"Slow down!"
The warning only spurred Benjen to pedal faster.
"You can't catch me, Brandon!"
"Won't be hard when you topple over!"
The young boy squealed as he rounded the corner, and his older brother disappeared from view.
Rickard watched as his youngest son raced down the cobbled path on his safety bicycle, a name day gift from Lord Fairchild and his lady wife. The Lord of Winterfell had first thought the name inapt for such a masterwork of craftsmanship, but those notions had died a quick death once the Hunter showcased its predecessor, a high-wheeled monstrosity that left the warden grateful Lord Fairchild had not gifted Benjen a penny-farthing.
Rickard sighed into his glass of sparkling wine.
With the Fairchilds teaching three of his children, the warden knew his youngest son had felt excluded from the excitement. He had not been surprised when Benjen asked to visit 'Lord Hunter's house,' nor had he batted an eye when Lyanna relayed her brother's wishes to Lady Evetta before Rickard could send a messenger.
Now, on the eve of Benjen's name day, the Lord of Winterfell found himself a guest at his own son's party. Paper lanterns and brightly-colored ribbons decorated the grounds of the Fairchild manor. Tables laden with cake, sugar-covered confectionaries, custard apples, and other exotic fruits dotted the foreyard. Even the fountains had been dyed a rich, violet hue.
With no vassals to impress, ceremonies to observe, or demands to entertain, Rickard felt he had stepped into a blissful dream. Lyanna and Benjen had laughed as they sailed kites nearly four men across while Brandon ensured his siblings did not fly off like ships in the wind. During the game of rats and cats that followed, Benjen attempted to scale the steepled roof of the Workshop, thwarted only by Lord Fairchild's timely intervention.
Then Lyanna had played the piano, urged on by Lady Evetta's silent encouragement. Though his daughter had only a few months of practice, the simple melodies had sounded beautiful to Rickard's ear, and Lord Fairchild's praise—that Lyanna could grow into a great talent—had not felt like flattery.
"Though your daughter has proven herself gifted, I suspect Benjen might be the most talented of your children, Lord Stark." The Hunter helped himself to a custard tart, eyes agleam with merriment and mischief, "It took me three days to learn how to ride my first bicycle. Your son has not been on his for a full hour."
"We all have our strengths," Rickard replied with tact, even as a smile tugged at his lips."Thank you for arranging this gathering. It means a great deal to my family, and Benjen will no doubt cherish the memory."
The Lord of Winterfell spoke and meant every word. A name day feast would be held in the morrow. Lord Cerwyn was due to arrive alongside the masters and knights that governed Rickard's lands, but a third son seldom garnered great attention, and the celebration was always a modest affair.
"It was our pleasure, Lord Stark," the Hunter assured, sparing the warden from somber thoughts, "Your children are a delight, and the Workshop would be much too quiet in their absence."
Acknowledging the Hunter's words, Rickard witnessed Lady Evetta holding Lyanna aloft as she wrangled three kites at once while Brandon recruited more guards in a vain attempt to outmaneuver his brother. While evading his pursuers, Benjen turned to his father and waved.
Rickard smiled and prayed that the joy reached his eyes.
Hours after their return, after the family supper and his children had retired to their rooms, the warden sat alone in his solar, his desk cleared of parchment, letters, ledgers, and ink. All that remained was a single candle, a long-forgotten cup of watered ale, and the keepsake clasped in his hand.
From the tapestries of the Great Hall to the furnishings of the Great Keep, Lyarra Stark had left her imprint on Winterfell. After her passing, Rickard had left everything untouched to remind himself of the years his wife had walked and ruled these halls, not the final days when she lay bedridden.
The arrowhead in his hand was one such memento, a shard of dragonglass he had recovered the first time they ventured into the crypts, searching for the Builder's fabled tomb. He had been younger than Benjen at the time and had urged her to turn back, but Lyarra would not be deterred, leading them onward by candlelight. Her excitement had nearly been worth the caning they both received. Rickard smiled as he gazed into the roaring hearth. This was how he wished to remember her: strong, daring, and brave.
Tomorrow was Benjen's name day. Rickard would welcome his lords with warmth and good cheer, but tonight, he allowed himself to ruminate and reminisce.
The fire had dwindled to embers when a knock at the door disturbed the silence.
Rodrik appeared, brow furrowed and mouth affixed with a scowl.
