291 AC
Winterfell
Third Person POV
The crisp, biting air of a Northern morning filled the training yard of Winterfell. The sounds of steel on steel, sharp and rhythmic, cut through the usual quiet hum of the castle. Snow, though melted in patches, still clung stubbornly to the shaded corners of the ancient stone walls.
Sunlight, pale but persistent, slanted across the packed earth, illuminating the breath that plumed from the mouths of the two figures sparring. They moved with a fluid grace, a testament to years of rigorous practice.
It was Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, and his younger brother, Benjen Stark.
Brandon, robust and powerful, moved with a controlled ferocity. His sword, a blur of polished steel, seemed an extension of his will. Every parry, every thrust, was precise, economical.
Benjen, leaner but equally quick, met his brother's attacks with a youthful vigor. He was agile, his movements swift, but lacked the sheer, unyielding power that Brandon possessed.
They had been at it for a while, their movements honed by countless hours in this very yard. Their breathing was steady, disciplined, a testament to the rigorous training they had endured since childhood.
A final, rapid exchange. Brandon's blade snapped forward, a feint, then a swift disarm. Benjen's training sword clattered to the ground, leaving him momentarily exposed.
Brandon lowered his own blade, a faint smile touching his lips. It was a familiar outcome.
Benjen exhaled, a visible puff of steam in the cold air. He nodded, acknowledging the defeat. "Still too quick for me, brother," he conceded, a hint of good-natured frustration in his voice.
Brandon offered him a hand, pulling him easily to his feet. "You're getting faster, Benjen. Just need a bit more weight behind your swing."
They walked towards a rough-hewn wooden bench set against the wall of the armory. A pail of fresh, cold water, drawn from Winterfell's deep well, sat beside it.
They each grabbed a ladle, scooping the icy liquid and drinking deeply, the cool water a welcome relief after their exertions. The sounds of other guards and squires practicing in the distance filled the background.
"So," Benjen began, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "what are your plans for the new year, Brandon? More of those steam carriages?"
Brandon chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Always more. The roads need to be ready for them. The Telegram network is still expanding all around Asgard. Faster communication means faster trade, faster governance."
Benjen nodded, looking out across the yard. His gaze stretched beyond the castle walls, towards the distant, snow-capped peaks.
"I've been thinking," Benjen said, his voice quiet, almost contemplative. "Once the Spring thaw truly sets in, and the new recruits are trained..."
He paused, taking another sip of water. "I think I'll join the Night's Watch."
Brandon's eyes, sharp and intelligent, met his brother's. There was no surprise in his gaze. He had sensed this coming. Benjen had always been drawn to the quiet solitude of the wild, to duty, to something beyond the confines of Winterfell.
"Are you certain, Benjen?" Brandon asked, his voice calm. "It's a hard life. A lonely one. And the Wall is... different now."
"I am certain," Benjen affirmed, his gaze firm. "The Wall may be sealed, and the wildlings gone, but the Watch still holds ancient vows. Someone needs to remember them. To keep the vigil, even if it's a quiet one."
Brandon nodded slowly. He understood. In a rapidly changing world, where ancient threats seemed to fade into myth, some still felt the call of older duties. "Then I won't stop you. You'll make a fine watcher, Benjen. A true Stark of the Watch."
He clapped his brother on the shoulder, a gesture of respect and acceptance. "Just make sure you visit when you can. And send a telegram, not a raven. It's faster."
Benjen grinned, a genuine, easy smile. "I will. And you, brother? How are your own little wolves doing? "
Brandon's expression softened, a warmth entering his eyes. "Hadrian is growing too fast. Already asking about engines and blueprints. He has a keen mind."
"He'll be off to Winterhold soon, won't he?" Benjen asked.
"Aye," Brandon confirmed. "In a few moons. He's eager. Wants to learn all they can teach him about the Asgard, about governance, about the world beyond the Neck."
"Barthogan is all strength and stubbornness," Brandon continued, speaking of his second son. "A true warrior in the making. Reminds me of Father, sometimes."
"And young Cregan?" Benjen chuckled. "Still quiet and watchful?"
"More so than ever," Brandon said, a hint of pride in his voice. "He sees things others miss. A sharp eye, a sharp mind. He'll be a force, that one."
They finished their water, the easy camaraderie of brothers settling between them. The morning practice was done.
"Come," Brandon said, rising from the bench. "It's time for the mid-day meal. Mother will be wondering where we are."
They walked side-by-side, their boots crunching softly on the gravel path that led from the training yard towards the Great Hall. The sounds of the castle grew, a symphony of daily life.
The scent of roasting meats, of fresh bread, and of simmering stews began to waft through the air, drawing them towards the warmth and bustle of the hall.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was a place of ancient stone and roaring fires, a stark contrast to the gilded halls of the Red Keep. But it was no less grand in its own way, filled with the warmth of family and the echoes of centuries of Stark rule.
