Ned fell on his back. Driven by instinct, he brought his sword over his head, deflecting a thrust aimed at his eye. Though the force of the blow nearly disarmed him, it bought Brandon enough time to step in, forcing Lord Fairchild back.
The younger Stark staggered to his feet, blade raised but wavering.
"Well done, both of you," their instructor praised, ending the match as he inspected his timepiece, "You held me off for almost a minute, more than enough time for help to arrive."
The brothers leaned against their swords for support, neither wanting to mention that no sane man would step between the Hunter and his prey.
"Nothing brings a teacher more joy than seeing his students take his lessons to heart. Continue to improve, and the two of you might just manage to cut me."
"Will you consider taking us seriously when we do?"
The Hunter frowned, "Whatever do you mean, Brandon?"
"You've been besting us one-handed, my lord."
"Ah," Lord Fairchild raised his silver sword to the evening light. The weapon was even longer than the one he had gifted Ned, and the younger Stark had been alarmed to learn his mentor kept quite the collection of spellbound blades, "Take no offense: The silver sword is traditionally a one-handed weapon. Standard Hunter doctrine dictates a bladed weapon in the dominant hand and a Hunter's pistol in the other."
"A one-handed weapon?" Brandon questioned with a smirk, eying his brother.
"It weighs half a stone!" The younger Stark was desperate to discuss something–anything–else, "What manner of weapon is a pistol, Lord Fairchild?"
The Hunter gave the question a moment's thought, "The closest approximation would be a stringless repeating crossbow, not terribly effective for putting down beasts, but a valuable distraction." He held their gaze, "A specialty of the Workshop."
The brothers shared a glance, imagining what such a weapon would do to a man wearing anything but full plate. But their mentor's tone implied this was another secret of his order. Lord Fairchild answered most questions when asked, but there were some matters he refused to entertain. Brandon had once asked if the Hunter kept any trophies from the beasts he had slain. That was not a memory either Stark wished to recall.
"Let us stop here for today," the welcome words pulled the brothers from their thoughts, "Evetta started a pot of Blanquette de veau this morning. Safe to say we are all in for quite the treat."
Even the guards nodded eagerly at the promise of supper. Two trailed behind Brandon as he turned to leave, but Ned stayed behind.
"Lord Fairchild, I request a moment of your time."
The Hunter smiled, "But of course."
"Cley, give us the room."
The guard bowed and made for the door as the foreign lord stooped over the fireplace, casting the library in warm, amber hues.
"What did you wish to discuss, Eddard?"
"Our first lesson." The young Stark looked on as Lord Fairchild stoked the fire, "You urged me to strike you from behind and had disapproved when I refused. You've never urged me to do so again, and I doubt I've improved enough to threaten you, my lord."
"You have not," his mentor agreed, voice more earnest than reproachful as he rose from his task, "Though your progress this month has been remarkable. I suspect Lord Robert will be quite surprised when you return."
Ned did not allow the praise to divert him, "You never pushed the issue."
"I never felt the need," Lord Fairchild answered as a smile formed behind his eyes, "You are plenty capable as you are and just as interesting besides."
His last words left the young Stark unsteady, reminded that his mentor was equally dangerous with weapons and words.
Noticing his hesitation, the foreign lord folded his arms and fell seamlessly into the role of a teacher, "Eddard, when seeking answers, it is imperative to ask the right person the right questions. Failing that, you will be better served with silence."
The young Stark nodded and formed his query anew. 'Ask the right question'…were it so simple. Despite his reservations, Ned heeded his mentor's advice.
"What does honor mean to you, my lord?"
Were the Hunter any other man, Ned would have felt foolish for asking: Honor was the lifeblood of Westeros. All laid claim to it, from high lords to hedge knights, and the history of the Seven Kingdoms was the story of oaths kept and broken. The question–which should have caused offense–garnered a laugh.
"What brought this on, Eddard?"
"You're our teacher, hailing from lands belonging to myth," Ned explained "The Free Cities, however foreign, are at least known to us."
He had left much unsaid: Though Essosi disparaged their western neighbors, the lords of Westeros dealt in words and oaths where magisters bartered with silver and slaves.
Cyril Fairchild stood outside this dichotomy, beyond the purview of everything Ned thought he knew. The man possessed more wealth than Ned could fathom, yet he lived alone with his wife in the Wolfswood, unattended by servants or guards. He performed chores that would have landless knights die from shame while mentoring a warden's sons for no reason save a passing interest in their potential.
