My Children’s Father Is Simply the Worst (III)

"-. 273 AC .-"

New Year's Day dawned bright, crisp and covered in a fresh layer of snow. It was knee-deep, thick and didn't delay any of the festivities. On account of grumpy and long-suffering parents and elders that were all but dragged out of their homes by eager children at the hour of the nightingale. The paths leading out of Winterfell and Wintertown were cleared entirely incidentally, by drowsy men eager to drum up some warmth against the biting chill. And the track to the fair grounds was shaved and tamped by a throng of tromping boots and cart wheels, led by horses dragging wedge plows in the wake of dog sleighs bearing Lyarra and the little ones ahead.

Lord Rickard of the House Stark didn't ride out with the first whelming. Or the second. Or the third. He made sure Winterfell was well secured first, pretended he didn't overhear the active duty guards grouse over missing the festivities, and then rode around the castle entire to check on any mishaps that might have occurred. Double checked that the two oxen and logs were ready too, in case it snowed again and they needed to re-open the road. As quaint as dog sleighs were turning out to be despite their wildling likeness, there were only three of them.

Then he made a round through Wintertown itself. The paths were a great deal the same as those he'd taken to traveling twice as often as usual over the past moon. Part of it had been to track the ongoing preparations and check with the various artisans and tradesmen on the various goods and attractions. The other was to inquire into Brandon's business transactions now that he knew about them, just in case.

It was a good thing he did. While the tradesmen had mostly kept in mind who they were dealing with – rumors or not – a handful of the bigger farmers were swindling his son on the costs of feed, seed and fertiliser.

Unfortunately for them, having to rule a half-empty and maester-less castle at six and ten name days had many profound effects on Rickard Stark. One being that he'd had to directly manage inventory, oversee all supply orders, and generally spend all his time outside his chief responsibilities counting coppers. Six moons made for a lot of counted coppers. Not the best reputation for a Lord to be saddled with, especially a Warden of the Realm, but such was his burden. And on occasions such as this? He could easily admit it put a smile on his face. One very effective at getting people to fall over themselves apologising and reimbursing and swearing not to do it ever again. Not to their investors at any rate. Especially their liege lord's heir.

As he finally rode out with his retinue, Rickard felt another one of those undeserved bursts of pride he tended to get when thinking of Brandon these days. Whatever empowered those miscreants to cheat him, his boy had been well placed to get his own back in the future. The uppity farmers seemed unaware of just how many other, middling and smaller farms Brandon had also approached. Lent coin to use what little of their land they could risk on experiments with new crop combinations over the last two years, up to the start of winter. None of those men were afflicted with the same brand of foolishness as Rickard had just had the displeasure of stomping on.

It would be impossible to widely apply any of the new methods until spring came again, the ones that were promising at least. But he found himself looking forward to it. Maybe he'll even test some of the vegetable cycles in the glass garden, meanwhile. He didn't know if anything would come of it. He couldn't imagine there was anything men hadn't already tried in over eight thousand years. But a fair few of the farms had recouped on Brandon's investment and then some, tiny though it was. So he wasn't going to write anything off. He wasn't going to write off anything Brandon did anymore.

He was still on the fence about the mushrooms though. And no one seemed to know why Brandon had filled that storehouse with so much food and produce only to let it spoil. The freeze had gotten to it before the mold could spread or stink up the place, thankfully, but it would be hell to clear it out come spring.

Alas. He supposed even his little wonder-maker didn't always get everything right the first time.

The Fair was taking place north of Winterfell, near a lake located five hours away on foot and fed by a middling stream. It was not on any maps. At least none of the ones that ever made it south of the Neck, and which omitted half of their known food sources among other things. But the spot was quite sizable for all that, and actually a fairly popular fishing spot during summertime.

Alas, not all his traveling companions were as interested as he was in seeing what it was like in winter. "Missing your drafty tower already, Maester?"

"Of course not My Lord," Maester Walys grunted from beneath the thickest fur coat in Winterfell and thrice the usual number of coverings beneath that. He looked ridiculous. "Why ever would I do such a thing? I am but wrinkled skin and old bones under this."

