Date: 281 AC
"Lord Fairchild, Lady Evetta, we've come to say farewell."
Lyanna stood in a familiar parlor, Brandon and Ned at her side. Both had grown so tall she had to stand on tiptoes just to reach their shoulders.
The last three years had passed like a dream, blurred at the edges and without detail. Mere moons after Lord Baratheon's departure, white ravens had flown from the Citadel, heralding another long winter.
Yet it had been unlike any Lyanna could recall: the blinding snowstorms that once battered the walls of her home, forcing the household to huddle near the hot springs and hearths, were nowhere to be found. Only the heavy snowfalls signaled the end of autumn.
Father had not sat idle. He had ensured the granaries were stocked to near bursting while the glass gardens continued producing food long after the ground froze over, keeping Wintertown fed even as the settlement grew.
Lords and smallfolk alike sang House Stark's praises, for Father had not been alone. Ned had worked tirelessly at his side, arranging the last shipments of glass promised to Last Hearth and relief for holdfasts needing aid. Brandon had ventured out on regular patrols, his reputation alone dissuading would-be bandits from harrowing farms and villages.
Eager to do her part, Lyanna had spent her evenings helping Lady Evetta ladle soup and hand out bread to the smallfolk.
So the years had passed with the world growing small, silent, and still. Though news of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's marriage to Elia Martell and the birth of a new princess eventually reached Winterfell to modest fanfare, the young girl remembered little else of note.
But winter had not been dull, and the young girl had never wanted for attention: Lady Evetta had visited Winterfell without fail, overseeing Lyanna's music lessons with the same care the Hunter had seen to her brothers' swordwork. It had become something of a tradition for the members of House Stark to gather in Lyanna's room for private performances after supper. If Father ever noticed the gaggle of servants loitering outised the door, he never said.
Likewise, winter had not excused Lyanna's brothers from sparring with the Hunter, for the path to the Workshop always remained bereft of snow.
Today, on the eve of spring, Lyanna stood in a blue dress dyed with winter roses, the case to her beloved violin held between her hands. Both had been gifts from the Fairchilds, who had become all but family.
Eying the three Starks with a playful smile, the lord in question rose from his chair as his wife did the same, leaving breakfast half-finished and well-forgotten.
"Dear, oh dear, it is time already?"
Lyanna nodded and tried to reply, only for Brandon to sneak up and ruffle her hair.
"We'll be leaving in an hour," he supplied, voice now a deep baritone that resembled Father's more and more by the day.
"We have everything packed," she added, paying no mind as both Brandon and Ned glared her way, as though questioning her contribution to the task. She looked instead to the Lord Hunter. "Won't you come with us? Harrenhal is set to be the greatest tourney the realm has ever seen."
The young girl already knew his answer, but she asked all the same and held back her disappointment when Lord Fairchild shook his head.
"As delightful as that would be, Evetta and I would hate to inconvenience your father further."
Lyanna nodded, understanding if unhappy with his words, as she turned towards her music teacher.
"Robert will be there," she explained, craning her neck to meet Lady Evetta's gaze. "I swear I'll give him a chance."
Her hands felt clammy as she gripped her violin with growing embarrassment. "A-and I'll keep practicing while I'm away. I promise!"
Though she loathed to admit it, Lyanna almost looked forward to meeting Robert Baratheon. After learning of her betrothal, she had been angry at Father for some time. It would be weeks before she heeded his advice and wrote to her husband-to-be, half-hoping her letters would go unanswered.
Instead, the oaf had written back. His diction needed work and his penmanship was a travesty, but Lyanna had been strangely pleased, knowing Robert had penned the letters himself–likely with great effort–rather than handing them off to a maester.
Their contents had also been a surprise. The oaf had not tried to woo her; instead, he had expressed his joy at their engagement, how eager he was to meet her and show her the stormlands.
He told her of the forests encompassing Cape Wrath, the clear waters surrounding the Sapphire Isle, and the Slayne River that swelled after every rainstorm.
Lyanna had nearly laughed when Robert described how, upon returning from Volantis, his father had arrived in Gulltown and all but thrown him aboard the Windproud, setting sail for Storm's End before Lord Arryn had time to offer guest rights.
Robert was now helping Lord Baratheon govern the stormlands. He had denounced it as an onerous task, but one he fulfilled for fear of his mother's ire, who was more a dragon than his father could ever hope to be, Targaryen blood or not. He wrote of his family often, of his brothers, Stannis and Renly.
Lyanna confessed she had come to look forward to Robert's letters. To be sure, she remained unhappy with the match, but the young Stark knew her duty and thought Robert deserved the chance to prove himself more than what the rumors described.
