed upon a loyal vassal, never mind a foreign house. But Brandon's folly had forced his hand. The warden was not blind to how his household treated his former heir, now an outcast within his own home. Even Rickard struggled to engage him: Memories of the Fairchild's visit haunted every conversation between father and son.

Brandon had sought refuge in his lessons at the Workshop, and while Rickard was grateful he had somewhere to escape his troubles, the warden could not permit the Fairchilds to further isolate his son. Rickard had allowed Eddard to train alongside his brother for this very reason, the same reason he had not informed his second son of Brandon's transgressions: Ned thought the world of him, and Brandon had little left to his name. The warden would not deprive him of his brother's good opinion and love.

There was another reason for Ned's visits to the Workshop, one Rickard struggled to admit. Cyril Fairchild believed he was mentoring a warden's heir, and having Ned at the Workshop ensured that remained true. Anything less would be acting in bad faith, and Rickard was already in the Hunter's debt. While much remained amiss about the man, his treatment of Brandon and Ned was well worth the warden's respect.

Rodrik's men had kept him informed, and each said the same: Cyril Fairchild was training his sons to kill. Short of fighting off bandits and wildlings, the bloodless battles they endured at his hands were the closest thing to actual combat. Even then, Rickard considered Cyril Fairchild the greater foe.

The results spoke for themselves. In the three weeks since Ned's return, the Warden of the North could not recall the last time his sons lost to anyone save each other. Soon, they would progress beyond Rodrik's ability to teach, and swordsmanship was not even the only skill Lord Fairchild had imparted onto his sons.

"Dammit."

The talks he had hoped for never took place. Rickard was not so shameless as to broach the subject after what Brandon had done, but somehow House Stark had continued to receive boons regardless, more than Rickard could have expected from any alliance. His sons were the Hunter's students, benefiting from his scholarly education and martial skill, and the gardens, once distributed, would secure House Stark's power base forevermore. If the gods were kind, there would even be an apprenticeship in his son's future. Only, it would be the wrong son.

"Dammit all."

Now even his daughter was headed for the Workshop. Lyanna had been incensed by Brandon's lessons with the Hunter, believing them a privilege rather than punishment. Rickard had spent weeks fending off her demands, but after Ned's return, Lyanna had redoubled her efforts. Thrice, she had made a mad dash for the western gate during her riding lessons. The night before last, she had slipped out after hours, making it as far as the courtyard before being found. Rickard nearly had the evening guards flogged: The thought of Lyanna wandering the wolfswood alone chilled him more than the prospect of a false spring.

The warden decided that if his daughter was adamant about visiting the Workshop, she would do so with guards who would die to see her safe. Brandon had delivered the request, and the Fairchilds had accepted. Lady Evetta had been especially pleased. Now his daughter was riding off with her brothers, accompanied by ten men and a handmaiden. The whole affair was enough for the warden to wish winter had lasted longer.

He headed back to the Great Hall. There was still a feast to plan and a morning meal he intended to share with his youngest son.

"Ahh."

Lyanna held the pastry to her mouth. The treat glistened like the shells Lord Manderly had given her last summer. Under her fingers, the bread felt warm and crisp. Baked golden with a dark, glossy filling, it looked almost too good to eat.

Almost.

She bit down, and rather than crumble like a cake, the pastry flaked apart, light and buttery. The filling–Lady Evetta had called it chocolate–melted like honey on her tongue. Rich, sweet, and slightly bitter, it reminded Lyanna of the browned sugar on the edge of a pie.

"Do you like it, dear child?"

The young girl nodded enthusiastically. The intonation of Lady Evetta's voice was unmistakable, even if Lyanna was only half-listening while she ate.

Following her brothers into the Workshop had Lyanna brimming with excitement, but that excitement had nearly dwindled and died when they found the lord and lady dozing on a couch. They had been leaning against one another as though sharing a dream, and Ned had not wanted to disturb them. Thankfully, Brandon had been braver. Now they were all sitting together enjoying pastries.

