WARNING: The following chapter contains graphic depictions of violence. We're earning that mature rating today. We will resume our usual family-friendly programming in future chapters.

Men could not fly unless on dragonback. Even as a child playing pretend, Ned had never imagined the sky to be anything but the realm of birds and dreams.

He would never forget the night a man sailed through the air, bifurcated in two, crashing into the snow at his feet. The air suddenly tasted of iron, perfumed with the caustic stench of viscera. The young Stark fought back bile as the screams of the still-living man etched themselves into his mind and memory.

Only when the screams began to die did Ned dare to look upon the figure at the end of the road. The moon illuminated the contours of a familiar coat and three-pointed hat. Dark clothes concealed his features, and what remained was obscured by shadows, but there was no mistaking those eyes agleam with shards of starlight.

Stepping over the lower half of his recent prey, the Hunter held a monstrous cleaver the size of a horse's head, crowned with a mane of serrated teeth. Scars and gashes marred every facet of its well-worn blade, reflecting a tool of cold utility and cruel intent.

The Hunter drew his arm back, and the cleaver folded upon itself with a dreadful sound, transforming into a horrific facsimile of a saw. Even from afar, the young Stark could hear the steel grate against his bones and felt the sheer weight of the weapon the Hunter swung with ease. Ned's heart raced as his hand went for his silver sword, staying there as the Hunter approached.

Moonlight cast his visage in sharp detail, lending color to the blood and ichor dripping from his hands and clothes like oiled ink. The world shifted and shrank as the Hunter drew near, and the Wolfswood no longer seemed so vast that Ned might escape his gaze. But behind the matted blood, Cyril Fairchild looked as he always had after a lesson, and it unsettled the young Stark how familiar–how recognizable–his mentor remained: His dispassionate eyes awash in an ocean of calm and control. His bearing suggested a man performing a chore, well-practiced and routine.

Rickard stepped between the Hunter and his sons.

"Lord Fairchild," the Lord of Winterfell offered no further greeting. Ice remained at his side.

The Hunter regarded the Northern lord with a far-off gaze, hooking the cleaver to his belt and making no comment when none returned the gesture. Removing his mask, the Master of the Workshop inhaled the lingering vestiges of miasma and blood.

"Lord Stark," the Hunter returned. His words echoed composure, the thin line of his lips the only indication of his displeasure, "I see Brent managed to send word. I trust he survived?"

"He returned to us uninjured," Rickard answered. The warden held the Hunter's gaze, and Ned saw his father embody a commander of men and veteran of war, "I would ask the same of you and your wife."

"Evetta and Donald remain unharmed," the Hunter's voice entertained no alternative. He gestured to what remained of the bandit, "They never passed the gate."

Rickard nodded solemnly, eying the body, "Was he the last?"

Before that night, Ned would have thought it absurd to imply one man could prevail against five, never mind a dozen. Yet the Hunter stood before them, bereft of injury, soaked in more blood than a man could spill.

"I left their leader last," The words were devoid of anticipation, satisfaction, or even anger. They stated a matter of course and dared Rickard to argue.

The warden was forced to give ground, "What happened here?"

"I greeted our intruders," the Hunter answered, as though it were the most sound and sensible thing, "I offered them gold and asked them to leave. Evetta and I had hoped to resolve the matter before you and your men came to harm."

Cyril Fairchild breathed out, his breath catching the light like plumes of stardust, "They had laughed at the offer and countered with one that mentioned Evetta."

The Hunter did not elaborate. His words implied enough, and his actions spoke for themselves.

"If that satisfies your questions, Lord Stark, I fear I have some for your sons."

The Hunter turned his gaze on Ned and remained unmoved even as the warden readied his sword, and the guards followed suit.

"Your father would not have permitted you to follow him on such a dangerous venture, so I must ask why you are here, Eddard."

All eyes fell upon the young Stark, and Ned struggled to speak, the apologies and excuses he had prepared nowhere to be found. As he searched for a reply, Brandon stepped forward.

