Rickard Stark rode at the head of seven men garbed in Stark grey, green, and polished mail. Three more had been sent to scout ahead. Ser Rodrik rode at his side in full brigandine, scowling and ever vigilant. The Warden of the North set a deliberate pace, his heart already ill at ease.
He had said farewell to his children that morn, promising to return by nightfall. Brandon had nodded, hoisted Benjen onto his shoulders and returned to the yard. Lyanna had not been so easily deterred, wanting to meet the 'Lady of the Woods' herself. Only the promise of riding lessons upon his return saw her relent. He smiled at the memory. Trust Lyanna to know of rumors before her lord father.
Richard clung to thoughts of his children as his party trekked through the Wolfswood. They were making good time. Too good. Traversing a forest on horseback–with snow upon the ground, no less–was a treacherous affair, one that made a league into ten. But a path had been cleared for them, one Rodrik had swore on his life had not been there the day before. The men had half-suspected sorcery until Rodrik had unhorsed, knelt, and placed a hand upon the trail. All were surprised when the hand went to his lips.
Salt.
The seas do not freeze like freshwater. Every Northerner knew this, the Manderlys most of all. Just as they knew salt was a rare commodity, purchased from White Harbor and mined from the Lonely Hills at great expense. The Lord and Lady Fairchild–for who else could be responsible–had used it to melt snow.
Rickard felt unbalanced. Maester Luwin had taken but an hour to confirm what he and Rodrik had suspected: eight thousand three hundred dragons in foreign gold now sat in House Stark's coffers. The new maester had near upturned Winterfell's library, but found no record of Yharnam in High Valyrian, Old Ghiscari, or the Common Tongue. Luwin had proposed, eyes bright with an excitement Richark did not share, that perhaps it lay to the furthest east, past the Bone Mountains and Bleeding Sea.
He had hoped for a quiet life after Lyarra's passing, to be but another stitch in the great tapestry of Stark lords and Winter kings, to weather the years like his forefathers before him and leave a more prosperous North for his children. Not a day ago, Rickard's greatest concern had been renewing trade with the Riverlands. Now, he could well be the first lord of Westeros to meet these strangers from a yet unknown great eastern city.
"Milord."
Rodrik's voice interrupted his musings. They were close. Wordlessly, the Warden of the North raised a fist, signaling two men to break off from the party. They would tail behind and report back to Winterfell at the first sign of treachery.
Perhaps it was wrong for a meeting of two peoples to begin with such distrust. But Eddard would be returning from his fosterage to celebrate the coming spring, and Rickard would be there to welcome his son.
They soon joined the scouting party. The forest had given way to a glade he could not recall in all his years hunting with his father and later his children. Already he could see the manor, a masterwork of glass and stone. As the salt path gave way to cobbled steps, the party unhorsed. Ordering two men to guard the beasts, Rickard led his party towards the manor, where their host stood waiting.
The young man at the gates was pale like many a Northerner, clean-shaven with mid-length hair like fresh-poured ink. His waistcoat was the color of mulled wine, worn over a fine, collared shirt that would have provided poor protection on even a warm Northern day. He wore dark trousers with a strange, center crease and some manner of polished, short-ankled shoes that would have seen a man waterlogged with spring snow within five strides. Yet his clothes did not billow with the dying winter winds, his tall frame did not shake from the creeping cold, nor did his breath turn to frost in the frigid air, as if the land itself grasped at the man and failed to find purchase.
The two men soon stood mere paces apart. Here, Rickard noticed the intricate stitching of the younger man's clothes, the silver buttons on his waistcoat, sleeves, and the decorative chain clasped to a pocket sewn seamlessly into his left breast. The way he had stood at perfect ease, watching the northern party approach with an almost playful patience left Rickard little doubt this was the man whose wife had offered alms more befitting a lord's table, who had surrendered a king's ransom as a matter of courtesy, and paved a woodland path in salt as a matter of convenience.
"I am Rickard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North," He announced with full formality, meeting the younger man's gaze, noting how strangely the noonday sun danced in his eyes, "Here by invitation from Lord Cyril of House Fairchild, Hunter of the Old Workshop."