"It's Fairchild, Milord. Asked to see you," the knight said, words more an apology than a report. "Shall I send him away?"
Closing his eyes, Rickard considered what he wanted and what was wise before allowing himself a moment to make peace with the latter.
He shook his head.
"Have the guards see him in." Even now, his voice echoed resolve, leaving no room for argument.
Rodrik nodded and departed without further protest. He returned a short while afterward, Cyril Fairchild following closely behind. The Hunter bowed as he entered the room, and Rickard returned the greeting, schooling weariness behind well-practiced courtesy.
"Has something happened, Lord Fairchild?"
The Hunter shook his head.
"Nothing so serious, Lord Stark."
The younger man produced a bottle of amber liquor, the words 'Glenlivet' and 'Whiskey' etched into the flawless glass. Two crystal tumblers followed suit, finding their place on the warden's table.
"This is more of a social call."
The Hunter uncorked the bottle and poured a sliver into each glass. Rickard stopped his sworn sword from interfering as he scrutinized the tumbler pushed his way.
"Will this kill me?"
He asked nothing else.
The Hunter smiled. "Not without concerted effort, and certainly not tonight."
The answer sufficed.
The whiskey tasted of honey and smoke. The rolling warmth that tumbled down his throat reminded Rickard of Tyroshi brandy, only more potent and less sweet.
The Warden of the North sipped his glass, grey eyes lingering on the hearth. The solar was silent save the occasional embers that flared up from the low-burning flame, but the Hunter did not press him for conversation.
"This is rather forward of you, Lord Fairchild."
Acknowledging the accusation, his guest made no play at subtlety.
"Tomorrow commemorates more than Benjen's birth. Your vassals will hand your son their gifts and you, their well-wishes, but it will not be their place to offer more."
The Hunter turned the contents of his tumbler with disinterest as he regarded his host with an unwavering gaze.
"Brandon has helped me understand how much I have inconvenienced you, Lord Stark." His expression grew pensive, "If there are any words you wish to offer an empty room, all the world will believe you were alone tonight."
The words were more of an apology than Rickard had expected from a man who owed him none. The offer of confidence sounded no less strange, given all that had passed between them. Respect warred with resentment as the Hunter once more proved his character a match for his strength.
The Lord of Winterfell ruminated into his cup, tallying all he had lost and gained since the Hunter's arrival. He reached the same conclusion he had months before: House Stark owed Cyril Fairchild a debt, and the man bore no blame for Brandon's disgrace. But the truth did not bring closure, and the liquor failed to tip the balance of Rickard's gratitude and frustration.
"We grew up together. Here in Winterfell," he ceded at last. What need did Cyril Fairchild have for his demons? With the secrets already between them, what was one more but another ship lost amidst the Smoking Sea? "Her father was the youngest son of Beron Stark, my great-grandfather. She was my constant companion and accomplice in all manner of mischief that drove my father to drink."
The Hunter smiled at the tale, "Only yours?"
Memories of the Wandering Wolf teaching them every secret passageway within the Great Keep drew a low laugh from the warden, "Great-uncle Rodrik was encouraging in all the wrong ways."
His thoughts grew somber as he recalled a young Lyarra holding Winterfell together after sickness had claimed his parents and the last of their kin. He remembered how she had governed the North alone while he marched off to war, desperate to prove the blood of the wolf had not waned or weakened. She had brought their youngest son into the world healthy and whole, knowing full well what it would cost her. And him.
"Lyarra was strong in a way I have known no one to be, and I have known none stronger since her passing."
Rickard held the Hunter's gaze and met no challenge. The young man instead raised his glass.
"To our better halves."
The warden drained his cup, and silence reclaimed the room. It became clear that the Hunter would offer no further conversation without prompting.
"How did you come to meet Evetta?"
The question felt bold to ask, for it was more than the Hunter had offered to give, but Rickard was tired of surrendering secrets for Cyril Fairchild to keep.
For half a year, he had grasped at hearsay and conjecture in a vain attempt to understand the man who had upended his world.
The Hunter leaned back, tapping his glass as he considered the question.
"During my first night in Yharnam, beasts attacked Iosefka's Clinic while I was receiving treatment. I was still on the maester's table when they battered down the door. Feverish and unarmed, I fled into the streets and made my way across the Great Bridge. There I was beset by a beast, the size of which I doubt you would believe."
