"-. 273 AC .-"
Castle Cerwyn was a fortress located half a day's ride to the southwest of Winterfell on the northern bank of the Wolfsriver, the western branch of the White Knife that flowed eastward from Crofter's Village. The castle wasn't nearly as large as Winterfell would have been, even had Bran the Builder not insisted on building it around a three-acre forest. But it still had two walls of thirty and forty feet in height, eight towers fifty feet tall each, and a keep big enough to comfortably house their family, servants and garrison, while also leaving room enough for visiting peers and their retinues. Being practical folk, older Cerwyn generations had even set aside apartments in their keep that were every bit the equal of the Lord's chambers, so that the hosts wouldn't need to upend themselves every time their liege came down for a visit. Alas, the current Cerwyn generation had, very understandably in Lyarra's opinion, assumed their liege wouldn't make it to the fair. Which they had probably considered a blessing, considering the sight that met them on arrival.
When their sledhouse crested from the north, men were well into the task of dismantling what tents hadn't completely been blown apart. Along with what stalls and flagpoles hadn't been totalled by winter's fury. The only things that hadn't broken down were the few handful of snow huts they skid by on their way to the gatehouse. Things weren't much better in Angler's Den, the village set along the Kingsroad to the east of the Keep – alleys were snowed over, fences were askew and even roofs were damaged here and there, all the way to where the village stopped at the river bank proper.
However quick in passing on, the snowstorm had struck Cerwyn as badly as it had Winterfell.
"My Lord and Lady, we were certain you wouldn't make it," Lord Robard said as he knelt before them. "Cerwyn is yours. Had we known you'd brave the snows, we'd have redoubled our preparations instead."
"Rise. It is no matter." Rickard said. "The fault for not sending a raven is mine. And greetings to you also, Lady Sera. Your son is not here?"
"Welcome to our home, and he is not far, My Lord."
"He is overseeing the clean-up efforts to the south of the village," Robard answered as he motioned for bread and salt. "I have, of course, already sent out orders that fair preparations be resumed immediately. Unfortunately, the new Winterfell Wonders will likely be in very short supply even so. Kites, airplanes and sky lamps in particular I am ashamed to say. What wood pulping vats we'd managed to set up were among the worst hit."
They talked on the way into the castle, with Lord Robard proving fairly reluctant to expound beyond that one admission. He didn't want to seem as if he was complaining, Lyarra assumed. And perhaps he was wary of sounding as if he minded their presence, when he was the one who invited them to begin with.
"I see," Rickard said eventually. "It can't be helped. I will go with you and you will tell me about the expenses on the way. I will cover half the losses."
"You are most generous, My Lord." Robard seemed torn between joy that the fair would go on – with the accompanying rise in smallfolk happiness and spending, some of whom had come from other villages – and embarrassment that he needed his liege to come and save the day.
Lyarra left them to it and excused herself to go get settled in with the children, except Brandon whom Rickard was resolved to have nearby even now. She didn't catch sight of them again until the evening feast, when Lady Sera personally led her, Ned, Lyanna and Benjen to their seats in the Great Hall. They sat left of Rickard. Her husband was already at the center of the table with Robard on his right when they arrived. The Stark guards had already mixed with the Cerwyn guard force among the lower tables as well.
Lyarra Stark relished the chance to indulge in a feast without having to worry about anything remotely related to responsibility. Trusting her children to behave themselves – Rickard and Brandon were on the opposite end of the table so the little ones couldn't fight for their attention as they usually did – she availed herself of the foodstuffs. Fresh-baked bread, venison stew and beef-and-bacon pie were followed by cod cakes and buns with raisins, dried apples, and pine nuts. She briefly considered trying some of the honeyed chicken as well, but she decided against it when she saw the last dish. It was the spiced roast that Brandon had dreamed up a few years ago. Lyarra hadn't expected Lord Robard to have kept it in mind among so many other things he'd been bombarded with during his visit, but she was glad for it. It had rather spoiled her when it came to poultry. It consisted of heavily salted and spiced chicken soaked in sunflower oil and set in a baking pan affixed with a thin wooden bottom. The pan would then be covered with a holed lid made of tin and left to cook inside an oven for three to five hours, suspended a palm's width above the embers. Her son had come up with it after his rather amusing reaction to the honeyed chicken aforementioned. Which was to say, he couldn't stand it. Or anything resembling sweet meat.
