Spring arrived in the North, and the ice and snow began to melt. Looking at the muddy roads, Bran found himself reluctant to step outside. Instead, he wandered the estate, turning his attention to decorating the staircases and railings within the manor grounds.

  On the second floor, directly facing the grand entrance, he erected a statue. Modeled after Dany, the figure had a hawk perched on her raised arm. The craftsmanship was so detailed that, at first gnce, one might mistake it for a living being. Every strand of hair, every fold in the fabric was meticulously carved, a stark contrast to the North’s traditionally rugged style. But Dany was delighted. Every time she gazed upon the statue, her eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

  The manor had been undergoing a slow yet steady transformation—subtle at first, but now, against the backdrop of the castle, it appeared almost eerie. It was like a hulking warrior flexing his muscles, only to then extend his fingers delicately, revealing a perfectly manicured pinky nail.

  Bran’s manor had become that painted pinky nail—beautiful, but conspicuously out of pce. The outer walls, once simple and sturdy, were now adorned with eborate carvings of flora and fauna. The tops of the walls unduted in a serpentine fashion. Dany jokingly called it the "Wall of Sighs" because every time Bran added another design, he would let out a deep sigh and begin another of his strange tales. His stories always started the same way: "A long, long time ago…" At which point, the bck cat, Huahua, would habitually sit up straight and narrow its eyes.

  At first, Dany had ignored his murmured storytelling, much like one would disregard a child talking to their toys. But one day, out of curiosity, she listened as Bran quickly sculpted a small bird holding a pebble in its beak and began narrating the tale of Jingwei filling the sea. From then on, she found herself drawn in, listening time and again.

  As the manor evolved according to Bran’s vision, the Duchess began visiting more frequently. She brought along her youngest daughter, who soon cimed a space in Bran’s training grounds. Only then did Bran truly grasp the formidable nature of Northern women.

  His mother, like many Northern women, was tall and powerfully built. Though she had borne multiple children, her frame remained strong and agile. Every movement she made was deliberate and efficient, honed through years of relentless martial training. In Bran’s eyes, she had always been gentle—careful, even, as though afraid to break him. But in the training yard, she was different. Watching her drill his little sister with unwavering discipline made him feel a deep sense of inadequacy.

  Bran never concealed his training methods. He never assumed that his previous life’s knowledge of movement and combat would surpass the techniques of this world—a world forged in endless conflict, where useless skills meant death. Anything that ensured survival was valuable.

  His mother quickly noticed Bran’s unique approach. He prioritized speed over brute force but cked the courage to charge forward, making his style elusive and slippery. She also observed a peculiar technique he employed: total rexation to maximize speed, sacrificing some power, only to convert that speed into force at the st moment. "A clever trick," she praised.

  But mastering such techniques was difficult. In a world where survival often came down to direct combat, using an unfamiliar style recklessly was a death sentence. Though she had no intention of forcing her beloved son into adulthood’s brutal rites of passage, she saw no harm in personally training him and sharing her experience.

  Northern women, even the toughest among them, still carried a certain fluidity in their fighting styles. Since training with Dany, and now his mother, Bran’s combat techniques had shifted away from the North’s raw, forceful approach. Instead, his movements became more refined, incorporating a strange, almost unnatural elegance—an eerie amalgamation of his past and present selves.

  He was becoming an anomaly among Northerners, though he remained unaware of it. Focused on mimicking his mother’s movements, he diligently trained his growing body during these crucial developmental years. As all warriors knew, training was about repetition—ingraining skills into muscle memory until they became second nature, as effortless as breathing. And Bran’s first two mentors were women. His first sparring partner? His little sister, Cirie.

  …

  At first, his mother visited simply out of concern for her son. But she gradually noticed how pristine the manor had become. Even the wolves, before entering, would pause to wipe their paws on the ground—a sight that left her momentarily speechless.

  Over time, she grew fond of the estate. What began as occasional visits turned into a permanent stay, where she oversaw her children's training. She even stationed guards at the entrance. Bran, like a territorial beast, had initially bared his teeth in protest, unwilling to allow outsiders into his domain. But in the end, he compromised, permitting access to the ground floor while keeping the second floor strictly off-limits. The old bcksmith’s workshop was repurposed into living quarters for the servants.

  At some point, his sister moved in, bringing her attendants with her and ciming a section of the estate as her own. More people gradually settled in, and Bran’s control over the manor weakened.

  Fortunately, when designing the upper floors, Bran had anticipated such changes. The second story appeared to be a single structure but was actually composed of four interconnected towers arranged in a rectangur formation, enclosing a spacious central courtyard. Though they all technically lived under the same roof, the separation ensured minimal interference between them.

  What truly unsettled Bran, however, was that the manor was no longer solely his domain. Yet, at the very least, everyone who lived here had grown cleaner and more orderly.

  With this shift in mind, Bran relocated all weapons and valuable items from the storeroom to the rgest room in his personal quarters, securing it with a heavy lock. The lock itself was a decoy—any potential intruder would waste time trying to pick it, unaware that the real security y in the hidden tches at the corners of the doorframe.

  Just to tempt any would-be thieves further, Bran inscribed three bold words above the doorway: Treasure Vault. He often imagined an intruder spending hours trying to pick the lock, completely oblivious to the true mechanism keeping the door shut.