"Old Nan is older than you and she left with the first whelming all the same."

"That witch is older than everyone."

Actually, she wasn't. Moreover… "That witch was my uncle's wetnurse and caretaker." Until he died at three name days. Like his… namesake almost did.

"Of course, My Lord. I apologise. The cold must have gotten to me after all."

There was a time when Rickard didn't have a problem knowing if the man meant what he said or not. He wondered when things had changed.

That's when he saw the kites.

They were the first of several things the artisans had no explanation for. Brandon hadn't explained. Wanted them a surprise. And they certainly were. Wispy crafts that soared high in the air, tethered and anchored to the earth by a single string. Which hadn't been part of the same commission. Bridles and long, sinuous tails and streamers fluttered and glided behind them as they stood against the wind, tugged to and fro by people and children running around the fields. They swooped. Soared high up against the wind.

Rickard stared at them, awestruck.

His son could make things fly.

A second distraction jumped at him once they crested the lake's basin. It was the sheer multitude of snow huts. He knew to expect them and had even visited the grounds earlier in the moon, but they were still impressive now that they were complete. He'd been sceptical of them until the masons made one for him to inspect, the day after he approved the Fair. Then he ordered the knowledge spread as quickly and far across the North as possible. Even funnelled some of the coin freed up by Brandon's paper into helping fund as many as were needed to ensure people had shelter even if Wintertown filled to capacity. A hut could be so small that you had to crawl into it, but it beat dying in the cold and even gave you a place to light your hearth. Even if the other lords were slow on the take, Rickard couldn't begin to guess how the Night Watch would change because of them.

The huts here weren't that small. Some hadn't even been completed at the front, to leave the entrance man-sized despite the draft, since they were designed as stalls more than anything. But they did their job and almost blended into the landscape from afar. Except for one. The very large one in the middle of the encampment, just off the lake's bank. Two Stark Banners hung proudly around the entrance, flapping in the wind. The Snow House was as wide as the broken tower, tall as a two-story home and even had small windows. The builders' cabin fever must already be legendary if they went to these kinds of lengths to fill their time, the man thought bemusedly.

All around the lake, people were mingling, talking, eating, drinking and peddling a whole market's worth of goods. All while pointing and waving at the children ridden around on dog sleighs driven by kennel masters. Beyond them all, along the lake banks proper, were three great bonfires arrayed in a wedge. They were dwarfed by the fourth, though, built in the middle of the lake atop the ice. All four had yet to be lit. The sign that the fair proper hadn't actually started.

He was looking forward to it.

And so Lord Rickard of House Stark started the new year eating a hearty lunch to the background sounds of laughing children. Salted and spiced sausage rolls and a beef bun fried in pig grease set between two slices of wheatbread. He washed them down with mulled wine right off the fire. And because he didn't feel the need to take shelter immediately, he sat on a bench outside with wife at his side and watched his children run around. Well, three of four more like.

Already it was the second best day of his life.

Eventually, his arrival was finally noticed by his little ones. His litter gave a new meaning to having your head in the clouds. Not that the spectacle leading up to it was any less entertaining.

"No! I almost had him!" Lyanna cried in dismay as her dove kite was smacked by a direwolf with streamers shaped like fangs. Just before it would have assaulted a big white dragon too. "You fiend, why are you helping him? Why aren't you helping me!?"

"Walder's barely learned how to make it lift," Eddard said dryly. Walder being a giant of a boy almost the size of a man grown despite being Ned's age. Old Nan's grandson. "And we promised not to bully him."

"You did, not me."

"Sister."

"Well it's true! Besides, I'm not actually bullying him, isn't that right Walder?"

"Of course not, m'lady."

"See, even he-hey! Did you just flinch away? You did! You did, didn't y-"

"Ha-HA!"

SMASH.

"Nooo!" Lyanna wailed as Benjen's raven wrecked her white dove as the dog sleigh shot by. And there was much rejoicing. Well, from the children with him. "No no no no NO! PAPA!"

