Date: 278 AC
Steffon Baratheon stifled a cough, eyes watering as he regarded the contents of his cup with newfound respect.
"Seven hells, that's a fine drink!" True to his namesake, the stormlord's booming voice shook the old stones of Winterfell. "Here I thought you Northerners lived off yak piss and goat's milk!"
"We know better than to strain a southerner's sensitive stomach with Northern fare," the Lord of Winterfell replied, voice measured and calm.
The Lord of Storm's End roared with laughter as he poured himself another helping of Rickard's whiskey.
"Many thanks." The old oak chair protested under Steffon's massive frame as he leaned back and downed his flask. "You've not left the North in a long while."
"Not since His Grace last summoned me to court," Rickard replied, his reserve a sharp contrast to his guest's spirited–and deliberate–lack of restraint.
"Ah, more's the pity," Steffon waved a hand dismissively, even as his voice conveyed the contrary. "Saw your boys' practicing in the yard earlier. Wrap them in white cloaks and shining armor, and I'd have mistaken them for Dayne and Selmy."
"High praise."
The stormlord hummed in agreement, "What are people calling them these days?"
"The Wolf Knight," Rickard answered, referring to his middle son before turning his thoughts to his eldest, "and the Northern Blade."
The warden's voice echoed pride and incredibility.
Much has changed in the last two years. Brandon's star had continued to rise after the Harvest Melee, and young warriors throughout the North made pilgrimage to Winterfell, hoping to challenge the prodigious scion who had bested Greatjon Umber. The duels had numbered seventeen at last count, but the Lord of Winterfell had long since stopped counting. The result was always the same: victory, decisive and total.
'The Northern Blade.'
Rickard was unsure who had coined the name, but once men started comparing his son to the likes of Arther Dayne, others followed suit. Brandon's deeds only supported the claim: Invited to Bear Island for a hunting expedition last year, his eldest son had arrived to the sight of two longships assailing the island's sole harbor. Aiding the defenders, Brandon had slain the raiders to a man.
Weeks later, Rickard received word that Harren Botley had died at sea.
Not to be outdone by his elder brother, Eddard had earned distinction battling the Burned Men of the Vale. Letters from Jon Arryn had detailed how Eddard had slain a Red Hand war chief in single combat and aided in the rescue of many captured women, among them Jon's niece, Lorra Waynwood. The Warden of the East had seen his ward knighted for the deed, making Eddard the first Stark in centuries to receive the honor.
Proud as he was of his sons, the years had not passed without misfortune: Vayon Poole now oversaw most of his father's duties under the pretense of training, but all of Winterfell knew the old steward spent more days abed than not. Well aware that the greybeard would wave off his concerns and take offense to a well-intentioned dismissal, the Warden of the North prepared himself for the inevitable passing of his long-time mentor.
"Might I trouble you for another bottle?" the stormlord waved his cup, the clinking of glass against his signet ring drawing Rickard from his thoughts. "Cassana likes her drinks stronger than most think proper for a lady at court, but our voyage to Volantis is expected to take some time."
"A voyage you have already delayed by coming north. Unannounced."
Tension filled the warden's solar as Rickard's eyes grew cold, and the easy smile slipped from Steffon's face.
"Your man, Manderly, was asked not to announce my arrival," he explained, implying the request had carried the weight of royal authority. "And yet, Cassana swore she spied a raven flying this way when we left White Harbor."
"No doubt it was meant for House Cerwyn," Rickard replied evenly.
"No doubt," the stormlord huffed. "That even a day's ride from here?"
"Half."
The Lord of Storm's End hummed, regarding his host with keen blue eyes alike mountain lakes after rainfall.
"I have never been a strong study–Cressen can attest to that–but I distinctly recall House Stark having only one glass garden, not two."
"Another is being built. If summer persists, it will be completed in half a year."
Steffon nodded and returned to his drink, seemingly satisfied with Richard's answer, for good or ill.
"Those panes looked sturdy enough to take a swing from my hammer, though I doubt your men would give me the chance, Lord Paramount or no."
Rickard did not dignify those words with a reply.