The Hunter was guided by whims, and Ned was unsure what that meant for his family or Brandon, who sought his approval.
"You ask a difficult question," the foreign lord confessed, drawing Ned from his musings, "And you may dislike my answer."
'All the more reason to ask.'
Lord Fairchild smiled as though hearing the thought.
"As a young man, I worked tirelessly to live up to the Fairchild name. I thought it easier to part a man from his arm than his principles, else they would not be worth the weight of his words." The Hunter eyed Ned with wry amusement, "I suspect you would have found me rather agreeable."
The smile faltered, "But then came the consumption, and I fled to the one place Death could not follow."
A spell of silence fell over the library as the foreign lord considered his words. "What has Luwin told you about the Night of the Hunt and the Scourge of Beasts?"
Mirroring his mentor, the Stark scion answered with caution, "He said the first was the name for your order's war against the monsters beneath the city. He never mentioned the second."
The Hunter nodded, "The Scourge was the plague that laid Yharnam low."
The answer gave Ned pause. Father and Luwin had shared what they could of Cyril Fairchild, how he had contracted a disease and traveled to Yharnam for healing, only to find it amidst a plague, now given name.
"There is an affliction known as Lyssa's disease, named after an ancient goddess of madness and rage," the Hunter explained, "Within days of being bitten by an afflicted animal, the victim begins to exhibit behavioral changes: agitation, delirium, hallucination and–most notably–an aversion to water. Within weeks, the mind inevitably fails, and death follows."
The Hunter glanced towards the hearth, "The Scourge of Beasts was to Lyssa's disease what the Doom was to Summerhall."
The words stunned Ned still.
A shadow fell over the Hunter's face, his expression becoming a bemusing amalgam of wistful and bitter, "The Scourge robbed men of their minds, but with the loss of sanity came a monstrous strength and a mad desire to see it used…Lyssa's legacy in truth, some might say."
"The Scourge…made men stronger?" There was no hiding his disbelief. Ned had first thought to liken the Scourge to Greyscale and its victims to stonemen. Yet Greyscale addled the mind and weakened the body, leaving stonemen feeble, lumbering, and witless. For the Scourge to turn men into monsters in truth, that was not an affliction but a curse.
The Hunter nodded again, "A man afflicted with the Scourge could gnaw through iron, and unlike its lesser cousin, the Scourge spread not through bite but blood. Fighting off the afflicted was a battle many men lost through victory."
A sense of dread crept through Ned's heart, "How quickly did it spread?"
"Once the Scourge appeared, Lower Yharnam fell within days," the words were offered with haunting calm, "It ravaged the populace, turning them against each other and the Hunters who once kept the beasts at bay. The Hunters themselves were not immune, and many were assailed by former comrades and the very denizens they sought to protect."
The foreigner looked to his student, "What do you suppose the Hunters did then, Eddard? When men and beasts became one and the same?"
"They cut down the populace." The words accompanied a breath but no question.
Lord Fairchild dipped his head, "Many did. The ones who clung to honor and principle died graceless deaths."
"And those who abandon them?"
"They died as well."
It startled Ned how easily the Hunter offered those words.
"You thought the choice would have mattered," His voice held no judgment as he raised a hand and allowed it to crest through the evening air, "When a ship capsizes amidst a storm, the sailors trapped aboard drown irrespective of their resolve to swim. Actions have consequences, but consequences do not equate to impact. Believing otherwise remains one of mankind's greatest conceits."
For a moment, Ned struggled to grasp his mentor's meaning, only to grow angry once he did.
"Is that your answer, my lord?" He asked, finding courage in the burgeoning warmth of his blood, "You would mock your fallen allies? Dismiss the deeds of brave and decent men?"
His words fell upon the Hunter like wind against the Wall, "Did your father not tell you about the first Northerner Evetta and I came across? His name was Marlon, a farmer of forty-eight years with calloused hands like leather gloves. He had raised three sons to adulthood and had nine grandchildren to his name, but when the snowstorms came and never left, he went hunting." The foreign lord held Ned's gaze, "Winter came for Marlon, as your family said it would, and it led him to the Wolfswoods. What else could the man have done when his name was not Targaryen, Arryn, or Stark?"
Having no retort, Ned breathed deeply, mastering his anger. The last time his wolfsblood stirred, a Grafton knight had disparaged his Northern roots and First-Men blood. Cyril Fairchild had offered no such insult, but his words had struck something fundamental:
How? How could he make light of such acts of courage, struggle, and sacrifice? How could he divest those deeds of meaning? Cyril Fairchild was the strongest man Ned had ever known. He had wealth and power in all its forms. If he viewed the world with such defeat, what hope was there for weaker, lesser men?
