Eddard Stark sat at the edge of his bed, holding a handle. It once belonged to a dagger with a proper blade, but that was before Ned had drawn it across a certain sword.

The young Stark had slept soundly, much to his surprise. Despite the previous day's excitement, his body had succumbed to sheer exhaustion.

Ned had awoken well before dawn, the sun so far off he had lit a candle for light. Now and again, the Stark scion passed a hand over his chest, unable to shake the sensation of a blade ghosting his skin. Remember the feeling, the Hunter had said. What Ned would give to forget.

He turned his eyes to the Hunter's gift, left on his desk the previous evening. The dagger lay forgotten as Ned reached for the blade. Heavy and silver from hilt to tip, the sword trembled and flickered as Ned raised it to the candlelight, his arms still aching from the previous day. The weapon was not Valyrian steel, yet it was undeniably magic. Ned's armor and old sword had been returned to the blacksmith in a belt pouch.

The silver blade was beautiful, perhaps more so than Ice. For a Stark of Winterfell, such thoughts bordered on blasphemy, but this sword was his and his alone. Therein lay the problem.

Was it right for him to have such a weapon? Ned was the second son to a great lord, the greatest in the North, but a second son all the same. He stood to inherit no lands. Robert had promised to make Ned his bannerman–a Stark of the Stormlands–and Lord Arryn mentioned his Waynwood nieces too often for Ned to mistake his intentions. Grateful as he was, the young scion no longer knew if he could accept either offer.

Would it be safe for a cadet house to possess a sword that rivaled Ice? Magical swords had power beyond their magic: Wielding his namesake, Daemon Blackfyre had rallied more lords to his cause than he had any right to. While Ned would sooner fall on the sword than turn it against family, what would happen in a century, much less two? Every instinct told him the silver blade could best Valyrian steel.

Then there was Cyril Fairchild, the Hunter who spoke in an accent Ned did not recognize, hailing from a city Ned did not know. The Lannisters would have surrendered a mountain of gold for the blade; others would have promised him a kingdom, yet Lord Fairchild had handed it to a second son. Why had he given Ned such a gift? Was the Hunter trying to sow dissent within House Stark, driving a wedge between him and Brandon? What if the gesture had been as thoughtless as it appeared? What manner of man parted with such swords on a whim?

The young Stark breathed deeply, setting the sword aside, fingers trembling as he tried to rub sleep and worry from his eyes. The silver sword was better off with the heir of Winterfell. Were he a better man–a better brother–he would have surrendered the blade to Brandon. The truth hounded him, but Ned could not bring himself to follow through.

A knock at the door drew his attention. Brandon barged through the doorway, looking much less worn than Ned felt.

"Good, you're awake. Come, we have got a busy day ahead of us."

Ned knew better than to argue.


Following a quick meal of dried fruit and honeyed oats, the young Stark followed his brother out of the Great Keep.

"Are we heading back to the manor?"

Brandon shook his head, but Ned's relief was short-lived, "Lessons are thrice a week. Yesterday was the last of three. We have two days to prepare for the next one."

'We?'

The young Stark kept the thought to himself, but Brandon shot him a glare as though he had said it aloud.

"Cyril Fairchild was the last student of Lord Gehrman Vileblood, Lady Evetta's father. Lord Fairchild succeeded him as the leader of an order of Hunters," his brother warned, his eyes leveled and voice resolved, "There are more men like him out in the world. We need to be prepared."

Ned shook his head. The more he learned about the Hunter, the less he liked, "How have we not heard of him before?"

"You've seen how he fights. Do you think his enemies live long enough to share stories?"

Ned gave no answer, following his brother as the elder Stark led them along the western battlements. He quickly realized they were not heading for the yard.

"Brandon, why are we walking towards the Library Tower?"

"Because Lord Fairchild has assigned reading, and I will not be falling behind," The words echoed wisdom learned from previous mistakes.

Ned stumbled, "Reading?"

His brother nodded, visibly vexed, "The man was a maester before he became a Hunter. He offered to supplement Maester Luwin's lessons with some of his own."

Ned frowned. This was not what he had expected when Brandon promised a productive day, "He never mentioned this."

Brandon sighed, sounding resigned but not defeated, "He provides reading at the start of each week. Lessons take place in the mornings, swordwork in the afternoons. Yesterday was your first lesson, so he made an exception."


Maester Luwin greeted the brothers as they entered the tower. They seated themselves at a table occupied by beautifully-bound books. Though Brandon quickly turned his attention to a hefty tome and piles of well-worn parchment, he spared a moment to lob a book Ned's way.

"Start with this. If you have any questions, ask."