"Rumors have been making their way down the Neck for some time now. Most have dismissed them as the mad ramblings of sailors drunk on spoiled grog and the rumor-mongering of smallfolk bored of warming their cocks in sheep." The Lord of Storm's End snorted at his own jape, only for his features to grow stern as his next words levied questions and unspoken charges. "But His Grace has grown concerned regarding the happenings in the North as of late."
Rickard scoffed.
'Concerned.' Such a polite term for paranoia and obsession. Aerys' deteriorating state was well known to all who bothered to take note. That the rumors managed to reach Winterfell meant they were common knowledge elsewhere.
Baratheon swirled his glass, forming turbulent waves across its surface.
"Some say you scrounged up the coin to hire a Myrish glassmaker, others that you kidnapped a magister's son. I'm partial to the one that claimed you hired Ironborn to abscond with half of Myr's glass guild. There's even talk of a silver-haired woman visiting Winterfell. I've heard everything from the second coming of the Corpse Queen to the return of a lost Valyrian princess. The less imaginative say you've taken a Lyseni lover."
Silence fell over the room, and the warden allowed it to linger, never turning from Steffon's gaze.
"I am ever at the service of the Iron Throne," Rickard answered at last, voice as even as patience would allow. "A Myrman wishing to escape a family feud offered me his services. The matter had seemed unworthy of the Crown's time."
Rickard had long anticipated this conversation. With the glass gardens too conspicuous to escape attention, the warden and his inner circle had expected to receive queries and royal envoys within a year of the Fairchilds' arrival.
That was before the Defiance of Duskendale.
The Lord of Winterfell would never know what madness had possessed Denys Darklyn to commit treason: the North had stomached far worse without entertaining rebellion, never mind imprisoning the king. Whatever his reasons, amidst the chaos of Denys' folly, Rickard had overseen the construction of his gardens with near impunity.
Already two had been built, the first in Winterfell, the second in White Harbor. The garden in Barrowtown was nearing completion, with the one meant for the Dread Fort not far behind. All that remained was the garden promised to Last Hearth and the third at Winterfell.
Then there were the potatoes. Given to Rickard on a whim, they had proved nothing short of a wonder, sprouting like weeds in frosted and fallow fields. Though they did not keep near as well as wheat, and the smallfolk had not adopted the foreign crop half as quickly as he had hoped, for the first time in living memory, the North enjoyed harvests that bordered on bountiful.
And yet, despite these successes, the Lord of Winterfell had continued to purchase great quantities of southern grain, turning the sweat and toil of his people into silks and perfumes for the South. Though his blood boiled at the thought, Rickard would give the Reach no cause to petition the Crown, nor Aerys any reason to levy taxes or tariffs against the North.
His bookkeepers had kept their records in good order and ensured the Crown always received its due. In the eyes of the southrons, the North would never be above suspicion, but Rickard would keep the North beneath their notice: the Targaryens have long neglected his people, and the warden saw no reason for that to change.
Steffon shook his head in disbelief.
"Gods be good, Rickard. Just what have you been up to?"
"Seeing to the interests of my family, just as you are now."
Winter-grey eyes met stormy blue as neither lord gave ground, unspoken promises and threats passing between them.
The Crown had sent Steffon to Winterfell. Were the envoy of lesser standing, Rickard would have said less than he already had and sent the man on his way. Employing a Myrman was no crime and even if the North were producing glass, the Crown had no right to inspect the Fairchild's Workshop, no more than it had to inspect House Lannister's mines or House Redwyne's winery. The Targaryens never had such authority, even as dragonlords.
Cyril's identity would have held, at least for a time. Rickard doubted Aerys' interest in the North would have survived the coming winter. Even if it had, the snows would have given the warden ample time to see the last gardens erected and, if the need arose, fake foundries built. Come spring, the king's envoys would have found naught amiss.
Aerys had sent Steffon to ascertain the source of the North's good fortune and investigate the silver-haired woman sighted near Winterfell, but Steffon Baratheon had his own reasons for traveling north.
The Lords of Winterfell and Storm's End had known each other for a long time. Their correspondences dated back to the war, and Richard had amassed a great many letters as a result. Whether their contents were incriminating or innocuous hardly mattered; if the rumors of Aerys' temperament held a kernel of truth, their existence alone would be implicating enough.