"Was that what the Scourge of Beasts was to you, my lord?" Ned asked as he forced himself to calm. However much he hated the Hunter's words, hate would not help him understand, "Winter by a different name?"
Cyril Fairchild smiled, "At the time, it had felt like the Long Night."
The young Stark stood his ground, "How did you prevail if not by strength of character or arms?" he demanded, "How did you survive when you too were cast out to sea?"
"By drifting atop the corpses of worse and better men."
The Hunter turned to the hearth as though memories would play out in the flickering flames, "The battle against the Scourge was already long-fought and near-lost when I arrived in Yharnam. The tragedies of brave and wicked men paved my every step; their lives formed the cobblestones beneath my feet."
He reached above the hearth, "I minded their mistakes and reaped the efforts of their labor. Even then, victory had been a close thing."
His hands lifted an ornament from atop the mantle.
"Time and again, I was tested. I battled the beasts that overtook Old Yharnam, cut down countless denizens driven mad by the Scourge, and slaughtered the true monsters of the Choir and Mensis." An undercurrent of old hate simmered beneath the Hunter's whispered words and calm composure.
"I ended them all. I took from them as they did from me and failed the few innocents left in my care."
Lord Fairchild held the ornament for Ned to see, a music box not unlike Lyanna's. When the Hunter lifted the lid, and as the library echoed with a haunting melody, the young Stark laid eyes on a bloodstained ribbon, once belonging to a young girl. Neither spoke as the music played, and the Hunter returned the box to the mantle with care.
"The young man who entered Yharnam forsook things he once thought sacred and discarded others he once held dear. I am what remains." Something somber passed behind his eyes, "I do wonder if there is enough left for my old family to recognize, much less love."
The Hunter turned to his student, "It is not my place to belittle you, Eddard. Live well, with honor or without. The world will test you regardless and exact its price. I only hope it does not cost you more than you can afford."
Silence returned to the room. Ned considered his words before speaking again, "Thank you, my lord. I am grateful that you would entertain my questions."
The Hunter knew what was to come, "And yet?"
"I cannot abide by your advice or follow your example. Nor can I give up what you have," Ned confessed, raising his head and finding courage with every word, "Honor never promises a man his fortune or even his life. That is not what it protects."
"And what does it protect?"
"Those we leave behind," Ned answered, and he noticed a change in the Hunter as he spoke, "It is a matter of inheritance, not legacy."
His mentor smiled, "The difference?"
"Legacy is what a man seeks for himself; inheritance is what he leaves to kith and kin," the Stark scion squared his shoulders and pressed on, "An honorable man may have little to give, but a dishonorable one will only pass on a curse: For all that the Martells tout their princedom, none have forgotten how that came to pass, how they and theirs murdered a king under a banner of truce."
Grey, stormy eyes held the Hunter's gaze, "Westeros is not so large that a Stark might escape his name. The world may exact its price, but I'll not become something my family cannot recognize."
The Hunter regarded his student with newfound interest, "Well said, Eddard, but that poses a question: If honor is intended to protect, would you discard your honor once it failed its purpose? Would you damn yourself to protect those you hold dear?"
When Ned failed to answer, a hand fell upon his shoulder, gentle but cold.
"Suppose I told you that I intended to take a nap, and when I awoke, I would visit your home and murder everyone within," the cadence of his voice never changed, not even as Ned's hand went for his sword, "Would you allow me to wake up?"
The question lingered. The silence stretched and encroached on eternity. Ned's throat went dry as words failed him, and his hand fell from his sword. All he could do was shake his head.
When the Hunter lowered his hand and Ned beheld the approval in his eyes, he recalled his mentor's words–of asking the right man the right questions–and wondered if he had failed in both regards.
Ned sat with his family for supper, poking his unfinished stew. He had last seen his mentor two days ago, yet their conversation lingered in his mind, a writhing mass of dark implications and intrusive thoughts.
When Brandon had asked what they had discussed, Ned had been unable to say. The Hunter had detailed a life Ned could scarcely imagine and a resulting perspective he struggled to understand. The Hunter had not insulted Ned's beliefs, but the question he had asked…Ned had felt played with, prodded, and stretched thin. He desperately wanted to hate the Hunter for it.
'Time and again, I was tested.'
But unbloodied and unseasoned as he was, could he pass judgment on Cyril Fairchild? Would he come to understand the man once he faced his own battles and found himself changed beyond recognition? The thought brought a newfound fear to Ned's heart.
