"There is peerage and pedigree, Maester. But this is beyond the pale."

Luwin chuckled, not looking up from his desk or study.

"House Stark is one of the oldest noble lines in Westeros, likely the world."

"A claim I cannot contest." The sound of a closing book and steady steps alerted Luwin to Lord Fairchild's approach. "A dynasty uninterrupted for eight thousand years…Lord Stark will be pleased to hear there are lineages of self-proclaimed gods who cannot boast half such history."

The maester smiled and found it a welcome thing. To think he had returned to the North with a heavy heart. The third son of a masterly house sworn to Lord Glover, Luwin had thrived at the Citadel, forging a chain longer than many earlier than most. Had he stayed, pursuing an archmaester's mask would not have been out of the question. Thus his appointment to Winterfell had come as most unwelcome news despite the honor. Never had he felt the weight of his chains more than when he first laid eyes on the great Northern fortress and knew it his task to see its people through winter.

He had not failed: Winterfell had stood strong. Most of the smallfolk who sheltered in Wintertown had survived, those who perished usually old or already sickly. Though more than his predecessor could claim in winters past, it had not felt like victory.

But the Old Gods had deemed his service sufficient, for he had been rewarded beyond his imagination, now privy to secrets from beyond the Sunset Sea. He had glimpsed knowledge and works of research that would humble the Citadel. For the first time in decades, he felt like an acolyte, intimidated, overwhelmed, and altogether enthralled with the work ahead. The future discussions between House Stark and Fairchild would be immortalized in history, and Luwin had a vested interest in ensuring the talks went well, if only so he might raid the latter's library.

The foreign lord in question had absconded to the Library Tower after the midday feast, trusting his lady wife to entertain the Stark children. He had settled himself beneath the largest window, deeming the incoming draft was a small price for proper light. Cyril Fairchild devoured books as readily as a Stormlander drank wine. A clear student of history, he was currently making an admirable attempt at deciphering text written in the Old Tongue.

"The faith of the Old Gods…an animistic faith that has enjoyed over ten thousand years of worship by the First Men and so-called Children of the Forest." Another book found its place in the growing collection Luwin had lent the lord, "Yet its pantheon remains nameless. Tell me, Maester, do you believe this always the case? Or is the current faith what remains of something greater?"

"It is hard to say," Luwin offered, turning over several texts in his mind. He motioned his guest to the chair across his own, "All things change with time, my lord. The First Men adopted the Old Gods from the Children of the Forest. The interactions between the two–if they indeed happened–predate written history. Though the smallfolk would tell you otherwise, the Children were likely a primitive people who skirmished and later assimilated with the First Men, they themselves the third people to inhabit this continent."

Cyril Fairchild deposits himself in the offered seat, "Preceded by the ominously-named Others?" He taps the desk between them, "Am I safe to suppose they were yet another group of indigenous peoples hostile to both the Children and the First Men? Perhaps even an allegory for the Long Night, an unprecedented winter that necessitated cooperation between both parties to ensure survival?"

The maester twirled his quill, choosing his next words with care. "A sound theory, one most maesters would find agreeable. However, there happens to be a wall of ice two thousand hands high and ninety leagues across that casts doubt on so mundane an explanation. Though I have little mind for warfare, the Wall strikes me as quite the defense against wildlings unable to forge iron, never mind steel."

Even as he spoke, the maester wondered how much he believed his own words. Luwin was well aware he risked being dismissed out of hand by a foreign lord of great import–Lord Fairchild's attempt to downplay his influence had fooled no one. There was also the possibility he could discredit the entire Order of Maesters in Lord Fairchild's eyes. While Luwin would sooner take the Black than shame the Citadel, the young lord struck him as a scholar, one unlikely to discount a theory, however fantastical, if the reasoning was sound. Moreover, House Fairchild and the city of Yharnam remained very much a mystery. The young lord's reaction alone would prove telling of how commonplace magic was across the Sunset Sea.

His guest hardly batted an eye.

"I cede your point." The young lord reached over the clutter and helped himself to a bowl of candied walnuts Luwin had prepared for the occasion, "That said, I feel this is a rather radical interpretation of your history."

Lord Fairchild offered the maester an amused smile, accepting Luwin's tale regarding monsters made of walking winter and living ice without a hint of skepticism. Gods be good, just what lay beyond the Lonely Light?

The maester of Winterfell hid his unease behind laughter. "Folklore and history have the poor habit of bleeding together in the absence of written records. You will find that my fellows, particularly those native to the Reach, are not quite so taken with the old legends. Most would decry magic as dead and gone from the world."

"But for something to die, it must have lived."

Luwin nods in agreement, "Just so. Many forget that living dragons flew these skies little over a century ago."

The answer seemed to satisfy Lord Fairchild, who returned to his work on First Man runes. The maester continued to study this strange, young lord. Contrary to what many would believe, the Citadel had its fair share of lackwits, second and third sons shipped off to Oldtown to keep them out of trouble, or at very least keep said trouble far from home. Such fools would never forge a chain, instead becoming scribes, bookkeepers, and personal aids through family influence.

Lord Fairchild was no such fool. A hair shy of brilliant, perhaps, but Luwin recognized the young man as a unique talent. The maester of Winterfell was surprised to learn the young man had in fact forged a chain–a doctorate–as the title of 'Professor' evidently translated to archmaester, not maester. He had served a junior appointment–a lecturer, he had called himself–before becoming a Hunter. For a man who looked younger than thirty to forge both a chain and knighthood, that was a rare sort of man indeed.