"This is my fault," he said, falling on one knee, "Father ordered us to remain at home, but I disobeyed him and dragged Ned here."

The Hunter spared Brandon a glance, "Is this true, Eddard?"

It would have been so easy to nod. It would have been even easier to say nothing at all and affirm Brandon's guilt with silence. But the young Stark had noticed the look of anger and betrayal in Father's eyes at Brandon's words, and he recalled his own mere days ago. Had he not lectured Lord Fairchild on honor? What would his be worth if he kept silent?

"N-no," Ned stammered. The word felt strangled and heavy in his throat, but those that followed came easier, "I was the one who disobeyed Father. Brandon only came to protect me."

The young Stark held his ground, ignoring the disappointment and relief on Father's face and the murmurs that passed over the men.

"You know my next question, Eddard."

Ned nodded, "I came to guard Lady Evetta, to make sure nothing happened to her during the fighting," he met the Hunter's eyes and refused to look away, "I didn't think we'd recognize what you would become if she came to harm."

The Hunter did not reply, nor did he deny his student's claim. Instead, he smiled, and the approval in his eyes did not feel like praise.

A rattled gasp disturbed the silence. To the Northerner's horror, the bandit shuddered, clinging miraculously to life. Another breath rattled from his throat, forming bloody bubbles on his lips, but Ned made out the beginnings of a plea. A prayer.

The Hunter did not even look his way before producing a sidearm from his waistcoat. To Ned's eye, the weapon resembled a reinforced club of wood and iron, yet the trigger mechanism identified it as the pistol Lord Fairchild had described. The young Stark braced himself to witness a man die to a bolt, only to be blinded by light and deafening thunder. Distantly, he felt Father push him back as he lost his footing. The young Stark righted himself in time to see smoke waft from the weapon and the man's head disappear, painting the surrounding snow pale red and grey.

The Hunter lowered the weapon, paying no mind as a guard emptied his stomach nearby.

"I request your help with the bodies, Lord Stark."

Ned had seen men die: At Elbert's name-day tourney, a hedge knight broke his neck falling from his horse. The body had been pulled from the tilt lines before Ned realized what had happened, and the next joust had commenced without delay.

He had watched Lord Arryn condemn cruel, hardened men and remembered how even they grew afraid when led through the Moon Door.

He had witnessed an ambushed patrol return to the Bloody Gate, where a wounded squire had bled out in his saddle. His comrades had closed his eyes, giving his features a veneer of peace.

There was no peace to be found at the Workshop, only the silence of dead men and the fear of those who stripped them bare. The Northerners found fourteen bodies near the manor. Eight had died at the gate; the others cut down as they fled. Most were missing a limb; others had been gutted. The bloody hand and footprints beside each corpse told the same tale: These men had not enjoyed quick deaths. They had been maimed and left to die, granted time for contemplation, reflection, and regret.

Ned walked alongside Father and Brandon, passing broken bodies with slack, tear-stained faces, mouths agape in wordless prayer. The lady of the manor stood by the gate, Donald at her side. Though the young man looked too stricken to defend himself, much less another, Lady Evetta appeared no different than she had days before.

"Honorable Lord," She greeted with a bow.

Father returned the gesture, "Lady Evetta, I am glad to see you safe."

The lady inclined her head. A specter of sadness passed over her features as she watched her husband assist the guards, "I had hoped he would find peace in the Waking World."

The Starks gave no reply, having no words to offer.

Father's men looted the dead in silence. No rebuke was levied against those who lost their stomachs and left to gather wood for the pyre. No remarks were made as the Hunter stripped tattered cloaks from corpses with a practiced hand and tore through shirts of riveted mail with equal ease. Three piles took shape: One of bodies, one of armor, and one of arms.

Ned studied the tailored mail, castle-forged steel, and well-weighted purses. Father and Rodrik's expressions grew grim at the sight of their prize. Ned shared a glance with Brandon and knew they thought the same.