A smile overtook the young man's features as the memory played out behind his eyes. "I awoke in the Old Workshop, Evetta standing over me. She gave me the strength to venture back into the city, where the Scourge had left fathers unable to recognize their sons and mothers, their own babes."
The Hunter recounted the tale with the ease of a greybeard recalling his youth, voice awash with nostalgia despite the horrors his words implied.
"Evetta would welcome my return after every battle won and lost. Though she cared for all of Gehrman's students, I allowed myself to believe she waited for me alone. It was reason enough to retake a city most thought damned beyond hope."
The warden listened as his guest recounted a tale befitting heroes from a bygone age. The thought of defending a city from enemies that could drive the likes of the Hunter to desperation invoked images of the Long Night, of battling the Others with the realms of Men long lost.
The Hunter's deeds were beyond him, as they were for most living men, but Rickard understood Lord Fairchild's regard for his wife; the memory of Lyarra had kept him alive through many a battle when the war had weighed on his soul and death no longer seemed a poor substitute for sleep.
As the Hunter had done before, the warden raised his glass.
'To our better halves.'
The younger man mirrored the gesture, even as his smile faltered.
"Evetta took my name after Gehrman's passing," the Hunter's features darkened with a familiar pain, as though coarse wool had been brushed over an old wound, "Though my former mentor was a peerless warrior and an apt teacher, he was a callous man and worse father. With his grief came neglect, such that Evetta never knew life outside the Workshop. Upon his death, Gehrman left me to inherit everything he owned."
The Lord of Winterfell listened and felt his anger flare. Lyanna had told him about Lady Maria, the mother Lady Evetta had never met. He understood the pain of losing a wife and knew it to be a poor excuse for a father's mistreatment. Even as a great lord, Rickard fretted over the prospects of his youngest son. What madness would possess the First Hunter to disinherit a daughter, leaving her destitute?
"Did he know your intentions for her?"
"Whether he knew or not, he left Evetta no choice but to love me."
The young man refilled their cups as his words hung between them, haunting and unkind.
"Evetta refused my attempts to return what was rightfully hers. She refused enough times that I eventually stopped trying, yet she agreed to marry me when I mustered the courage to ask." The Hunter paused, his subsequent words laced with conviction, "Regardless of the circumstances that brought us together, Evetta and I have made a family and turned the Workshop into a home. I wish for her happiness, as she has always seen to mine."
Rickard thanked the Hunter for his confidence. For all it meant to the North, Cyril Fairchild had parted with gold, gifts, and glass without care. He had not parted with his personal history near as easily, and Rickard recognized the worth of those words.
"I understand you have a son." The warden lived for his children, and Cyril Fairchild seemed the same.
"Luca," the Hunter affirmed, spirits improving as he uttered the name. "The boy is studying under his Great-grandaunt Annalise at Cainhurst. We call her 'grandmother' as a courtesy."
"The Great Isles have a tradition of fosterage?"
The younger man shook his head.
"The institution was never commonly practiced and is considered antiquated. Luca's circumstances are somewhat special as Annalise has named him her heir," the Hunter explained, no doubt noticing the sudden shift in the warden's bearing. "The main branch of Cainhurst has not produced a child in quite some time, and Annalise is quite fond of her 'grandson.'"
"That is a great honor," Rickard offered despite his surprise.
"It made Luca happy," The Hunter remarked, as though inheriting the lands and titles of a great house was not a marked change in his son's fortunes. "The boy always had a keen interest in his mother's family. I only hope Annalise does not spoil him over much. Evetta and I see to that well enough ourselves."
"A fool's wager."
The Hunter smiled, "Allow a father to dream, Lord Stark."
Another spell of silence fell over the room. More whiskey was poured, and the bottle dwindled as the night grew long. Rickard's thoughts turned to his children.
"Do you ever fear for him?"
The Hunter arched a brow.
"But of course," he spoke as though the answer were obvious, "I would think it the privilege of every father to fear his children might inherit his flaws and repeat his failings." The Hunter tapped the lip on his glass, causing the liquor to ripple and distort his reflection upon its surface. "Luca is a sweet boy when he chooses to be. He has much of Evetta's looks and temperament and a good deal of his father's stubbornness and strength." The words carried an exasperation and fondness the warden knew well. "But slow as he is to anger, he is slower to forgive, and the boy always had a unique fondness for the sadder sorts of stories."
