Back in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, after the whole cock-up that forced Rickard into the thick of it instead of returning home like his father had ordered him to, Lord Edwyle Stark told his son two things. When a father gives to his son, both laugh. But when a son gives to his father, both cry.
"And what greater thing could a son give his father than himself, sound and hale!"
At the time, Rickard had thought the man was just covering his own arse for breaking into tears in front of everyone else. Even today Rickard held the same opinion, seeing as 'everyone else' included not just Rickard's but also his father's age-peers. Lord Steffon Baratheon of Storm's End and Lord Jon Arryn of the Eyre. More than that, though, Rickard had immediately thought of over half a dozen things he could have given his father that would have made him do much different things than cry. Alternatively, he could have given or done things that would have made only one of them cry.
"Hey Father!"
As Nightmane burst out of the snowdrift onto the road proper and finally managed to break into a gallop again, Lord Rickard of House Stark was hard-pressed not to snarl. He'd been on the knife's edge of the absolute best moment of his entire life, only for it to be cut short by that blowhorn-blowing, smart-mouthed little brat!
"Father, over here!"
One moment Rickard was wrapping an arm around his wife and reaching to do the same to his precious heir who'd done and given so much. The next he was grabbing at nothing. Because at some point in his mesmerised lantern watching, his son had taken advantage of everyone's distraction to ditch him and his warden!
"Don't blame Cassel, it really wasn't his fault this time!"
Some part of Rickard Stark wondered at the strong grip Brandon had somehow established on him, to make him react like this. Make him bark parting orders, all but sprint to his mount and take off in furious pursuit while leaving everyone else gaping behind. The rest of him coiled like a spring, leaned forward in his saddle and drove his mount to the fastest speed she'd ever reached in an effort to catch up to his son and give him a piece of his mind.
"I bet I can get back to Winterfell before you can!"
"Hya! HYA!" The horse reared and shot forward as if launched by a scorpion. The cold bit sharply at his face. His cloak whipped in the wind. Smallfolk big and small yelped and got out of the way as fast as they could. But it wasn't fast enough so he did snarl, swerved to the side and spurred his horse forward on the very edge of the path where people were fewer. Horseshoes clak-clak-clacked as they bit into the driftbank as much as they did the hard earth and glazed frost.
He still only caught one last flash of his son's back as he bent forward on those foot boards of his and disappeared across the hills.
For a moment, Rickard Stark actually considered trying to cut through the snow a second time. But it nearly reached Nightmane's knees in places, so he'd doubtlessly just slow to a crawl like the first time. A problem that his son didn't seem to have as he all but flew across the snow on those skis of his.
No matter. He'd just need to circumvent him. Brandon might be able to cut straight across the hills, but whatever gain he made now would be lost soon enough. Winterfell was built atop the highest plateau between the Wolfswood and the White Knife. Unless Brandon had the agility of a grasshopper, the endurance of a direwolf, and the strength of a giant in those small arms of his, he'd be plodding uphill all five of the last miles no matter how hard he pushed with those two sticks. Ample time for an able horseman to cut him off, even by the long way along the Kingsroad. And Rickard was more than merely able. Why, if he kept up this pace he should easily reach Wintertown, cut through it, cut through Winterfell even, and come out of the North gate to welcome his heir home like he deserved.
High and not so high up in the sky, the lanterns seemed to be of the same mind. Already they all but lit his path, seemingly pulled to Winterfell ever faster the further they climbed the winds on high.
Thus it was that Rickard of House Stark raced to Winterfell, grunting from the wild pace as much as from his simmering indignation at the sheer audacity his blood had dared put on display. And as he did, he wondered if any among his father and grandfather and all his cousins in Essos ever had days like this.
Probably not, he mused wryly as the Wolf's Blood failed miserably to keep its simmer under the blissful assault of every wholesome emotion conjured by this, the best day of his life. He wondered what that said about him, seeing as those newest and best feelings were wholly owed to Brandon having taken it upon himself to completely destroy their relationship. Proven to possess the wish and the will and the ability and damn the consequences. Unfortunately, the reverse side of those feelings only emerged at the end of the smallfolk-frightening but otherwise uneventful gallop out of the seven hells he was still taking a long time to believe in and good grief, his thoughts were really running away from him if-
Brandon was shooting southward on the hillside right along the wall.
Rickard almost barrelled through a donkey.
Nightmane proved to have enough self-preservation to save both their necks, but it was a close thing and it jarred him like the Stepstones' worst hangover.
… That little rat! He must have crested the last hill and come East instead of keeping a straight line! He was never going for the North Gate at all! And he wasn't even slowing down! He was just charging and laughing even though he was headed right for the largest and tallest of the snow banks and-
"Ho ho ho hOSHI-!"
Brandon shot sideways down the hill side, shot up the snow bank and then literally flew over Rickard's head right as he rode past, laughing like a madman all the while before – no no NO! – he lost control of his flight, tipped backwards and crashed head-first into the snow pile on the opposite side of the gate.
"Brandon!" Rickard Stark reared Nightmane to a stop and practically jumped from the saddle. "BRANDON!" All he could see were the sticks and the boards and one of them had snapped right off his fool boy's foot and even with the moonlight bright upon the white he couldn't see him anywhere – "Don't just gawk there you morons, HELP ME!" The two gaping sentries snapped out of their shock and ran over to help, but they were useless! Their armored bodies sunk into the snow even more hopelessly than he did. He tried to climb up the ridiculously large snow pile – first thing he did tomorrow was having snow hills this big outlawed! – failed to get even three feet up before the snow broke under him and there was no movement!
