Once they reached their destination, Rickard cajoled Brandon to go change. Made it a command when the boy said that he 'wasn't all that cold, honest.' Cold or not, Brandon was wet after the frost and snow melted on the walk over. He wasn't quite soaked, but it was close. Rickard himself had been feeling the bite before the natural Winterfell warmth seeped into him. And his proper winter clothing had shaken off most of the snow before that, instead of it getting everywhere. "I don't know or care what bestowed this grit against the cold on you. Now get going."
"It's just breathing and exposure," Brandon muttered, but went to his closet to change.
Rickard took the time to stoke and fuel the fire in the hearth. Fortunately, the servants had been diligent in keeping it so it didn't take long. He then lit a few candles and got acquainted with the place for what was practically the first time. Brandon's chambers could be mistaken for a Maester's. The desk was covered with papers small and big. There were stacks of sheets piled along the walls. All but one of those walls – the one with the window – were covered in bookshelves stuffed to bursting. Though most of them weren't even loaded with actual tomes, but spring and ring books one after another.
Rickard didn't go rifling through them. But he did move closer to the desk to see what Brandon had last been working on. There seemed to be a whole stack of drawings. That was what finally made him give in to the urge to pick through them. Once he brought them close to the candlelight, the quality surprised him. It wasn't exceptional but it was still fairly good. The variety surprised him more. Portraits, landscapes, tools, geometry, even shapeless forms with no seeming purpose. Then there was what appeared to be the newest project being worked on. It turned out to be a sketch of… a barrel mounted sideways on a cart? Except two of the wheels were mounted at the front and back of the barrel, rather than the cart itself.
"I guess now you know why I had to reverse-engineer paper…" Brandon said from behind. Awkwardly. "I went through so much that my allowance didn't cover it even after mother doubled it. Not on top of everything else. Then I kept running out, and no amount of coin was going to make ships any faster."
Rickard had already suspected as much. Even spread across years, Brandon's various enterprises were a bit too extensive for the typical Stark heir's allowance. They only seemed poised to expand too, perhaps beyond what even his more successful investments could cover. Within a reasonable time frame at least. The latest drawing kept pulling at him though. The barrel had some strange attachments, and a sifter underneath it all for some reason. At least that's what he guessed. The sketch seemed unfinished. Barely even half done really. Much of the large paper was entirely bare as well, as if waiting for something else to be added. Below was what Rickard assumed to be the name, but it was done in wholly unfamiliar characters. His heart sunk a little at the sight. Brandon should have regained his words, was that not true? Could he not write? But it couldn't be, could it? Not with the games his children played. Not if he taught them letters.
"… Father, I-"
"I was going to murder you." Rickard spoke the words calmly. Levelly. Because if he forced Brandon even now to bridge the void between them, it would mean his final, total failure as a father and as a man. "The last time I was here, long ago. It wasn't because I missed you. Wanted to hold you. Or because Lyarra was growing spent being the only one caring for you. Though all were true. No, it was so you could tragically drown in the bath."
Dead silence.
"You were weak. Broken. The fever had taken your senses and your words. All signs showed you to be a lackwit. And your moodswings promised a life cut short or, worse, one of long hardship as you grew in body but never developed in mind at all. I couldn't bear the thought of you leading that unlife."
The quiet stretched. Like the gravelike silence deep in the Crypt of Winterfell.
"I was going to murder you. Even as I saw you could still recognize me, I was going to murder you. As your face twisted with the effort to stay aware of your surroundings, I grew more certain that it would be a mercy. And as you tried and failed to walk to the bath on your own, I took it as more reason to strengthen my resolve. Then I lifted you. Placed you into the water. You were so light. It would have been so easy. I had your head in hand, my other on your chest ready to push you down… Then my hands touched the water." Rickard placed the papers back down on the desk. "The lye soap stung my palms. The gouges from where I'd clenched my fists so hard that my nails had torn my skin inside and out. Then you started cleaning the cuts, slowly and clumsily but so kind and careful and I just… I couldn't do it."
The winter winds batted and whistled outside, but even they seemed muted.
"For months I was certain I'd condemned you to a hellish caricature of living. I couldn't bear the sight or even the thought of what you were going through because of my weakness. I pushed you away. That was my second mistake. Cassel was the third. I decided there wouldn't be a fourth, so I cut you off entirely lest I just make it worse. Put you wholly in the care of your guardsman and your mother. Perhaps I was just deluding myself and that was the biggest mistake all along." Rickard sighed. "But then you just… seemed to thrive more and more the further we stayed apart." Even now it seemed that way. Although it may just be him overreacting to his failures again.
Brandon didn't say anything. It was almost as if he weren't in the room anymore at all.
"Well, now you know," Rickard said, at last turning to face his son again. "This thing between us. This is it."
Brandon was standing in the middle of the room, arm raised and finger pointed while gaping at him stupidly.
All at once it dawned on Rickard just what he'd done. And how. And when. He reached up to rub his face, grunting in irritation. At this situation. At himself. "I am sorry son, it seems I can't even stop myself from ruining the day of your greatest achievement." With a final sigh, the man let his hand drop back at his side. "I shouldn't have done this today." His other hand made an aborted move towards his son, but it too fell back. He turned to leave instead. "I'll let you rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."
"Don't you fucking dare!"
Rickard stopped and reached back abruptly. He barely made it in time to stop Brandon from falling face-first into his backside. His son had tried to stop him by his tunic only to be yanked forward instead. He was so light, even now.
The man turned to face him again. "Or we can talk more now. That's alright too."
"Like fuck this is alright!" Brandon pulled harshly out of his grip and stepped back, shaking with angry tension.
Rickard stood and watched as his son stomped to his desk, took his key from a drawer, stormed over to the door, locked it, then stomped over to the other end of the room and viciously threw the key into his closet space.