A few more months slipped by, and before Brandon quite realized it, his first name day was only days away.
Winterfell had grown busier than usual.
Servants hurried through the halls carrying fresh banners and casks of ale, cooks argued over preparations in the kitchens, and men-at-arms polished mail that would never see battle.
The castle seemed to breathe with anticipation.
The reason soon became apparent.
His father was finally returning.
Brandon had heard the man’s name countless times over the past months.
Soldiers spoke of his victories, servants repeated stories of his generosity, and his mother never failed to smile whenever a raven arrived from the south.
Now, for the first time, he would see the man with his own eyes.
The gates of Winterfell opened shortly after midday.
A column of riders entered the castle yard, their cloaks stained with dust from weeks upon the kingsroad.
At their head rode the Crown Prince.
Edwyn Stark.
Brandon studied him carefully.
His father resembled Rickard Stark more than he had expected.
The same broad shoulders, the same long stride, and the same quiet authority surrounded him.
Yet where the Winter King bore the marks of decades spent ruling and warring, Edwyn still possessed the vigor of youth.
His beard was dark, untouched by grey.
His movements carried none of the stiffness age eventually demanded from even the strongest men.
More than anything else, it was the way he carried himself that caught Brandon’s attention.
It was not arrogance.
Arrogant men sought to convince others of their worth.
Edwyn had no such need.
His confidence had been earned the difficult way—through long marches beneath bitter skies, through battles won with exhausted men, through years spent leading soldiers who followed him because they trusted him, not because they were commanded to.
He looked like a man who expected hardship and had long ago made peace with it.
The first person he approached was the Winter King.
Rickard descended the steps of the Great Hall himself to receive his son.
Neither embraced immediately.
Instead they clasped forearms, warrior greeting warrior, father greeting son.
Only then did Rickard pull him into a brief embrace.
Brandon noticed the old king’s smile.
It was small.
Almost restrained.
Yet it reached his eyes.
Edwyn exchanged a few quiet words with his father before turning toward the queen, bowing respectfully and kissing her cheek.
Only then did his eyes search the gathering crowd.
They found Lady Lyarra almost instantly.
The smile that crossed her face banished months of quiet longing in a single heartbeat.
She hurried toward him with none of the careful composure expected of a lady before remembering where she stood.
Slowing herself at the last moment, she offered him a graceful curtsy instead.
“I’ve been gone too long for formalities.”
He embraced her before she could protest.
For several moments neither spoke.
They simply stood together.
Brandon, watching from his nurse’s arms, thought it strangely comforting.
Not every reunion required grand speeches.
Some needed only silence.
At last Edwyn stepped back.
“And this,” he said, his gaze settling upon the child for the first time, “must be my son.”
There was unmistakable joy upon his face.
Wonder, even.
Yet Brandon also caught something else buried beneath it.
Regret.
A father meeting his child for the first time should not have to count the months already lost.
Edwyn accepted Brandon carefully, almost awkwardly, as though uncertain whether he was holding a prince or something infinitely more fragile.
“You’ve grown,” he murmured.
Brandon resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Of course he had grown.
He had started life small enough to fit comfortably in one arm.
Instead, he reached forward with both tiny hands and grabbed the front of his father’s tunic before making every effort to climb into his lap.
The effect was immediate.
Whatever guilt lingered in Edwyn’s expression vanished.
A broad grin spread across his face.
“Ha!”
He lifted Brandon high into the air with effortless strength.
“Look at that!
Already knows his father.”
The men around him laughed.
“Or perhaps,” Edwyn continued with mock seriousness, “he has simply recognized the finest warrior in the North.”
Rickard snorted.
“The boy has your eyes.”
“He clearly has my judgment as well.”
“You’ve been home all of three minutes,” Rickard replied dryly, “and you’re already praising yourself.”
“If I don’t,” Edwyn answered with a grin, “who will?”
Even the old king laughed at that.
The remainder of the day became a celebration.
The Great Hall filled before sunset.
Long tables groaned beneath roasted meats, fresh bread, smoked fish and great wheels of cheese.
Ale and mead flowed freely while musicians played old songs of the First Men.
The prince had returned victorious.
House Dustin now ruled in Winterfell’s name, and the southern frontier of the kingdom stood stronger than it had in generations.
There was much to celebrate.
Brandon, however, found the festivities considerably less enjoyable.
For what felt like hours he passed from one pair of arms to another.
His mother held him.
Then his father.
Then his grandmother insisted upon her turn before reluctantly surrendering him once more.
Every lord present seemed determined to admire the heir, comment upon how healthy he looked, and declare—with remarkable confidence—that he would surely become a great warrior.
Brandon endured it with the patience only an infant incapable of objecting could muster.
Eventually his body decided enough was enough.
The hall blurred.
Voices grew distant.
Sleep claimed him long before the feast had ended.
The last thing he remembered was being carried back toward the nursery.
Far below, the celebration continued.
Later that evening, when most of the guests had departed, father and son remained beside the dying fire in the Great Hall.
Rickard swirled the wine within his cup before glancing toward Edwyn.
“The boy grows well.”
Edwyn nodded, a faint smile lingering on his face.
“He does.”
“The wet nurse says he’s unusually observant.”
“I noticed.”
“He watches everything.”
Rickard rested his cup upon the table.
“He rarely fusses unless he has reason.”
Edwyn chuckled quietly.
“He spent half the feast staring at everyone as though judging us.”
“Perhaps he was.”
For a brief moment they shared a laugh.
Then Rickard’s expression softened.
“You’ve missed much.”
“I know.”
The prince looked toward the upper floors where his son slept.
“I intend to make up for it.”
The old king followed his gaze.
“So you shall.”
For the first time in many months, Winterfell’s ruling family sat beneath one roof once again.
Outside, the northern wind continued to howl against the ancient walls.
Inside, the castle had never felt warmer.