Though the harvest had long since been gathered, the castle remained as busy as it had been during summer.
Granaries were inspected daily, charcoal kilns burned without pause beyond the walls, roads were mended where the frozen earth allowed, and storehouses continued to rise beneath the direction of the Crown’s stewards.
Brandon had little interest in any of those works.
His thoughts had been fixed upon another undertaking ever since his father had granted permission.
Rather than raising the workshop outside the castle, Brandon requested that it be built within Winterfell itself.
An old yard near the eastern curtain wall, used for little more than storing broken carts, weathered beams, and unused stone, was cleared for the purpose.
The location , he had selected deliberately.
For according to the maps he had seen in his previous life and this one , it was precisely around where the sept would’ve been.
Edwyn understood his son’s reasoning without much explanation.
“If this proves as valuable as you believe,” the King had said, “I’d sooner have wolves guarding it than men whose loyalty I do not know.”
So the workshop rose behind stout oak doors that remained barred whenever the craftsmen were not within.
Guards from the royal household watched the entrance day and night, though even they knew little of what passed inside.
They had been told only that the prince was conducting work for the Crown and that no man entered without the King’s leave.
The secrecy extended even to the craftsmen themselves.
Harwyn, the old coppersmith, knew how to shape the kettles Brandon required, but not why they had to be made so.
The coopers fashioned casks of seasoned oak without seeing what would fill them.
The masons built broad furnaces to Brandon’s measurements, asking no questions beyond those needed to complete their work.
For the process would be shown when necessary and kept a secret otherwise.
Only Brandon knew how every piece was meant to come together.
He spent nearly every day within the workshop.
Before sunrise he was already there, studying his parchments while the furnaces were lit.
By midday his cloak carried the scent of smoke and hot copper no less than the craftsmen around him.
His hands were blackened with soot often enough that even Lyarra remarked one evening that he looked more like a smith than a prince.
“I’ll take that as praise,” Brandon had replied, holding out his stained hands.
She had laughed despite herself.
“So long as you remember to wash them before touching your daughter.”
“I’ve grown fond of keeping all ten fingers.
I imagine Saara would prefer them that way as well.”
Lyarra shook her head with a smile.
“I married a prince.”
“You did.”
“I seem to have found a blacksmith instead.”
The copper vessels were completed before the moon had turned.
Harwyn stood beside the largest kettle, running his palm across its polished side.
“I’ve made finer work in my life,” he admitted, “but never stranger.”
Brandon looked over the still one final time.
The broad kettle rested firmly above the furnace.
A tightly fitted lid connected to a winding copper tube that descended through a barrel filled with cold water before ending above another waiting cask.
To every man present it appeared little more than an oddly shaped brewer’s kettle.
To Brandon…
It was the beginning of something entirely new.
“If the old gods are kind,” Harwyn muttered, “this thing will earn its keep.”
“If they are kinder still,” Brandon answered, “we’ll not have to build another.”
The first attempt ended in disappointment.
Potatoes from the royal stores were boiled until they softened before being crushed into a thick mash according to Brandon’s instructions.
The furnace beneath the kettle was fed with charcoal until the copper slowly warmed.
For a time everything appeared to proceed as it should.
Then steam burst from one of the joints.
Another followed.
Within moments white vapor escaped from half the still, hissing through seams no hammer had managed to close tightly enough.
Harwyn swore beneath his breath.
“I knew that bend would never hold.”
Several apprentices hurried to rake burning charcoal from beneath the furnace while others opened the heavy doors to clear the workshop.
No one spoke again until the steam had drifted away.
Brandon walked slowly around the still, laying a hand upon each damp seam before finally turning toward Harwyn.
“Can it be tightened?”
The old smith blinked.
“Aye.”
“Then we’ll tighten it.”
Brandon smiled faintly.
“Were you expecting me to throw it across the yard?”
Harwyn scratched his beard.
“I’ve seen lords break better work than this over lesser failures.”