"My Lord, what-!?"
"Here," Rickard threw his cloak at the guard. Then his gauntlets. Then his bracers and - "Help me out of this! Quickly!" even his coat of plates before he kicked off his boots as well. "Be ready to pull us out!" Then he ran at and up the snow hill. It almost sunk under his weight anyway, but this time he was able to crawl all the way up to the top, where he finally saw two boots sticking out upside down. "Brandon!" The ski snapped in half when he pulled at it, but that just meant less of an obstruction for him to dig and reach down and grab at wool and leather and then pull.
Half-way through, the snow finally gave in and they both tumbled arse over teakettle all the way down to the ground. "Oph-Ung-UNH!" It was all Rickard could do to wrap himself around the smaller body until they came to a stop. Fortunately, the guards proved not entirely useless so they didn't tumble for long. Not so fortunately, they each wore coat of plates. Leather-packed or not, they hurt. Argh. No, not important! "Brandon!"
Beneath him, his son sputtered dazedly in a rumpled mess of ice grains and snowflakes, blinking owlishly.
"You…" He was alright. He was alright. He was alright. "You…" By the Grace of Gods in whose kindness and mercy he no longer believed in, Brandon was alright. "You MORON! No, even morons can be put to good use, if only to make people laugh at their stupidity or off sweeping the floor! An attention whore might be amusing in some way even if just by accident, plenty of ugly people are decent and respectable and better despite their ugly mugs! Hells, even the whiniest cunts can be good for something, even if they make a fuss over nothing and are annoying as a flaming fart out of a dragon's mouth! But you, you, oh you… you… you LACKWIT!" Dimly, Rickard realised that he'd jumped to his feet at some point and was shaking his precious son back and forth by his lapels. Several feet in the air. Violently. "Never before in the history of the world have the Gods come together to create such an abysmal mistake of a mad man like you! Mad child! A mad lad! That's what you are!"
Suspended three-some feet in the air by his tunic, Brandon Stark blinked dazedly as frost and snow rained off of him, no fear of shame or cringe anywhere in sight.
"Well? I'm talking to you, whelp! What do you have to say for yourself!?"
"…Next time I'll kill the landing."
Rickard Stark became his own incredulous, sputtering mess. "Th-There WON"T BE A NEXT TIME!"
Which was when someone or other fell out of his cart in the background, wheezing helplessly under the onset of a sudden, inexplicable coughing fit.
… Lovely.
Withholding a sigh and pointedly not looking around at the crowd of early returnees who found them a more interesting spectacle than the hundreds of floating lights in the sky, Rickard Stark put his son down. Then he motioned for his boots, put on his armor and did not do the same with his cloak. He used it to bundle his son up instead.
"M'not cold."
"I don't care." Although he could see it was true. Despite having been buried in a week's worth of snow, Brandon was breathless and flushed but did not shiver and showed no goosebumps at all. His skin wasn't showing any frostbite either, although he at least wore mittens. On the other hand, Rickard had never seen him wearing more than two layers let alone a cloak, save during heavy rain. Nevertheless, he'd spoken truly that he didn't care. Right now. "Guards. Return to your posts. And you!" Rickard barked at the commoner that couldn't seem to stop wheezing despite how everyone else was inching away more and more by the moment. "Disperse this snow mound. I expect it to be no more than five feet tall by the time the sky lamps go out! The guards will be watching you!"
"Yes m'lord!" The man said as he climbed to his feet and panted heavily in an attempt to mask his 'coughing' with fatigue. Badly. "Of course, m'lord! Right away!"
Gods, he really was surrounded by idiots, wasn't he?
Glaring down at his son, Lord Rickard of House Stark pointed at the gatehouse. "Your chambers. Now. And don't even think to leave my sight again, do you hear me?"
But as if to prove to him and the world entire that he really was born of madness, Brandon nodded in easy compliance and treated him to a look of such fond, earnest elation that it was Rickard's turn to be left breathless this time. If not for his long ingrained aloof mannerisms, he couldn't imagine what sight he would have made.
They entered the keep to a backdrop of moonlight, sky lights and very loud silence from the gathered crowd.
Well, after Brandon stumbled, crouched to unfasten his ruined over-shoes and went around to gather up the remains of his skis. Rickard allowed it, if only because of yet more surprise that needed settling. Those reverse clasps seemed terribly convenient. Could they be applied to anything else?
Speculation and considerations only flowed freely from there. Chiefly around the skis themselves. For all that he'd scared ten years off his life, Brandon had just proven they could make a man match horsemen in full gallop. At least under the right circumstances. It remained to be seen what the full breadth of those right circumstances were, but Rickard could already see them in use when horses couldn't. A bad enough blizzard could close passes and roads for many moons, to say nothing of how snow made the bulk of the Northern plains and hills all but impassable to men and horse alike once it piled high enough. Which always happened by the third moon of winter. Then there was how Brandon and Martyn had come to the fair via same means. If skis worked for full-grown men as well as they did for light-bodied boys of ten…
The walk to Brandon's rooms was one of deep thought. About scouting, hunting, force projection and cross-country travel through the entire winter season. Maybe with the occasional forward outpost here and there. A snow hut every dozen miles perhaps?
He could already see a network appearing atop the map of the Northern Kingdom deep in his mind's eye.
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