"Have you other children?" Rickard asked, unsure if the Hunter had described his heir with praise or censure.
The younger man shook his head. "Luca's birth was a difficult one. Evetta and I are content with one child."
Rickard acknowledged the words with newfound envy. The North was a harsh land where parents too often buried their children, and no Northerner could entrust his legacy to a single son, the Lord of Winterfell, least of all. But Rickard's line had been secure: he had two sons, a daughter, and a wife. Lyarra had seemed so strong when they had tried for a fourth child.
Three children...it would have been enough.
Rickard closed his eyes, releasing a strained breath. He would not surrender his youngest son for the world, but in his weakest moments—the long nights he sat alone at his desk without the warmth of a familiar hand upon his shoulder, the long days of holding court without the words of his closest counsel—the Lord of Winterfell imagined himself a father to three children and a husband to a still-living wife. The dream was never worth the guilt that followed, and Rickard lived in fear of the day he visited the dream without remorse.
"You are a good father, Lord Stark."
The words cut through his thoughts like a deluge of wind and cold water. The Hunter regarded his host with knowing eyes bereft of judgment.
"Evetta and I have had the pleasure of knowing all four of your children and the privilege of teaching three. They have keen minds and kind hearts, each a credit to their parents." The Hunter's voice conveyed respect, "As one father to another, you have every reason to be proud."
Rickard met the Hunter's praise with silence, wondering how much he deserved and how much he merely wished to believe. He loved all his children, and that never changed, not even in light of Brandon's transgressions. But even those the warden had long forgiven.
Rickard recalled standing between his sons and the Hunter after the latter had split a man in two. Ice had felt like a stick in his hands, and he finally understood what his eldest son had faced in the yard all those moons ago and thought he was defending his family from.
Cyril Fairchild could have wrought ruin upon Winterfell as surely as Balerion had upon Harrenhal. Instead, the Hunter had made Rickard the most powerful Stark to rule the North, greater than many Kings of Winter. Brandon and Eddard would soon be the best swords the realm had seen in an age. Even Lyanna had benefited from her lessons with the Hunter's wife, displaying more patience over the last month than Rickard had witnessed all winter.
"Brandon has informed me of what you offered him," he spoke the words into the silence of the evening air. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done."
"The choice is his to make, and he has many years to make it." The Hunter accepted the warden's gratitude with measured grace, "Should he choose the path of a Hunter, there will never be another Scourge." The younger man spoke with conviction, as though the world would bend and break to accommodate his words and will. "Whatever monsters Brandon may face, know he will never become one under my care. That, I promise you, Lord Stark."
"Just Rickard," the Lord of Winterfell corrected, holding the Hunter's gaze to ensure the meaning was clear.
"Rickard," the Hunter amended, amusement alight in his eye like a fistful of stars.
"Just Cyril, then."
TBC
Chapter Summary:
The Hunter lends our favorite warden a sympathetic ear and the two end up on a first-name basis.
Author's Note:
Another drama-heavy chapter, but at least we're back to the family-friendly content this story is known for. Eldritch though he may be, Cyril is sharp enough to realize (some) of the problems he's caused Rickard after speaking with Brandon. It was high time man and cuttlefish sat down for a talk.
Rickard's characterization was more challenging to pin down this time: he's a man with regrets trying to do right by his family, and sometimes, he fails. The Hunter has made his life better in many ways and worse in others. This chapter highlights this strange relationship.
With Cyril, I decided to flush out his past and his relationship with Evetta/the Plain Doll, drawing inspiration from one of the most haunting lines from the game:
"Hunters have told me about the Church, about the Gods and their love. But, do the Gods love their creations? I am a doll created by you humans, would you ever think to love me? Of course, I do love you, isn't that how you've made me?" -Plain Doll
This brings up some very troubling implications about the parameters Gehrman set when 'making' the Doll and how it may/may not have affected her disposition, which likely bothers Cyril more than any threat of bodily harm.
Rickard also learned more about Luca, the Hunt's very normal, very human son.
Final Notes:
The safety bicycle was invented in the 1880s, named and marketed for being safer than the penny-farthing/high wheelers they slowly replaced. Not a whiskey drinker, but Glenlivet is a relatively old (founded 1824) and very respected distiller of single-malt scotch that seemed period appropriate.
Last but certainly not least, I would like to thank KnightStar for beta reading this chapter. Really appreciated your help with this one!