With the bodies gathered, the Hunter doused the pyre in pitch and set it ablaze, breathing steadily as the Northerners shielded themselves from the smell of smoke and burning flesh.

He then turned his attention to a man sprawled beneath a tree some thirty paces from the manor. He was a man of middling years, wearing fine brigandine with a sword at his hip. Scarred and powerfully built, he would have looked formidable were he able to stand. As it was, he lay helplessly where the Hunter had propped him against the tree, forcing him to witness what became of his men.

"M-monster."

There was no fire left in the man, his words the last embers of a dying flame.

Cyril Fairchild knelt before him and raised his chin.

"Take slow breaths," he instructed, ever the teacher, "I did not break your neck high enough to hamper your breathing."

In the silence of the Workshop, Ned could hear the words, detecting the familiar calm and composure that chilled his blood more than any display of anger.

"You will die here. You were dead before you arrived. Had you accepted my offer and left, I would have followed and propped you against a different tree. But do not worry: You and your men will live on in my dreams, and we will reenact this night without end."

The Hunter stood and drew his pistol. Once more, Ned heard the sound of thunder, and a headless corpse fell against the snow.

"Fourteen men?" Luwin's fingers went white against his tankard.

"Fifteen counting the captain. Fairchild burned him last."

Fane passed a hand over his face, "He slew fifteen men alone?"

"Butchered," Rodrik corrected. He drained his ale and filled his companions' to the brim, "The corpses were missing chunks. Never seen the like. And aye, poor lad's been quiet, but I reckon Donald wasn't much involved."

Luwin cast long looks into the contents of his cup, "Old Gods help us all."

A murmur of agreement passed over the table as the Warden of the North observed in silence. The night had been a mess of activity after the bodies were burned. The Hunter had set off for the bandits' camp, leaving the gold he had offered now-dead men in Rickard's care. Lady Evetta had accompanied her husband, and none had dared to protest.

The return to Winterfell had been made in silence. The Northerners had found their horses, and a dozen none had recognized. Despite the lack of casualties, the guards had carried themselves with the morale of defeated men. Riding through the gates, Rickard embraced Benjen and Lyanna before sending his children to their rooms and summoning his council.

Now he sat in his solar, recalling the massacre at the Workshop. He had not witnessed such a scene since the war, when he had charged the bulwark of Bloodstone as a younger man. Cyril Fairchild had left no survivors, and while Rickard would have preferred the ringleader alive, he had been unable to challenge the Hunter, not with his sons so close and at risk.

The thought of his two eldest sons darkened his spirits. He would have words with Eddard. What those words would be, he remained unsure.

Fane Poole was the first to break the silence, "I am starting to understand why the Vilebloods brought Lord Fairchild into their fold, going so far as to marry one of their own."

Rodrik grunted, "Aye, what fool of a father lets a son like that become a maester?"

"A wise man with sound judgment," the greybeard countered, "Unless his firstborn was the Warrior reborn, history has shown what happens when a second son so overshadows the elder."

On that, Rickard agreed. Cyril Fairchild once headed a powerful order and had married a lady of high standing. Per Lyanna's handmaiden, he had a male heir, likely fostering with his mother's family, and the roots of said family ran deep, given evidence of their ties–perhaps even marriage–to royalty. Men with less have strived for more.

The maester seemed to share his thoughts, "Lord Fairchild has not returned to the Great Isles since becoming Master of the Workshop. Alongside his ties to Cainhurst, he likely feared his presence would have threatened his nephew's birthright." Luwin ruminated into his cup, "I think this speaks well of his character."

"The corpses said plenty enough," Rodrik countered, though his voice carried more weariness than bite, "At least the man's not lied about his origins: Had he come from Essos, we'd have heard about the monster during the war, and Maelsy would've lost his moniker."