The so-named Hunter smiled.
"Well met, Lord Stark."
The greeting came with a faint accent, unlike any Rickard had heard during even the War of Ninepenny Kings. A shallow bow followed, less than most lords would like, but Rickard kept his silence even as he sensed Rodrik's displeasure.
"I trust your journey here was pleasant."
Rickard nodded, salt coming again to mind, "It was."
"That is good to hear." The Hunter passed a well-pleased look over his men, "Sir Rodrik had some trouble finding our humble home. It seemed poor form to allow a lord to suffer the same."
"Good Hunter."
The voice, soft and melodic, carried endearment with an undertone of chastisement.
A woman slipped through the gate, a woven basket in her arms. She wore a dress of umber wool with finely woven brocade, her bodice hemmed with lace. A pale pink scarf contrasted the brown, embroidered shawl draped over her shoulders. A matching pink hat set with dried roses held long waves of silver hair in place. Taller than even Greatjon Umber, she towered over the gathered men. A great beauty by any measure, her skin seemed like porcelain with eyes like deep-set gems that gleamed behind sterling lashes.
The Hunter acquiesced.
"Lord Stark, may I introduce Lady Evetta Fairchild née Vileblood, formerly of Cainhurst, whom I have the great privilege of calling my wife."
The lady bowed, "Hello, Honorable Lord."
Her voice carried a strange intonation, stronger than her husbands yet soothing like slipping into a warm bath. As for the name of her house…
"The pleasure is mine, my lady," Rickard returned, falling easily on a lifetime of etiquette, "You have done my people a great kindness. Know you have House Stark's gratitude."
The lady blinked at his words, as though surprised. But a beaming smile soon appeared on her face. She turned to her husband, seemingly to share her joy.
Lady Evetta then stepped forward. She lifted the quilted lid of the basket, unveiling small rolls of steaming white bread, buttered and speckled with large flecks of salt, offered to Rickard with fine-gloved hands.
"The messenger last evening informed us of your guest rights," the Hunter explained, "We know them as Sacred Hospitality."
Sacred Hospitality. The words implied enough. Rickard accepted the offered bread and salt with thanks and watched the towering lady offer the same to each of his men, who took the rolls with varied degrees of flustered gratitude.
The grating of metal drew Rickard's attention back to the Hunter. "Lord Stark," he said, sliding the iron-wrought gate fully ajar with a hand, "I bid you welcome to the Workshop."
It was a strange world that lay behind the gates, a menagerie of cobbled stone and outcroppings of pale white flowers that illuminated a faint glow. Lanterns of copper and glass–a luxury even in the Reach–lit the path leading up the sloping steps of the manor, a vaulted structure buttressed by stone arches, wide windows, and doors of heavy, aged oak. There was a stillness in the air that reminded Rickard of the Godswoods, something that stood well before Bran the Builder laid the first stones of Winterfell and would remain long after they crumbled.
As Lady Evetta disappeared through the main doors of the manse, Rickard followed the Hunter along a byway to the side of the house, where a table had been prepared. He near paused at the sight of three sets of porcelain plates laid out on a fine tablecloth. Even the Manderlys would be hard-pressed to import such an expense from the heart of Yi Ti.
Richard took the offered seat as Rodrik stood vigil at his back. No sooner had he settled was the Warden of the North treated to the strangest sight of the day: Lady Evetta appeared from a side door, carrying a tray of assorted porcelain cups. Stranger still, the Hunter had stepped forward, helping his wife set the table. Even Rodrik raised a brow. It was one thing to be served bread and salt–that was a matter of ceremony–it was another altogether for the lord and lady of the manor to take up the duties of the serving staff.
"Wassail cider." The Hunter offered Rickard a generous cup that smelled strongly of warm cinnamon, citrus, and cloves. The northern lord noted how Lady Evetta placed a third cup, no doubt for herself, but returned to the manor.
"You have a good man in Sir Cassel, Lord Stark." The Hunter returned to his own seat, "He showed Evetta and I every courtesy yesterday. Even enlightened me to some local customs and mores."
