Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1 (BloodbournexGoT)

*I have a Question: I have been reading a lot of a single series w/ crossovers; do you want me to post exclusively the single series or go into my backlog of stories?*

Latest Update:August 11, 2023 (Part 1 complete)

Summary: At winter's end, there is rumor of a strange manor appearing in the western Wolfswood, home to an equally strange man and his tall, kindly wife. Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, seeks answers.

Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/14176766/1/

Word Count:71k

Chapters:17

Chapter 1

Rickard Stark felt old. The black pool in the Godswoods reflected a face with temples too grey and lines too deep for a man of four and thirty. His father once said the years were longer in the North and Rickard found those words to be true. At six and ten, he had lost his father and lady mother to winter fever. At six and twenty, he had lost his beloved Lyarra to the birth of their youngest son. Now, at the end of the longest winter in living memory, the burden of lordship weighed heavily upon him. Rodrik's report this evening had done little to help.

"A house in the Wolfswood?"

"House?" Rodrik Cassel scoffed. "More of a manse, Milord, like nothing on either side of the Narrow Sea. Counted three floors with windows of clear Myrish glass, an iron-wrought fence with a gate as tall as a man ahorse, and a stone-paved path leading right up to the bloody door."

The knight shook his head in exasperation and Rickard could not fault his old friend. Clear glass windows. A fence of iron and stone-paved roads. There were Northern lords with keeps worth less. Someone had built a manor befitting a Myrish magister within near throwing distance of Winterfell's walls. In the midst of winter and without his knowledge. The very idea beggared belief.

A cold breath left Rickard's lips, turning to frost in the frigid air. He had ordered Rodrik to chase a rumor, an outlandish tale he overheard from passing servants and later pried from the mouths of his guards:

For over a moon, a woman as tall as a giant with the coloring of Old Valyria had been visiting the outskirts of Wintertown, offering warm stew, meat, and fresh bread to the smallfolk, asking naught in return. No doubt word of this woman had been kept from his ear, and for all that it stoked his ire, Rickard understood. His men had families in the small town outside his great keep and winter had been bitter. Four years of dark skies and frozen fields had seen grain stores dwindle despite his tireless work. The Stark lord knew what lengths men would go to see their families fed.

In truth, he had not wished to interfere. The woman had fed his people in the dead of winter. Food was life in the North, and few things were more sacred than food freely given. But this was a matter he had to investigate. The last time a woman of Valyrian coloring visited Winterfell, she had arrived on dragonback and forced House Stark to cede half a kingdom's worth of land. The North could not afford an agent of King's Landing or Essos, much less another Alysanne Targaryen.

So he had sent Rodrik out at daybreak, to seek the truth of these rumors. The knight had returned well into the evening flanked by four household guards, a large chest between them.

"They call her Lady Evetta, Milord. Damn woman was hard to find. Wasn't even hiding." Rodrik shook his head, "Told the smallfolk we meant the woman no harm and they were forthcoming enough. Innkeeper's wife claimed she came from the western Wolfswood each evening. Had the lads burning daylight looking for a witcher's hut."

The knight scoffed, exasperation clear-set on his face.

"The manse was a half league into the Wolfswood, maybe less. The lady was at the gates, tending to white flowers the likes of which I've never seen. A giant, just as the rumors said, over nine heads tall. Fair skinned with hair like silver and eyes much the same. Wore a necklace of pale opal and strange dress. Never seen fine clothes dyed in such drab colors."

Rickard listened, mouth drawing thin. This was no smallfolk vagabond, woodland witch, or wayward wildling. Not that it could ever have been, given the costly acts of charity. But common things being common, the Stark lord had hoped for simpler answers. A foreign noblewoman of means was a complication he could ill afford when winter still gripped his lands.

"You questioned her, this Lady Evetta." For all that he was grateful for the aid rendered to his people, the woman had much to answer for, not in the least trespassing, building upon a lord's land without permission, and possible poaching.

His old friend scowled.

"Aye, for all the good it did. Damn woman didn't say a word in greeting or bat an eye when I evoked your name. Stared at us for a good long while as though she'd seen a talking bear before retreating back to the manse. Was starting to think she was simple before she returned with a man in tow."

"Her husband?" Rickard surmised, receiving a nod.

"Introduced himself as Cyril Fairchild, late of Yharnam. Strange man with a stranger name. Tall as a short Umber, but still a head shy of his lady wife even with his queer, black-feathered hat," The knight smiled, no doubt deriving satisfaction at this particular detail, "Black of hair with the look of a Stormlander, couldn't have been older than thirty."

Rickard returned his gaze to the black pool. A stillness had fallen upon the Godswoods, as if the Old Gods themselves had taken interest in what Rodrik had to say.

"Fairchild." Rickard tested the word on his tongue. No lordly house in Westeros carried the name. Hundreds there may be, but he would have remembered a name so…milquetoast. Perhaps there was a knightly house, thousands as there were, that he had overlooked, but even a knight sworn to the Lannisters could not afford the wealth Rodrik witnessed. Similarly, the root of the name was Andal, and the Warden of the North knew no House Fairchild in the Free Cities of Essos.

"And Yharnam."

Again, there was no such city west of the Dothraki Sea. Yet the name filled Rickard with an innate unease, as if the word itself were bitter, something spoken in the same breath as Asshai by the Shadow.