Once more, Rickard found little room to argue. The Hunter's prodigious strength, coupled with his wife's height, had always raised concerns regarding the nature and quality of men beyond the Sunset Sea. Tonight had forced those concerns to the forefront of Rickard's mind. His only comfort was the certainty that Lord Fairchild's strength had been exceptional, else the Vilebloods would not have pursued him so doggedly.

There were also the man's weapons to consider. In truth, Rickard was unsure where to begin. The Northerners had already suspected the Fairchilds of having some form of magic. A mountain of glass would not have appeared in Wintertown otherwise. But it was becoming evident that not all magic from the west was so benign, and the North–no, the Seven Kingdoms–had no recourse for the weapons Lord Fairchild possessed.

Following Rodrik's example, the maester upended his tankard, "What are we to do?"

The knight folds his arms, expression growing sour, "I've never liked the man. I like him less now, given the work he's caused me, but Fairchild had the right of it tonight: Bastards came for him and his, and he made them pay for it. Lords had men killed for less."

"And we have all but acknowledged him as the Lord of the Workshop–if not the surrounding Wolfswood–for the next six years," Fane finished, passing a hand through his beard.

Rickard broke his silence, three sets of eyes turning as he spoke, "The events of tonight changed nothing. Our arrangement with Lord Fairchild stands, as does his tutelage of my sons and Lady Evetta's recent lessons with my daughter."

His words were met with concern. Even Luwin, who thought better of the man than most, expressed apprehension, "Is that wise, my lord?"

Grey eyes passed over the room as Rickard contemplated the words, giving them their due.

"Cyril Fairchild is a dangerous man. Of that, there was never any doubt. Our only question was the extent, and we glimpsed that answer tonight. More than ever, we cannot make an enemy of him," Strange as it sounded, for all that he had been surprised, Rickard had not felt deceived. The Hunter had always carried himself with an air of danger. In training Brandon and Ned, the Hunter had shown his potential for violence. Tonight saw that potential fulfilled.

"We have taken his gold and his glass. My own son made an attempt on his life. Would you have me rescind our agreement now that he was attacked on our lands?"

When his question was met with silence, the warden spoke once more, finding little joy in what was to come, "On that matter, I fear there are pressing details to discuss."

The old steward sighed and reached for his drink, "In all my years, I have never seen so much castle-forged steel added to the armory after a bandit raid."

Rickard looked to his sworn sword, who nodded grimly, "The lads recognized some of them," the knight grunted, voice almost a growl, "They were Whitehill men."

The weight of the words and all they implied fell upon the room, leaving the air tense and heavy.

Luwin shook his head, chains rattling as he did, "Bolton has made a move."

"Fool's made a mistake," Rodrik barked back, "The treacherous cunt must've leached out his brains with his blood!"

"It is far less foolish than you might imagine, Rodrik," the steward looked to his lord and was met with agreement.

Roose Bolton had targeted the Fairchilds. Through spies in Winterfell or White Harbor, the Lord of the Dreadfort had learned of House Stark's supposed glassmaker. Whether he knew the quantity of glass Rickard held hardly mattered: The ambitions of the Red Kings had not died with the last rebellion, and Bolton realized Rickard's recent windfall would have rendered those ambitions untenable.

The plan had been daring but clever. During the coming feast, Rickard had intended to confirm the rumors Fane had planted in White Harbor. Had the Fairchilds died before then, he would have been forced to denounce the rumors, perhaps even the very existence of the Fairchilds: To do any less was to admit guests had died under his protection, that he had allowed a great boon–not only to House Stark but the North–to slip through his fingers. The panes hidden in the crypts would have collected dust, for how would Rickard have explained Winterfell's glass production without a glassmaker?

The Warden of the North closed his eyes as his anger swelled: Roose would have made him an unwilling accomplice in the murder of his own guests.

This had not been a raid but an assassination. Such a task required trained and trusted men. Sellwords were not known for such qualities and using his own bore too great a risk, so Bolton had called upon Highpoint. There had been risks even then—risk of failure and capture—but not ruin, not truly. The North was a harsh land: Losing a patrol was not uncommon, nor were men-at-arms turning brigands. Had the men been captured, their words would not have held against Whitehill, never mind Bolton, a high lord. Ludd would have disavowed his men, Roose would have called upon his goodfather's support, and others would have followed. The Boltons were mistrusted, but the lords of the North would not condemn one of their own over the death of a foreigner.