After his imprisonment, Aerys reportedly dismissed the King's Justice. In the same breath, he had named over a dozen courtiers and servants as traitors in league with Darklyn. With the presence of a Red Priest in the royal court and the Crown's patronage of the Wisdoms long confirmed, Rickard needed little help imagining their fate.
The Warden of the North had not prayed for Aerys' health after his capture, nor had he rejoiced at his rescue. Rickard wagered that Steffon–the king's own cousin–had done much the same.
Neither man would profit if Rickard were summoned south to explain himself. The Warden of the North would give his guest no cause to recommend such action.
"I am not deaf to the whispers of southron lords and their courts. For all their love of the game, they are not subtle in their insults of me and mine: a half-feral mutt leashed to a frozen wasteland filled with men both savage and dim."
Rickard spoke each word with care, his voice drowning out the hushed howlings of summer wind.
"Perhaps there is some truth to the rumors. Perhaps the Warden of the North is a fool, easily mistaking the first man to melt sand into half-clear slag for a Myrish glassmaker. Such a fool would likewise mistake any fair-haired woman for a daughter of Old Valyria. No doubt the son of Rhaelle Targaryen would have more discerning eyes."
The warden said his piece. Steffon sat silent and still, an immovable mountain casting looming shadows along the far side of the room. At length, Baratheon wetted his lips with whiskey and heaved a sigh.
"Aerys would likely believe the tale. I suspect he thinks your ilk little better than the wildings and would enjoy having his notions affirmed." The stormlord regarded Rickard with a tempestuous gaze, "But he expects me to return with your secrets strung up on a string. If I told him what he wished to hear, he would make me his Hand."
"Then it hardly matters what I say."
Once more, the eyes of the direwolf and those of the crowned stag met in contention. Silence stretched between them until the Lord of Storm's End threw his head back and laughed. Bereft of his usual cheer, the sound rang humorless, bitter, and hauntingly familiar as Rickard recalled the night he had received six glass gardens and lost an heir.
"Cousin Rhaella is the last good thing left in that cesspool of a city." The stormlord's words seeped through gritted teeth like venom, "And Hand of the King…Tywin would sooner set the realm aflame than be cast aside like a jilted wife."
Steffon placed his cup down and pushed it aside.
"The three of us were as close as brothers. We promised to rule together and bring about a golden age that would overshadow the Conciliator's in every conceivable way." The stormlord scoffed as though he had suffered a poor jape, voice embittered by betrayal. "The things he's done…"
Baratheon grew quiet. Whether his words were meant for the dragon or lion, Rickard could not decide, and that alone spoke volumes of the men in question. The Lord of Winterfell allowed his guest a moment to his memories and regrets.
"I will tell Aerys your story once Cassana and I return from our fruitless task," Steffon conceded, regarding his host with steely resolve. "But I will need assurances."
'Family.'
Rickard dipped his head, understanding what Steffon was asking of him. Of Lyanna.
"I will announce the betrothal at tomorrow's feast."
Steffon nodded.
"I would count you amongst my friends, but I would hate to leave you in such poor company."
Father had no brothers, so Lyanna had no uncles. It was something the young Stark had always known. Even Lord Manderly, who grew up with Father, was a vassal beholden to her family, whom Father had to placate with rewards and favors. The Lord Hunter was different.
The Hunter and his beautiful wife had become constants in Lyanna's life. The Workshop was only a short ride from home, filled with tasty food and wondrous treats. Lady Evetta would always visit Winterfell for Lyanna's music lessons, and her brothers would always ride off to theirs with apprehension. Because even as famed warriors with silly names, they were no closer to defeating their teacher.
Holding Lady Evetta's hand, Lyanna trekked up the lonely hill behind the Workshop. She had fled into the wolfswood as soon as Lord Baratheon had left Winterfell, and Father had not dared to stop her.
Last night, he had announced her betrothal to Ned's oaf of a foster brother and broken her heart. Lyanna had wanted to jump from her chair, fling a bread roll at Lord Baratheon, and storm out of the Great Hall. But Lady Evetta had taught her that being loud was not the same as being brave and that shouting was not the same as being heard.