"Are you certain Lord Fairchild would want me included in your lessons?" Ned frowned as the Summary Of Arithmetic, Geometry, Proportions And Proportionality stared back at him, the letters neat, uniform, and foreboding.

Brandon smirked, lifting his book and relieving it identical to the one in Ned's hand, "The Hunter gave me an extra copy when he heard you were coming home."

"Heard from whom?"

His brother had the good sense not to answer, and Ned offered no further protest. He flipped through the pages, his frown growing deeper the more he saw.

"Brandon, this is a book on–"

"Numbers and bookkeeping," Brandon finished for him, "Lord Fairchild thought we'd find this more useful than learning the histories of foreign kingdoms or the courteous of foreign courts."

"We're not merchants."

Brandon shrugged, "Neither is he."

"We should be practicing in the yard."

"You can barely lift your arms." The elder brother reached over and flipped Ned's book to the front.

"Read." Gods, it was strange to hear Brandon say the word, much less as a command, "The Hunter doesn't care if you agree with the contents, only that you comprehend them. The next time we meet, he'll ask how much you've covered. He might ask more questions afterward, he might not, but if you give him reason to doubt your understanding, neither of us will be holding swords that day."

Ned glared at his brother, "You speak from experience."

Brandon nodded, "By our third lesson, I had fallen behind. The Hunter found out, and cancelled practice. Made me complete the damn reading while he stared over a cup of tea. Took all morning. He then lectured me on matters I doubt Maester Luwin could grasp."

The elder Stark eyed his book as if it had dealt him a personal slight, "Truthfully, I don't recall a thing he said, but I'd drink wildfire before reliving the experience."


Father found them hours later, much to the brothers' surprise. He raised a hand before either could rise from his seat.

"Ned, join me after supper," his voice carried a solemn command directed at his second son, "We will visit your mother."


Eddard Stark knelt and placed a candle before his mother's tomb while Father stood at his side. Neither spoke as Ned paid his respects to Lyarra Stark.

The young Stark tried to recall her face from faded memories. Only the Lords of Winterfell had statues placed over their tombs, but Ned selfishly wished Father would abandon the tradition. Perhaps, he never saw the need, having known Mother since childhood. Perhaps Father could still see her behind his eyes. As much as Lyanna shared Mother's likeness, Ned struggled to do the same.

"The last time we stood here, you came to say farewell."

Ned nodded, remembering the day Jon Arryn summoned him to the Vale, not six moons after Mother's death. Ned had not thought well of his foster father after that. It would be years before he finally understood: Robert had already set sail from Storm's End when the missive reached Winterfell. Lord Arryn had wanted the boys to start their fosterage together, ensuring Ned had a friend–an ally–at court.

The Warden of the North knelt beside his son, "Jon has kept me apprised of your progress, how you have excelled in your lessons and distinguished yourself during the squire's tourney at Ironoaks."

Ned wanted to confess that his victory over Lyonel Corbray had been a narrow thing, while his subsequent loss to Robert had been decisive, but now was not the time for such words. He remained silent as Father's hand fell upon his shoulder.

"She would be proud, as I am."


Father and son paid their respects, standing only after the light from Ned's candle dimmed and died. Ned watched as Father lit another before following him down the winding staircase.

They descended further into the crypts, the air growing stale and still. The only light came from their candles; the only sound from their steps.

"The Southerners often claim that words are wind. I have always found the saying strange," the warden's pace slowed as he spoke, but he did not stop, "Here in the North, the winds will cut a man deeper than any sword."

Ned found himself unable to agree. He had lived in the Vale for too long, "I have almost forgotten the feeling, Father."

The Warden of the North nodded, "There will be time for you to remember."

They continued their descent, and Ned grew certain of their destination: The lower levels of the crypt, where the Kings of Winter were laid to rest.

"Brandon introduced you to Lord Fairchild and his lady wife," the warden spoke again, "What do you make of him?"

The young Stark had expected the question, yet it felt wrong to utter the Hunter's name here amongst his forebearers, "His mannerisms were foreign, but Lord Fairchild was a gracious host and capable teacher. Brandon has clearly benefited from his instruction."

The response was inoffensive and polite. In truth, Ned was reluctant to say more, but he had studied under Lord Arryn long enough to recognize a test: Father had not led him here to discuss idle courtesies.

"When Brandon introduced Lord Fairchild as his sword instructor, I was unsure what to think. The man looked and spoke like a maester. I questioned if he ever held a sword in his life." A hand went to his chest as he recalled what still haunted his waking dreams, "But then we fought."

Ned closed his eyes, commanding his heart to still, "For all his kindness and courtesy, Lord Fairchild fights without a hint of caution, as if the world would not dare cause him harm. The only thing greater than his strength is his control."