"This is a wondrous country, Maester," Lord Fairchild breathed after a time, the title spoken with a deference Luwin found unfamiliar, "It is a shame there are so few books on the First Men and their faith."

The young lord sounded almost wistful, and Luwin shared the sentiment, "The worship of the Old Gods has long been an oral tradition. The First Men carved their runes into heart trees, and thus much of their history has been lost. Books were very much an Andal invention. In fact, no text pertaining to the First Men predates the Andal migration."

"And with them came the Faith of the Seven, a monotheistic faith of a seven-faced god."

"The Seven Who are One," Luwin kept his voice judicious, having known too many good men to speak ill of the Faith, "The Citadel places the migration sometime between six and four thousand years ago, depending on the source. It is said that Hugor of the Hill, the High King of Andalos, was promised a kingdom west of the Narrow Sea by the Seven themselves."

His guest arched a brow, "And this mass migration had nothing to do with the founding of the Valyrian Freehold and its subsequent expansion into western Essos?"

Luwin laughed. As a lord, Cyril Fairchild chose his words with care, displaying the even temper of an older man. As a scholar, the man was frankly brazen.

"None at all. Most records claim the Andals invaded Westeros only after their missionaries were poorly treated. But seeing as most recorded accounts were written by the Andals themselves…"

Lord Fairchild helped himself to another nut, "I must say this sounds like blasphemous talk, Maester Luwin."

The maester smiled and shrugged, "And what is a bit of blasphemy among scholars and friends?"

The younger man laughed quietly and without joy.

"Indeed, faith never tested is a brittle thing."

The words struck Luwin as strange, "Are you a godly man, Lord Fairchild?"

Cyril Fairchild paused at the question. A candied nut fell back into the bowl, uneaten.

"In a manner speaking, Maester Luwin. The Church of God shares much with your Faith of the Seven." His voice echoed low and contemplative. The library suddenly felt dimmer, the winds outside dying as The Hunter spoke, "You must understand, the Church pervaded every aspect of life on the Great Isles, and its influence has not waned overmuch with time. Our priests served as both septons and maesters. After the Age of Fog claimed the now-nameless kingdoms of antiquity, it was the Church that preserved literacy and the written word. Most all prestigious universities of the modern era have their roots in the Church."

The young lord looked past the maester, as if reliving a memory. "It feels like an age ago, but I still remember Father taking our family to service on the Lord's Day. I recall the sound of the belfry during my brother's wedding, how the morning sun illuminated the old cathedral, and the sharp taste of communion wine." A somberness pervaded the room, "But Yharnam has a way of tarnishing memories and pleasant dreams."

Luwin sets his quill aside, all interest in his work lost, "Lord Stark spoke of it briefly. A city known for its healing arts?"

"Famed beyond peer. But nothing is without its price, Maester. Even in the Great Isles, Yharnam was a secluded land of strange customs, people, and–to put politely–a nondenominational faith. But it was known as a city where a man, however ill, could abate death. To enter Yharnam was to see another sunrise."

The Hunter tapped the table again, and it sounded through the room.

"Sadly, the city was also plagued by great beasts found nowhere else on the continent. These were not packs of roaming wolves to be kept at bay by strong gates and stronger walls: Yharnam was built upon the ruined labyrinths of old Pthumeru, an ancient people from whom Evetta's family claim direct descendants."

The Hunter rose from his seat, rounding the table in a seamless motion. Luwin heard wood creak as a hand rested upon his chair, "Would you care to guess where the most fearsome beasts made their home?"

"Gods…"

The Hunter nodded.

"Sunset saw the sewers and aqueducts of lower Yharnam come alive in the worst of ways. Beasts would prey on men, and Hunters would hunt beasts. They did not call it the Night of the Hunt in jest."

Luwin felt his pulse quicken. Distantly, he realized this was more than he had ever hoped to glean from the young, guarded lord. But the thought could not have been farther from his mind, not when he was drowning under the weight of the Hunter's words.

"I went to Yharnam prepared for this reality. I thought dying to monsters a better prospect than wasting away abed, passing death and disease onto friends and family.

Imagine my dismay when I arrived, only to find Yharnam amidst a plague that humbled even the fabled city of healing."

Luwin found his throat dry, "How many were lost?"

The Hunter did not answer, and the maester dearly wished he had not asked. The younger man made his way back to his seat and sank deeply into the chair.

"I never prayed much. No more than the common man, before my illness or after. But I prayed during those early nights of the Hunt, prayed until I grew used to the silence. I prayed a while after that." The Hunter spoke, every word a confession, "In the end, I forgot what I was praying for."

The Hunter finished his tale, and Luwin found the courage to stand, reaching for a small pitcher of water. He returned to the table and set a coarse wooden cup before his guest.

"Did you think your God cruel for his silence?"

The younger man's face twisted with wry amusement.

"If men stopped believing when prayers went unanswered, there would be few believers left in the world, Maester. What need would man have for faith if gods walked the earth, granting wishes like jinn?" The Hunter sipped from his cup, "No, I entered the city willingly. There I witnessed the greatest failings of human greed and hubris and was forced to contemplate how truly accountable gods are for human misfortune."

