Ned stood at Brandon's side. The two exchanged glances when Robert rushed the dance floor with Lyanna in tow.

"What do you make of him, Brandon?"

"Not much. Been busy finding a place to hide a body that big."

The younger Stark breathed a sigh partway between amusement and defeat. He trailed their fast-departing sister with vigilant eyes, pointedly ignoring the self-satisfied smirk on Brandon's face.

It was the eve of the tourney proper, and the festivities were well underway. A veritable sea of banners flew over the darkened skies of Harrenhal as notable guests flooded the Hall of a Thousand Hearths–a grand structure that could house the Great Halls of Winterfell and Eyrie with room to spare. Overhead, many-coloured tapestries displayed the heraldry of noble families great and small. Above the high table, eclipsing them all, hung the three-headed dragon in sable black and red.

Teams of servants hoisted platters of whole-roasted boar onto lavish banquet tables while a pond-sized fountain bubbled with well-aged wine. A small army of minstrels filled the hall with music as lords and ladies encircled entire troupes of mummers performing on a makeshift stage, their voices growing ever louder as they vied for attention and applause.

Westeros had not witnessed such a gathering since the last Great Council, and Ned found himself swept up in the spectacle.

Robert–no doubt at Lady Cassana's behest–had greeted their party sporting a lavish, form-fitting doublet that hampered his every step. The massive Baratheon had all but staggered into a stiff bow, and Lyanna had appraised her betrothed with the scrutiny of a merchant inspecting a potential purchase. The sight had nearly spurred Ned to laughter.

Now he and Brandon stood amongst Lord Whent's honored guests, eyeing their dear sister and goodbrother-to-be. With every man sworn to the Baratheons and Starks shadowing their every step, Ned doubted either would misbehave and allowed his attention to wander, trusting Brandon to keep watch.

He surveyed the hall as guests in recognizable colors came and went. The sights and sounds soon blurred together, forming an idle backdrop for the young knight's musings.

Then, a stir among the nearby lords caught his attention. Their heads turned as one, and Ned followed suit, nearly staggering at the sight that held their gaze.

'Beautiful.'

No other thought came to mind as a lady descended the high table, her sun-kissed face set with haunting violet eyes. Tumbling dark hair draped her bare shoulders, falling over a lilac dress cut in the Dornish style, clasped with silver breastpins depicting a white sword and star.

The Wolf Knight's breath caught in his throat, and his pulse thrummed through his fingers when the lady of Starfall surveyed the gathered lords. Her gaze passed over him, and Ned was sure he only imagined the smile that graced her lips.

The young Stark had heard whispers of Ellia Martell's companion at court, a beauty said to rival Lord Tywin's daughter. Seeing the truth for himself, Ned thought the rumors wholly inept, for the lady before him was beyond compare.

"She's a comely one."

Brandon clasped his shoulder, drawing Ned from his daydreams. The gesture, warm and seemingly harmless, had the younger Stark praying to the gods for strength.

"That's Ashara Dayne of Starfall."

"I wasn't aware," Brandon assured, his tone wholly insincere as he flashed a smile that left his brother wary. "Trying to lecture me on heraldry, Ned?"

The younger Stark had no rebuttal, and to his immense misfortune, Brandon pressed the issue.

"You should ask her for a dance."

Ned faced his brother with a look of horror.

"She's Arthur Dayne's sister!" he hissed, "Princess Elia's lady-in-waiting!"

"And you are a Stark of Winterfell and a knight with feats rivaling those of the Kingsguard."

"Brandon–"

"Go."

The hand on his shoulder suddenly appeared at his back. The harsh shove that followed sent Ned stumbling forward, well past Lady Ashara's other admirers.

Innumerable guests turned his way. The ensuing tittering and laughter even drew attention from the high table.

The young knight shot his brother a withering glare, the sense of betrayal only dampened by the severity of his plight. Were the situation less dire, he might have appreciated the irony of a Stark being thrown to the wolves.

He had no choice but to advance: to retreat now would be deemed an act of cowardice no better than deserting the battlefield. Worse, by many accounts.

