Chapter 5: My Children’s Father Is Simply the Worst (IV)
"-. 273 AC .-"
New Year's Day turned grey, crisp and covered in a fresh layer of dread. It was deep, halting and instantly put a break in the festivities. On account of the blood-splattered, wrecked front of the snow hut belonging to that one artisan whose family was big enough to both enter the trebuchet contest and run a shop stand on the side.
Lord Rickard of House Stark did not look at the owner. Or the guardsmen. Or the mob. He made sure no bystanders had been harmed first, chose not to disperse the crowd that had so conveniently gathered within hearing, and had those directly involved in the mess detained and brought to him. He also had Lyarra stay back with the children, pretended not to see Brandon all but hunch over something or other from stress in the shadow of his guard, and definitely didn't despair openly. Even though it became more clear to Rickard by the second that he was the only man alive with any amount of sense. Because what else could he take from this, really?
It wasn't the Gods. It was smallfolk stupidity.
"A farmer, artisan and woodworker gather at a fair," Rickard Stark said coldly. "Sounds like the set-up for a jape, but as you can see I am not laughing. Explain yourselves. Thoroughly. Now."
The tale that came spilling out was as sordid as it was trivial. It would not have at all warranted the attention of the Lord of Winterfell in any other place on any other day. Save perhaps if he'd had reason to care what a trebuchet was without his son being the one who thought it up. Farmer signs up, woodworker signs up, artisan signs up and has his brood put up a trinket stand for extra profit. Men build their machines, men bring them to the fair, men jape at each other's expense. Men scowl, men jeer, men drink themselves stupid and slur over who will surely win the gold dragon prize. Artisan insults farmer's manhood while farmer's son is wooing woodworker's daughter to the side, prompting the son to 'get even'.
"And your way of 'getting even' was to launch a pig's bladder filled with chicken blood out of an unproven craft and hope it would somehow miss everything else while it flew over the entire fair grounds?!"
The boy of four and ten flinched at his lord's biting tone and wilted right where he knelt between two guardsmen.
"Father," Brandon said as he approached. Rickard pretended not to have seen him practically praying to some kind of small brush for strength. "It appears I arranged for perhaps too many activities to adequately supervise. I take full responsibility."
"Denied. The amount is fine and you arranged this fair entirely for them. I will not have your kindness further taken advantage of, my son."
"Mercy, m'lord!" The boy's father begged as he bravely – and unsteadily – pushed through the crowd and fell to his knees next to his spawn. "Mercy, m'lord, please! M'boy's not a bad lad, he's just a moron!"
"Clearly. And we don't want that passed on, now do we?"
The empty threat fell flat. "Please, n'lord, I swear, me lad'll offer all due recompense!" The farmer all but genuflected and yanked his son – "YEOW! – down by the ear along with him.
This is what he gets for beheading just one man for dereliction of duty, Rickard thought irately. Then again, probably not. If the smallfolk were really worried he was the sort who went executing left and right without due consideration, they'd never have pulled such a stunt in the first place. "Brandon. Can you tell me why stupidity is not an excuse in this instance?"
His boy seemed taken aback, but he rallied quickly and cast a long, searching look over the surroundings.
Good. If he could use this as a lesson, all the better. "Get a good look, son. It's been made so that you have all the time you need."
The farmer's boy outright withered under the combined glares of Rickard and his own father. Truly, shame was among the world's mightiest means.
"Projectile fell at an angle," Brandon said. Muttered really, rubbing his chin as he walked around. "Payload struck top edge of entrance. Snow hut integrity already undermined due to unfinished front. Despite this, damage limited to front and interior. Minimal splash damage. No collateral damage to neighbouring stalls or huts. No persons harmed besides the owner who happened to just be exiting when the projectile struck."
The artisan in question scowled venomously from where one of his daughters was wiping his face with a warm cloth and a second was picking frozen blood from his hair. The man's three sons were arrayed around them all, glaring indignantly.
"Possibility one: precision strike. Possibility two: dumb luck." Brandon turned and pondered the direction the payload had come from. "Possibility two… unlikely."
"Just so," Rickard said flatly. "This was planned, aimed and in no way accidental." Because you often had to repeat yourself with smallfolk. He kept the other thought to himself. That the feat spoke of either exceptional eye or very thorough practice. Or both. Such a fellow didn't belong in the ground or de-handed. He belonged on the battlefield working siege arms.
