Prince Edwyn had gradually begun taking upon himself a greater share of the kingdom’s governance.
King Rickard still ruled from Winterfell.
He continued to hear petitions, settle disputes, and command the respect of every lord who entered his hall.
His judgment had lost none of its sharpness, and his will remained as unyielding as ever.
His body, however, no longer matched his spirit.
Edwyn noticed the changes others overlooked.
His father’s stride had slowed.
Long rides through the Wolfswood now wearied him more than they once had, and after a full day in court he often lingered upon his chair before rising.
They were small things, scarcely worthy of mention.
To a son, they meant everything.
The Queen had changed as well.
Though she remained every bit as graceful and wise as she had always been, the years had touched her too.
King Rickard was now sixty-one namedays old.
His queen had reached fifty-nine.
For rulers of the North, they had both lived long and honorable lives.
Many warriors never saw fifty, and many kings died with a sword in their hand long before old age found them.
Yet it was not merely the passing of years that had weighed upon the old king.
Earlier that year, Winter had died.
Not the season.
The direwolf.
For more than four decades, the great beast had seldom left Rickard Stark’s side.
He had marched beside the King during the wars against the Barrow Kings, hunted with him through the Wolfswood, slept outside his chambers, and stood watch beside the Winter Throne itself.
Few living men could remember a time when Rickard Stark and Winter had not walked together.
Age had finally claimed the ancient direwolf.
He wandered into the godswood one final time, laid himself beneath the heart tree, and quietly drew his last breath beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods.
Rickard buried him himself.
No feast was held.
No songs were sung.
The old king knelt beside the grave long after the earth had been returned, saying nothing.
Among the Starks, a direwolf was never merely a beast.
It was a companion.
A guardian.
A member of the family.
From childhood until old age, a Stark and his direwolf shared a bond few outside their blood could truly understand.
Friends might depart.
Warriors might fall in battle.
Even wives and children could be taken by fate.
A direwolf remained.
Faithful until death.
Winter had stood beside Rickard for more than forty years.
His passing left behind an emptiness no man could fill.
Edwyn saw the change plainly.
His father’s laughter became rarer.
Even while holding court, his eyes would sometimes drift toward the empty place beside the throne where Winter had once rested.
Only after a few silent heartbeats would he remember.
The great wolf was gone.
From that day onward, the years seemed to settle more heavily upon the old king’s shoulders.
For the first time in his life, Edwyn found himself wondering how much longer his father would wear the crown.
It was a thought he despised.
Yet another matter occupied his thoughts almost as much.
Brandon.
More precisely…
Brandon’s fields.
Only ninety hectares.
A modest holding by the standards of the royal demesne.
Yet those ninety hectares had accomplished what generations of stewards believed impossible.
Edwyn had personally examined the ledgers.
Twice.
Then a third time.
The figures never changed.
Brandon’s lands could sustain between one hundred and one hundred twenty people while still setting aside nearly sixty percent of the harvest against the long winters that would one day come.
The kingdom’s traditional fields could claim no such thing.
Land of equal size struggled to feed a similar number of mouths while leaving little in reserve.
A poor harvest or an unusually long winter often brought hardship.
Brandon’s methods had changed that.
The earth remained dark and strong after the harvest instead of growing tired.
The crops stood taller.
The fields yielded more.
The sheep grazed upon the resting land, and when they moved on, what they left behind enriched the soil for the next planting.
Even the ashes from Winterfell’s hearths, once thrown away without a second thought, were now spread across the fields before the plough passed over them.
Brandon had discovered that the land answered well to such treatment, rewarding the effort with stronger harvests.
Nothing was wasted.
The sheep gave wool.
They gave milk.
Even what they left upon the fields served a purpose.
The ashes from the hearth returned to the earth.
Every part found its use.
Edwyn remembered how skeptical he had once been.
His son had spoken of changing the way the North farmed when he was still little more than a boy.
Edwyn had humored him.
Rickard had granted him land more from affection than expectation.
Neither had believed the experiment would amount to much.
Now the results lay plainly before them.
Then there were the potatoes.
For generations they had been dismissed as food fit only for common folk.
Brandon alone had insisted otherwise.
He had planted them beside wheat, barley and rye rather than replacing the older crops.
He had shown the castle’s cooks how they might be roasted, boiled and stewed until even the royal household had come to enjoy them.
Edwyn himself had grown rather fond of them. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
More remarkable still was the source of every one of these changes.
They had all come from Brandon.
The turning of the fields.
The careful order in which different crops were planted.
The grazing of sheep upon resting land.
The spreading of hearth ash before planting.
The improvements to wool making that had already begun filling the royal treasury with silver.
None of these practices had existed within the Winter Kingdom before Brandon introduced them.
He had conceived them.
Tested them.
Refined them.
Then proven they worked.
That, Edwyn believed, was what truly marked the making of a king.
Not clever words.
Not grand promises.
But deeds.
If ninety hectares could accomplish this…
What might nine hundred achieve?
Or nine thousand?
If every field held directly by House Stark were worked according to Brandon’s methods, the kingdom would gather greater harvests than ever before.
More food.
Greater stores.
More sheep.
More wool.
More trade.
A larger population.
A wealthier treasury.
A stronger Winter Kingdom.
Edwyn gathered the ledgers into a neat pile.
Tomorrow he would summon Brandon.
Every method would be committed to parchment.
Every observation.
Every success.
Every failure.
Nothing could be left to memory.
If these reforms were to spread across the royal lands, every steward would have to understand them exactly as Brandon intended.
Only then would Edwyn lay the records before King Rickard.
Not as the dreams of a gifted young prince.
But as proof.
Undeniable proof.
The strength of the Winter Kingdom would not rest upon bronze alone.
It would rest upon the wisdom to use the land well.
And no man in the realm possessed more of that wisdom than Brandon Stark.