The following day, Winterfell welcomed its guests.
The woman who entered the Great Hall carried herself with the quiet confidence expected of a daughter of the North.
She bowed before the royal family with practiced grace.
“I am Lyarra Dustin,” she said.
Her voice was calm and steady, neither timid nor overly proud.
When her gaze finally settled upon Brandon, she studied him for only a moment, yet he caught the hint of approval in her eyes.
It was not born of arrogance or ambition, but simple satisfaction.
He looked every inch a Stark.
The long face for which the bloodline was known, broad shoulders, and a physique that surpassed that of many youths five namedays his elder.
Years of disciplined training and methods unknown to the rest of the kingdom had shaped his body well.
After exchanging the customary greetings with Brandon, Lyarra greeted Dacy and young Theon in turn.
Formalities concluded, she was escorted to the chambers prepared for her.
That evening, Winterfell celebrated.
The Great Hall echoed with music, laughter and the clatter of wooden cups as a banquet was held in honor of House Dustin’s arrival.
Lords, household guards and sworn men filled the hall while servants hurried between the tables.
Brandon attended as duty demanded, exchanging the expected courtesies before retiring once the feast had run its course.
The next morning began much as every other.
Brandon rose at his usual hour before dawn.
Before reporting to the training yard, he completed the exercises he had long made part of his daily routine.
Strength, endurance and balance came before the sword.
Only after finishing did he bathe and clean himself thoroughly.
Even within the royal household, most bathed only once every three days, considering anything more unnecessary.
Brandon, however, had little intention of abandoning habits he knew to be beneficial.
By what would have been the seventh hour of the morning, he made his way to the training grounds.
There he found Lyarra.
She stood beside Dacy, practicing with bow and arrow beneath the watchful eye of one of the castle’s instructors.
Her posture was disciplined, each shot improving upon the last.
Nearby, Theon, now nine namedays of age, struggled through the footwork drills expected of every young noble.
A faint smile crossed Brandon’s face.
It pleased him to see that both his siblings—and his future wife—were being taught to defend themselves.
He joined the morning’s training without ceremony.
The lesson ended, as it often did, with a spar against Jon Glover.
Brandon fought well.
Better than he had only a year before.
Even so, experience prevailed.
Glover claimed victory by the narrowest of margins, leaving Brandon both frustrated and quietly satisfied with his own progress.
Afterward, Brandon rode to the fields.
He inspected the crops, spoke with the laborers and ensured the work continued according to his instructions.
The rotation remained on schedule, the sheep were healthy and the harvest continued to exceed that of neighboring fields cultivated by traditional methods.
When his duties were finished, he returned to Winterfell and spent part of the afternoon in Lyarra’s company.
They spoke often over the months that followed.
Of the North.
Of their families.
Of the lands ruled by House Dustin.
Love did not bloom between them, not yet.
Something quieter took its place.
Mutual respect.
Mutual understanding.
For Brandon, that was enough.
Affection could come with time.
Respect was a far firmer foundation upon which to build a marriage.
The harvest continued to surpass expectations.
Brandon’s fields consistently produced more food than those worked by the old methods, though one successful season alone proved little.
The true test would come only after years of cultivation.
Then came another surprise.
Summer did not end.
Another year passed beneath warm skies.
It mattered little.
The fields were rotated exactly as Brandon had planned, and the second year’s crops looked as promising as the first.
At last, the day long discussed by both House Stark and House Dustin drew near.
Throughout the past year, Brandon and Lyarra had come to understand one another.
They had not fallen in love, nor had either expected such a thing.
They had instead built something no less important—trust, respect and the quiet certainty that each would fulfill the duties expected of them.
Love, Brandon believed, could come later.
Duty came first.
And so, beneath an unending summer sky, Winterfell prepared for the wedding of Brandon Stark and Lyarra Dustin.