As the days passed, another thought came to Brandon.
For all the hours he had devoted to improving the harvest, one remarkably simple solution had escaped him.
Wood ash.
Every hearth in Winterfell produced it.
Every kitchen, forge and workshop cast it aside as little more than waste.
It should never have been wasted.
Ash from burned firewood contained valuable minerals that the soil slowly lost after years of cultivation, most notably phosphorus.
If gathered throughout the castle and surrounding settlements, then spread over the fields before ploughing, it would gradually restore much of the land’s fertility.
The improvement required no expensive tools.
No new inventions.
Only discipline.
Brandon quietly issued the necessary instructions.
The ashes from Winterfell’s hearths, kitchens and workshops would no longer be discarded.
They would be collected in barrels until enough had accumulated, then spread across the fields before the next planting.
It was such an obvious improvement that Brandon almost laughed at himself for overlooking it.
His duties had simply grown too numerous.
There were fields to inspect.
Council meetings to attend.
Ledgers to review.
Men to train.
Workers to supervise.
It was easy to overlook the smallest details when an entire kingdom demanded attention.
The Stark domain itself was proof enough.
Unlike the North Brandon remembered from history, the Winter Kingdom already stretched across an immense portion of the continent.
House Stark directly ruled nearly three hundred and forty thousand square kilometers of land, not counting the territories administered by their bannermen.
On parchment it appeared unimaginably vast.
Forests stretched farther than a rider could travel in weeks.
Mountains guarded the western coast.
Rivers crossed the realm like silver threads.
Yet the ledgers had taught Brandon a sobering truth.
Of that enormous expanse, scarcely five thousand square kilometers could be cultivated.
Barely more than one percent.
The rest was forest, mountain, marsh or frozen wilderness.
Every hectare capable of producing food mattered.
Every improvement mattered.
His days settled into a familiar rhythm.
At dawn he trained beneath Jon Glover’s stern instruction.
Afterward came the council chamber, where he learned more of governance with each passing moon.
The afternoons belonged to the fields.
He walked among the crops with the laborers, inspected the sheep, reviewed the stores and adjusted his plans whenever necessity demanded it.
The work never truly ended.
He found that he preferred it that way.
Yet despite all these responsibilities, another matter slowly came to overshadow the harvest itself.
His marriage.
Word spread quickly throughout the Winter Kingdom.
The heir to House Stark was to wed the daughter of House Dustin.
Soon the roads leading to Winterfell filled with riders bearing the banners of the kingdom’s great houses.
Few guests came from beyond the borders of the Winter Kingdom.
Instead, the castle welcomed the lords sworn to House Stark.
House Dustin arrived first, followed by House Knott, House Harclaw, House Morrey, House Wull and many others.
Each lord came with his household and retainers to witness the marriage of the future Winter King.
Winterfell had seldom seemed so alive.
Its courtyards bustled with horses and servants.
Its kitchens worked from dawn until long after sunset.
Laughter echoed through the ancient halls as old friends met and rival lords shared cups of ale beneath the Stark banners.
When the appointed day arrived, the wedding was held beneath Winterfell’s ancient heart tree.
The great weirwood stood silent, its pale trunk rising proudly above those gathered beneath its branches.
Its carved red face watched with eyes that had witnessed the passing of countless generations of Winter Kings.
There were no septons.
The old gods required none.
An aged keeper of the godswood stepped forward.
His voice carried clearly through the still air.
“Who stands before the old gods to give this woman in marriage?”
Lord Dustin stepped forward beside his daughter.
“I, Lord Dustin of Barrow Hall, stand before the old gods to give my daughter, Lyarra of House Dustin.”
The old keeper inclined his head before turning toward Brandon.
“And who stands before the old gods to receive her?”
Brandon stepped forward.
“I, Brandon Stark, son of Prince Edwyn Stark and heir to the Winter Kingdom, stand before the old gods to receive her.”
The keeper looked between the young man and woman.
“Do you come here of your own free will, to join your lives before the eyes of the old gods?”
“We do,” Brandon answered.
Lord Dustin gently placed his daughter’s hand into Brandon’s.
The keeper nodded.
“Then let your vows be spoken.”
Brandon held Lyarra’s hand firmly.
“Before the old gods, I swear to honor you, protect you, stand beside you and keep faith with you for all the days granted to me.”
Lyarra met his eyes without wavering.
“Before the old gods, I swear to honor you, stand beside you, keep your house as my own and remain faithful to you for all the days granted to me.”
The keeper rested his weathered hands upon theirs.
“Then before the old gods, whose eyes never close and whose memory never fades, I declare you husband and wife.”
For a heartbeat the godswood remained silent.
Then cheers rose from the gathered lords and their retainers.
Brandon Stark and Lyarra Dustin were wed.
That evening, Winterfell celebrated.
The Great Hall blazed with torchlight.
Long tables groaned beneath roasted venison, boar, trout, fresh bread, hard cheeses and endless casks of ale and mead.
Singers recounted the deeds of Brandon the Builder and the victories of the Winter Kings while warriors toasted one another until their voices grew hoarse.
For one night, thoughts of harvests, politics and war were set aside.
It was simply a wedding.
As the feast wore on and drink loosened tongues, the inevitable cries began.
“Bedding!”
“The bedding!”
Laughter swept through the hall as several lords rose from their benches, intending to uphold the old custom.
Brandon had accepted many traditions of his new world.
This was not one of them.
Without a word, he rose from his seat.
He crossed the hall, stopped before Lyarra and gently lifted her into his arms.
She looked at him in surprise but made no protest.
For a brief moment, the hall fell silent.
Then came whistles, laughter and good-natured jeers.
“The wolf carries off his bride!”
“Looks like the prince has no need of our help!”
Brandon ignored them all.
Holding Lyarra securely in his arms, he walked from the Great Hall without looking back.
His bride would not be handled by drunken men for the sake of tradition.