The Lord of Winterfell beheld the son and father, all too aware of the murder of crows that was already scavenging at the edges of the grounds. He was even more aware of Brandon stopping his walk where Rickard could see him pointedly not pleading with him to let the matter go. That was alright. He didn't need Brandon to be decisive or ruthless at his age. It was easier to teach a kind son to be fair than one who didn't care. Worse so if he were wicked.
Nevertheless, he would abide by his decision that nothing was going to ruin Brandon's Winter Fair.
Come evening, Rickard Stark had Brandon on his left, Lyarra and the other children on his right, and they were all sat in the lone stands that had been erected for their family, playing referee. "The Red Army's cavalry prevails against the Blue Army's infantry by a 2-point roll difference despite the shield wall maneuver." He waited for the men on said team to push and tug the tokens into place on the ice with their long crooked poles. "Unit successfully maintains cohesion and remains in play for another turn. Re-roll initiative."
On the ice, Old Nan's boy used two flags to signal the order. Shortly after, the now familiar wind-up noise signalled the payload being launched out of the trebuchet. The melon-sized wooden dice clattered to a stop almost perfectly in the middle of where the armies met.
Rickard didn't watch for it, or how Walder skated over to examine the result. He kept his baleful gaze on the farmer's fool of a son the whole time, challenging though it was to do so in the dusk. The light of the bonfire was the only thing to see by now. Fortunately, it was a very large bonfire.
"When does this get fun?" Lyanna complained around her maple snow cone.
"What, you mean like you?" Ned asked as he chewed on his latest wedge pie. Because Brandon wouldn't let it pass without also inventing a new dish or three, apparently. "Aren't you the one always raving about being a warrior?"
"I'm not talking to you."
"Gods be good, finally some peace."
Lyanna made to upend her snow cone on Ned's head but Lyarra took it away and gave it to Benjen instead.
"Hey!"
"Thanks, mother!"
"Give that back!"
"No." Slurp.
Rickard ignored the family drama in favour of the subject of his continued scorn. Which, admittedly, had been fading more and more as the 'maidenless fair' continued to carry out his punishment. Rickard had him running from one end to the other of the lake and (mis)firing both sides' trebuchets. It wasted the lad's time like he'd wasted everyone's and made him into a spectacle. Embarrassed and shamed him for the whole first third of the war game. The only mercy he allowed was letting Walder teach him how to skate, mainly to spare themselves having to wait forever while he ran back and forth around the lake. But even that consisted more of helping and outright carrying him for the first couple dozen attempts. A very mild punishment for the unpleasantness he'd caused the gathering before all this, but it served as powerful motivation to learn useful skills quickly.
Shame really was among the world's mightiest weapons.
"Look at him go," Brandon murmured. "I think his sweetheart might be more impressed now."
That was another thing. The whole routine also confirmed to Rickard that the lad learned quickly on his feet and had not just endurance but quite the keen eye. His aim improved dramatically with each game round. Now it was really something to behold, even when he was shooting the 'enemy's' equipment. Rickard had already made a note of the boy's name on his spring book, but he'll probably remember him next muster even without it. He wouldn't say so though. The lad would probably take it as a reward.
"People are really having to squint now," Brandon commented, echoing his earlier thoughts. "I can barely see the far ends of the battlefield even from here."
"Fog of war, son," Rickard said. "They think to take up arms against their neighbour, they can take this glimpse into how the other half lives."
"The one percent, more like."
"Just so," Rickard said dryly. "Though I agree the dusk is nearing the point where it will soon turn against the game's purpose."
Which was to say, an all-out-brawl may still be in the making. The artisan and farmer, who'd somehow come up with the same overall trebuchet design and made it man-scale instead of miniature like everyone else, had accused each other of stealing the other's idea. Guards and basic northern decency had prevented violence until the farmer's son took matters into his own hands. The disturbance only seemed to have exacerbated tensions though. Case in point, the two fathers had since been 'leading' the opposite sides of the field.
The game nevertheless continued the back and forth for a time. It was a surprisingly engaging experience, despite the increasingly basic tactics used as the better units kept being eliminated. Some of the engagements in the War of the Ninepenny Kings had actually been worse from the start, compared to what Rickard was seeing today. The men of the North were no fools, he thought. Well, when there was the gimlet eye of nobility to keep their foolishness suppressed.
"Imagine this, but with people," Eddard said as the latest dice throws were being set up. "Lords against other lords."