"Hn," Rickard grunted as he stooped to receive an armful of daughter. He ignored the hidden smile his wife let him only him see from where she was spinning replacement strings. Old Nan's too. "Has my existence finally a purpose then?"

"Ned's being mean!"

Not Benjen? "Is he now?"

"I admit to everything," Eddard said shamelessly.

"Wha- he's not even denying it!"

"So I see," Rickard sighed. "Have you naught to say in defence, boy?"

Eddard Stark smiled mildly, his Direwolf still proudly defying the gale. "Honour before fault, not reason."

Lyanna pulled a face not unlike whenever her brothers repeated something said by Brandon in the past. Rickard was becoming an old hand at recognizing them.

For better or worse.

"Yes, well… You're a grumpkin! I'll get you, just you wait!"

"Such is my b-"

"Don't say it!"

"-urden."

"Papa, Ned's being mean to me!"

"Because you're a terrible person," Ned said.

"WHAT!? You take that back!"

"Oblivious too, Old Nan is literally right there."

"I knew it! You don't love me anymore!"

"Hardly. I just know the different between love and like." Something weighty suddenly seemed to pass over Ned's face. "Don't you?"

Rickard recognized those looks on Ned now too.

The drama, though, was cut short by the resounding blare of a bullhorn.

All over the fair grounds people jumped, flinched and stumbled at the sudden noise. Rickard shot to his feet and looked sharply for the source. Were the sentries sounding a call to arms? If the Gods were so spiteful that they'd conjure bandits out of nowhere to ruin even this for his son, he swore he'd-!

"Bran!" Lyanna practically scaled him all the way up. "It's Bran! Look, Look! There he is, see?"

He had to crane his head away from her flailing limbs but yes, he did see. Saw him use two long poles to slide to a halt all the way on the far bank of the lake. Next to where Martyn Cassel was just lowering the bullhorn that had shaken everything. The boy let go of the sticks, stooped over to unclasp some odd, long boards from his shoes, then sat down and affixed… something else to his boots. More shoes. Shoes over shoes?

He then used whatever they were to all but fly across the ice.

Stark guards pushed people every which way as he strode towards the edge of the bank, but Rickard still didn't get there before Brandon did. He heard his son's sudden turn more than he saw it, screeching to a halt in a way that sent ice spraying ahead of him. By the time the people realized who was pushing to the front and cleared the way, Brandon was already shooting away with a torch that Eddard had given him, and since when was Rickard so easily distracted from his other children!?

Rickard stared after his firstborn. Was he gliding on blades?

Brandon scraped to a halt in front of the great bonfire, wound back and threw the torch all the way to the top. A sudden gust blew it askew, and had the Gods chosen this moment for their tricks… Rickard might not have completely gone Bran the Burner, but there were plenty other levels of angry between him and there. Thankfully, the torch was not pushed enough that it didn't land more or less where it should.

The wood and straw soon caught and burst into a merry, crackling blaze.

The boy turned around then and cast his eyes over the crowd.

…Oh why not?

Rickard Stark turned, took the guard captain's own bullhorn and climbed onto the nearest pulpit. "LET THE GAMES BEGIN!"

The Warden of the North imagined he'd never heard cheers so long and mighty even at his wedding, but in that moment he had neither eyes nor ears for any of them. Barely wearing more than summer wear and standing on the ice to the backdrop of the tallest bonfire, his son looked every bit the lord he would one day become.

The boy had all the entitlement of one too, because he showed no qualms about making every last of the drudge work involved in his fair his father's problem. Case in point, the brat just begged off to make water!

Oh, it was just as well. Rickard had literally been raised for this.