Rickard did not need to look back to know Rodrik had closed his eyes and prayed to the Old Gods for strength.
"Therefore," the Hunter continued, settling into his own cup, "I find it only fair to inform you that I am no lord."
Rickard hid his surprise behind sips of cider. No doubt his men felt the same. Had they any less discipline, they might have voiced their outrage. But Rickard held his tongue, knowing this was a tale half told.
"'Lord Fairchild' has always been my father, then my elder brother and nephew," the Hunter explained, voice touched with nostalgia, "Father was only an earl, after all."
Rickard took measure of the man's words. A second son to a titled sire, then. As for what the title meant, "You named me duke. Your father, an earl," he notes, "I presume these are noble titles, unless you meant them in jest."
The hunter blinked, "Ah, my apologies." Setting down his cup, the Hunter held a hand at shoulder-height, "Knight." He raised his hand, "Baron." The hand raised again, "Earl." And again, "Marquess." A finger then pointed at Richard's person, "Your Grace, the Duke." Lastly, the Hunter pointed skyward, "His Majesty, the King."
Rickard nodded. The first title required no explanation. A baron was then a petty lord, and an earl a greater vassal, sworn to a principal bannerman, the marquess. House Forrester and Whitehill came immediately to mind.
"At the rank of marquess and below, only the lord and his heir may be addressed as lords." The Hunter explained, "Second sons and the like must settle for 'the Honorable' in court, 'Mister' elsewhere."
Rickard again nodded his understanding. Only the second son of a duke—or perhaps a lesser prince—may inherit the title of lordship.
"And yet your wife is a lady."
Lights came alive in the Hunter's eyes.
"Just so."
Rickard made note of this. If the same rule applied to daughters, the Vilebloods of Cainhurst now warranted great consideration and greater concern.
"By the laws of our land, you are a lord in every respect." He said at length, making one decision of many, "The title will be afforded to you during your stay."
The Hunter's face mimed surprise.
"My stay?" He asked, though there was no question in his voice, "Is the matter settled already, Lord Stark?"
Rickard shook his head, "I would know what brings you to our lands, having built a keep so close to Winterfell."
"Good Hunter." Lady Evetta's face peered through the door, cutting further conversation short. Again, the Hunter left his seat to assist his lady wife. The table was soon set with an opening course of rich fare, bacon-wrapped prunes soaked in tea, scallops swimming in browned butter, a crisp white vegetable–asparagus, he was told–over a peppered cream sauce, food well-befitting a royal feast. Lady Evetta joined them. Even in her low-seated chair, she continued to overlook both men.
"To answer your question, Lord Stark," The Hunter said, as the meal commenced, "Evetta and I are here for retirement."
Retirement? Rickard did not know the term. To retire was an action: One retired for the evening; a man retired to bed.
"We have settled our affairs in Yharnam. We stayed long enough to see the city recover, the new residents properly settled. The last of my mentors lived out her remaining years in comfort." The words were spoken solemnly even as the Hunter smiled at his wife, "And Evetta wanted to see snow."
Rickard considered his words. The answer raised many questions, chief among them what Yharnam had needed to recover from.
"Truthfully, we had not known this land was even inhabited until we set eyes on your castle." The Hunter tinted his cup in the direction of Winterfell, still visible in the distance, "We first thought to keep to ourselves. But some two moons ago, Evetta found an elderly man wandering near the Workshop, clearly lost. Strangely, he was rather distressed at our offered aid."
Rickard suddenly found the rich fare losing appeal. Two moons ago…it coincided with the last snowstorm of winter, but none had known that at the time. Greybeards oft went hunting in lean times and seldom returned, leaving fewer mouths for their families to feed. An ancient truth of the North that remained Rickard's personal shame.
"Of course, we helped him recover despite his protests. I led him out of the woods myself with a roll of bear meat."
"Bear meat?"
It was the younger man's turn to arch a brow.
"I am a Hunter, Lord Stark. And yes, I have personally dispatched four since our arrival. Do be cautious: Spring makes them light sleepers and winter has made them ill-tempered hosts."