Rickard blinked, then he indeed imagined it. In fact, he could imagine it very well.
"Exactly!" Lyanna said as if it had been her idea all along. "I bet that would actually be fun."
Only it would have to happen over the course of many days across real distances and Rickard was never going to take his daughter to play at war out in the Rills. Even disregarding what a loudmouth she could be. Or maybe the Lonely Hills, that would have a chance to draw in more of the high lords and-
"Uh-oh," Brandon muttered.
Rickard forced his attention back to the present and thinned his lips at the latest and most troublesome dice results. Checking the field once more, he was hard-pressed not to sigh. Maybe the Gods had been making a play all along if this was the result. The same formations. Close enough combat rolls. Equal initiative. "I believe I am about to regret making even this one allowance." But really, what were the odds that they'd hit all three conditions for a real 'fight' between the factions? It wasn't supposed to happen, even with the obvious collusion!
Lyarra primly got to her feet. "Come, daughter. Benjen. I believe there is an all-new batch of pies and snow cones calling us."
"What? But I want to watch!" Lyanna cried.
Rickard Stark again ignored his own family drama and stood. "The conditions for Trial by Combat have been met!"
"Oh hell no, it'll just turn into a shitshow," Brandon groused and stood. "Father, can I handle this?"
Lyarra and the rest paused in their departure to listen.
Rickard looked down at his son. He was sympathetic, surely. However… "The rule was your idea. You gambled against fate and lost. The responsibility to see it through is yours. And if you renege on your word, the responsibility for the consequences will also be yours."
"I'm not saying don't do it," Brandon denied. "Maybe… reinterpret it a little bit. Choose the type of 'combat' right? I have something I've kept back. I wasn't sure I'd have enough takers, but it might just work for this."
"You may be disappointed, then. When the mob wants blood, they seldom settle for less." And the crowd seemed just as eager to see an all-out brawl as the 'teams' were.
"That should be fine then."
Half a turn of the hourglass and much loud cheering since, Lord Rickard of House Stark was laughing himself sick.
"Look at'em go!"
"Look at him fall!"
"Shut up Ned-ha!"
"Missed!
"Everyone sucks, isn't that great!?"
"Daughter!"
"Mother!
"Lyanna!"
"Lyanna!"
"Oh you two shut up!"
"Son, I have to say," Rickard said, trying and failing to stop laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of what he was seeing. "When you say you'll 'end it rightly' you certainly do." And Gods, the pratfalls!
"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," his boy groaned.
"Most certainly," he pushed through his laughter with difficulty. "I might want to see it reprised in the future. What do you call it?"
Brandon huffed. "It was supposed to be hockey, but who the fuck even knows what this is?"
More gibberish?
"Something to love to hate, looks like," said Eddard.
"I thought the aim was to not throw blood at the mob," Lyarra said exasperatedly.
"I didn't think they'd be this bad," Brandon groused as the fishermen strained to keep their fishnets up lest the latest 'player' careen face-first into the bonfire. It still had nothing on the lad who'd had to be carried off after the puck nailed him in the nose. The crowd had loved it.
"Bran's a dummy!" Lyanna crowed. "Welcome to tonight's all-new game. I'm the heir to the North. Now here's how you play and everything I don't have rules against."
"Like shoving," Ben said.
"Or bucking."
"Shouldering.
"Smashing."
"Batting the puck at the other guy's face rather than the goal," Lyanna said sagely.
"I'm the bladder-tossing moron's father," Rickard got into it with a look at the man that was sitting the game out, looking gloatingly vindicated as his son demolished the competition. "Everything I say is driven by the grudges I hold against every other hoary brigand in Wintertown."
"I will now go silent," Brandon said just as flatly. "Just in time for the players to teach young children some new swear words."
Blue Team lad proceeded to embarrassingly miss the netted frame by a several yards, which rendered moot the point of restricting Walder to defense lest he destroy the other side entirely. Much cussing ensued.
"Oh honestly," Lyarra griped, not even bothering to try covering Lyanna or Benjen's ears anymore.
That was when the bonfire dropped several feet at once and a burst of steam billowed up through the flames with a whistling crash.
It should have marked the end of the game, but Rickard decided to allow one more pass.
