One moon had passed since Brandon’s wedding to Lady Lyarra Dustin.
Life within Winterfell had settled back into its familiar rhythm.
The feasting was over, the visiting lords had returned to their own halls, and the castle once more busied itself with the affairs of a kingdom.
Prince Edwyn, however, found his thoughts returning again and again to his son’s experiment.
Carrying several bound ledgers beneath his arm, he entered the King’s solar.
King Rickard looked up from the maps spread across the oaken table before him.
“You look as though you’ve come to declare a war,” the old king remarked with a faint smile.
“In a manner of speaking,” Edwyn replied.
“A war against hunger.”
Rickard let out a quiet chuckle.
“Then sit.
Let us hear it.”
Edwyn laid the ledgers upon the table and opened them one after another.
Every harvest had been recorded.
Every measure of grain.
Every sack of potatoes.
Every fleece shorn.
Every field turned.
Nothing had been left to memory.
“I have gone through these records myself,” Edwyn began.
“Several times.
At first I believed there had to be a mistake.”
“And?”
“There was none.”
Rickard leaned forward.
“The ninety hectares granted to Brandon have exceeded every expectation.
Worked according to his methods, they sustain between one hundred and one hundred twenty people while still putting aside nearly sixty percent of the harvest against the winter.”
The old king frowned.
“So much from ninety hectares?”
“So I believed.”
Edwyn pushed another ledger across the table.
“I compared them against neighboring fields of equal size worked in the customary fashion.
The difference is beyond dispute.”
Rickard lowered his eyes to the parchment.
He turned one page.
Then another.
His brow slowly knitted together.
The careful turning of the fields.
The potatoes planted alongside the kingdom’s customary grains.
The sheep grazing upon the resting land.
The ashes gathered from Winterfell’s hearths and spread before the plough.
Each page told the same story.
Greater harvests. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Larger stores.
Healthier fields.
When he reached the final page, Rickard quietly closed the ledger.
“I had nearly forgotten the boy’s little experiment,” he admitted.
“I thought it little more than the pastime of a clever prince.”
“So did I.”
Edwyn allowed himself the faintest smile.
“I was wrong.”
Rickard rested a weathered hand upon the ledgers.
“This is no child’s fancy.”
“No.”
“It may well change the kingdom.”
The old king remained silent for several moments before speaking again.
“Bring Brandon.”
A guardsman bowed and departed.
It was not long before the doors opened once more.
Brandon entered the solar, bowing first to his grandsire and then to his father.
“You sent for me, Your Grace.”
Rickard gestured toward the ledgers.
“I have been reading of your fields.”
Brandon glanced briefly at the open books.
“So Father has shown you the results.”
“He has.”
Rickard folded his hands.
“Tell me plainly.
Should these methods be adopted throughout the Crown’s lands?”
Brandon walked to the map laid across the table.
“The Crown presently cultivates roughly five thousand square kilometers of farmland.”
Edwyn nodded.
“Five hundred thousand hectares.”
Brandon rested a finger upon the map.
“If those fields alone are worked according to these methods, then even after setting aside sixty percent of every harvest for the winters to come, the remaining forty percent would comfortably sustain around seven hundred thousand people.”
Silence settled over the chamber.
Rickard slowly turned toward his son.
“You are certain of those numbers?”
“I have checked them myself,” Edwyn replied.
“More than once.”
“They are sound.”
The old king looked back toward Brandon.
“Our own lands hold little more than three hundred thousand souls.”
“And our bannermen perhaps another hundred thousand,” Edwyn added.
Yet the Crown’s existing fields alone could feed seven hundred thousand.
Without clearing another acre.
Without counting the lands held by House Dustin, House Knott, House Wull, House Harclaw, House Morrey, or any of the other great houses sworn to Winterfell.
Rickard’s gaze drifted once more across the map.
“The Barrowlands…”
“They still possess much land that could be brought under the plough,” Brandon answered.
“By my estimate, at least seventy thousand hectares.”
“And our own lands?”
“The Crown possesses nearly two hundred thousand hectares more that could be cultivated if the need ever arose.”
Rickard studied the map in silence.
“So even this…”
He tapped a finger upon the ledgers.
“…does not show the limit.”
“No.”
“It shows only what can be achieved with the land we already farm.”
Again silence filled the chamber.
Only the fire crackled softly within the hearth.
At length Rickard rested both hands upon the table.
“When I granted you those ninety hectares,” he said quietly, “I believed I was humoring an unusually clever boy.”
Brandon offered no reply.
“It would seem I was laying the foundation for something rather greater.”
The old king looked toward Edwyn.
“How long?”
“If we begin after this harvest, the Crown’s stewards can be instructed within the year.
Seed must be gathered, fields marked and the shepherds taught their part, but it can be done.”
Rickard gave a slow nod.
“Then it shall.”
He turned back to Brandon.
“I want every part of your method written down.”
“The order of planting.”
“The turning of the fields.”
“The keeping of the sheep.”
“Everything.”
“Leave nothing to memory.”
“I shall, Grandfather.”
Rickard closed the last ledger.
“I spent my youth winning land for House Stark.”
A faint smile touched his face.
“You may prove the first Stark to truly teach the land to feed its people.”
No one spoke after that.
There was nothing more to be said.
The decision had been made.
Before another harvest had passed, every field held directly by the Crown would be worked according to Brandon Stark’s design.