Luwin moved to the window, avoiding the young lord's gaze. A crisis of belief was not a crisis of faith. Whichever ailed the younger man, Luwin doubted he could help.

"The North is accustomed to hardship, my lord. Despite what the septons may tell you, death is no stranger to these lands or its people," and Luwin was proud to count himself among them, "It is not uncommon for the old to embrace death so the young might live. Some curse the gods for it, others do not. The Old Gods inhabit the rocks and rivers, the very land itself. But they did not make the world, or the men living within it. We pray to the Old Gods for counsel, for they are older and wiser than we could ever hope to be. But they are not beholden to our prayers. We give thanks when they answer, but we will survive their silence for the world demands no less."

His words were neither an agreement nor rebuttal, and Luwin felt almost cowardly for the fact. But he offered his truth, and prayed that the younger man would find peace, whatever that meant for him.

The Hunter joined Maester Luwin at the window.

"I am not the young man who entered Yharman all those years ago, but part of me wishes to honor his memory. For all his fears and flaws, the fool had his faith and family's love."

Excited shouts and the clashing of steel suddenly broke the silence of the tower. It seemed young Brandon was working off his midday meal in the yard and drawing quite the crowd. The bustling sound of life below drew a smile from the young lord.

"I would like to believe it was that young man and not the Hunter he became that won Evetta's heart."


Benjen trotted alongside the tall lady. He didn't want to. Well, he liked the lady well enough. Maybe even a lot. She and the Lord Hunter had given him a new toy. He just didn't think it was very lordly for a Stark to trot, but the lady's legs were just too long. He even had to stop holding her hand because he had to reach too high to grab it and his arm had gotten sore. Her fingers were also very bony.

"Are you alright, Little Lord?"

"I'm not little," He protested. And he wasn't. He would be nine next year. Old Nan had to sew new clothes because he kept growing.

They were coming back from the godswoods. He and Lyanna had decided to show Lady Evetta the weirwood, accompanied by a maid and two of Father's guards. The heartree had rustled violently when they approached, but Benjen thought it was just the wind. Even spring was windy in the North.

"No, you are not as small as the Little Ones," the lady said, "Take heart, Little Lord. You will be tall in time."

It made Benjen happy to hear the tall lady agree with him, even if her words left him a little confused, "Little Ones?"

"Yes, the Little Ones, Messengers of the Hunter's Dream," the Lady said, as if her words explained everything, "Most cannot see them, but they guard the Hunters as they sleep, caring for their weapons and tools. They can deliver messages farther than any man or raven."

Benjen stared at the lady with wide eyes, "Are they magic? Like the Children of the Forest?"

The tall lady paused and considered his words, "I cannot say. The Good Hunter and I will find time to meet them. Have patience, Little Lord. We will have answers for you."

The maid and guards acted strangely to the Lady's words, but Benjen didn't care. He stared at Lady Evetta in wonder. Maester Luwin had said the Children had disappeared, and Lyanna had told him they were hiding in the Lands of Always Winter, where no one could reach them. Yet the lady said she could find them so easily.

"Are you a witch, Lady Evetta?"

The lady smiled, and Benjen could not tell if he was relieved or disappointed when she shook her head, "I am a doll, brought into the waking world by the Good Hunter."

"A doll?"

"Benjen, she's teasing you." Lyanna sighed. His sister had been quiet. Benjen thought she was still thinking about her music box, which Father had forced her to leave in her room. Now she was chiding Benjen as if he had missed something obvious.

"Oh." He felt embarrassed, but Lady Evetta continued to smile, so Benjen ventured another question.

"Is the Lord Hunter a witch, then?"

Lyanna's sigh told him he had said something foolish again.


Luwin followed his guest along the battlements towards the yard, drawn to the growing sound of clashing steel. The maester dreaded the report he would have to make to Lord Stark. Cyril Fairchild was unlike any man he had ever known. The young lord was a scholar of no small talent, and Luwin would wager his Valyrian link that he was likewise a warrior of no small skill. By all accounts, a Hunter sounded like a dangerous enemy, more bloodied and seasoned than most peacetime knights, to say nothing of the young man who once headed their order.

There were also the man's relations to consider. Lord Fairchild had married into a great house with a history as storied as any worth the name. That they laid claim to a city that rivaled Volantis in wealth and Asshai in horror brought the maester no comfort. The city had suffered a plague, but Luwin was confident that it had recovered and recovered well if the luxuries the Hunter had on hand were any indication.

However kind and pleasant he appeared, the available information marked Cyril Fairchild as a dangerous, dangerous man.

The sound of steel grew louder, and Luwin soon found the Hunter overlooking the sparring ring with interest. Young Brandon was putting on quite the display, fending off two men-at-arms, perhaps three if the downed man nursing his ribs was anything indication. The bout ended quickly enough: One man misjudged a swing, and the Stark heir answered with a blow to the gut and helm that sent the man sprawling. The last man–Donall, if Luwin recalled–accounted for himself well but ultimately found the tip of Brandon's sword at his throat. The heir of Winterfell basked in his victory and the cheers of the crowd. Even to Luwin's untrained eye, it was clear the young Stark had benefited from Lord Dustin's tutelage.

Applause sounded through the yard as the cheers died down. The heir of Winterfell followed the sound to the Lord Fairchild, clapping politely at Luwin's side.