Later that evening, the end of the newly dubbed Great Winter Fire was expedited in a way that no one expected to work as well as it did. The farmer's boy was still looking rather shell-shocked after Brandon conscripted him to hit the bonfire with the biggest trebuchet missile he could fit. Truth be told, Rickard had to put some minor effort into masking his opinion as well. He had not expected the explosion of steam that resulted upon the fire falling into the lake wholesale. It had been loud, hot and spectacular.
It also had the benefit of blowing away the leftover, charred stumps while still being far enough that no one got covered in soot or ash. After that, Brandon begged off 'to arrange the send-off.' Which, naturally, meant that overseeing the preparation for departure and everything else was once again his father's problem.
It was proving to be one of the best problems Rickard Stark had ever had. "You wish to stay?"
"Yes m'lord," said the fisherman that the others had selected to speak for them. "More'n just tonight even. Might not pan out, but if these here huts work as well as they say…"
As he stood on the lake bank, Rickard looked from the man to his fellows who were already casting forth their nets through the great hole left in the ice where the bonfire had been. The three, newly-lit smaller fires painted dancing lights and shades upon them, but he could see enthusiasm in their every move all the same. An overnight stay by the fishermen had been part of the plan to begin with, as even a middling catch was expected to recoup the food costs of the fair. But for them to want that extended indefinitely…
"M'lord?"
"Your request is granted," Rickard said, taking the offered chance to reel back on the optimism he didn't dare trust too much these days. "I'll leave a squad behind to guard and ferry messages as well. We'll see how it goes and talk again in a sennight."
"Thank you, m'lord."
"You may go."
As the man left with a spring in his step, Rickard turned to the nearest snow hut, thoughts whirling in his mind despite the scepticism he tried to summon up. A permanent fishery. Just out of Winterfell. In winter. It was too much to hope that it would prevent all their food problems. The lake wasn't exceptionally large, so the supply might not last. Overfishing would certainly become a problem if they pulled too much. But if even just a handful of permanent fisheries could be set up, maybe around the Long Lake or down the White Knife…
"Husband? Is everything well?"
"Yes," the man said honestly, turning to her and the children. They all had large sheets of paperboard in their hands, folded several times. "What's this?"
"This is the send-off," Brandon said, kneeling and spreading his paperboard on his cloak, which he'd spread on the snow. The boy folded it into a hollow, four-sided shape, then laid the fifth section on top and sealed it with tallow dripped through a torch flame. It froze immediately after, leaving Brandon holding what was basically an upside-down, four-sided paper basket. Looking up from where he stood on the lake bank, Rickard noticed many similar things being handed out by the fishermen and artisans to the people, who were holding them quietly and expectant.
Brandon passed the first to Ned and made another for each of the family. Then it finally came to Rickard, and Brandon turned out to have put special thought and effort into this last one. The Stark direwolf was drawn exquisitely on all four sides, its eye scratched or treated somehow to be almost transparent.
Finally, Brandon signalled for Martyn to give him the last items. They were wicks. Small hemp wicks dipped in hooked, wooden thimbles filled with rapeseed oil. Brandon carefully lit them from Martyn's torch and used crossed sticks to mount them underneath the open bottoms of the paper creels. The light filled them inside like lanterns.
That's what they were, Rickard finally realised. Lanterns.
"Right then," Brandon said, holding his own lantern aloft. "Now we wait to see if anyone starts a fire."
They waited. Quietly. Respectfully. Up until even the busiest fishermen finished casting their nets and got lanterns of their own. A deep hush fell upon everyone, deeper and softer with each new small light that winked on all around until it looked like they stood within a sea of stars. And with every moment that passed, the lantern grew lighter and lighter in Rickard's hand.
Eventually, Brandon scrutinised his wick and stuck a hand inside. "That's should be good enough." His son looked up at him then. He looked eerie and almost unreal in the shadows cast by orange light. "Father. Will you send us off?"
A thousand thoughts and one fell together in his mind, and Rickard Stark suddenly ached to toss whatever it was away and reach for his son and embrace him with a hundred praise words on his lips. But Brandon looked so comfortable and peaceful where he was. And if they both had anything in common, it was that they prioritised what job first needed doing. So he didn't do any of that.
Rickard Stark looked at the lantern. The sun seemed to gaze at him through the direwolf's bright and golden eye.
He raised it high and let it go.
And the sky lantern rose up like an ascending sun, followed by all the hundreds of others into the starry sky like golden sundrops swarmed by fireflies.
Weekly Power Status
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Ranking 
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