The day had been given over to matters no singer would ever care to remember.
King Rickard Stark sat with his son in the council chamber, where the business of ruling seldom paused.
The chamber itself was plain compared to the great hall, built more for work than ceremony.
Maps of the Winter Kingdom covered one end of the table, while ledgers, tallies carved upon strips of wood and rolls of leather occupied the other.
Outside, the sounds of Winterfell drifted faintly through the narrow windows.
A hammer struck iron somewhere within the yard.
Men shouted as wagons were unloaded.
Life continued, indifferent to kings and their burdens.
“The Dustins have settled into their lands well enough,” Edwyn said, reading from a report.
“The harvest should be respectable if the weather holds.”
Rickard grunted.
“If.”
That single word carried enough doubt to sour an entire season.
“The roads?”
“Passable.”
“The western villages?”
“Recovered, for the most part.”
Rickard rubbed at his beard.
“We have won land.”
“But land alone does not fill a treasury.”
Edwyn nodded.
“Our timber sells.”
“Our furs fetch fair prices.”
“Our fishermen have never lacked for work.”
“Yet every year we spend more than the last.”
The old king looked down at the map spread before him.
“A kingdom grows easier to conquer than to govern.”
Before either could continue, three sharp knocks sounded upon the chamber door.
A guardsman entered.
“My King.”
Rickard looked up.
“What is it?”
“Prince Brandon requests permission to enter.”
That earned a curious look from both king and prince.
“Brandon?” Edwyn repeated.
The guard inclined his head.
“He says he has something to show Your Grace.”
Rickard smiled beneath his beard.
“He has inherited your habit of interrupting councils.”
“I prefer to think I inherited yours.”
Rickard snorted.
“Send him in.”
A moment later the boy entered.
Brandon had seen eight namedays, yet he stood broader than many boys two or three years older.
Months spent swinging wooden swords, climbing walls when he believed no one watched and eating enough for two children had left him sturdy rather than merely tall.
Under one arm he carried a rolled piece of leather.
He bowed first to the king.
“Grandfather.”
Then to his father.
“Father.”
Rickard motioned him closer.
“I was told you had lessons today.”
“I did.”
“I studied the Old Tongue.”
Edwyn folded his arms.
“You were also meant to spend the afternoon with the wolf keepers.”
“I was.”
Rickard raised an eyebrow.
“And did Raker behave himself?”
Brandon hesitated.
“For the most part.”
Edwyn laughed.
“The kennel master tells a different tale.”
“He only stole a strip of dried venison.”
“‘Only,’ he says.”
“He left the rest.”
Rickard shook his head.
“A generous beast.”
The king’s own wolf, Winter, lay sleeping near the hearth, one amber eye opening just long enough to regard the conversation before deciding it was of no interest.
Age had silvered the great wolf’s muzzle, though neither size nor presence had diminished.
Grey, Edwyn’s companion, had remained in the yard, never fond of enclosed rooms.
Raker, Brandon’s young wolf, possessed neither Winter’s dignity nor Grey’s discipline.
He possessed enthusiasm enough for both.
Rickard nodded toward the leather beneath Brandon’s arm.
“So then.”
“What has brought you here?”
Brandon stepped forward and spread the leather across the council table.
Charcoal drawings covered its surface.
Circles.
Wooden frames.
Measurements.
Small notes written in the Old Tongue.
Edwyn frowned.
“What am I looking at?”
“A spinning wheel.”
Rickard looked from the drawing to his grandson.
“We already have spinning wheels.”
“We do.”
Brandon pointed toward the largest sketch.
“But ours waste too much effort.”
He traced one of the spokes with his finger.
“If the wheel continues turning after each push, both hands remain free.”
“The spinner works faster.”
“The thread is finer.”
“Less wool is lost.”
Rickard remained silent.
Brandon continued.
“We already raise sheep.”
“We already shear them.”
“But our cloth is coarse.”
“Everyone says so.”
Edwyn smiled.
“You have become something of an expert on wool?”
“I’ve worn enough of it.”
That earned a quiet chuckle.
Brandon pressed on before either man could interrupt.
“We cannot make the southern kingdoms colder.”
“But we can make better wool than they can.”
“If we spin better thread, our weavers make better cloth.”
“If they make better cloth, merchants pay better prices.”
“It begins here.”
He tapped the drawing.
Neither Rickard nor Edwyn spoke for several moments.
The old king studied the sketches carefully.
The drawings were rough in places, but every line served a purpose.
Whoever had made them had not merely imagined a clever idea.
He had thought through how it might actually be built.
At length Rickard looked up.
“Who helped you with this?”
“No one.”
“You designed it yourself?”
“Yes.”
The king held his grandson’s gaze a little longer than before.
Then he looked toward Edwyn.
“What do you think?”
Edwyn shrugged.
“I think one carpenter and a little timber cost less than dismissing an idea that might prove useful.”
Rickard’s mouth twitched.
“A cautious answer.”
“I learned caution from you.”
“You learned stubbornness from your mother.”
“I learned that too.”
The old king laughed.
He turned toward the steward waiting beside the door.
“Find the master carpenter.”
“And two craftsmen who know their trade.”
“They are to work with Prince Brandon.”
“If this wheel can be built, let it be built.”
The steward bowed.
“It shall be done, Your Grace.”
Brandon tried his best to remain composed.
He failed.
The grin upon his face would have shamed a victorious knight.
“Thank you, Grandfather.”
Rickard waved a dismissive hand.
“Do not thank me.”
“Thank me if the thing works.”
Brandon gathered the leather and bowed once more before hurrying from the chamber, nearly forgetting to close the door behind him.
Silence lingered after he had gone.
Edwyn poured himself a cup of ale.
“You know,” he said, “when I was eight, I was trying to convince the stablemaster that I was old enough to ride into battle.”
Rickard gave a quiet snort.
“And now your son wishes to improve spinning wheels.”
Edwyn looked toward the closed door.
“He has an odd mind.”
“So he does.”
Rickard’s gaze drifted to the leather shavings still lying upon the table where Brandon had unrolled his plans.
“Sometimes,” th e old king murmured, “the smallest wheels set the largest things in motion.”
Neither man spoke again for a while.
Outside, the castle carried on as it always had.
Inside, neither of them yet realized that they had just approved the first of many ideas that would one day change the Winter Kingdom.