He and Brandon had come so close to death. Ned had foolishly thought himself safe while wearing armor. Now he realized the Hunter had humored them for hours while wielding a spellbound blade. A single misstep would have left Benjen as Father's last living son.

"No knight in the Vale could hope to match him."

The weight of Ned's assessment hung in the air, and the warden answered his son with approval.

"Any Northerner I send against Lord Fairchild is one I condemn to die," a familiar exasperation returned to Father's voice, "We first learned of the Fairchilds three moons ago. Word spread from Wintertown that Lady Evetta had offered alms to the smallfolk during the last days of winter."

Three moons…That was not enough time to build a manor in the Wolfswoods. With the wind and snow, Ned doubted it was enough time to build a barn. Then there were the hundred-odd planes of glass Fane Poole kept in the storeroom. For all its plumbing, the so-called Workshop lacked a kiln. Ned knew the rumors were false, yet the truth offered less sense.

"They arrived as formal guests of Winterfell last moon. Your brother impressed Lord Fairchild during a spar."

"He took Brandon as his student," Ned spoke as his mind wandered. Had he fought in Brandon's place, could he have done as his brother had? Could he have impressed the strange warrior who seemingly stepped out of legend? Engrossed in his thoughts, Ned failed to notice the strain in his father's voice, the stiffness that bled into his shoulders and bearing when he failed to meet Ned's gaze.

The Warden of North nodded, the gesture pained and half-hearted, "For the next year. Though it is my hope that Lord Fairchild will consider overseeing your brother's training for the remainder of his time in the North."

"Brandon will not return to Barrowtown?" Ned asked, confused.

"Your brother is needed here. I will inform Lord Dustin during the spring feast. He will be well compensated."

'Needed here.'

Brandon was mere months away from his majority. Father was risking relations with a principal bannerman by ending a fosterage prematurely, and the Dustins could easily take offense. But this was more than that.

The warden voiced his son's concerns, "You wish to know why I am handing over Brandon's fosterage to a foreign lord." He beckoned Ned forward, "Come, we are nearly there."

They descended into the cavernous vault of the lower levels, where the standing figures of the Lords of Winterfell gave way to the Kings of Winter seated upon their marble thrones. Legends said the caverns were larger than Winterfell itself, but that was something Ned could no longer confirm. A wall blocked the way. At first, Ned thought there had been another cave-in, that vault had been subsumed in ice, but that was impossible: The crypts were too close to the hot springs for ice to form. Then the young Stark drew closer and saw the wall for what it was.

Glass.

Ned took a stumbling step back, nearly dropping his candle. Turning his head twice over to confirm his eyes did not deceive him, he ran to the edge of the carven near the end of the wall, trying to assess its depth.

He could not see the end.

"Father–"

"Cyril Fairchild will take up residence in the Wolfswood for the next six years. In return, he has offered House Stark enough glass for six glass gardens, two of which will remain in Winterfell, the other four given to our greatest bannerman."

Ned's heart pounded in his ears as images of the Hunter invaded his mind. This was what Lord Fairchild had meant when he said he leased land from Father? By the Old Gods, this was enough wealth to buy the Wolfswood!

Rickard spoke through his son's silence, "Fane and his men have worked tirelessly to transport these panes from Wintertown, but only our most trusted servants, whose families have served House Stark for generations, helped store the glass where our forefathers rest." He made to stand at his son's side, "Some hundred panes remain in the main storeroom, as you have seen already, to be shown to our bannerman during the feast."

"Father, how is this possible?" There was a desperation in Ned's voice. The desire for answers had become a need, "Just who is he?"

'What manner of man parted with such wealth for transient gain?'

"His methods remain a mystery," Father confessed, bringing Ned no comfort, "The man himself claims to be a Hunter from the city of Yharnam, a second son of House Fairchild of the Great Isles who married a daughter of House Vileblood of Cainhurst."

The warden unraveled a piece of parchment, revealing a map. "Those names mean nothing to you. I had felt the same."

The head of House Stark stood silently as his son took the map, watched as his expression shifted from confusion to surprise and finally realization, "Father, this is–"

Rickard nodded, "The answer sought by the Shipwright millennia ago."

"How can this be real?" It was all Ned could say.

"There have been many nights when I wished it were false, but Lord Fairchild has supplied much evidence to the contrary. Forty books containing knowledge that would overturn the Citadel sit in my study. Then there are the gifts you, Lyanna, and Benjen received."

Ned returned the map with trembling hands, his mind still reeling from the revelation. He now understood Father's silence. This was the most momentous event to happen in the North in centuries. It painted Cyril Fairchild's strange mannerisms in a new light, for the man was more alien than Ned could have imagined.

Rickard allowed the silence to linger, giving his son time to recover from all he had learned. When the warden spoke again, his voice carried weariness but also a command.