'Let it not be said that a Stark died without dignity.'

Making peace with his predicament and cursing Brandon with every breath, Ned stepped forward. His boots clicked against the slate-tiled floor, the vast hall suddenly much too quiet as he reached the steps.

"My lady," he greeted, bowing low and suppressing his nerves as best he could, "I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell."

For the briefest moment, the fair lady said nothing, and the world stood still, waiting. When she finally spoke, Ned could no longer deny the glimmer of interest within her eyes.

"Ashara Dayne of Starfall," she offered, and how her voice flowed like a melody, "It is a pleasure to meet Lorra's savior."

'Ah.'

Warmth bloomed in Ned's breast as the pieces fell in place. As he rose, holding Ashara's gaze, he vowed to thank Lady Waynwood for this kindness.

"May I have this dance, my lady?"

Confident that Ned could fend for himself, Brandon returned his attention to Baratheon, contemplating how he might murder the man if the need arose. Explaining the exercise to passersby had allowed him to decline the overtures of several ladies with minimal offense and measured grace.

"And here I was thinking the evening's festivities lacked flair." A new voice disturbed his vigil. "Imagine my surprise when you Northerners volunteered yourselves for the main event."

The Northern Blade turned, greeted by a stranger who was decidedly not a lady vying for the attention of Winterfell's heir. A tall, slender man stood several paces away, his face set with sharp eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thin smile that warned of a keen mind and mercurial temper. He strolled forward at a languid pace, hands relaxed at his back, Dornish guards trailing his every step. He wore Martell colors, but Brandon hardly needed help recognizing a man of such infamous reputation.

"Prince Oberyn," Brandon greeted. He offered a nod but nothing more. A prince the Martell may be, but a prince of Dorne was not a prince of the Realm, and a Stark did not lower his head on a whim.

"Lord Stark," came the reply, the greeting improper and intentionally so. "Or would you prefer the Northern Blade?"

The Dornishman exuded mirth. He made a show of scanning Brondon with an appreciative gaze before finally dipping his head. "Your reputation precedes you."

The eldest son of Rickard Stark regarded the Red Viper, who had earned his moniker after poisoning Edgar Yronwood in an ill-fated duel, leaving his nephew a ward–a hostage–of their family's ancient enemy. Brandon would have thought worse of the man were his own crimes less severe.

"I could say the same."

Oberyn smiled, and the amusement in his eyes pricked at Brandon's anger. The prince's levity and unguarded mannerisms reminded him much of his teacher, but the comparison felt unearned, for Lord Fairchild had always regarded the North, regarded Father, with curiosity, candor, and respect. Oberyn, in contrast, carried himself with a certainty that belied conceit and a quiet disregard that bordered condescension.

Brandon schooled his expression as the prince surveyed the crowd.

"Rare is it for our peoples to cross paths," the Donishman mused. "I would introduce you to dear Elia and my uncle. Alas, royal duties demand their attention."

"My family had the privilege of meeting the royal family when we arrived," Brandon remarked, motioning to the high table, beset by nobles eager to greet the princess and crown prince. Oberyn turned on his heels, barely acknowledging the reply.

"My men managed to liberate a choice vintage from Lord Whent's personal stores, one I've been meaning to try. Care to partake, Lord Stark?"

Already weary of the man, Brandon thought to refuse, but he knew better than to spurn a man so close to the royal family. Departing the dance floor, he spared a glance at his siblings, garnering a laugh from the prince.

"Worry not. I'm confident Lord Dayne's men will safeguard your brother's honor."

Grey eyes watched as Oberyn poured two generous goblets of richly-colored wine, bringing both to his lips before slipping one across the table. Brandon accepted the cup but made no move to drink: the wine was mere pretense for whatever Oberyn wished to discuss, and the prince did not keep him waiting.

"The Northern Blade." The Martell tested the name on his tongue, savoring words seemingly more flavorful than the wine on his lips, "Rumors say you're the best sword House Stark has produced since the last Cregan. It's quite the boast, one I'd almost not believe."