Sunlight streamed through the high, arched windows, illuminating the banners of House Stark that hung from the rafters. The direwolf, proud and defiant, seemed to watch over the scene.
Long, oaken tables, polished smooth by generations of use, were laden with platters of food. The mid-day meal was a hearty affair, typical of the North.
Roasted venison, thick cuts of beef, steaming bowls of onion soup, and fresh-baked bread were piled high. Tankards of ale and pitchers of water stood ready.
At the head of the main table sat King Rickard Stark, the current King of Asgard. His face, weathered by years of Northern winds, held a look of quiet satisfaction. He was a strong, just lord, proud of his sons and the innovations they brought.
Beside him sat Queen Lyarra Stark, née Sköll, Brandon's mother. Her features, sharper than those of most Westerosi women, hinted at her Asgardian heritage. Her eyes, a pale, striking blue, held a keen intelligence.
To Brandon's right sat his wife, Princess Barbrey Ryswell. Her fiery spirit and sharp wit were a perfect match for Brandon's intensity. She was a woman of strength and intelligence, deeply devoted to her family.
Their three sons, Hadrian, Barthogan, and Cregan, sat nearby, their faces alight with youthful energy and the healthy appetites of growing boys. Hadrian, the eldest, already had a thoughtful, inquisitive look.
Across from them sat Brandon's younger brother, Eddard Stark. Eddard was a man of quiet honor, his demeanor more reserved than Brandon's, but his loyalty was absolute.
Beside Eddard sat his wife,Princess Ashara Dayne. She was a striking woman, her dark hair and violet eyes a splash of Dornish beauty in the stark Northern hall. Eddard had met and married her on one of his travels down South.
Their own children, Arthur, Beron, and Marlon, three sturdy boys, sat with them, along with their young daughter, Diana, a bright-eyed girl with a quick smile.
The hall was filled with the comfortable hum of family conversation, the clatter of plates, and the occasional burst of laughter. The warmth of the hearth fires chased away the lingering chill of the morning.
As the meal progressed, King Rickard cleared his throat, drawing the family's attention. A faint smile played on his lips.
"I received a telegram this morning," King Rickard announced, his voice carrying clearly across the table. "From Lyanna."
A ripple of excitement went through the family. Lyanna, Rickard's daughter, was known for her adventurous spirit, and news from her was always eagerly awaited.
"She has given birth," Rickard continued, his smile widening. "Another son. Healthy and strong, she says."
A chorus of congratulations went around the table. Lady Lyarra beamed, her eyes sparkling with joy. Barbrey Ryswell offered her well wishes.
"And what did she name him, Father?" Eddard asked, a fond smile on his face.
King Rickard's eyes twinkled. "She named him... Ragnar Lothbrok."
A moment of surprised silence. Then, a few chuckles, and some raised eyebrows. The name was bold, ancient, echoing tales from across the Narrow Sea, from the sagas of the First Men and the legendary figures of the North.
"Ragnar Lothbrok?" Barbrey Ryswell repeated, a playful smirk on her face. "Our Lyanna truly knows how to pick a name. Sounds like he'll be a warrior, that one."
"She always did have a flair for the dramatic," Eddard commented, shaking his head with a fond smile. "A true wild wolf, our Lyanna."
"Well, he'll have a strong name to live up to," Brandon said, a thoughtful look on his face. "Ragnar Lothbrok. It speaks of strength, of defiance. A fitting name for a child of the North."
They talked for a while longer about Lyanna and her new son, speculating about his temperament, his future. The conversation then shifted, as it often did, to the wider realm, to the news from the South.
"Speaking of the South," Queen Lyarra said, her gaze turning to Brandon. "I received word from King Maekar's court. The tourney at Dragonhold is set to be quite the event."
King Rickard nodded, his expression becoming more serious. "Aye. Three moons from now. It's expected to be the biggest tourney Westeros has seen in decades. Every lord of South and Asgard will be attending. And many more besides."
"It's meant to be a grand show of peace, isn't it?" Eddard mused. "A demonstration of the two kingdoms' unity."
"Precisely," Brandon confirmed. "It will be a spectacle. A testament to the golden age. A chance for all the kingdoms to see the progress, the stability, the interconnectedness."
"And to show that peace still prevails between the two kingdoms," Princess Barbrey added, her gaze falling on Brandon, a subtle acknowledgment of the Stark-Targaryen alliance that underpinned much of this peace.
"It will be a fine opportunity to see how the South has truly changed," Benjen said, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "And to see how the Dragonhold students fare against Winterhold."
The conversation continued, flowing easily between family matters and the affairs of the realm. The Great Hall, filled with the warmth of the fire, the aroma of the meal, and the comfortable presence of family, was a haven of peace and prosperity.
The Starks, grounded in their ancient traditions yet embracing the future, were a testament to the new era. And the tourney at Dragonhold, a grand celebration of this peace, awaited them.
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A|N: Theon Stark is reincarnated as Brandon Stark