The greatest blessing of that summer was not found in the fields.
It came within the walls of Winterfell.
When Lyarra’s time arrived, Brandon found himself more helpless than he had ever been upon any battlefield or before any council.
By the custom of the North, no man was permitted within the birthing chamber.
Such matters belonged to women, and so he could do nothing save wait beyond the heavy oaken door.
The cries from within echoed through the corridor.
“You did this to me!” Lyarra shouted.
“If you come near me again, I’ll have your manhood cut away!”
Brandon stopped pacing.
Prince Edwyn chuckled quietly beside him.
King Rickard laughed aloud, the sound filling the passage.
“Your grandmother spoke much the same when your father was born,” the old king said with a grin.
“And your mother was little different,” Edwyn admitted, unable to hide his amusement.
Theon, now twelve namedays old, caught Brandon’s eye.
A broad grin spread across the boy’s face as he drew a finger across his palm in an exaggerated cutting motion.
Brandon answered with a glare.
The boy merely laughed harder.
Within the chamber remained the women of House Stark.
The Queen.
Lady Saara Stark.
Princess Dacy.
Together with the birthing women, they tended to Lyarra through the long hours of labor.
Time seemed to crawl.
At last, the cries ceased.
A heartbeat later came another.
The cry of a newborn child.
The chamber door opened, and one of the birthing women stepped into the corridor, smiling despite the weariness upon her face.
“My prince,” she said, bowing her head, “the old gods have blessed your house.
Your lady wife has safely delivered a healthy daughter.”
Brandon scarcely heard another word.
“My wife?” he asked at once.
“How fares she?”
“She is weary, my prince, but the birth was a good one.
There is no cause for concern.”
Only then did the weight upon Brandon’s heart lift.
Lyarra rested upon the bed, exhausted from her ordeal, yet alive and smiling faintly as she looked upon him.
One of the women gently placed the child into his arms.
Brandon stared in silence.
She was so small.
Tiny fingers wrapped themselves around one of his own as though afraid to let go.
In both his lives, this was the first child he had ever held.
No triumph upon the training yard.
No victory in war.
No invention or harvest.
None of them compared to that single moment.
King Rickard stepped closer, a softness upon his face that few had ever witnessed.
“And what shall she be called?”
Brandon lifted his eyes toward his mother.
“Saara.”
“In honor of my lady mother.”
Lady Saara lowered her head, unable to hide the tears that gathered in her eyes.
Before the day had ended, the news had spread throughout Winterfell.
A princess had been born.
That evening, the Great Hall was filled with celebration.
Fires burned brightly within the hearths, musicians played for the gathered nobles, and long tables groaned beneath roasted meats, fresh bread, and overflowing cups of ale and mead.
The feast was held in honor of the newest daughter of House Stark.
Lyarra did not attend.
The birthing women insisted she remain abed to recover her strength, and Brandon had no wish to argue.
Though the feast continued late into the night, he spent much of it in his chambers beside his wife and daughter, leaving only long enough to greet the lords who had come to offer their congratulations.
Throughout her pregnancy, Brandon had watched over Lyarra with almost embarrassing care.
He seldom allowed her to carry so much as a basket if another servant stood nearby.
Whenever she tired herself, he insisted she rest, much to her annoyance.
“You would think I was made of spun wool,” she had complained more than once.
“I would rather endure your complaints than your suffering,” Brandon had always answered.
She never found the heart to remain angry for long.
Yet the birth of Princess Saara was not the only blessing that summer bestowed upon the Winter Kingdom.
The first full harvest since Brandon’s reforms had been carried across the Crown’s cultivated lands surpassed nearly every expectation.
True, it did not reach the figures Brandon believed would one day be possible.
The royal flocks were still far too small. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
The breeding sheep had only begun to increase in number, and many of the new methods had been practiced for but a single growing season.
Even so, the results astonished every steward who examined the ledgers.
Using only forty percent of the harvest, the Crown’s cultivated lands had produced enough food to sustain nearly six hundred thousand souls for an entire year.
The remaining sixty percent was carried into the granaries against the winters yet to come.
No laborer departed unrewarded.
Rather than silver alone, those who had worked the Crown’s fields received food as their wage.
Throughout the year, each household was allotted provisions sufficient to sustain a family of four for two full years, ensuring that neither summer nor winter would find them wanting.
Even after every payment had been made, the royal granaries remained full.
For the first time in generations, the Crown possessed a true surplus.
Brandon regarded the filled granaries with quiet satisfaction.
The harvest would not suddenly fill the kingdom with new subjects.
Such changes belonged to the passing of generations, not a handful of years.
What the harvest had truly purchased was freedom.
When winter returned and the fields lay sleeping beneath snow, the Crown would no longer be forced to let its people remain idle for want of food.
The granaries would feed the men called into the King’s service.
More charcoal kilns would rise near Winter Town.
More timber would be cut from the Wolfswood, seasoned, and stored for future works.
New granaries and storehouses would continue to be raised wherever they were needed.
The roads linking Winterfell with the nearby villages would be repaired and widened, making the passage of wagons easier in every season.
Where the land allowed, brush and scrub would be cleared so that more fields might one day be brought beneath the plough.
None of these labors would earn songs.
No bard would praise the raising of a granary or the mending of a road.
Yet Brandon knew well that kingdoms were seldom strengthened by glorious deeds alone.
More often, they were forged by countless humble labors, each preparing the way for those that followed.
One more undertaking now lay before him.
Strong drink.
In years past, such a venture would have been unthinkable.
Every sack of grain and every basket of potatoes had been needed simply to keep the people alive.
Now there was enough to spare.
A portion of the surplus would be turned into strong spirits unlike any the North had yet tasted.
The finest casks would be reserved for the lords of the Winter Kingdom, while the remainder would be sold wherever merchants were willing to pay.
The si lver earned would return to the royal treasury.
And with that silver, Brandon would lay yet another stone upon the road that would carry the Winter Kingdom into a stronger future.