“Then they were poorer craftsmen than you.”
The old man laughed quietly.
“I’ll remember you said that when this contraption leaks again.”
Every joint was dismantled.
Fresh leather was cut for the seals.
The copper was hammered flatter where needed, and by the third day the still stood ready once more.
The second attempt gave them hope.
This time no steam escaped.
The first clear drops emerged slowly from the end of the copper pipe before falling into a waiting wooden cup.
Every craftsman in the workshop stopped what he was doing.
Harwyn folded his arms.
“Well…”
Brandon lifted the cup.
The spirit looked wrong.
Cloudy.
Not greatly so, but enough to trouble him.
Still…
There was only one way to know.
He drank.
The burn came first.
That much was expected.
The taste that followed was not.
It was bitter, carrying a sourness that clung stubbornly to the tongue.
Even the smell reminded him more of spoiled grain than strong drink.
Without speaking, he passed the cup to Harwyn.
The old smith sniffed it cautiously before taking a swallow.
His face twisted so fiercely that laughter spread through the workshop.
“Seven hells—”
He stopped himself, correcting the oath.
“The old gods forgive me…”
He wiped his beard.
“…I’ve swallowed cleaner water from a horse’s hoofprint.”
Even Brandon laughed.
“So have I.”
He carried the bucket outside and emptied the entire batch into the snow.
One apprentice looked on in disbelief.
“My prince…
all of it?”
“Every drop.”
“But we’ve spent days—”
“And we’d spend months regretting it if we called this finished.”
No man argued after that.
The failures continued.
One batch proved too weak.
Another carried too much bitterness.
On yet another occasion the spirit emerged strong enough, yet left behind an unpleasant heaviness that Brandon could not ignore.
With each failure the still changed a little.
The fire burned lower.
The copper worm was lengthened.
The cooling barrel was deepened.
The first runnings were discarded.
So too were the last.
Harwyn eventually stopped asking why.
“If you tell me another pipe needs moving,” he sighed one evening, “I’ll move it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The old craftsman rested both hands upon his aching back.
“Because every time I ask…”
He pointed toward the latest alteration.
“…three days later I find out you were right.”
Brandon laughed.
“I’ll treasure that compliment.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“It sounded enough like one.”
Nearly two moons had passed before fortune finally favored them.
The workshop remained quiet that morning save for the crackling of charcoal beneath the furnace.
A slow, steady stream fell from the copper pipe into the waiting vessel.
Brandon filled a wooden cup.
The liquid caught the morning light.
Clear.
Perfectly clear.
He brought it to his nose.
No sourness.
No foul odor.
Only the sharp scent he had hoped to find.
Harwyn watched silently.
“Well?”
Brandon took a careful swallow.
The spirit struck fiercely, burning all the way down his throat until his eyes watered.
For a heartbeat he feared another failure.
Then warmth settled deep within his chest.
Not the dull heaviness of ale.
Not the sweetness of mead.
A clean warmth that spread through his body while leaving his thoughts as clear as before.
A smile slowly crossed his face.
Harwyn needed no words.
He took the cup from Brandon’s hand and drank for himself.
He coughed once.
Twice.
Then, instead of cursing, he laughed until tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
“By the old gods…”
He drew another steady breath.
“It burns like a forge.”
“It does.”
“…and I believe I want another.”
The laughter that followed echoed through the workshop.
Every man wished to taste it.
Some grimaced.
Others coughed.
One declared he would sooner drink ale.
He returned a few moments later asking for another cup.
By sunset there was no doubt remaining.
After weeks of failures, countless adjustments, and more than a few wasted potatoes, they had succeeded.
Brandon stood looking at the row of newly filled casks while the craftsmen cleaned the workshop around him.
Harwyn came to stand beside him.
“So…”
“What now, my prince?”
Brandon rested one hand upon the nearest barrel.
The corners of his mouth lifted into a quiet smile.
“Now…”
“…the King shall judge whether our winter has been well spent.”