The mainstays were as present as ever, with carving, baking, sewing, even wrestling, fistfights and some archery. As always, though, the best attractions were the novel ones. Even after a moon of preparing, Rickard was still surprised at the variety of things his son had come up with. Battledore and shuttlecock – ha! – sleigh-racing, kiting, frisbee, skiing, skating. True to form, the games immediately became outlets for everyone's unresolved feuds and seasonal moodswings. Sometimes before they even properly learned the rules. Usually from fishermen, oddly enough. It turned out Brandon had roped them into learning the games beforehand so they'd teach them to everyone else and act as scorekeepers. On account of them not having much other way to contribute to the fair itself for obvious reasons. Also, because Brandon wasn't about to run around doing it. Having washed his hands of any responsibility, his boy was now teaching skating to whoever wasn't afraid of falling over half a dozen ways. Incidentally, this meant that the increasing number of 'contests' and the resulting chaos were entirely Rickard Stark's problem.

But it's not like he'd ever put such pressure or responsibility on his son at his age, and Rickard had been raised for this. He was easily able to assign locations and schedules while keeping paths clear for traffic, even as he set aside some time for himself.

He wasn't about to attend a fair without partaking of the festivities! Especially when Brandon had worked so hard on them. In particular, Rickard gravitated towards two games that seemed entirely out of this world. They had him convinced his son had decided to avenge himself on the cruel hand he'd been dealt. Specifically, by living literally off the back of a certain gibberish problem. Which still cropped up fairly regularly, to hear Walys describe it. Various unguarded comments from his other children and even his wife indicated the same.

One game was played with cards made of paperboard. They each had various plus and minus values on them, which you were expected to use along with deck draws to get closer to twenty than the other player, and no higher. Rickard thought it wouldn't be long before the game taught their numbers to everyone and their grandmother. Brandon called it Pazaak.

The second game was the only one that merited its own, dedicated guard force and was not allowed to be removed from the central table in the Snow House. It was also a card game, but delicately drawn and written over the course of what may have been months. Each card a military unit, warrior, noble, archetype or a strategic card represented by different forms of weather or landscape. And on the rare occasion, you'd draw a card that bore the name and sketch of a famous figure from myth and history, with score and skill to match. It was a game of tactics and strategy never before seen or heard of. A game that expected you to wage three battles in a row with the same hand. His son had named it Gwent.

For Rickard, it was an eye-opener in more than one way. And that didn't include how different people behaved when in front of an audience. "Another round, Maester?"

"If it's all the same, My Lord, I think I should retire before humiliation has a chance to finish what the cold began."

"Come now, it's only been three games," which the Maester had lost. In a row. To Rickard. It was a new, heady experience. "I can't remember how many times I lost to you at cyvasse." To say nothing of the subsequent lectures that never failed to make him feel inadequate.

"Cyvasse has history, weight and intricacy. This," the Maester waved dismissively at the board, "Is but childish fancy. No matter how pretty the sketches, it shall be forgotten before week's end, mark my words."

"It's different not being the only one who knows the tricks, isn't it?"

Between one moment and the next, Rickard Stark could have sworn Walys Flowers' countenance was redolent of absolute distaste.

But by the time he'd turned to the new speaker – because it was a new speaker – the Maester was back to looking like a man well on the way to playing the role of everyone's favorite grandfather. "Lord Brandon. I didn't see you there. I thought you'd still be trying to teach the little people how to skim."

Distaste. Towards Brandon. Surely not.

"Skate," Brandon corrected as he stepped around the man with barely a glance. "And not so little at all. Turns out Walder's a natural. Someone on his father's side must have been very spry."

What was this? The Maester hadn't hinted at any animosity between them even after his son's remark on game night. And Brandon… Rickard couldn't even tell if… What a strange world it was all of a sudden, that he had as much trouble reading a Maester as his own get.

"Is that so? Mayhap I will catch a glimpse as I leave."

"But you'll miss the best parts!" Brandon said. "The bonfire's finally started to burn low enough to eat through the ice! And the last holdovers for the trebuchet contest only just made it."

Rickard forced himself not to be distracted by the mention of what he'd been most interested in since finding out what project it was that got a week of preparation time. He'd been veering into tactical musings almost regularly in the days since.

"Nevertheless, needs must. By your leave, My Lord, I shall make an early return to Winterfell."

Rickard managed not to convey his inner confusion. "Very well. You may go."