"It takes twelve days to travel from Highpoint to Winterfell on horseback, longer if you evaded patrols," Fane mused, "To coordinate such an attack, Bolton must have planned this the moment he heard of the Fairchilds."

Rodrick turned to his liege, eyes burning with anger, "He has to answer for this."

"Where are the men?"

The knight frowned but answered all the same, "In the guard tower. Gave them five dragons a piece and locked them in a room with enough ale to last till morning."

The warden nodded. Rumors would be contained, as well as they could be. His men would recognize the gold for what it was, "They will say nothing of what happened tonight."

"My lord–"

"Roose Bolton has moved against us, but this was an act of desperation, not daring," his voice turned cold as a modicum of anger bled through, "He does not know the fate of his men, whether they had failed or simply abandoned their task. Nor can he exclude their capture. We will not aid him in this regard."

Luwin considered his words, "Without information, he cannot act."

Rodrik shook his head, "Need I explain the dangers of a cornered animal?"

"We are less than a moon from the spring feast. It will take two weeks for Bolton to travel to Winterfell. He will arrive with his regular retinue: He has no time to muster his forces, and we have given him no cause to justify such action."

This was war, war without battlelines or banners, but war all the same. Roose had nearly dealt House Stark a crippling blow, but he could not have accounted for the Hunter. Now the Lord of the Dreadfort had shown his hand, his men lay dead, and Rickard saw his enemies for what they were.

Bolton would live to see morning. He would survive the feast and return to the Dreadfort, but that was all he would do: Live and watch as Rickard tore the foundations of his house out from under him piece by piece.

The Warden of the North turned to Luwin, "We will send word to Lord Manderly at daybreak," his foster brother commanded the greatest force of heavy cavalry in the North. Their presence would be a welcome addition to the feast, "The North has found itself a glassmaker, with great assistance from House Manderly. The first shipment will rightly go to White Harbor, and such valuable cargo will require a formidable escort."

"Bolton will see through the pretense," Fane warned.

"It cannot be helped. The feast is upon us, and the safety of our guests remains paramount. Bolton has already proven himself willing to attack those under our protection," Rickard's voice took on a vicious edge, "And knowing his position does not make it easier to change."

"The feast won't be our only concern, Milord. Could be a diversion," Rodrik warned, though talk of strategy seemed to pacify him, "We'll have to double the patrols. Even two hundred armed men crossing the border would wreak havoc when all the lords of the North are knee-deep in mead."

Rickard nodded, "See it done,"

"I take it the Dreadfort will not see a glass garden this spring?" Luwin ventured.

Rickard felt the beginnings of a smile, "Bolton will be promised one as planned."

Fane chuckled behind his cup, "I imagine he will struggle to gather the enemies of House Stark under his banner while continuing to receive our favor."

"House Stark will keep its word," the warden assured, "But with gardens promised to three other houses, it will be difficult to say just how many will be constructed before winter."

Bolton would stand alone. Though he had proven himself capable and clever, Roose was a young, untested lord carrying a family legacy of failed rebellions, and Rickard was a veteran of war. The Dreadfort had fewer allies, and that number would dwindle in the days to come.

"And what of Fairchild?" Rodrik asked, "Man's no fool. I'd bet a ballock he made one of the bastards talk before making him a corpse. Bolton will resemble his own banner if Fairchild gets his hands on him. I'd not object, but others might have questions, Milord."

"I will speak with him in the morrow," Rickard said no more on the matter, and in truth, there was nothing more to say. He stood, and his inner circle followed, "Relay my orders to the men and prepare the ravens to fly at first light."