"Enjoy the show, Lord Hunter?"

The young lord smiled, "It was an impressive display."

The heir of Winterfell frowned at his words, "Impressive? How so?"

Brandon's voice carried an edge of challenge, and Luwin's blood ran cold. The Hunter carried on without a care. "Your hands move fast, and you strike hard. Mind your footwork, and I doubt many can claim to be your equal, much less your better, in a few years time."

The heir of Winterfell stepped out of the ring, "You speak as if you know the blade well." Brandon raised the point of his sword at the Hunter, "I would ask for proof."

Murmurs and whispers rose from the crowd, but Luwin could hear nothing over his hammering heart. That daft boy!

The smile did not leave Lord Fairchild's face, "I am a Hunter, Lord Brandon. My enemies are beasts, not men."

Despite the Hunter's obvious warning, Brandon did not relent, "And yet you claim to have never hunted a wolf. I offer you the opportunity to prove yourself half the Hunter you claim to be."

Panic overtook Luwin's mind, "Lord Fairchild, I apologize for –"

"Maester Luwin," The Hunter's voice cut through his plea, and Luwin knew he had failed to avert disaster, "I believe you best go inform Lord Stark."


The heir of Winterfell watched as the foreigner divested his coat, folded it with care, and passed it over to the nearest guard. Murmurs arose from the crowd when the Hunter declined the offered tourney sword or padded armor, entering the ring with only his cane.

"I must warn you," the Hunter held his chosen weapon aloft, "This is made of Workshop steel, a rather weighty thing."

Brandon acknowledged his opponent's words with a nod and readied his blade in a low guard while the Hunter's cane fell to his side.

"Ready, Lord Hunter?"

"At your leisure, Lord Brandon."

The heir of Winterfell frowned, "It would be more sporting if you assumed a stance."

His opponent had the audacity to look amused, "If that is your assessment, I must advise caution: Hunters seldom stand and await an enemy." A smile played upon his lips, "The ones that do are frightening indeed."

He interpreted those words as an invitation. The heir of Winterfell lunged. Were he wielding live steel, he'd have lanced the man through, but the Hunter stepped back. Brandon advanced, pivoting into a cross-body slash, again rending air. He redirected his blade to strike at the Hunter's knees but hit nothing. He withdrew then, guarding against a counterblow that never came. The young Stark considered the exchange, if it could be called that.

The Hunter had mimed his movements, retreating as Brandon advanced, evading his blade by a hair each time. Brandon frowned, unimpressed. The Hunter was fast, but his retreat had wasted movement and breath, giving him no advantage over his foe. Better to block, bind, and counter. Brandon saw the Hunter was no skilled knight, and it set his blood aflame to see the foreigner stand at perfect ease, that damned cane still hanging from his hand, as if Brandon had blown candle smoke in his face and not attacked with a naked blade.

The heir of Winterfell adopted a high stance. He charged with a roar, shoulder leading a downward strike that would have dented plate. Again, his sword missed, but that was no surprise. He leveraged his forward momentum to deliver a blinding series of strikes, aiming high then low, blows that would have turned the Hunter's cane into a necessary—and permanent—crutch had any connected.

But none did.

The Hunter retreated with sure, steady strides. A slight shift of the shoulder to avoid a thrust, a backstep to evade a swing. But most galling of all was the look in his too-bright eyes. It was not a warrior's gaze, the heady mix of focus and fear that made men brave, but rather the look Maester Walys–now Luwin–wore when studying a book. A cold, calm, calculating gaze that regarded Brandon not as a warrior or even a man, but as a puzzle to piece together. A problem to pull apart.

Already he could hear the jeering of the crowd, dissatisfied by the lackluster display. Their shouts fueled the smoldering thrum of his blood. That this foreigner remained so calm and altogether uncaring was too much to bear.

"Stand and fight, Hunter!" He heard himself shouting, "Had I wanted to dance, I'd have called upon your wife! Perhaps I still might!"

The jeers grew, and a ring of laughter swelled around them. The Hunter hardly seemed to mind. He turned his back to Brandon, and for a moment, Brandon's opinion of the foreigner sunk to new depths. Would the man not even fight to defend his wife's honor? But then the Hunter faced him again, ten paces now between them.

Cyril Fairchild beheld the young Stark with a far-off gaze, the ghost of a smile clear for all to see.

"Guard your shoulder, Lord Brandon."

"What?"

"Your left shoulder, Lord Brandon. Guard it." The Hunter repeated, "Do you understand?"

Something on Brandon's face must have served as a reply because he was not allowed another word.

"Good."

There was the vague sensation of an impact. The barest registration of pain. And the noise…it was as if his face had been pressed against an anvil as it was struck. The reverberations sounded through his head, through his teeth. His vision blurred, and through the ringing in his ears, he struggled to stay upright. His breaths came short, and he realized he had raised his sword on instinct and had it near-driven into his shoulder.

The world refocused, and Brandon looked down at his hands, not believing his eyes. His blade was warped. Though blunt, it was still castle-forged steel. House Stark had spared no expense arming its men, never mind its heir. The now-ruined sword hung uselessly from his hands as the Hunter loomed over him, cane held in a half-finished swing.

Pain followed, an unseen fire licking up his shoulders, arms, and back. Just keeping his hands aloft came with a horrible, unfamiliar strain. The force of the blow, the sheer weight behind the cane…Brandon could not believe such strength belonged to a man. The gambeson he wore suddenly felt like no protection at all.