"And yet you do," Brandon countered, noting how Oberyn had omitted his better-known contemporary, Arthur Dayne.

"I'm afraid your reputation has little to do with it." The prince motioned behind him, where Ned and Ashara were still dancing, well after the first song's end. "While I'm sure any Northerner would happily inflate your reputation to curry your father's favor, the Valemen are a proud, dull lot. Their knights would sooner bed a mountain raider than admit an outsider bested one of their own."

Oberyn studied his companion with keen, dark eyes.

"Yet word has it your brother has beaten Bronze Yohn on several occasions."

Brandon held the Viper's gaze, having nothing to say. When compared to his brother, Brandon was the better blade, but that reputation had not reached the South. What Oberyn knew of the Northern Blade derived from rumor and hearsay. In contrast, Ned had made his skills known during his travels through the Vale and Stormlands. Brandon would freely admit his brother was the warrior of greater renown, a reputation that would serve him well.

"And yet, for all of your brother's accolades, for all I've heard of your skills, neither of you are betrothed. I've not heard rumors of a paramour or even a bastard, not one. It's all so very dull." The Donishman swirled his wine, eyeing his companion over the rim of his cup. "Tell me, Lord Stark, does your father have reason to fear for his legacy?"

There was a time when Oberyn's words would have driven Brandon to violence. Even now, the wolf's blood simmered in his veins as he tested the weight of his goblet, entertaining the thought. But while Brandon hesitated to claim the years had changed him, there was no denying he had grown: Even if he managed to crack the Dornishman's head open, it would still mean defeat by every meaningful measure.

Brandon was no stranger to desire: He had traversed much of the North, often at Father's behest. He had visited distant keeps and driven bandits from remote villages. Many a smallfolk had been grateful for his efforts. More than once, he had been propositioned, and Brandon confessed there were times when his discipline faltered.

He had been careful, seeking only experienced women who knew their trade and plied it well. There had been highborn ladies who had offered the same, but Brandon had refused their advances, for the pain of losing Barbrey still lingered, to say nothing of the consequences of siring a bastard of noble birth. He would not subject Ned to such a burden.

A great number of Northern lords had grumbled, wondering why the heir of Winterfell remained unwed. Just as many questioned why their liege lord had refused lesser matches for his younger son. They would not have to wonder long. Once Brandon returned North and renounced his claim, Ned would take his place at Father's side. Whether or not the future Lady of Winterfell happened to be Dornish, Brandon wished for his brother's happiness.

The thought assuaged his anger. Now more than ever, Oberyn's words rang hollow.

"I've heard it said that winter freezes a Northerner's heart in his chest, yet my lord father has four children to his name." Brandon's words echoed a calm, cold certainty. "I have also heard that the southern sun roasts a Dornishman's brain in his head."

A guard stiffened at the prince's side. Brandon paid him no mind as he drank from his cup.

"You have yet to offer me words that discredit the claim, my prince."

The guards stirred as one. Some reached for steel, only to stop when their prince released a ring of laughter. Brandon waited for Oberyn to master his men.

"You are not what I had expected," the Viper praised, eyes bright with newfound intrigue like a snake realizing his prey bore fangs. "Perhaps there's hope for Lord Rickard's legacy after all."

Nothing more was said as both men drank. The Martell poured more wine. Well aware of his reputation, he again offered to sample his companion's cup, which Brandon found no reason to refuse.

"Brave of you to offer your brother up to Ashara," Oberyn mused after a time. "Putting him in her sights…I'm unsure if I should offer you a toast or accuse you of kinslaying now that he's gained Arthur's attention."

"I fail to see how that would matter."

"So you say," the prince replied, and for the first time, Brandon detected a hint of fire behind his voice. The Martell rose from his seat, having nothing more to say. The Northern Blade bid the Red Viper farewell as the Dornishmen made for the high table.

"Oh, and Lord Stark," Oberyn's voice forced Brandon to turn. "It's not a Northerner's heart that shrinks in the cold but rather his head."