Lyanna finished her treat, but made a mess. She tried to turn away when Lady Evetta leaned over with a napkin, but the tall lady did not relent the way Father would if she protested long enough. Lady Evetta waited, silent and patient, leaving the young girl with little recourse.

All the while, the Lord Hunter smiled, passing Lyanna another pastry even as his wife wiped traces of the first from her cheeks.

"Pain au chocolat," the Lord Hunter explained, sipping a dark tea that smelled acrid and bitter, "A popular choice of breakfast from the kingdom of Gallia. Also called a chocolatine, depending on the region you visit."

The Lord Hunter helped himself to one of the pastries, studying it with a critical eye. "The Gallians would not consider these up to standard, but I doubt any man from the Great Isles could have done better," he assessed with self-satisfaction, "I am glad you enjoyed them, Lady Lyanna."

"You made them?" Lyanna's brow knitted together. She looked to Lady Evetta for confirmation and was surprised by her nod.

The Hunter laughed, the sound light and amused, "Baking has proven to be as much a science as an art. I am in the process of practicing both."

"Is it common for the nobility of your homeland to pursue such pastimes, my lord?" Ned asked, sharing Lyanna's surprise. He and Brandon had kept to themselves for much of the meal.

"Not at all," the Lord Hunter answered, the corners of his lips forming a smirk rather than a smile, "But a Hunter is allowed his eccentricities, a retired one more so. Though thank you for the question, Eddard, you reminded me that I had some of my own."

The Lord Hunter drummed his fingers against the table as he met their nervous gaze, "How did you find yesterday's readings?"

Breakfast progressed in deafening silence.

"Thank you for the music box, Lady Evetta," Lyanna swung her legs from her seat at the bench, "Father lets me listen to it every night before bed."

The towering lady stood nearby, grabbing several slender, paperbound books from a shelf, "You are most welcome, dear child. The Good Hunter chose the box, and I the music."

They had moved to Lady Evetta's music room after breakfast, accompanied by Lyanna's handmaiden and guards. The room was as enchanting as the rest of the Workshop with comfortable couches and cushions. Shelves brimmed with books and porcelain ornaments Lyanna wanted to touch. Beside her was an instrument called a piano, a large polished box with monochromatic keys. Lady Evetta had lifted the lid, revealing what looked like a harp tipped on its side.

"Fantaisie Impromptu is quite beautiful," Lady Evetta's voice was gentle as she took a seat beside her guest, "Would you like to hear more Chopin?"

Despite the others in the room, the moment felt private, as if Lady Evetta had made time just for her. Lord Fairchild had dragged her brothers off to the library, and Chopin…that was the man who made the song for her music box. He had written others, and Lady Evetta was offering to play them.

The lady did not need a reply to know her answer. A book titled Etudes Op.10 and Op.25 was placed on the stand. Lyanna did not know the words, nor did she understand the array of lines and symbols that dotted each page, but those concerns fell away as gloved hands descended upon the keys.

Lyanna had always hated sitting still. She would fidget during Maester Luwin's lectures and attempt to escape Old Nan's lessons. Though she sat well enough in a saddle, that hardly counted. Now Lyanna found herself transfixed and frozen in place, the only movement emanating from her beating heart.

Nothing had prepared her for the sounds that deafened the room or the vibrations that reverberated up her spine. Lady Evetta's hands bounded across the length of the keyboard at a pace Lyanna's eyes struggled to follow. Her hands repeated the movement a dozen times, each a variation on the last as if in a dance, and Lyanna found herself swept up in a torrent of sound.

When the music came to a stop as suddenly as it started, Lyanna nearly protested the silence. Lady Evetta's hands turned a page and fell upon the keys once more. Lyanna watched spellbound as the lady's left hand hopped from the keys like a hare while her right played a melody as fast as the first but softer and playful, promising mischief.