The ringing stopped. Only now did Brandon realize he was surrounded by silence, the shouting and jeering that once drowned out his thoughts had gone like ghosts. His eyes met faces painted with shades of fear and awe. Already three guards had approached the ring, swords ready to defend the son of their liege, a clear display of loyalty that made Brandon burn with shame.

His opponent paid him no mind, instead pointing his cane to the nearest guard.

"Lord Brandon needs a new sword." The Hunter spoke, voice low but deafening in the newfound silence, "Please lend him yours."

The man froze under his attention.

"Your sword, please." The Hunter repeated, "Unless you would have him fight unarmed."

Brandon found himself speaking before his mind could comprehend the words, "Hand me a blade, Donall. I'm not done."

If the Hunter smiled at his reply, Brandon pretended not to see. It took more effort than he would ever admit–from both his burning arms and hammering heart–to accept the offered weapon. How strange. Mere moments ago, he had wielded a tourney sword and felt like a king. Now he held live steel and felt like prey.

It would have been easier if the Hunter had circled him, like the supposed beasts he claimed to hunt. But he did no such thing. The Hunter stood as he had before, ten paces away, looming over Brandon like a monolith. Brandon could not remember ever feeling so small.

"Strange, is it not?" The Hunter whispered in a voice that all could hear, "Fighting an opponent so quick to retreat, so reluctant to block, yet able to strike with force enough to break a man with but a blow. Such is the doctrine of my mentor, Gehrman, the First Hunter."

The silence stretched as men and women alike hung upon Lord Fairchild's every word.

"Tell me, Lord Brandon, would you trust your armor to shield you from a horse's charge? Your sword to stop the claws of a bear? Because a beast of Yharnam will outpace the first and make a meal of the latter." The words formed in his mind, intrusive thoughts Brandon could not will away, "A Hunter who stands still the Night of the Hunt will not see another Yharnam sunrise."

The Hunter raised his cane again, and the crowd tensed.

"Another attack is coming," The words left Brandon cold. "Ask yourself, 'What will I do?' 'How will I survive?' 'What will I sacrifice to see the morrow?'"

Time passed. A moment or an hour, the heir of Winterfell could not tell.

"Guard your shoulder."

That was all the warning he received.

Brandon could not perceive the Hunter's strike any better the second time. But he knew where it would land. Blocking from the left, letting the Hunter's blow glance off his blade and over his head would have been wiser. Safer. But that only meant survival. Even now, wounded and rattled, his wolfsblood demanded victory. Brandon thrusts his sword out and leftward to meet the Hunter's cane, catching the blow where his blade met the guard. The steel in his hand screamed as Brandon did the same. Something in his arms tore from the impact. But he had bound the Hunter's weapon. He stepped forward, controlling the bind, rendering his opponent's swordarm useless by digging his crossguard into the Hunter's wrist. At the last moment, he brought his weapon over the Hunter's own and sent it crashing onto his head.

"Well done."

Brandon was on the ground. How he got there, he did not know. But everything hurt. Again, he had struck nothing, unable to so much as touch the Hunter.

A pair of hands helped him to his feet.

"That was most impressive. Were you not your father's heir, you would have made a fine Hunter."

Brandon forced himself to meet the Hunter's gaze, eyes filled with quiet amusement. His praise felt like poison. "I can still fight," he heard the words and, for a moment, wondered who he was trying to sway.

"You could," the Hunter agreed, voice awash with strange approval, "But then you would need quite some time to recover. No need for that. Have Maester Luwin see to your arms."

The Hunter turned to leave while Brandon fought just to stand. Every breath burned. The crowd bled away in a sea of faces and his pounding heart drowned out the world a din of noise. Winterfell itself melted into a monochrome of whites and greys. All he could feel through the pain was the weight of the ruined sword in his hand. All he could see was the Hunter's back.

His thoughts faded in a moment of clarity.

He did not remember moving. He barely recalled raising his blade.

"BRANDON!" His father's voice filled his ears. Then a hand was over his eyes. The world turned. Fingers like iron held his face in a vice, the back of his head a hair's breadth from the ground.

"None of that now," The Hunter chided, voice no less gentle, eyes no less bright, "Go see Maester Luwin, Young Stark," Again, Cyril Fairchild helped Brandon to his feet and turned his back without care, gazing up at the battlements where the Lord of Winterfell now stood, "I will have words with your father."


Rickard Stark sat in his solar, head in clasped hands. He prayed, not to the Old Gods but his wife, begging forgiveness.

'I have failed, Lyarra.'

Rickard's mind was a storm. Again and again, he asked himself where he had gone wrong. Brandon had always been brash and prideful. But it had been pride hard-fought and well-earned against lords and men-at-arms twice his age. He had been dutiful, the elder brother Eddard looked to for guidance, the eldest sibling Lyanna and Benjen sought for stories about a mother neither could recall.

And Brandon was no stranger to defeat: Over the years, he had challenged many visiting lords and was bested handily by Joer Mormont and Greatjon Umber, among others. Each time, Brandon committed himself to his training. Never had he responded with bitterness, much less treachery.

And now, the legacy and honor of House Stark hung by a thread.

