When Brandon returned from the Crypts of Winterfell, he walked the halls in silence.
The weight of the day lingered upon him.
For the first time in many years, there was no smile upon his face, no jest waiting upon his lips.
He quietly pushed open the door to his chambers.
Ordinarily, he would make his entrance with all the flourish Lyarra had come to expect.
“Your prince has returned!”
Or some equally ridiculous proclamation that never failed to draw a sigh from his wife.
Today, there was nothing.
He simply entered and closed the door behind him.
Lyarra looked up from where she sat with little Princess Saara sleeping peacefully in her arms.
She needed only a single glance.
Something was wrong.
Without speaking, she rose, handed the child to her nurse, and walked toward her husband.
Brandon said nothing.
Neither did she.
She simply wrapped her arms around him and held him close.
He returned the embrace, resting his head against hers as the silence stretched between them.
No words were spoken.
None were needed.
Lyarra understood.
He had lost the grandsire who had raised him, guided him, and believed in him long before anyone else understood the worth of his strange ideas.
Some grief could not be eased by speech alone.
Elsewhere within Winterfell, the castle remained subdued.
Princess Dacy spoke little, the laughter that usually followed her nowhere to be found.
The old king and queen had been grandparents before they had been rulers.
Their absence was felt by every member of the family.
Yet grief did not halt the turning of the world.
A kingdom could not remain without a king.
Three days after King Rickard’s burial, the lords of the Winter Kingdom gathered within the godswood of Winterfell.
Beneath the ancient heart tree stood Prince Edwyn.
Watching over the ceremony were the red eyes carved into the pale trunk, eyes that had witnessed the crowning of Kings of Winter for thousands of years.
Before the gathered lords rested the ancient regalia of House Stark.
The Crown of Winter.
Fashioned from bronze in ages long past, it had passed from father to son since the earliest days of the Winter Kingdom.
Beside it rested another treasure.
Ice.
Not the Valyrian steel greatsword that later generations would know by that name.
This was the ancient blade of the First Men.
Forged of a bronze unlike any made in the present day, it was lighter, keener, and stronger than any ordinary bronze sword.
Along the length of its blade ran the runes of the First Men, said by generations of Kings of Winter to have been carved by the Children of the Forest themselves during the Age of Heroes.
Whether the tale was truth or merely legend mattered little.
For thousands of years, every King of Winter had borne the blade.
Now it awaited another.
The priest of the old gods stepped forward.
Before the heart tree, he spoke in a clear voice.
“Before the old gods, whose eyes have watched this place since the dawn of our people, I proclaim Edwyn of House Stark, First of His Name, King of Winter, Lord of Winterfell, and Protector of the Winter Kingdom.”
The ancient sword, Ice, was then presented.
Edwyn accepted it with both hands before fastening it at his side.
One by one, the assembled lords knelt.
“Hail King Edwyn!”
“Hail the King of Winter!”
Their voices rose together beneath the crimson canopy.
“Hail the King of Winter!”
The cry echoed throughout the godswood.
King Edwyn looked upon the men sworn to his house.
“I accept this crown not for my own glory,” he said, his voice carrying across the gathered lords, “but as my father and his fathers before him accepted it.
So long as I draw breath, I shall guard the Winter Kingdom, uphold the laws of my forefathers, and protect every loyal man, woman, and child beneath the direwolf banner.”
A murmur of approval spread among the gathered lords.
Brandon watched in silence.
Only a few days earlier, he had watched his grandfather laid to rest beside the Kings of Winter who had ruled before him.
Now his father stood where Rickard once had.
Time marched ever onward.
One king had entered the crypts beneath Winterfell.
Another now wore the Crown of Winter.
The Kingdom of Winter endured.