Lyara immediately served herself two drumsticks and a breast and took a bite for taste. As she expected, the cooks had held back on the salt and spices, underestimating the softening effect the meat's own steam would have on the flavour. Still, they'd done well enough with the pepper powder and hadn't taken the pan too early off the fire, so it was better than fine. They had been very generous with the garlic as well. Very generous indeed.
Her pleasant fugue of feeding and talking of womanly things – Lady Sera had been very intrigued by their gifts and was a font of questions and appreciation about the many utensils – was abruptly shattered by Lyanna launching a clump of wheat cream from her spoon at Medger Cerwyn's face.
The mix of ground wheat, butter and honey came to an abrupt stop against Brandon's trencher. "What's this?" Brandon said, turning from his conversation. "Is Lyanna Stark being a brat once more? Say it ain't so!"
"I knew it!" Lyanna crowed in triumph. "You do have eyes in the back of your head!"
"And in front," Brandon said. "And above, below, to the left, to the right and everything in between. Everywhere. All the time." Brandon gave the trencher to a nearby servant to pass to the smallfolk outside. "My eyes are always there. Invisible. Watching you."
"Well poo!" Lyanna sniffed. "Don't talk about boring stuff then!"
"I'm so sorry my concerns are not to your taste, my lady," Medger said, not sounding sorry at all. "What might my lady prefer, seeing as she hates romance?"
"I do not!" Lyanna balked, affronted.
"Ignore her," Brandon told the man. "She's just delusional."
"I am not!"
"Sit down daughter," Lyarra commanded, pushing the girl back on the bench. "Here, have some honeyed milk and leave the men to their mannish talk."
"But mom, he actually wants to be married! To a lady!"
"And that's terrible," Lyarra said woodenly.
"Don't tell me, tell them!"
"Lyanna," Ned said. "You have a stain on your dress."
"What? Where?"
Saved by girlish hypocrisy, Lyarra thought. She smiled fondly at Ned and turned back to Lady Sera, though their prior topic had been very effectively thwarted. So she inquired after whatever matter was driving Brandon to so intently interrogate his increasingly bemused older peer. It turned out to be a betrothal. Or, rather, the drama surrounding one. Specifically, Medger's suit towards one Taelya Forrester, the daughter of Lord Thorren Forrester. Being the second child and not a spare for Gregor, her father had apparently decided to let her have some say in her prospects. Which was to say, she got her pick from the list of young men he considered eligible for her.
"That was two years ago," Lady Sera concluded. "Since then, the pool has been whittled down to our Medger, who dearly wants the lady in question, and Galbart Glover, whom the lady herself wants on account of his musical skill. Only he's pursuing his own suit for a different lady entirely, Sybelle Locke of Oldcastle."
Oh to be young and daft.
"Don't you all poke at just me," Medger tossed in from his spot. "I'm not the one that made the initial overtures."
"Indeed," Robard acknowledged. "But I keep telling you, son, a man is not meant to chase after women. He puts himself on display and lets the ladies come to him!"
Medger made a face but didn't reply, as if he was too tired of a long recurring argument.
"But I thought he didn't get the chance to?" Brandon asked Lord Robard instead. "Parents are the one that set these things up, right? He didn't do anything. Couldn't do anything."
Robard seemed torn between annoyance at being questioned by a boy of ten name days, and the need to be courteous to his future liege lord. "At the beginning perhaps, which couldn't be helped, but since then things have-"
"-Changed so that I'll have to drop my suit," Medger cut his father off with a finality Lyarra hadn't expected.
Lord Robard seemed taken aback as well, as if this were the first time he heard of this. "Now son, I didn't mean you should give up."
"I'm not," Medger said, picking at a bit of cheese. "I'm man enough to know when something's out of my hands. And it is. It's all in Galbart's now, assuming he can get his head out of his arse enough to notice her."
"If she'll only settle for you as sloppy seconds, maybe she doesn't deserve you."