The Hunter helped his wife with the main course, a whole roasted goose stuffed with carrots and onions, served with plum sauce, and a custard-like bread smelling richly of goose fat. Rickard was treated again to the strange sight of the Hunter carving the goose with a sharp, curved knife that earned him Ser Rodrik's hawk-eyed gaze. But it was another dish that caught Rickard's eye, appropriately named 'roasties' and made with some manner of parsnip. The Hunter noticed his interest and promised samples for Luwin's study.
"Lord Fairchild, you deny lordship yet call yourself a Hunter," Rickard spoke again, as good progress was made on the meal, "I would know what the title means and how it came to you."
The younger man nods, knowing what was being asked.
'Who are you?'
"I very much fell into the role," the Hunter answered, "I was born in the Great Isles. My elder brother was an able administrator, taking after my father, and I was confined rather contently to my studies at university."
"University?"
Rickard observed a look of concern cross the younger man's face.
"A school?" The Hunter attempted again, now clearly alarmed at Rickard's continued puzzlement. "A place of books and learning," he says at last.
The Warden of the North finally understood. "The Citadel of Oldtown sees to the training of maesters, our most learned men," he informs, humored to see the younger man relax.
The Hunter continued his tale, "I was well on my way to a professorship, our equivalent to your maesters, but unfortunately contracted consumption."
"Consumption?" Context gave the word meaning, and Rickard felt ill at ease.
The younger man inclined his head, "A wasting disease that sees the victim cough bouts of blood before he expires."
The northerners tensed as one. Rodrik stepped forward, as if to shield his liege from an unseen danger, but Rickard raised a hand, stopping his misstep.
"You look well enough, Lord Fairchild," His tone came measured, not appreciating a possible risk to his persons.
The Hunter remained at ease even as Rodrik glared daggers, "The city of Yharnam so happens to be fabled for its healing arts. Entry into the city, however, was exclusive. Many a man died before its closed gates."
"But you did not," Rickard noted, knowing where the man's tale would lead.
"The Hunters of the city sponsored my treatment." The young lord glanced skyward, "All they asked in return was years of service. The Hunters of the Old Workshop have a single duty: the hunting of beasts. And Yharnam had many."
The northern lord considered his words. This was a man who hunted bears. Alone. He did not wish to consider what manner of beast the man thought a threat. The Hunters of this Workshop appeared to mirror a knightly order, charged with combating beasts rather than men. A fantastical tale but perhaps not false, given the stories of white vampire bats in Sothoryos and Westeros' own history with dragons.
"To go from scholar to warrior must have been a difficult change." He offers instead.
"The alternative was death," The Hunter countered, "My mentor and Evetta's sire, Gehrman, saw me well-trained, though I died several times under his tutelage," he added, surely in jest.
"Much has happened. The city suffered beasts and plague alike. I saw an end to both, but many did not. Gehrman passed in peace, leaving the Old Workshop and Evetta in my care."
The Hunter's voice carried a heaviness that belied his age. For the first time, Rickard saw that, however young, this was a tired man, wrapped in a weariness sleep would not cure.
Lady Evetta reached out, entwining her fingers with the Hunters. No words were spoken, but a moment passes between them such that Rickard felt the need to avert his gaze.
After the plates were cleared, tea–doubtlessly worth its weight in gold–was served. Rickard considers all he has seen and heard. Already he had been served the finest meal in recent memory while surrounded by luxuries he had not thought possible in much of the world, to say nothing of the North. The food had been presented with care but not pomp, as if little had been done to prepare for his arrival save the meal itself and his good opinion was not of paramount concern. A statement of power all on its own. And there was an air of danger about the Hunter that he made no effort to hide, such that Rickard felt he was dining less with an upjumped second son and more the guildmaster of the Faceless Men. That the younger lord was the professed head–now former head–of this Hunters' order did little to dissuade Rickard's thoughts.
"You have the look of a man with a question, Lord Stark."
"I have many." He confessed, "And you have answered much. But there remains one I must have answered by day's end."
The Hunter nodded, "By your leave."