The day had started well: The Fairchilds had given his children gifts befitting royalty. Benjen had spent the midday meal trying to make his toy wolf run the full length of the trestle tables. Lyanna would not put down her music box and refused to give the Hunter a moment's rest once she learned there were other songs it could play. Rickard's heart had warmed to see his children happy after a winter that had given so little cause for laughter and cheer.

A pleasant calm had fallen over Winterfell after the feast. Lord Fairchild and Luwin had retreated into the Library Tower, never to be seen again. Lady Evetta had followed Lyanna and Benjen into the Godswoods, no doubt earning great favor from the already grateful smallfolk.

Then Luwin had come running, warning Rickard that his son had challenged Lord Fairchild in the yard. The Warden of the North and his sworn sword had arrived in time to hear his eldest son insult the Hunter by way of his wife. What happened afterward had nearly made Eddard heir of Winterfell and would forever haunt Rickard's waking dreams.

He wanted to throw blame at the Hunter's feet, but try as he might, Rickard failed to muster the anger. Luwin had expressed in no uncertain terms that Brandon publicly questioned Lord Farichild's skill at arms. Wyman Manderly would have answered such a challenge. And how Cyril Fairchild had answered: It was one thing to know the man hunted prey that proved risky quarry for well-prepared hunting parties, it was another altogether to see the man fight. The force needed to bend castle-forged steel…how many warriors could claim such strength?

In the end, Rickard's heart settled on gratitude. Despite his son's insults, the Hunter had shown restraint: Brandon would have died had the Hunter not pulled his first blow. And though his son had not noticed, the Hunter had slowed his second strike, giving him time to counter.

And what had his son done? Tried to stab Lord Fairchild in the back. For the first time in remembered history, guest rights had been broken in Winterfell. Highborns have been banished and Houses damned for far, far less. The Wall might not take a man after such a crime.

The damage had been done. Half of Winterfell had witnessed the fight. The other half would hear by nightfall. Lord Fairchild's gold would have to be returned with interest. Of that, there was no question. What came after, Rickard dared not imagine. What would be the price for peace–not friendship, for that was impossible–but peace? If pressed, what was he prepared to cede? He dreaded the thought and willed himself not to contemplate the consequences. Rodrik stood solemnly at his side. His old friend was silent, knowing the Lord of Winterfell would be deaf to his words.

A knock broke the silence. One of Rodrik's men opened the door, announcing the Hunter's arrival. Lord Fairchild stepped into the solar, escorted by Fane Poole. As the steward went to stand beside his liege, Rickard studied the young man his son had so gravely wronged. Cyril Fairchild stood with his overcoat draped over an arm, not a hair out of place. Rickard noted the conspicuous absence of a cane. Probably for the best. After the recent display, the Lord of Winterfell doubted Rodrik would have allowed the younger man into the solar armed with a spoon.

"Lord Stark, thank you for seeing me," the Hunter bowed, continuing to observe doctrine after all that occurred, "Do forgive the delay."

The words should have dripped with scorn, but Rickard detected neither derision nor mockery from the younger man. It unsettled Rickard to see the injured party so composed. Rickard would have preferred anger: Anger he could understand; anger he could predict.

"There is nothing to forgive, Lord Fairchild." The irony of the words was not lost on him. Rickard made an effort at courtesy, his face a mask of calm even as his mind warred with dread, guilt, and shame. He motioned to the empty chair before him as if naught were amiss.

The Hunter passed the offered seat, instead making his way to the lockbox containing the books and map he had lent the Northern lord.

"When you left the Workshop, you looked as if you had a head full of questions, Lord Stark. I hope you found these helpful." Lord Fairchild's voice carried the fondness of a man meeting an old friend, "Please let me know if anything in particular caught your eye. I admit the Workshop has its secrets, but my library is always open to guests. There are few things more important than satisfying a curious mind."

All were silent as the Hunter rounded the room, at last taking his seat.

"Sadly, l am not here to discuss books."

Rickard nodded. He found strange comfort knowing that, whatever the outcome, this matter would soon be behind him.

"I apologize for my son's action." The words tasted of ash and damnation, "What he attempted to do…there is no excuse."

"Whatever do you mean?"

The question stopped Rickard short. The Warden of the North had already imagined this exchange half a hundred times, dreading what the Hunter would demand as recompense. Nothing prepared him for the half-puzzled expression passing over the young lord's face.

The Hunter stared at the Stark Lord with a furrowed brow, "Your son thought he was fighting for his life. All things considered, he accounted for himself well."

Silence followed. The Lord of Winterfell looked to his advisors, their dumbstruck expressions the only assurance he had not imagined the Hunter's words.

"He stabbed you in the back."

There was nothing more to say. The weight of Brandon's crime should have hung in the air, yet the Hunter's good-natured laughter left Rickard lost.

"You have been fretting over this."

The Hunter's eyes shone with amusement as he regarded his host.

"I am a Hunter, Lord Stark." The title was spoken as though it explained everything, "My enemies struggle to carry on polite conversation, nevermind abide knightly conduct."

The Hunter waved his hand absently, attempting to part the tension in the room as if it were smoke.

"Put it out of your mind, Lord Stark."

In that instance, Rickard struggled between hearing and comprehension, unable to believe the words that reached his ears. He stared at the Hunter, a man prepared to overlook an attempt on his life, ready to ignore a breach of guest rights while demanding nothing in return. The Warden stared at the young lord, wondering which of them had gone mad.