Medger was quite thoroughly astonished by that defence of his character on Brandon's part. Of the rest, Lyarra wasn't sure who was more aghast at what her firstborn had just said. The only one who didn't outwardly react in any way was her husband.
Brandon ignored the poorly hidden eavesdropping of everyone in the hall. "Lady Sera. You said Lady Taelya is interested in Galbart Glover for his skill at music."
Lady Cerwyn pursed her lips, but answered once she noticed Rickard looking expectantly in her direction. "… Just so. He is not a particularly gifted singer, but he can at least hold a tune, and he does play the fiddle as well."
"Well there you go," Brandon said, turning to Medger again. "Sing for her."
The young man snorted and began serving himself some cod cake. "That'll be the day. I can't sing for shit."
"Bullshit," Brandon said. "Everyone can sing."
"If everyone could sing, everyone would be a bard."
"Perfect pitch is the least of what a bard needs. Eddard!"
"I'm here, brother."
"Tell me the bard's prerequisites."
"A bard needs to be passionate enough to focus on music above everything else, wealthy or lucky enough to afford life-long lessons and instruments, he needs exceptional memory to remember his songs, he needs the charisma to persuade bandits and thieves to let him play along instead of robbing him, and most of all, he needs to be that tiniest bit mad. Mad enough to think he can make his entire living off songs to begin with."
The entire hall seemed to have fallen quiet. Even the minstrel in the corner.
"Beware," Lyanna intoned, wanting to prove she was just as good as her siblings at Brandon's games of fancy. "Beware the Bard Prince and the Minstrel King. Charming or not, they're probably insane." Then she looked at Benjen and they both burst into childish laughter.
The feast seemed to pick up again but the normal attention paid by everyone in the hall to those at the main table had shifted target.
"Medger," Brandon called suddenly. "The Bear and the Maiden Fair. The first trine. Sing it for me."
"What-?"
"Now."
Medger Cerwyn gaped at the small boy, affronted, but then closed his mouth, scowled and obeyed. Just like that, he obeyed.
A bear there was, a bear, a bear!
All black and brown, and covered with hair.
The bear! The bear!"
Lyarra forced herself not to grimace. It… wasn't the worst rendition she'd ever heard, but that was all the good she could say about it. Few seemed to differ with her on that opinion.
Brandon just nodded thoughtfully though, then said. "Benjen! Same song, trine one."
Lyarra turned to her youngest son, astounded.
A bear there was, a bear, a bear!
All black and brown, and covered with hair.
The bear! The bear!
Lyarra Stark stared at her youngest, scandalised. Then she turned to glare at Brandon. How could he? How could he teach his small brother such a ribald song? The nerve of her children!
Then Brandon took over and sung the second and third strophes all by himself.
Oh come they said, oh come to the fair!
The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!
All black and brown, and covered with hair!
And down the road from here to there.
From here! To there!
Three boys, a goat and a dancing bear!
They danced and spun, all the way to the fair!
The fair! The fair!
As usual, his rendition was flawless and only failed to achieve perfection because of his high, childlike voice.
"Medger," Brandon said in the ensuing silence. "Third stanza. Go."
The man blinked and seemed about to say something or other, but whatever he saw on Brandon's face stopped him. Instead he leaned back and did as ordered again. With a lot more focus and care too.
And down the road from here to there.
From here! To there!
Three boys, a goat and a dancing bear!
They danced and spun, all the way to the fair!
The fair! The fair!
Lyarra's affront had to be put aside by surprise again. That… that had almost sounded acceptable.
"Just as I thought," Brandon said, nodding to himself and ignoring the glances exchanged by people around him. "You're not tone deaf at all. You can sing just fine, so long as you have a reference point. You just need practice."
"… You really are a well-meaning boy, aren't you little lord," Medger's tone was as fond as it was wan. "But it's not as easy as you make it sound. Unless you meant I should drag a bard everywhere I go so I have someone to start me off? May as well just let'em sing for me at that point."
"That's not…" Brandon grimaced, then he leaned forward with his elbows on the table and rested his mouth on his clasped fingers, closing his eyes. "Let me think."
They let him think, and he sat there thinking quietly while they ate and talked and ate and talked some more until near the very end of the feast.
"Lord Cerwyn. Father." Brandon only spoke up when the last leftovers of the dessert were being carried off. "I would like to suggest a new contest."