The young girl realized the etudes were a series of songs, each distinct and more wondrous than the last. Some painted a scene, invoking memories of a late-summer sun cresting over the king's road and rumbling waves lapping against the pale stones of White Harbor, the only time Lyanna traveled beyond Wintertown. Other songs were formless yet invoked feelings of excitement, joy, and melancholy all at once.

Yet none compared to the penultimate piece. There had been no name, merely a number, Op 25 No.11. It had started innocently: Lady Evetta's right hand repeated a single note four times, introducing a melody sad and forlorn. Her left hand rose and mirrored the melody. Then came a silence, but not a calm, as the cascade of chords that followed struck Lyanna like a Northern wind. The sound, cold and chilling, deafening and bombast, embodied the North like none other. The young girl watched, shivering in wonder. In that moment, Lady Evetta appeared as imposing as she was tall, as powerful as she was kind.

When the last song ended and the lady lowered her hands, no one spoke. The handmaiden sat with her mouth agape. The guards managed to look more dignified, but their expressions told Lyanna this performance had been special, something Lady Evetta had prepared just for her.

The young girl clapped in applause.

"Did you enjoy that, dear child?"

"It was beautiful!" Lyanna exclaimed, "I've never heard anything better."

Lady Evetta beamed at her praise, "Would you like to hear more?"

"There's more?"

She received a nod, "Chopin dedicated his life to music. His contemporaries did the same."

Lyanna felt her heart flutter.

The rest of the morning was filled with words Lyanna did not know and music she wished to remember. Lady Evetta's hands seemed to dance and sing, spanning fourteen keys and leaped over twice as many while forming three–sometimes four–melodies. Not even a troupe of minstrels could compare. Lady Evetta remained serene, while her hands conveyed such emotion and energy.

The young Stark also noticed how Lady Evetta never glanced at the books while she played. She realized they were only there for her, and the revelation left Lyanna with a strange sense of longing. Music was a story written in a language Lyanna did not understand, and Lady Evetta was an excellent storyteller. Though she knew her letters—Maester Luwin made sure of that—Lyanna never cared for reading, but this was different. As she spied words like prelude, sonata, presto, and allegretto, Lyanna realized this was a language she desperately wanted to learn.

The hours passed, and music filled the Workshop. Lady Evetta even let Lyanna flip the pages for her, signaling to the young girl when to turn. Time and again, Lyanna wondered how Chopin and his friends created such music. When Lady Evetta played songs by one of Chopin's greatest rivals, it felt like feelings given form. His works had fantastic names like Mephisto, Mazeppa, and Hungarian Rhapsody, and his music was just as wondrous: The last, La Campanella, rang like a shower of chimes and filled the young girl with unspeakable delight.

"Ah, I thought I heard bells."

The voice nearly startled Lyanna from her seat. The others in the room shared her surprise. Only the lady appeared unfazed by her husband's intrusion.

"Good Hunter," Lady Evetta's eyes went to the large, free-standing watch at the far end of the room, frowning as she read the time, "You did not call."

The Lord Hunter dipped his head in an unapologetic bow, "You seemed preoccupied, and I did not want to interrupt." He crossed the room with light, silent steps, stopping before his young guest, "Did you enjoy yourself, Lady Lyanna?"

She nodded fervently, "Lady Evetta plays wonderfully."

"That she does," the Hunter's voice conveyed good humor and minor mischief. He offered his wife an unwavering smile, "Evetta tends to be wonderful at everything."

The lady turned her head with a sigh, which did nothing to discourage him, "You are very lucky, Lady Lyanna. Even from the library, it sounded like quite the performance."

The Hunter's hand traced the piano as the lights in his eyes flickered and danced, "Chopin and Liszt were virtuosos who defined an age. Some even believed Liszt sold his soul to a devil for his musical talents."