Rickard watched as his council bowed and departed. They had done what they could. Recklessness would damn them as fast as inaction. As he made for his room, anticipating troubled thoughts and fitful sleep, the Warden of the North vowed Bolton would not be the ruin of his house.

Two days later, ravens reached Winterfell, bearing missives that went out to every castle and keep in the North: Roose Bolton and Ludd Whitehill had died in their sleep.

TBC

Author's Notes:

Chapter summary: With the first harvest rolling in and the feast upon them, Rickard receives the tragic news that two of his loyal lords have died inexplicably of completely natural causes. Fortunately, he's got a new chest of gold and his men get to see (hush money) a nice bonus.

In other news, Cyril's got a new sign outside the Workshop: Dogs/Starks are Friendly, Beware of Owner

Anyways, Roose Bolton was behind this attempted home invasion. Just some quick notes on that:

1. Regarding Roose's age, he was described as "well past forty" by canon, 299 AC. Ned dies canonically at age 36 (crazy, I know), so it's reasonable to assume he's got a decade on the brothers, putting him in his mid-to-late 20s. He's got a few years of ruling/terrorizing/torture under his belt.

2. Bethany Ryswell should still be alive. Domeric should be around 4-5.

3. Regarding the hit job, Bolton caught wind of the Fairchilds (either from Winterfell or White Harbor) and knew that the Starks have/can make glass. He didn't know that the Dreadfort was going to receive a glass garden, but even if he did, Rickard handing them out was bad news: The Boltons have been waiting a thousand years to supplant the Starks. With the influence and goodwill Rickard was about to amass, another thousand wouldn't have made a difference. And unlike Tywin, Roose hasn't shown much concern for legacy. If he saw an opportunity to ruin Rickard's day and make life worse for everyone involved, he'd give it some thought.

4. That said, Roose was working on a tight timetable: The Starks had discovered the Fairchilds at the end of winter, with the spring feast ~4 months away (time for the first harvest). Cyril visits Winterfell a month later, 'almost' gets shanked, and drops off some glass. Fane took another ~2 weeks to get word to White Harbor. By the time news reached the Dreadfort, Roose had ~2 months to make a move, and that's including travel time from Highpoint to the Workshop. Ideally, he needed the Fairchilds dead before the feast: If Rickard announces their presence, and THEN they die, every Northern lord will know what happened.

5. Even if the plan failed, Roose had every reason to believe he would keep his life and lands: You don't convict lords with the testimony from armsmen/smallfolk, and Roose was already a step removed from the Whitehill men. Elizabeth Báthory, the countess/serial killer and one of the major inspirations for Dracula, allegedly murdered 80 women and wasn't investigated until she started targeting members of the gentry and minor nobility. Even then, she was sentenced to house arrest.

6. So as asoiaf assassinations go–compared to hiring a boar to skewer your drunk husband–it wasn't a bad plan. Roose just chose a poor choice of targets.

Lastly, Rickard's reaction to all of this might seem pretty calm—too calm even. That's fair. Just some thoughts on that:

1. While Westeros is pretty standard low-fantasy medieval in many regards (barring the occasional skinchanger), rumors of what goes down in Essos are straight bonkers. The people of Leng are supposedly 8-10ft tall, the Great Empire of the Dawn had tiger-women, and the people of the Thousand Islands (likely pulled straight from Lovecraft) have green skin and shark teeth. Rickard and his council have no reason to assume the west is any less insane. So Cyril demonstrating the strength of a giant and wielding seemingly magical weapons still fits within a very broad definition of human.

2. Furthermore, Rickard has few options other than continuing to forge relations with Fairchild, even from a position of weakness. He's in too deep, and his family's too involved. Moreover, despite everything, Cyril hasn't done anything wrong. Even if Rickard wanted to drive Cyril out, the man had 1 vs. 15. Uninjured. Winterfell's garrison is ~200. Telling your men there's gonna be a ~10% casualty rate to evict your tenant is a hard sell.

Thank you all for your continued reading and support. Your feedback and comments are always appreciated.