He took in a long, drawn breath, gathering his wits.

"That is kind of you to say, Lord Fairchild. How I wish I could." He felt like a drowning man offered a hand and the promise of air. "But Brandon is my son, not a beast, and he must be held accountable as such."

The words felt like poison on his tongue as he defended and condemned his son in the same breath. But they had to be said: Brandon's actions had dishonored them all. His thoughts went to his three other children. The Warden of the North spoke, praying his words would not spell Brandon's ruin and brand him a kinslayer, "What he did was an affront to gods and men alike. He will be judged in the eyes of both. The gods are oft silent, but men will not be."

The Hunter's smile grew strangely at his words, but he nodded without protest, "I understand. The heir of House Stark cannot be seen committing a grave crime. Nor can he be seen shirking responsibility and punishment by way of his name."

Cyril Fairchild interlaced his hand and leaned back in his chair, giving the problem a moment's thought but no more.

"Very well, as the injured party," The Hunter seemed humored by the term, "Allow me to propose a compromise: Have your son come by the Workshop thrice a week for the next year. That should give me enough time to teach him something worthwhile."

Three sets of eyes stared at the young lord, puzzlement and disbelief carved into every face. The Hunter paid them no mind, already lost in his thoughts.

"Of course, young Brandon need not learn to move quite like a Hunter. Overmuch in a battle between men, I would think. But to strike as a Hunter does…there might be some value in that."

"You would have him as a foster?" Fane Poole ventured the question, the word 'hostage' went unsaid.

The Hunter frowned, a flash of panic forming behind his eyes. "Who do you intend to punish, Lord Poole? I am the spare son of an earl. I would rather not be held accountable for the upbringing of a duke's heir. Besides, Brandon is only a scant few years from his majority.

I have no need for a squire as I am no knight, and I do not intend to take a formal apprentice so early into my retirement. But the responsibilities of a private tutor…yes, I believe I will be up for the task."

The Northerners remained silent, unable to articulate a reply. The Hunter tapped his chair and continued his musings.

"In another life, your son would have made a fine Hunter. I see no issue with cultivating such talent, even if there are no beasts on this side of the Sea. A Hunter is a dangerous foe, and learning to fight like or against one is not a bad skill to have. If nothing else, it would keep your son much too occupied to pursue further mischief."

Cyril held out an open hand.

"What do you say, Lord Stark?"

Rickard struggled to speak. And when he did, he was no longer sure he was of sound mind.

"The members of your order will not protest the training of an outsider?" The words sounded absurd to his ear, but Rickard needed to focus on the banal and mundane. He needed to know the Hunter's offer was not a false hope to be dangled above his head only to be ripped away.

The younger lord replied with a smile. "Not if I give my approval."

There was a certainty to his voice that resonated danger and finality. At another time, Rickard would have wondered just what manner of man he had welcomed into his home. But all he could muster was a shake of his head and a huff that kept him from the edge of hysteria.

"My son breaks guest rights, and you would have him study under a warrior of great skill as punishment. Many would consider that a reward."

The Hunter chuckled, "Great skill? Though I am sure Gehrman would have disagreed, it is kind of you to say. But yes, many would think it a strange punishment for a crime. With time, those with good sense and sound minds might naturally conclude there was never a crime at all."

The implication was not lost on Rickard, and once more, he was forced to shake his head. "You would help salvage Brandon's honor and House Stark's reputation after his blunder." The Lord of Winterfell met the too-bright eyes of the Hunter, "You need not do this."

'Why are you doing this?'

Cyril Fairchild waved his hand dismissively, "This costs me nothing, Lord Stark. Clearly, you have tormented yourself well enough without my help, and I am long past taking offense to attempts on my life. I also confess I have missed the opportunity to be an instructor."

Madness, mercy, and good sense perfused every word. The young man was mad, for no sane man could afford such mercy. The Warden of the North had expected to be assailed with demands of gold, land, and blood. Instead, Brandon had earned himself a sword instructor. Madness. But if it was madness that would save his family and son, so be it.

Before his steward, maester, and sworn sword could protest, the Lord of Winterfell dipped his head to the Hunter.

"House Stark cannot thank you enough."

If the Hunter was uncomfortable with his display, he hid it well.

"Let us put this matter behind us. I believe our time would be better spent discussing the original issue that brought me here:

My rent."


The guards would not look at him. The servants would not meet his gaze. The gravity of his actions had not struck him until he sat in Luwin's study. Now he walked the halls of Winterfell, right arm in a sling, a stranger in his own home. It still did not feel real: Breaking guest rights…there was no greater crime short of kinslaying. The most savage of wildlings upheld guest rights. Evidently, that was too much a task for the heir of Winterfell.

He walked in the direction of his father's solar, guided by the sound of the maester's chain. Brandon had half a thought to walk himself to the block and save his family the trouble, but his feet led him to his father's study.

He waited for a time as the maester announced their arrival. The doors opened; Rodrick and Fane stepped out alongside the last man he hoped to see.

"Lord Brandon," the Hunter spoke with the same calm amusement that vexed Brandon to no end, "How are your arms?"

"Sprained, but not broken," he paused, "My lord."

The courtesy came out strained and stinted, but the Hunter paid no mind, "I am glad to hear. We will be seeing more of each other in the coming days." He offered no further explanation when Brandon looked on in askance, "Have you compensated that guard for his sword?"