Lyanna heard her handmaiden gasp but barely made out the sound over her own heart, "Did he really?"

The Hunter shook his head, "Likely not, but it makes for a fun story." He met the young girl's gaze, "Though if he did, I consider the results well worth the price."

The midday meal proved as tasty as breakfast, though not as sweet. The crepes reminded Lyanna of griddled cakes, parchment-thin and pleasantly nutty, wrapped around parcels of mushrooms, ham, and cheese with a poached egg overtop. It was served alongside bubbling soup capped with gooey cheese and toasted bread.

"Crêpe bretonne and onion soup," the Lord Hunter explained. He helped the young girl into a raised chair before strolling off with his wife, leaving Lyanna in the care of her brothers.

"Having fun?" Ned asked over his own meal. He and Brandon looked a tad haggard, which Lyanna found odd, as neither had been sparring. Still, she nodded.

"Lady Evetta lets me help with the music," she replied, leaving out that she was only turning the pages. No need for her brothers to know that. "Why are you and Brandon so tired?"

"Lord Fairchild is a passionate teacher," her brother answered, "There's a lot to learn."

"What Ned means is that the man could talk the ears off a maester," Brandon interjected, waving off Ned's disapproving glare and giving Lyanna his full attention, "More music this afternoon?"

The young girl shook her head, "Lady Evetta promised me a story."

Her brother nodded, "Call the guards if you need them. We'll be outside." Brandon stood and made to leave, but not before ruffling Lyanna's hair as he passed, eliciting a squeal from his favorite sister.

After lunch, Lyanna rejoined Lady Evetta in the library alongside her handmaiden and guards. True to her word, the towering lady held a beautifully-bound book. Lyanna took a seat at her side and spent the afternoon learning about Alice, the little girl who fell down a rabbit hole into a world of dreams.

Hours later, the young Stark found herself in Lady Evetta's private sitting room, fresh from a bath and seated before the clearest mirror Lyanna had ever seen. The lady brushed tangles from Lyanna's damp hair after politely declining help from the flustered handmaiden.

To prepare for supper, Lady Evetta had herded Lyanna into the master bathroom despite being told she had bathed the day before last. The young girl did her best to sit still throughout the ordeal, not wanting the lady to think poorly of her. Disliking how the mirror contrasted her reflection with Lady Evetta's flawless features, Lyanna's eyes started to wander.

They fell upon one of the many paintings in the room, depicting a woman who wore Lady Evetta's face. But the similarities ended there. Rather than a dress, she wore riding leathers, a dark overcoat with fine gold trim, and a half cape draped proudly over one shoulder. Her attire resembled the Hunter's right down to his peculiar three-point hat, and her posture betrayed none of Lady Evetta's gentleness. Wielding a shortsword with a saber on her hip, the woman radiated confidence and danger.

"Is that you, Lady Evetta?" Unlikely as it seemed, Lyanna felt compelled to ask.

The lady of the manor followed her eyes to the painting and shook her head, "That is Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower."

The Astral Clocktower? Was that like the Hightower? She turned to Lady Evetta with beseeching eyes as more questions formed in her mind.

"Who is she?"

For a moment, Lady Evetta hesitated as if she had never considered the question, "The Good Hunter would call her my mother."

Lyanna gasped, and more questions fell from her lips. "What is she like? Is she also Hunter? Does she fight monsters?" the young girl asked with excitement, only to realize Lady Evetta shared none of her joy.

"I cannot say, dear child. I never knew her."

Oh.

There were lots of things Lyanna did not know, but this was something she understood without being told. The young girl placed her hand on the lady's arm in a way she hoped was comforting.

"I'm sorry. I never knew my mother either," Lyanna offered, though the words felt strange. Mother was gone, and everyone knew that. It was never something Lyanna had needed to share, "Father said she fell sick after Benjen was born."

Lady Evetta said nothing for a time as she passed her hands through Lyanna's hair, and the young girl did not shy away, "She would have adored you, dear child."