"Later," Rickard said, breaking off his quiet talk of business with Lord Cerwyn to answer his son as if he were expecting that all along. "When we're in private. We wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."
They retired in private, Brandon sketched out the challenge for his newest crafting contest and that was the last Lyarra heard about it for the two days until the fair proper. Though she did learn through Lady Sera that Rickard had ended up suggesting a second contest after some time watching Medger work on the wood pulp clean-up. Which, it turned out, was going extremely poorly. To the point where they had decided to cut off the entire area. They'd expected to have to grind and sweep around snow and sawdust. Instead, the wood pulp and water had frozen solid. Very solid.
"It's one, big, uneven, slipper mess and they've barely been able to chip at it. It doesn't seem to crack at all, unlike normal ice. So far they've tried mining picks, hammers, sledgehammers, warhammers, spears, swords and even Ice." It took a moment for her to realize Rickard was referring to his sword. "I actually felt the effort on the last one. Robard decided they'd try hot water after we leave, if they bother at all. Might just be better to set up vats somewhere else and let spring sort out the mess when it comes."
"And you want people to do that again. During the fair?"
"After what Brandon showed us we can do with measly snow?" Rickard shook his head. "I can't even imagine what we could do with something stronger. I just wish I'd have thought of it myself. As it is, it took one of Medger's workers to point out the obvious."
Thus did come the day of the fair, catered with various foods, supplied with some kites and streamers, and attended by many people generally indulging in everything Lyarra had participated in at home, if on a smaller scale. They'd not built a snow hall, but the central tent had firepits enough to warm by, whenever the chill got to them. The contests weren't unusual either, but the people were enthusiastic. Lord Robard even took advantage of the nearby Godswood to oversee a few weddings for the smallfolk, one of whom was actually between the winners of the men's and women's contests. For all her protests that she'd never be a lady, Lyanna ate up the romance like honeycakes. The Lady Stark also thanked the Gods the Cerwyns seemed free of the madness that made her husband and son think it a good idea to make a public competition out of testing siege weapons. Really, contributing a little gold and maple syrup to the event wasn't close to enough of a recompense for this display of good sense.
Robard didn't entirely agree with her on it. "This maple syrup makes me envious, My Lady. Such a clever find. Alas that we have so few of those trees on our lands. We've barely scrounged enough for one cauldron. Come to think of it though, House Whitehill has a lot of maples, don't they? Maybe with this they'll stop resenting the Forresters so much."
Lady Sera was not as complimentary. "Please. Why should the Forresters apologise for figuring out coppicing when they didn't? If the Whitehills blame them to this day for them exhausting their own ironwood supply, I doubt anything will make them see sense."
"Come now, wife. By this time next year we may be married into their rivalry. Don't go ruining all my hopes at once."
That would be trouble come spring, Lyarra thought before turning back to her children. Ned and Benjen were rather dismayed at the lack of explosions, but only until their guards were roped into giving skiing lessons and rides on a few hastily assembled dog sleds. The only thing left to do was to find out if Brandon's contest yielded whatever it was he wanted. Lyarra had seen him on one of the few times he went to this or that craftsman to test whatever those odd, two-pronged forks were supposed to be. But she couldn't guess what he was doing, bumping them against table edges and then putting them next to his ear. Just what he was listening for in copper or iron, she had no idea.
That was when the bits and blocks of ice and wood pulp came out and all of that was forgotten. Because it turned out neither she nor Rickard nor Brandon or even that peasant that started it all had grasped the enormity of what they had on their hands. And she wasn't just talking about the fact that you could apparently make something strong as a rock, just as tough and ten times as light out of water and saw dust.
"Hey father," Medger Cerwyn said as he stared at the crystalline drum of… whatever it was called. Was it called anything? If they'd only just come up with it then- "Wasn't that thing two thirds the size when starting out?"
"Indeed it was," Lord Robard said.
"Hey father," Brandon said next, staring at the same, smallest chunk out of all that had been put forward by the contestants. "Wasn't that thing shining crystal blue until the clouds came out?"
"Indeed it was," Rickard said.
"Hey mother," Lyanna barged into the discussion as she always did. "Wasn't that thing glowing pink and purple this morning?"
