The years passed more quickly than Brandon had imagined.
By the time he celebrated his eighth name day, the tiny infant who had once spent his days sleeping in a cradle had become a healthy, energetic boy.
His days were no longer his own.
Every hour had a purpose, every lesson another stone laid upon the path toward one day becoming the Winter King.
Most mornings began in the training yard.
His instructor was Jon Glover, the youngest brother of Lord Glover, a capable warrior whose patience was as sturdy as the oaken practice swords he handed to his students.
Jon believed that every warrior, no matter how gifted, was built upon discipline rather than talent.
Brandon quickly learned he was right.
Before he was ever allowed to swing a sword, Jon drilled him endlessly on balance and footwork.
Only when his stance was satisfactory would the wooden blade find its way into his hands.
Again.
And again.
Until the movements became instinct.
Alongside swordsmanship came archery.
Though he enjoyed the bow, his lessons remained limited.
He was still only a child, and the real weapons of the age remained out of his reach.
Not that it bothered him much.
What truly bothered him was what those weapons were made of.
Bronze.
Every sword, axe, spear and knife in the North was cast from bronze.
Farmers ploughed with bronze tools.
Masons shaped stone with bronze chisels.
Even the finest warriors of the kingdom carried bronze blades upon their hips.
Iron and steel did not yet exist in Westeros.
To Brandon, that single fact explained half the kingdom’s problems.
Bronze was serviceable, but it dulled quickly, bent under abuse and demanded constant replacement.
Entire industries were held back simply because better metal had yet to be discovered.
He intended to change that.
Eventually.
He already had a few ideas where iron ore might be found.
The lands surrounding the Dreadfort seemed the most promising.
Their rocky hills and exposed cliffs resembled regions on Earth where iron deposits were common.
Whether he was right remained to be seen.
For now, it hardly mattered.
He was eight years old.
No lord would organize an expedition because a child claimed a hill looked promising.
That would have to wait.
His father and grandfather occasionally took charge of his martial lessons as well.
Those days were uncommon, but Brandon treasured them.
Jon Glover taught him technique.
Rickard Stark taught him patience. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Edwyn Stark taught him how a warrior thought.
His father fought with the confidence of a man who had marched across half the North, won battles and buried friends.
Every movement carried purpose.
Nothing was wasted.
Watching him was as valuable as any lesson.
Training, however, did not end when he left the yard.
Each evening, once the castle had settled into silence, Brandon quietly exercised within his chambers.
Push-ups.
Squats.
Lunges.
Planks.
Simple movements repeated until his muscles burned.
There were no weights suitable for an eight-year-old, nor would it have been wise to lift them if there had been.
Instead, he focused on building a strong foundation—balance, coordination, flexibility and endurance.
His future body would be forged long before he ever wore armour.
The servants had begun whispering about his appetite.
The cooks claimed the prince ate enough for two boys.
Sometimes three.
On particularly hungry days, Brandon managed portions that rivaled those of his father, earning amused laughter from the guards and exasperated sighs from his mother.
He hardly cared.
Muscle demanded food.
Starving oneself while expecting to grow stronger was a fool’s bargain.
Winterfell’s kitchens had yet to discover the concept of protein intake, but Brandon intended to make full use of whatever was placed before him.
His family had grown as well.
When Brandon was two, his parents welcomed a daughter.
They named her Dacey Stark.
Unlike her older brother, Dacey possessed enough curiosity for three children.
She asked questions about everything, climbed wherever she was told not to, and had already become the favorite victim of every servant forced to chase her through Winterfell’s halls.
Four years later came another child.
A son.
He was named Theon Stark.
Still only a toddler, Theon spent most of his time stumbling after his older siblings with complete confidence that someone would rescue him before he wandered into real trouble.
Watching Dacey and Theon grow, Brandon often found himself appreciating the family into which he had been born.
His parents had married because duty demanded it.
So had his grandparents.
Yet duty had long since become affection, and affection had quietly blossomed into love.
There were disagreements, as every family had, but they never lingered.
Winterfell was a home before it was a castle, and Brandon considered himself fortunate for it.
As heir, he had also begun attending his grandfather’s court.
He rarely spoke.
He simply watched.
Rickard Stark heard petitions with remarkable patience, weighing disputes between farmers and merchants with the same care he gave quarrels among his bannermen. Get faster updates on g.com.
Edwyn often stood beside him, offering advice when asked but never attempting to overshadow the old king.
It was there Brandon learned the true condition of the Winter Kingdom.
Its greatest weakness was not population.
Nor land.
It was productivity.
Bronze tools made farming painfully inefficient.
Fields yielded less than they should, forests took longer to clear, and craftsmen spent more time repairing broken tools than creating new ones.
The kingdom worked hard.
Far harder than it needed to.
Fortunately, not every improvement required iron.
Crop rotation alone could transform agriculture.
Potatoes, dismissed by many as little more than food fit for peasants, could dramatically increase yields if introduced properly.
Combined with grains and legumes, they would replenish exhausted soil while producing enough food to support a growing population.
Even allowing for the world’s unpredictable seasons, Brandon estimated that harvests could increase by nearly thirty percent.
Perhaps more.
The North’s sheep presented another opportunity.
The kingdom possessed vast grazing lands, yet wool was treated as little more than a necessity.
Too much fleece was discarded, and what remained was woven into coarse cloth that scratched so badly Brandon wondered whether it had been designed as punishment.
He intended to change that as well.
His nightly studies now extended beyond agriculture.
He learned the principles behind better spinning wheels, improved looms, efficient carding techniques and methods of producing softer, finer wool using nothing more than materials already available in the kingdom.
Glassmaking.
Distillation.
Vodka.
Whiskey.
Improved weaving.
One by one, he committed them to memory.
Several evenings were spent sketching improved spinning wheels and loom designs onto parchment, carefully hiding them away beneath a loose floorboard in his chamber.
Of every idea he possessed, wool seemed the most achievable.
It required no miraculous discovery.
No iron.
No great political struggle.
Simply better craftsmanship.
If the quality of northern wool improved, so too would its value.
Merchants would pay more, trade would grow, and prosperity would follow.
Agricultural reform, however, would have to wait.
Convincing thousands of stubborn farmers to abandon the methods of their fathers was not something an eight-year-old prince could accomplish.
Not yet.
Brandon smiled to himself.
Kingdoms were not transformed by grand miracles.
They were transformed by a thousand small improvements, each building upon the last until one day people looked back and wondered how things had ever been different.