Later, as they left the parlor, the young Stark spied another portrait and wondered how she had missed it. The largest in the room, the painting depicted a woman who resembled Lady Evette, but with auburn hair. Another relative, perhaps? The crown in her head would have interested Lyanna were it not for the babe in her arms. He was a pale, pudgy thing like other babies she had seen, but he shared the Hunter's inky-black hair alongside Lady Evette's delicate nose, and he stared back at her with ruby-red eyes that left the young girl feeling a deep-seated disquiet.

"Lady Evetta," Lyanna asked, tugging on her sleeve, "Who is that?"

"Ah," the lady's smile was like the sun, "That is my darling, Luca."

"Lady Evetta plays better."

The Lord Hunter sighed, "Your father really must teach you to lie, Lady Lyanna. A man's pride is a fragile thing." His face formed a pout, though the hurt never reached his eyes, and the young girl giggled despite herself.

After supper, everyone had gathered in the parlor. Brandon and Ned, in their exhaustion, gave each other the occasional shove to stave off sleep. Lady Evetta sat primly, offering her husband quiet encouragement as he played for present company. In truth, Lyanna thought the Hunter played rather well. The Goldberg Variations were beautiful if more austere and structured than what Lady Evetta had played, but it was clear he was not her equal. His performance concluded to tepid applause, which the Hunter took with grace.

"I hope today lived up to your expectations, Lady Lyanna."

The young girl nodded fervently, turning not to the Hunter but his wife, which seemed to amuse the foreign lord.

"Though you are welcome to return whenever you wish, it would not be proper for a young lady to travel away from home so often," the Hunter spoke without giving Lyanna time to protest, "But if you like, Evetta would be happy to visit you at Winterfell. Perhaps once or twice a week when your brothers are not here at the Workshop."

Lyanna looked to Lady Evetta, and her heart soared when the lady inclined her head.

The Hunter left his seat, making his way towards the pair, "I will have Brandon pass a letter to your father," he met his wife's gaze, "Evetta has also prepared something for you."

The young girl felt her hands tremble as the lady gifted her a slender wooden box. She lifted the lid, revealing a phonograph cylinder, Tchaikovsky - Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairies etched on its side. Her eyes met Lady Evetta's smile.

"Until our next meeting, dear child."

Lyanna pulled the lady into a hug, grateful for the hands that enveloped her in turn.

TBD

Author's Note:

As you can see, the Fairchilds once again have Rickard wishing winter had lasted longer, which I'm pretty sure is a capital offense in the North. Nothing to see here. Carry on.

That said, this chapter was a challenge. First time describing classical music in any detail, and there ended up being a lot of French influence as a result.

Some details from the chapter:

1. Gallia=Latin for Gaul/old France

2. Pain au chocolat=chocolate croissant, also called a chocolatine in the southwest. Puff pastry was not invented until the 17th century, so it would be a novelty to the Starks, who are accustomed to short-crust pastries and bread.

3. Frédéric Chopin and Franz Liszt were among the most famous composers of the Romantic period. Franz and the violinist Paganini exhibited such technical skill that some believed they had sold their souls in exchange for musical talent.

4. Chopin's Etude Op 25 No.11 is also known as Winter Wind

5. Other music mentioned this chapter:

Chopin: Etudes Op.10 and Op.25

Liszt: Mephisto, Mazeppa, Hungarian Rhapsody, and La Campanella

Bach: Goldberg Variations

Tchaikovsky: Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairies

6. Crêpe bretonne is a savory buckwheat crepe and a traditional dish of Brittany.

7. Lastly, regarding the elephant in the room, 'Luca' is inspired by an in-game portrait of Queen Annalise holding a baby. For the purposes of the story, Annalise is not Luca's surrogate, rather his conception is related to the Yharnam Stone Cyril picked up in the Chalice Dungeons.