"From where do you hail?" Rickard asks, though it felt strange to say, "You have spoken of Yharnam, Cainhurst, and the Great Isles yet these are lands foreign to us and appear on no known map. You thought the North uninhabited, but I am hard pressed to believe men from even the most distant cities of Essos have not heard of the wolf lords who have guarded these lands since the Age of Heroes."
"Essos?" The Hunter tried the word as if it were foreign, "You mean the continent to the east?"
Rickard could not dignify that with a reply.
"You have been looking in the wrong direction, Lord Stark."
The Warden of North fought to keep hold of his cup. A man audibly choked behind him. Rodrik looked gobsmacked. But the Hunter had already turned to regard his wife, as if the matter were settled, no backward glance to see if a lie had taken root or a tall tale had been believed. Rickard willed himself to speak.
"You hail from the Sunset Sea."
The Hunter arched a brow, perfectly at ease.
"I have never heard it called that." He studies Rickard, "I take this is a rare occurrence?"
What was there to say? A thousand questions crossed his mind only to die on his tongue. "Westeros has never received visitors from the west," he manages, "None who have tried to cross the Sunset Sea have ever returned."
The Hunter frowned but said nothing. He instead turned to his wife, "I will fetch dessert," he offered, as if his previous words had not undone the very underpinnings of the known world.
The lady, on her part, nodded her assent.
The Hunter disappeared into the manor. Silence stretched as Rickard considered the impact and implications of this day. If the Hunter's words proved true, what would it mean for House Stark and the North to host these strangers from beyond the Lonely Light?
"Honorable Lord," Lady Evetta's voice broke Rickard from his thoughts, "Have you a family?"
"I have," Rickard allowed his mind to take refuge in the banal courtesy of the question. "The Old Gods blessed me with four children. Brandon is my eldest and heir. Eddard is fostering in the Vale. Benjen is my youngest, and Lyanna my only daughter." He said this with pride, allowing his mind to settle. But his next words did not come as easy, "My wife, Lyarra, passed shortly after Benjen's birth eight years ago."
The lady frowns, brows knitting together. "I have caused you pain," she dipped her head, "I am sorry."
Rickard shook his, "It is an old hurt. Benjen is beloved by his siblings and I will see him raised well, as Lyarra would have wanted."
The lady eased at those words, "She would be proud." How true that was, Rickard could not say. But the lady's voice was soothing, and he was grateful for the kindness.
The Hunter chose that moment to return, carrying a large strawberry tart topped with fresh cream and white sugar ground to resemble powdered snow. Slices were cut, again under Rodrik's watchful gaze, and more tea was poured.
"I hope my words have not unsettled you too greatly, Lord Stark." The Hunter said at length.
"They have," Rickard replies, offering truth without censure.
"I have maps and books aplenty if you require proof." The Hunter answered easily, "Evetta and I will have them prepared when you depart."
Rickard sighed, "I would sleep better if your story simply proved false," he says with what he hoped passed for good humor.
The Hunter smiled behind his cup, "Then I will be sure to pack the library."
Rickard mounted his horse. His party was laden with a great number of books, small gifts, and a pie baked by Lady Evetta for the men. The Hunter and his lady wife stood at the gates, bidding them farewell.
"Do feel free to visit at your leisure, Lord Stark."
Rickard accepts the courtesy for what it was. Indeed, there was more to discuss, but that was for another day. He had come with questions, and he had received answers, however difficult those answers would make life in the coming days. He would need good counsel before anymore could be done.
"You have shown me and my men great hospitality and done my people a great kindness. Know the gratitude of House Stark is more than empty words."
The Warden of the North turned his horse about to face the Lord Hunter of Yharnam.
"Expect my messenger by week's end with formal invitation to Winterfell."
The Hunter considers this, "Do you have a library?"
"The largest within a thousand leagues."
Cyril Fairchild smiled, eyes agleam with stars, "We await your invitation, Lord Stark."
TBC.
Author's Note:
If anyone's wondering if Yharnam is actually west of Westeros, note how the Hunter words his replies. Hope this Good Hunter is to everyone's liking.