Brandon waited for the Dornish prince to disappear before breathing a sigh, grateful for the absence of Martell gold, orange, and red. He was not made for such battles, to spar with veiled insults and japes, wagering his family's reputation with every word and breath. He would much rather face the beasts of his teacher's homeland and whatever horrors that entailed. If nothing else, the claws of a beast would offer a swifter death than embarrassment at court.

Ned sprinted down the hall, his armor clattering with every step. He had awoken barely an hour earlier, closer to midday than daybreak. The servants had barely helped him into a spare suit of armor before he made a mad dash for the yard.

It was the first day of the tourney. Though the melee was three days off, every worthwhile warrior would be spending that time displaying their skill and prowess. Challenges would undoubtedly be issued while ladies spectated the ensuing duels. The coming days would be no less important than the melee itself.

And Ned had overslept.

He reached the battlements overlooking the sparring ring in good time. There, he met his brother, dressed in plain yet well-crafted plate, the barest hint of sweat upon his brow.

"Morning," Brandon greeted with an innocuous wave and guilty smile.

"You told the guards not to wake me."

Brandon did not deny the accusation, much too pleased with himself.

"You had a busy night. Thought you needed the rest."

"It was only a dance."

"It was three. Practically a scandal."

Well aware this was an argument he could only lose, Ned stared out into the yard, where Robert was engaging a Hightower knight.

"What happened while I was asleep?"

"Heard that the king would be arriving for tonight's feast."

Ned nodded, not at all surprised. He would have thought it stranger had Prince Rhaegar tried to host the grand tourney alone.

"Benjen also enjoyed himself," Brandon added with a wry smile. "Thought you should know."

Once more, Ned found himself speechless and similarly abashed. Distracted by last night's festivities, he had neglected their youngest brother, who had spent the evening amongst the pages and junior squires.

The younger Stark stewed in his guilt until his brother once more demanded his attention.

"Ned," he said, and the Wolf Knight startled at how his tone changed.

"We are not the challengers here."

Nothing more was said, yet an unspoken understanding passed between them.

A mighty roar sounded through the yard as the heir of Storm's End bludgeoned his opponent into the dirt with a wooden mallet.

"Stark!" He bellowed, directing his hammer at Brandon while stepping over his fallen foe, "Get your ass down here, so I can buff a new dent into your head!"

"Go fetch yourself a drink!" Brandon barked back. "I won't have your bannermen claiming I caught you winded and half asleep! What's more, Ned here needs a proper chance to wake up!"

A cacophony of jeers and laughter accompanied Brandon's words, and whatever Robert shouted back, Ned failed to hear as he made for the yard.

He descended the steps, marched up to the sparring ring, and nearly groaned aloud at the sight of the opponent awaiting him.

"Well met, Ser Eddard."

The Wolf Knight stood amidst the sons of Westeros' most prominent houses. At a glance, Ned recognized the colors of House Royce, Bracken, Mallister, Lefford, Swann, and Brax. Each man sported a spare suit of polished plate, a luxury beyond the means of most landed knights.

Yet his opponent wore armor beyond compare, its gilding alone worth more than all the others combined, befitting a warrior famed for cutting down three veterans of the Golden Company at the age of ten. Ned would consider him the Westerlands' finest knight, his reputation only dampened by his nephew's meteoric rise.

"Well met, Ser Tygett."

The Lion of Casterly Rock drew his sword, and Ned followed suit.

The Westerlands were the wealthiest of the Seven Kingdoms. Ned would never refute the claim, but they were far from the most prosperous: where the verdant fields of the Reach yielded wheat without end, the Kingdom of the Rock was a canvas with rolling hills, steep crags, and shallow valleys. Smallfolk toiled on small farms mired with grit and gravel while the gold beneath their feet saw the kingdom assailed by reavers as surely as the North saw snow.