Had she done what she wanted to, she would have embarrassed Father. Angry as she was, Lyanna had not wanted that.
Instead, the young girl sought out the only man whom she thought could help.
Beneath the Great Tree, Lord Cyril Fairchild read a book by the hazy light of the dawn. Spotting his young guest, he tucked the book away and stood.
"Good morning, Lyanna. What brings you to the Workshop?"
Though the lord smiled, Lyanna wavered under his gaze. She looked to Lady Evetta and received a gentle nod that gave her the courage to step forward.
"I want to become a Hunter."
Lord Fairchild registered her request with faint surprise, but his lack of disapproval gave the young girl hope.
"Whyever would you want that, Lyanna?"
"I w-want to learn how to fight." Lyanna stammered the well-rehearsed answer, struggling to meet the Lord Hunter's eyes as she prayed he would accept the lie.
"I see," came the reply, and for the span of a breath, the young girl thought she had succeeded. But then the Hunter's expression grew somber, and her hopes slipped away. "I am afraid I cannot help you."
The words struck Lyanna like a physical blow.
"Why not?" The young Stark felt her voice rising, her face growing hot as her vision grew splotchy. Hurt and anger overwhelmed her. "You've taught my brothers! You've been teaching them for years!"
"I taught them how to kill." Without raising his voice, Lord Fairchild dispelled the young girl's rage. "The world is filled with monsters, Lyanna, many of whom bear the guise of men. As your father's sons and the North's protectors, your brothers are duty-bound to see them to justice and violent ends. I taught your brothers what they needed to survive the task."
The Hunter stepped forward, and Lyanna stumbled back as though she had ventured too close to a fire or waded too far into a stream. Yet, there was a caution in his movements and a softness to his bearing that resonated care and concern.
"I do not think that is something you wish to learn, Lyanna, nor do I believe that is what brought you here."
The young Stark trembled. She had been fueled by anger since the night before. In its absence, she felt hollow, as though a conflagration had burned through her and left what remained teetering on the verge of collapse.
"Father betrothed me to Robert Baratheon." The words tumbled from her lips as she fought back tears, "I don't want to marry him! I won't!"
Lyanna looked down at her feet, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She wanted to be brave but felt helpless. She wanted the Lord Hunter to tell her that she did not have to marry and that he would save her from this engagement. Instead, she heard leaves crumple under the Hunter as he knelt and wrapped his arms around her.
"It is alright to cry."
He said nothing more as Lyanna sobbed into his shoulder. He held her as she dirtied his fine shirt with tears and snot.
"I've heard what Ned says about him! How he likes to drink and chase skirts! He's a brute! I won't marry a man like that! I don't want a marriage like that!"
She stared up at the lord like none she had ever known, stronger and fiercer than anyone in the world yet kind and caring all the same.
"I want what you and Lady Evetta have!"
The words sounded like a confession to a secret Lyanna had held without knowing. Her words caused Lord Fairchild to hold her tighter, and Lady Evetta joined their embrace. Not for the first time, Lyanna wished that Father had a brother, if only so she might have an uncle.
In a manner that felt strangely routine, Rickard entertained the idea that he had gone mad. Not three years ago, he had permitted a foreign lord to reside just outside of Wintertown. In all but name, he had allowed the Hunter to foster his children. Mere hours earlier, he had watched as Lyanna ran off into the wolfswoods to seek comfort and support he had failed to provide.
Now the Warden of the North stood atop the battlements, overlooking the Western Gate with the Hunter at his side.
"What would you have me do?"
The Hunter frowned. "I would caution you against heeding the words of a fool who stumbled his way into love and happiness."
"I value your advice all the same."
Cyril frowned deeper, looking more discomforted than the warden had ever known him to be. Rickard confessed the sight consoled him more than it should.
Whatever reservations he might have regarding Lyanna's betrothal, the Warden of the North would never have broached the subject to another lord, much less one with a young, unmarried heir. And yet, when the Hunter returned with his daughter in tow and requested an audience, the Lord of Winterfell had never questioned his sincerity.