"Was Lord Fairchild forthcoming?"

Rodrik Cassel barked a laugh.

"Gods no! Bastard managed to say words without giving answers. Said he hoped to speak with you in person. The lads and I offered to escort him back with us, but he claimed there was 'no need to rush things' and bid us farewell. The gall…"

"Yet you abided by his request," Rickard countered.

"Most consider it poor form to wring a man's neck in front of his lady wife, guest rights or no," the knight grunted, "I've lost my hair, not my wits. A man who looks upon a stronghold like Winterfell and believes he may call upon its lord at his leisure is mad, powerful, or both. We know nothing of the man, Milord. I had the lads keep watch, and they didn't find a wisp of a servant or guard anywhere. But Old Gods be good, a keep was built in the Wolfswood, and if the lady and lord built it themselves, I'll join the Silent Sisters."

Rickard nodded, sharing Rodrik's assessment. "A man of wealth and means."

"Just so and in no small measure." The knight beckoned the guards forward. With no small effort the men heaved the large, lacquered box before their lord. Another wave from Rodrik dismissed them, leaving the lord and knight alone, "The good Lord Fairchild did not have us leave empty-handed. An apology, he said."

The knight unlatched the lid, revealing a great sum of gold.

"The lads and I checked. Nothing in there but coin." Rodrik answered knowingly, producing one for Rickard's inspection.

The Warden of the North held the coin to his eyes. It was a weighty thing, heavier than a dragon, blemished and darkened with age but lustrous all the same, finely embossed with foreign letters and crests.

"I have never seen coinage such as this."

Rodrik nodded. "Neither have I. The new maester will make sure, but the coins seem as gold as they appear. Must be eight thousand dragon's worth here."

Eight thousand dragons…More wealth than most noble holdings earned in ten years–over half what House Manderly paid in taxes per annum–offered up without ceremony. It was a statement of power presented as an apology.

"Was also asked to give you this, Milord."

The knight produced an envelope, which Rickard took in hand. He ran a gloved hand over every crisp corner, then pressed down on the sealed edge, a boyhood habit he developed after learning of a Tyroshi Archon who hid poisoned needles in letters to his political rivals.

Though unadorned, the envelope was made of the finest white paper. The seal of pressed red wax reminded Rickard of First Man runes: A single, hard line that branched before coming together, near-converging at a singular point. A personal sigil or family crest, perhaps?

Breaking the seal, Rickard extracted the letter within and read the first line.

To Lord Rickard Stark, Duke of the North

Please join Evetta and I for breakfast tomorrow. We have much to discuss.

With Regards,

Cyril Fairchild, Hunter of the Old Workshop

Rickard allowed the words to settle in his mind before handing the letter back.

"Hunter?" The knight questioned, echoing his disbelief, "Surely this is a jape."

Rickard shook his head, "Hunter, Rodrik, not 'a hunter.'"

The knight understood.

"You believe it a title."

"The man you met does not make his living trapping foxes and hare." The lord gestured at the chest for good measure, "As for the Old Workshop, it is possibly no more a workshop than the House of Black and White is a place of residence."

The knight barked a mirthless laugh. The second this evening, by Rickard's count.

"You know how to put a man's mind at ease, Milord."

Rickard allowed himself a small smile, one that fell just as quickly.

"A foreign lord and his lady wife, claiming to hail from a land not known to any map, visit Wintertown with great gifts of food and gold, inviting its lord to dine in a manor built without permission on his own land." He sighs, humored by the absurdity of circumstances, "Winter was a simpler affair."

Rodrik nodded, "Aye, feels like stepping into one of Old Nan's tales."

A measure of companionable silence fell between the men, ended by a somber, shared thought.

"The Lord and Lady Fairchild, do you believe them truly as foreign as they appear?" The words fell heavily upon both men, for they were different from the question asked. Even here in the Godswoods of Winterfell, the beating heart of the North, it was unwise to voice treasonous thoughts.

'Could they be friends of our king?'

The knight shook his head, "He called you 'His Grace,' Milord."

Rickard stilled.

"My response was much the same." Rodrik offered, "Must have shown on my face. Was asked 'How else does a man address lords second only to the king?'"

"And how does a man of Yharnam address the king?"

"'Your Majesty,' Milord."

Rickard laughed. Yes, Aerys would have enjoyed that, but he would also sooner pull out a man's tongue than lend him the royal address.

"The lord and lady wear foreign clothes, speak with foreign accents, and address you with foreign honors. Their manse is of foreign design. Same with their gold, weathered with clear signs of age." Rodrik continued, "If this is a mummer's farce, I'd let them pull the wool over my eyes for the effort alone."

Rickard nodded, decision made.

"Have a messenger return to the manor. Inform Lord Fairchild I have petitioners at dawn but will meet him for the midday meal." A lie. He had no plans to hold court, but Rickard would not be at the beck and call of a foreign lord. He was being lured into a meeting with the promise of answers. In the absence of knowledge, he would project power without undermining courtesy. "Prepare ten of your best men. We will observe guest rights if he offers the same."

His voice brooked no argument. Rodrik bowed in acquiescence, recognizing his dismissal. Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, was left alone under a paleblood moon, uncertain what wealth or ruin the morrow would bring.

Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/14176766/1/