The question caught Brandon off guard, but he managed to shake his head.

"Then my next destination is clear." As he did before, the Hunter dipped his head to the maester, who bowed deeply in turn.

"Oh, and Brandon." The Hunter spoke as he turned his attention back to the heir of Winterfell, "Refrain from speaking ill of Evetta. Such words make me question your father's role in your upbringing."

The Hunter said no more as he left. The heir of Winterfell opened the door and stepped through. Maester Luwin did not follow. Brandon found himself alone with his father. He made his way to the center of the room, head bowed.

"You know what you have done."

Brandon stilled. This was not his father's voice. This was the voice of Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, sitting in judgment of those who violated the laws of gods and men. "I will have your reasons."

Brandon stared intently at the floor, unable to form a reply.

"Look at me."

He raised his head but found it a difficult thing. His father sat at his desk, eyes shadowed, deep furrows set in his face and brow. Brandon had not seen his father look so weary, not since the day after Benjen's birth, when his father had sat with their mother until her last breath, spending the hours after comforting him and Ned before returning to the Great Hall to carry out his duties as Warden in the North. That was the measure of the man Brandon had disappointed.

"Never have guest rights been broken within Winterfell. Never have we Starks betrayed that most sacred of oaths. Never."

His father's gaze was damning.

"Why have you shamed us?"

It was a question he struggled to answer. Had he been angered by his defeat? Undoubtedly. Had he been furious when the Hunter all but toyed with him? Without question. But it had not been anger or fury that drove him to treachery.

"After he helped me stand and turned away," The words were hard to find, his mind grasping for coherent thoughts even as he spoke, "I saw his back, and I thought it my only chance to stop him."

"Stop?" His father's tone took on a hard, cold edge.

"Not kill." He implored his father to believe him, and he would swear before the weirwood if the Old Gods still welcomed him, "Only stop."

His father searched his face for deception. That his father felt the need to do so, that Brandon had given him every reason to doubt…his veins ran with more shame than blood.

He heard his father sigh, and it was a horrible, defeated thing, "What could you have hoped to stop him from?"

"Anything." He uttered, "From doing anything. Perhaps everything. Whatever he wanted." The words spilled from his mouth, and Brandon prayed they held sense.

"I looked at his back and knew that if I did not stop him there, no one could. Good or bad, I didn't know. And it didn't seem to matter. If I didn't stop him, I knew he would go on to do whatever he pleased, and we–everyone–would have to watch."

He tried to turn thoughts into words and knew he was failing.

"The way he moved, fought, the way he looked at me after…Father, no man should be that strong."

Brandon stared at his father, begging him to understand. He didn't dare ask forgiveness. For the longest time, Rickard Stark said nothing. The silence stretched, growing heavy as Rickard regarded his son with tired, grey eyes.

"Lord Fairchild said you had fought for your life." There was no question in his father's voice, and Brandon had no answer to give. The Warden of the North sighed again, "Why did you challenge him?"

Brandon gathered himself, "I wanted to help." The words came no easier, but he pressed on, "I saw what he was doing to you, Father. You have been here every night for the past moon, burning so many candles we could smell smoke from the halls. You would join us each morning looking more weary than you did during winter. All because that man intruded on the North, our land, our home."

Brandon drew in a shaky breath, "I thought if I bested him in the yard, others would think less of him, that it would make things easier for you."

He had thought a victory at arms would have allowed his father to talk terms from a position of strength. Instead, he had found himself fighting for his life.

The Warden of the North rose from his seat and stood before his son. Brandon knew he was tall and broad for his age, but he remained very much in his father's shadow.

"You foolish boy," the words cut deeply, "What father worth the name would have his children fight in his stead?"

Brandon bowed his head, unsure what else he could do or say.

"You should not have insulted a man grown, trained, and titled." His father sighed again, tired and defeated, "And I should never have given you the chance to do so."

Brandon suppressed a shudder. His father was apologizing, attempting to share the blame for his crimes. Gods, he did not want that.

"Father–"

Strong, callused hands gripped his shoulders.

"He could have killed you."

Brandon heard his father's voice waver, and it made him ill. In the depths of his heart, he could admit he feared the Hunter. But the sight of his father vulnerable, the knowledge that he was to blame, he feared that more.

"He could have killed you and been in the right. What would you have me do then?"

The heir of Winterfell had no reply.

"Because I would have killed him, Brandon. Justice be damned. Honor be damned."

'The North be damned.' The words went unsaid but hung in the air.

"You, your brothers, and Lyanna are all I have left of your mother. If harm came to you, how would you have me face her?"

Father and son stood in silence. Brandon felt the weight of his actions and knew it was not something he wished to share with his father or family.

"Am I being sent away?"

"No, but you will be punished, and Lord Fairchild, whom you have wronged, will see to your punishment."

Were it any other misdeed, Brandon would have protested. The wolf in his blood would have howled in defiance. But what was there to defy? He could not touch the man he had thought his enemy. His father's words alone told him the Hunter had not demanded his life or attempted to beggar the North, and Brandon knew that was more than he deserved. The heir of Winterfell nodded, accepting his father's judgment. He had shamed his family. Come what may, he would not do so again.

TBC

Author's note:

Happy New Year!

This chapter was a doozy.

Also: Lecturer=UK equivalent of an assistant professor