The days passed as they always did for an infant.
Brandon ate, slept, cried when the cold became too much to bear, and spent an unreasonable amount of time wondering why every adult around him seemed convinced that cheeks needed to be pinched at every opportunity.
It was an indignity he hoped would disappear with age.
His body grew slowly.
His mind never stopped working.
The greatest gift the strange being had granted him during this life was not the library waiting somewhere beyond his thoughts.
It was the language.
The words spoken around him no longer sounded foreign.
They were as natural as those of his first life, allowing him to listen while everyone else believed the heir to Winterfell understood nothing beyond hunger.
People spoke far more freely around a babe than they did around a grown man.
Servants gossiped.
Guards complained.
Stewards argued over supplies.
Wet nurses repeated stories they had heard from soldiers returning from the south.
Piece by piece, Brandon assembled a picture of the family into which he had been born.
The eldest living member of House Stark was his grandfather, Rickard Stark.
Forty-five years of age, Rickard stood firmly in his prime.
He was neither the old patriarch Brandon had first imagined nor the weathered veteran his grey-streaked beard suggested.
His shoulders remained broad, his movements steady, and his voice carried the quiet confidence of a man who had spent more years commanding warriors than sitting upon a throne.
He was respected.
Feared.
And, within the walls of Winterfell, genuinely loved.
He had also yet to meet anyone foolish enough to test his patience.
His father was another matter.
Edwyn Stark.
The name was spoken often enough, though never with grief.
With pride.
Edwyn was alive.
Months before Brandon’s birth he had ridden south with the host of Winterfell, leading much of the army against the Barrow Kings.
The campaign had ended in victory.
The ancient kings of the barrows had been defeated, their banners cast down and their crown surrendered to House Stark.
The conquest, however, had not ended quietly.
During the negotiations that followed, while peace was supposedly being discussed beneath banners of truce, men still loyal to the defeated royal house had attempted to murder Prince Edwyn and several of the Stark commanders.
They had failed.
Brandon never learned exactly how close the attempt had come to succeeding.
Judging by the stories whispered throughout the castle…
Far closer than anyone cared to admit.
Rickard Stark’s response had been immediate.
Mercy disappeared from the Winter King’s court.
Nearly every grown man of the defeated royal bloodline was executed before the moon had turned.
Those judged too young to die were stripped of their inheritance and sent north to take the black, their lives to be spent upon the Wall.
The women of the defeated dynasty were spared, though not left untouched by the conquest.
They were married into the households of captains, landed warriors and lesser nobles whose loyalty to Winterfell had never wavered during the war.
Some called it reward.
Others called it necessity.
No one dared call it cruel within earshot of the king.
The message had been unmistakable. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
The Barrow Kings would never rise again.
The old kingdom was dead.
In its place stood House Dustin.
The Dustins had been raised from powerful lords to rulers of the Barrowlands beneath the authority of Winterfell.
The land still bled from years of war, its keeps damaged, its harvests neglected and many of its lesser lords uncertain where their loyalties now belonged.
For that reason, Prince Edwyn had not yet returned home.
He remained in the south, helping the newly raised House Dustin establish its rule, settling disputes before they became rebellions and ensuring that the conquest endured after the swords had been sheathed.
According to the castle’s steward, he would likely return within the year.
“His Grace wishes the prince to remain until Lord Dustin’s rule is secure,” Brandon overheard one evening as two household warriors spoke beside the hall.
“A kingdom isn’t held by victory alone.”
“The prince won’t like missing another winter.”
“He’ll like another rebellion even less.”
Their voices faded as they continued down the corridor.
Brandon considered everything he had learned.
The North was larger than it had been a year ago.
Stronger as well.
Yet conquest always carried a price.
The Barrowlands had submitted.
Whether they had accepted Stark rule remained another question entirely.
He had once believed history changed only through great battles.
Already he was beginning to suspect that winning a war was often the easier task.
Keeping the peace afterward…
That was where kingdoms were truly made.