Setting aside his good opinion and trust–for the Hunter had both–the man had been a mentor to both Rickard's eldest and heir. Marrying Lyanna to Luca would give Cyril no more influence over Winterfell than he already had. Furthermore, if Lady Evetta's family possessed even a fraction of the wealth her husband displayed, the Vilebloods of Cainhurst would find Winterfell a poor prize. No, Cyril had no need to rob the North of its poverty, which gave Rickard all the more reason to heed his counsel.
As though sharing his thoughts, his companion released a sigh.
"Robert Baratheon is the eldest son of Duke Steffon Baratheon, heir to the Stormlands and second cousin to the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. His connections and pedigree are unquestionable, but what little I have heard of the boy does not flatter." Cyril pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed again, "Likewise, that even Ned cannot wholly endorse his character is no small thing."
The Lord of Winterfell said nothing as the Hunter swiped snow from the castle wall with haphazard sweeps of his cane. Three merlons were cleared of snow before he spoke again.
"Your daughter is a lady of high birth. Privilege is her birthright, marriage her duty." Cyril described the world as it was, not how he wished it to be. "Yet, Evetta and I would see her happy. You wish the same."
The Master of the Workshop turned to the Warden of the North, and a thread of understanding passed between them.
"Speak with her as a father would his daughter," Cyril advised, his words final. "Though I suspect she will hate you for a time, acceptance cannot come without understanding."
The Hunter peered beyond the battlements, tapping his cane against the ancient stones. "I do not know Robert Baratheon well enough to pass judgment, but Lyanna deserves to know the boy you promised her to. Allow her to write to him in a month's time. We will redress the matter if he proves as repugnant as she fears."
The Lord of Winterfell heaved a sigh, recognizing the words as ones he needed to hear, reluctant as he was to listen. Part of him had hoped Cyril would magic away his troubles as he had Bolton and Whitehill, but the warden dismissed the notion as foolish.
Rickard had never been a man to shirk his duties onto another.
Had the world been kinder, Lyarra would have seen to this task. But she was gone and had entrusted Rickard to raise their children. He would see to this duty as he had all others.
The Lord of Winterfell followed his companion's gaze. He looked out to the rolling expanse of the North and found himself at peace, however weary.
"War was easier than fatherhood."
Cyril nodded solemnly even as his eyes shone a bit brighter.
TBC
Author's Note:
Thanks once again to KnightStar for beta reading this chapter! Real happy with how this one turned out. Think it's some of the better prose I've churned out in a while.
Storywise, the South has finally gotten involved. The Crown remains relatively ignorant of the true situation in the North, though not for lack of trying. Varys was still in Essos at this time. Has he heard the rumors of a Myrish glassmaker living near Winterfell? Absolutely. Is that any reason to pack up his operations and move across the Narrow Sea without Aerys' invitation? Absolutely not.
In regards to Steffon's characterization: this was a man who grew up in the Red Keep alongside Aerys and Tywin. His father, Ormund, was the former Hand of the King. Later, when relations soured between Aerys and Tywin, Steffon remained in the king's confidence and might have become Aerys' Hand had he not died at sea. So while he and Robert may look alike, I suspect Steffon was cut from a different cloth.
The conversation between Steffon and Rickard also showcased the 'usual' interactions between Westerosi lords. Steffon is, in all regards, a friend. He has Rickard's respect, and no doubt the feeling is mutual. But as lords protecting the interests of their respective houses, neither man can escape the trappings of power, politics, and intrigue. Thought it would be a nice juxtaposition to Rickard's subsequent conversation with Cyril.
In regards to Lyanna's betrothal, I must thank KnightStar again for reminding me that Mya Stone would not be born until 279 AC. Instead of adding another year to the time skip, I liked the idea that Lyanna would have despised Robert, illegitimate child or no. By Westerosi standards, Robert's behavior is what you would expect from a young, powerful warrior of noble birth. But for Lyanna, who has seen her father stay faithful to her mother's memory and the Hunter's regard for the Doll, Robert falls painfully short.
The final scene between Rickard and Cyril merely emphasized that these are men (well, Rickard, at least) with good intentions, however much their medieval/Victorian values clash with modern sensibilities. Though there are obvious nuances, both men* lived at a time where caring for your children and seeing them married well were often one and the same.
With that, the Better Days saga come to an end. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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