"Indeed it was," Lyarra said before she could check herself.
"Lord Cerwyn," Rickard interjected before anyone could say anything else in front of hundreds of curious smallfolk. "Have you ever played Gwent?"
They used the pretext to retreat to the main tent and away from the inquiring gazes of the crowd. Rickard even went and laid out the cards and began teaching Robard the rules. Lyarra took that time to distract all but one of her children with sweet treats. All the while, nobody said a word.
"Father," Brandon eventually uttered a few games later, when events caught up to all of them and even Lord Robard proved unable to focus on the play anymore. "Our best farmland is south of the Wall, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"Farmland that used to be covered in forests until the Long Night, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was."
"Forests which were full of weirwoods."
"I dare say so."
"And there aren't any stories that actually say where they all went during the Pact, are there?"
"No," Rickard said, setting the cards down. "No there are not."
"Come to think of it, stories are kind of vague on how House Stark claimed the crown of Winter. Aren't they?"
"That they are, my son."
Nobody said a word for quite a while.
"… My Lord Stark. Father," Medger finally said, throat dry. "With your permission, I-"
"Go. Bring the man here."
Medger Cerwyn went and returned with the object as well as the man who'd started all this. He turned out to be a large, burly lumberjack. He was also as white as chalk and incapable of standing upright once he was in their sight. "M'lords, I swear I didn't-!"
"That thing you made," Rickard said curtly. "What is it made of?"
"M'lord, I swear I-"
"Answer the question."
"It were just deadwood, m'lord, I swear! I respect the gods I do, I didn't desecrate no God tree!"
"Peace, goodman," Lord Stark said. "You stand accused of nothing. Yet. Now tell me what you did. Every last step."
He did. And when he was done, they had him sit on a stump near the back of the tent while they decided what to do with that information.
Ice and wood pulp. Six parts ice and one part wood pulp, Lyarra thought faintly. Didn't matter what kind of pulp or sawdust. As long as the mix was right, you got a frozen material that was as strong as stone and just as tough. Apparently. It could also probably be repaired with just seawater, considering the way certain people up north maintained a certain something eerily similar which only ever seemed pale grey or dull white due to blown dirt. In reality, it shone blue and crystalline in sunlight, glimmered palely in moonlight, and glowed pink and purple at dawn.
Lyarra Stark stared at the slowly, too slowly melting chunk of not-ice. It sparkled from the melting in the light from the firepit with rivulets of water. It looked like it was weeping.
Ice and wood pulp, Lyarra Stark thought. Ice and Weirwood pulp.
Suddenly Rickard nodded sharply and rose from his seat. "Brandon. Bring my sword." Her son was surprised but obeyed as he should. Rickard spent the short time to his return quietly conferring with Lord Robard. Then he led them, the now terrified lumberjack and a steadily increasing trail of fair goes to the Godswood where several weddings had just been carried out.
"Varr, son of Narr. Kneel."
"My lord, please-!" The man choked on his words when Medger squeezed his shoulder and pushed him forward.
"Don't talk. Just do as you're told."
The man seemed fit to run for the hills, but the next moment he just seemed to break entirely. He got to his knees as ordered, bowing his head. Really, Lyarra thought waspishly. It was as if he'd somehow missed there wasn't a block nearby for what he feared was about to happen!
Rickard motioned for their son to approach, slowly pulled his immense sword out of the scabbard, lifted it high in the air, then brought it down to just above the man's right shoulder. "For re-discovering the secret which Brandon the Builder used to build the Wall –" the gathered people all gasped and then shut up as if struck dead and dumb "- I hereby elevate you to your own Masterly House." The sword rose and settled again above the stupefied man's other shoulder. "I name you Varr, first of your name of House Winterstone, and charge you with the protection and guidance of your territory and smallfolk in and around Silverpine Tower. Do you accept this honor?"
"I… I…" Rickard waited patiently, his arm not wavering even once as his sword hovered just an inch above the man's shoulder. "I… I accept?" But Rickard only waited further, so the man finally seemed to get a hold of himself, took a deep breath and said more firmly than he probably felt. "I accept, m'lord."
"Good. You will now swear your oaths. Repeat after me."