Her music teacher stepped closer. The young girl found herself enveloped in a pair of familiar arms, and her worries slipped away.
"Take care, dear child."
Lyanna returned Lady Evetta's embrace.
The Hunter stood some paces away, giving the young girl time with his wife. Only once Lyanna returned to her brothers' side did Lord Fairchild turn to his students.
"How long will you be away, Eddard?"
"Three moons, give or take," Ned ventured, sounding a touch too happy about escaping the Hunter's lesson, forcing Lyanna to stifle a laugh. "Will that be a problem, my lord?"
Lord Fairchild shook his head.
"Not at all. I am sure Evetta and I will find some way to occupy our time," he answered, causing Ned to look more alarmed than relieved. "Come, I will see the three of you off."
The Lord Hunter led the way back into the foreyard. Each of the Stark children received a parcel of sweets and another embrace from Lady Evetta as they stepped out the door.
"Brandon, before I forget," the Hunter's voice stopped the children at the gates and garnered the attention of the nearby guards, "I will have a Hunter's contract ready for you the next time we meet."
The eldest Stark stood stock still. Ned turned to him and then their mentor with askance, but the Hunter was already making his way back to his wife.
"Off you go," he said, waving as he went. "Evetta and I will be here when you return."
Standing amidst the last of winter's snow, the Doll waited outside the Workshop. The children had left hours earlier, and the sun had fallen from the evenfall sky. All around, the North slept, saturating the air with dreams of summer and nascent spring.
With eyes once fashioned from gemstones and glass, the Doll waited as her husband locked the gates of the manor. A smile graced her once-painted lips as he oversaw the task with care, miming the motions of a man leaving home.
"Three moons will be time aplenty."
The Good Hunter lent his voice to the silence, every word straining the world with all they implied. Turning from the Workshop, he beheld his wife with an expression well-meaning and near serene. Glimmers of their idyllic, shared dream reflected within his starlit gaze.
The Doll nodded her assent as the ground beneath their feet rippled. Ether supplanted stone, and the Little Ones clambered through the undulating forest path, heeding the Hunter's call. With reverent fervor, they hoisted a greatsword aloft.
The Good Hunter grasped the weapon, and the world came undone.
Fissures formed within the air and earth as reality unraveled at the seams, forced to accommodate a shard of the cosmos given terrible purpose and form.
Closer to the left-behind Great Ones than a mere Hunter's tool, Ludwig's keepsake bathed the wolfswoods in a light never meant to illuminate the Waking World. The legacy of Great Isz beckoned a constellation of foreign stars onto the realms of men, forging a blade that sundered the boundaries of prophecy and natural law.
The Good Hunter allowed the weapon to fall from his hand. The sword dispersed, but its presence lingered, unseen yet palpable, tainting the evening air with the promise of miracles and impossibility.
The Holy Sword of Moonlight was now the Hunter's to wield as surely as the limbs he pretended to have and need.
"We will be back in time to welcome the children home."
Once more, the Doll dipped her head. Her husband offered his hand, and she reached out with arms cast from bisque and bone. Together, the Moon-Scented Hunter and Plain Doll walked northwards, onto the Land of Always Winter.
281 AC would be a year well-remembered in the annals of history, mired by deeds great and terrible, committed by men much the same. Time would march on, trampling mankind's every achievement underfoot. The age of the Seven Kingdoms and the legacy of House Stark would fade into legend. The beloved memories of Rickard, Brandon, Eddard, and Lyanna would fall into myth.
But none would forget the year that marked the death of Winter.
END of Part 1
Chapter Summary:
For the sake of the Stark family they've come to cherish, the Fairchilds ensure the Long Night will never return. For mortal men–even a child of prophecy–this would be a harrowing task. But for a Hunter who counts Living Nightmares amongst his prey, it's a chore. Make no mistake, the Others will die.
At the same time, the Stark children travel to Harrenhal under the watchful eye of Rickard's guards and bannerman. Safe.
Unrelated quote:
"It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life."
Next time of Thy Good Neighbor: Harrenhal
As always, many thanks to KnightStar/NightOracle for editing this chapter.
Description of the Hunter's Weapon:
"An arcane sword discovered long ago by Ludwig. When blue moonlight dances around the sword, and it channels the abyssal cosmos, its great blade will hurl a shadowy lightwave. The Holy Moonlight Sword is synonymous with Ludwig, the Holy Blade, but few have ever set eyes on the great blade, and whatever guidance it has to offer, it seems to be of a very private, elusive sort."
- Holy Moonlight Sword