"My thanks, My Lord."

Rickard hadn't realized Maesterly pride could be so easily wounded. But then, they all claimed they had none, didn't they? Ludicrous as it was.

Brandon frowned after the Maester. "That is one shady man."

"Ha!" Despite himself, Rickard cracked a laugh. "Don't be too hard on him, the chill's got him off sorts. He's only a southerner."

"Even southerners know winter is coming."

"Not like that, son. Our words are not a warning, they are a threat to our enemies. We Starks carry the bloodline of the Kings of Winter, and winter is not a foe one can prevail against. Nor one aimed lightly."

"Watch me," Brandon muttered so lowly Rickard almost missed it. "I wonder what would've happened if you said no."

"He'd have stayed." Obviously.

"Obviously," Brandon huffed, confirming Rickard's suspicion that he'd missed something. "And been a grumpy nest of grey hairs for the rest of time, I'm sure."

Brandon Stark and Rickard Stark's eyes met full-on then.

Suddenly, it seemed to dawn on both father and son that they had engaged in casual banter as if they hadn't been estranged for the past seven years. Next they knew, it was as if both had gone mute. Soon enough the awkwardness threatened to spill over into the rest of the Snow House and Rickard should probably lay off the mulled spirits if he was getting looks of sympathy from Martyn Cassel, of all people.

What even were they-

"Match!" Came a shout from the crowd.

"Match!" The crowd picked up.

"Match, match, match!"

"Match between the lords!"

Then there were cheers and clapping and the calls soon echoed in everyone and spread even outside.

Brandon grimaced and stuck his hands in his pockets, fidgeting in place for a few moments, but eventually sat where Walys had. "Two out of three?"

"May as well," Rickard said, wondering how badly he failed to hide his guilty delight at this development. Also, wondering at Brandon's apparent stress. "Go easy on your old man, will you?"

His son shifted tensely but gazed at him sharply for all that. "I don't think you need it."

The first round, Brandon prevailed against Rickard's Crannogman and Broken King when the Turncoat Ward invoked Suborned Capitol for the Sea Bitch and Ironborn Raider.

On the second round, Lyanna, Benjen and half a dozen other children burst into the Snow House to complain about wanting Brandon for themselves. An unexpectedly stiff Brandon motioned for Martyn to give him his spring stack, ripped one of the pages, and folded it half a dozen ways until it looked like a spear head spade. Rickard was then thoroughly distracted when Brandon tossed it and it just… flew out the door and away. Fortunately, the children made quite a cavalcade when they rushed after it like dogs for a bone, so he wasn't the only one. Rickard won that round with the King Beyond the Wall and Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, using the ability of the Northern Heiress to deploy during the enemy turn. It cost him the initiative in the last round of the game, but it let him prevail despite Brandon's play of The Great Castle terrain for the Traitor Lord and the Red Bastard. It had to be the most implausible scenario Rickard ever heard of, but it got the job done.

Then, on the third round, Brandon turned out to have somehow drawn all three of Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen and set them down in siege mode as Dragonriders. So it was to the sour huffs of everyone around them that Rickard Stark played Torrhen Stark and Brandon Snow alongside a Weirwood Bowman and Scorpion. He would hopefully be forgiven for taking satisfaction in everyone's reactions when he then upended those uncomfortable expectations entirely. He activated Northern Blizzard. It rendered all the cards on the field save Greenseer Brandon Snow all but impotent. And so did the history of Westeros and the North get turned entirely on its head.

It was probably the lowest shame to experience such a heady feeling of victory against a boy of ten name days. But, as if to make his father burst from pride like a ripe melon, Brandon didn't make any excuses for his loss. And when the boy slowly looked up from the field, gazed at him as if he were some divine omen and said "That was amazing," Rickard Stark felt like the most accomplished man in the world.

If he wasn't already so resolved, he'd have decided then and there that their estrangement wouldn't survive the night.

Then something somewhere outside fell from the sky.

And that was no doubt how the Gods finally made their play, Rickard thought testily.

He should have expected it really.