Suddenly, the doors of the Great Keep opened.
Brent stood in the doorway, drenched in sweat, barely held upright by two fellow guards, eyes reflected barely-concealed panic.
"Bandits, Milord! Bandits at the Workshop!"
Pandemonium followed.
Brandon watched as twenty-two horses galloped toward the Workshop. Father and Rodrik led the company, scouts already sent ahead in case of ambush. News of what happened had spread like wildfire, Lyanna and Benjen had been sent to their rooms, and the whole of Winterfell's garrison stood on guard.
The air tasted of tension and fear that set his wolfblood aflame. The eldest Stark closed his eyes, exhaled through gritted teeth, and willed his hand from his blade. He noticed the harsh lines on the face of the guards and overheard the fearful mutterings of servants who feared the worst. But for all of his anger, Brandon was not afraid.
He had not been afraid when Brent reported the bandits–over a dozen strong–riding for the Workshop, nor had he been surprised to learn Father had been monitoring the manor. Panic did not set in when he learned his mentor and Lady Evetta had refused to leave, that Donald had volunteered to stay behind while Brent went to send word.
Cyril Fairchild–the Hunter–was strong. Brandon doubted there was stronger. If the Hunter could disarm him and six guards alone, he could kill many more with less care.
Brandon had not felt afraid, not until Father departed. Once the last rider left the gates, a commotion led him to the stables, where Ned faced three guards with his silver sword drawn.
"Ned!"
His brother turned, eyes set with panic and urgency.
"I'm leaving." Brandon had never heard Ned so terrified.
"Lord Brandon! Please," the guards implored, refusing to draw their swords, "Help your brother see reason!"
"I'm leaving!" Ned repeated, shouting this time, "None of you can best me, so step aside!"
The silver sword trembled in his brother's hands, and Brandon's heart raced. He could not raise his blade against his brother. Father would not come home to two dead or dying sons.
"Lord Fairchild can defend himself," he said, desperate, wondering when he had become the voice of reason. Father had already lost an heir to dishonor. He would not lose another to madness.
Ned shook his head, "It's not him I'm afraid for!" His eyes pleaded for understanding, "Please!"
His brother would not be swayed. Brandon was the better blade, but he could not subdue Ned without injury, not while he held that sword.
Brandon would not hurt his family again.
"I'll go," he said the words and damned them both.
All turned to him in surprise, and the eldest Stark held their gaze, "None of you can stop us, so it's best if you follow. This will be on my head."
The path to the Workshop was different, no longer promising an escape from Winterfell and the reminders of all he had done. Ned rode at his side with one guard in front and two behind. Brandon prayed to the Old Gods that the fighting would be over when they arrived.
He had not expected to gain on Father's party halfway to the manse or to find them on foot. The reason became apparent as his own horse halted and refused to move.
"Brandon, Ned?" Father stepped forward, Ice in hand, his face awash in rage and horror, "Why are you here!"
"We came to help."
Father made to speak, only to be stopped by the sound of movement. The Northerners turned as one, swords drawn.
A man ran down the path, armored but unarmed.
"THE BLACK! I'LL TAKE THE BLACK! PLEASE! OLD GODS, PLEASE! I'LL-"
Metal parted flesh, twisted bone, and the man's cries were silenced by screams.
TBC
Author's Note:
Just a nice, quiet chapter before the spring/harvest feast.
Wanted this chapter to be a character study of the Hunter. When I started this fic, I asked myself what kind of man could transcend the Hunt where so many others had failed. I considered that a scholar would be less inclined to beasthood/bloodlust and more determined to seek out the Eldritch Truth. But ultimately, I felt it came down to luck: Cyril was at the 'right' place at the 'right' time and learned from the mistakes of those who came before. Had he been at Byrgenwerth, he might have joined Lady Maria and the Old Hunters in raiding the Fishing Village. Had he arrived a little later, maybe he would have fallen in the Choir.
Cyril realizes this. His attitudes toward the Hunt were inspired by post-Great War/WWI sensibilities (think All Quiet on the Western Front), where an individual's qualities had little bearing on their survival and great acts of heroism had little impact.
Thought it would be a nice contrast to young Ned's more classical views from a Westerosi/medieval education. Cyril and Ned both have a point, but there come from very different places (literally).
The lesson here: Don't try to iron out moral quandaries with your local Eldritch horror.
Lyssa's disease=earlier name for rabies, named after an ancient Greek goddess.