"After the spring feast, you will continue your fosterage in the Vale until your nameday. Afterward, I will need you at my side, for there are lands I will ask you to govern and plans that require your help."

The young Stark looked to his Father with askance and surprise. Ned was a second son. He was never meant to inherit more than a small holdfast, and that was only if Father or Brandon deemed him worthy of the honor. Father was commanding him to do so much more, and Ned could not comprehend why.

Rickard Stark turned away from his son.

"When I first visited the Red Keep twelve years ago, Aerys Targaryen commanded me to construct a second Wall a hundred leagues north of the first, so that he could rule Westeros from the Shadow City to the Frostfangs. We had barely exchanged greetings.

It would take Steffon hours to dissuade him of the venture."

Rickard's voice dripped with scorn, leaving his son uneasy. The warden revealed an envelope. Its contents had long been discarded, but Ned recognized the seal of House Baratheon.

"I received word that Aerys has commanded Steffon to ready an expedition for Volantis. He is to secure a bride of Valyrian blood for Prince Rhaegar. The king intends for his grandchildren to revive the dragons of old." The warden turned, meeting his son's gaze, "Steffon has assured me that will not come to pass."

Once more, Ned fought the urge to step back, realizing Father's words traipsed treason.

"House Stark has kept faith with the Targaryens since the conquest. Never have we raised our banners in rebellion. Not even House Baratheon can claim such," The warden voice grew cold, "We have kept faith, but it was Walton Stark who died for Jaehaerys' folly and your great grandfather who gave his life at the Long Lake with only his brother and bannermen at his side. It was Riverlanders and Valemen who aided our people during the worst of winters, when letters to the Crown and Reach went unanswered."

Father's hand came to Ned's shoulder, the grip gentled despite the taunt lines of his face and form.

"Our oaths are to the Crown, but our duty is to the North, and we must remember our true friends. Steffon Baratheon means to betroth Robert to Lyanna. Hoster Tully has two daughters he means to make Ladies of the Eyrie and Winterfell."

This was too much. He had been assailed by revelation upon revelation. Ned could not even muster shock that Robert would become his goodbrother.

"Brandon should be here," was all he could say. Father had offered words Ned was never meant to hear, confided secrets well beyond the purview of a second son.

"He has caught Lord Fairchild's eye," Father answered, "The Great Isles are ruled by a House of Lords, a grand council on which House Fairchild holds a hereditary seat. House Vileblood is a great house on the mainland that lays claim to the city of Yharnam. All accounts indicate it mightier than any Free City."

Ned nodded. He finally understood: Father had spoken words he had meant for Brandon, plans decades in the making, but the arrival of the Hunter was something none could have foreseen. From beyond the Sunset Sea, the Hunter had brought martial strength beyond compare and wealth beyond imagination. It was vital for the North to build relations with Cyril Fairchild, and the man clearly favored Ned's brother. It fell on Ned to assume Brandon's previous responsibilities.

When Rickard Stark spoke again, his voice was soft, almost an apology, "I had hoped to spare you from these burdens, for they were never yours to bear, but I will need you at my side. Dispersing the glass to our vassals will be the work of years, not moons. The betrothals much the same." Father and son stood together, "I ask you to be brave for Brandon, Benjen, and Lyanna."

"Father," Ned did all he could to mimic Brandon's strength and courage, "You need not ask. Not now or ever. I will always do my duty to our family and home."

Eddard Stark made to kneel before the Warden of the North, only to find himself in his father's embrace.

TBC

Author's Note: Well, we've reached the end of my backlog. Chapter 10 coming soon. Trying to keep a monthly, bimonthly schedule. Thank you all for reading!

Some Details Regarding Cyril's teaching method:

Do the assigned reading. There's no homework, no reports, and no notes. If you have questions, ask and we'll discuss them. Otherwise, I might ask about the reading next lesson, or I might not, so you can technically get away with not doing anything. But if I catch you…may the Old Gods have mercy on your soul.

As for Ned's long-awaited talk with his father, some things to point out:

1. Stopping a fosterage is not done lightly, especially when the foster father is a fellow warden. It implies something's wrong at home (i.e., the heir died) or something went wrong with the fosterage. Rickard wants to keep scrutiny away from Winterfell, so Ned's returning to the Vale.

2. He holds off on telling Ned about Brandon's abdication because Ned might let something slip while he's in the Vale (see above). He wants to trust his kids, but he's down to two male heirs, one of whom is eight.

3. Rickard and Fane chose to store the glass in the crypts because if you're not a Stark, you have no business there. Unless the king comes in person, no one can realistically strong-arm Rickard to access the crypts and, therefore, the glass.