From the heights of Casterly Rock, the Lannisters governed a harsh land made harsher by Tywin's rule. The swordsmanship of Westerland knights reflected its history, and Tygett Lannister exemplified its martial tradition: he struck with a stony discipline that lacked the artistry synonymous with Reachman and Dornish knights. His unshakeable footwork, like those of a Stormlander, emphasized aggression over evasion or feints. The Lannister attacked with frightening precision, each blow banishing the legacy of Lord Tytos' misrule.

But for all he knew of war and battle, the lion knight had never faced a foe who outclassed Maelys Blackfyre in every regard. Nor had he witnessed his own death play out behind bright, starlit eyes and raised his sword in defiance, knowing victory would be measured in the moments abating defeat.

So when Tygett struck, Ned answered. The Lannister sought the gaps within his armor, but Eddard batted the gilded blade aside, warding off a vicious cross-cut to his chin before redirecting a parting slash from his knees and another from his hand. Steel screeched as Eddard denied Tygett a blow meant to crush his fingers within their gauntlets.

The spectators stood silent as Lord Stark's second son parried and repelled Tygett's onslaught, never expending the energy to block or bind the lion's blade. Lord Fairchild would have overwhelmed his guard in an instant, but against the Lion of Lannister, Ned refused to give ground; Every step backward was one he would reclaim before the next blow.

Yet Ned knew he would not outlast his foe, for Ser Tygett was a knight to rival any member of the Kingsguard, and Ned had to wonder how far he would have risen in an era when Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne had not lived. Even now, his arms ached despite deflecting the brunt of each blow, a testament to Tygett's strength.

Allowing his opponent to dictate the pace of their duel, Ned waited as the Lannister adapted to his defenses faster than any Vale knight he could recall. When the flash of gilded steel crew closer and nearly struck true, the young Stark feigned a poorly-timed parry, allowing himself to be driven back.

The lion knight raised his blade, committing his strength to a final blow, only for Ned's arms to form a fool's guard. From the low stance, he leveraged the fulcrum of his blade, transitioning seamlessly into an upward thrust that sought Tygett's throat.

The Lannister narrowly evaded the deathblow and answered by bringing his blade down on Ned's exposed head. But the young knight stepped forward and finally bound their blades. Mustering his strength, Ned drove both swords to the ground, entangled at the hilt, and brought his full weight to bear, driving his shoulder into the knight's breastplate.

A dull sound echoed through the ring as Ned's pauldron dented gilded steel. Tygett staggered, forced to relinquish his blade to stay upright, righting himself only to realize he had been disarmed.

For a moment, none spoke.

The lion knight glared at his opponent, his eyes alight with anger and wounded pride. But his rage was short-lived. Tygett calmed himself with a steely breath, inclining his head to the younger knight.

Ned mirrored the gesture, returning Lannister's blade hilt first.

"Well fought, Ser Tygett."

"You moreso, Ser Eddard," came the reply. "It seems your reputation is well-earned."

Nothing more was said as both warriors left the ring. Ned was assailed by his fellow knights, offering congratulations and seeking advice. Yet their praise fell on deaf ears as Ned waded through the crowd toward the balcony overlooking the square. There, he spied a now familiar face.

Ned raised his hand, and when Ashara waved back, he thought her smile the most beautiful thing.

TBC

Author's Note:
Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays, everyone! Hope you're all spending some well-deserved time with friends and family.

This was a fun chapter to write. Really it's the first time we see the Stark children without the 'adults' around, so to speak. Dear old Dad is sitting at home, and the friendly neighborhood Hunter is taking care of business going on safari beyond the Wall. Thus, the dialogue has an element of levity and 'juvenile' humor that highlights the children being 'on their own.'

But despite Cyril's absence, our favorite space cephalopod casts a large shadow, and it felt important to show how his mentorship helped shape Brandon and Ned as young adults.

Ned and Ashara:

Where canon left Ned and Ashara's relationship ambiguous, here it's far less vague. As Brandon alluded to, a lady accepting a dance at a formal event is considered a courtesy. However, a lady accepting multiple dances from the same partner sends a different message.

Like in the previous prologue, this chapter demonstrates the importance of reputation, and thanks to Cyril's influence, Ned's reputation is very different from his canon counterpart's.

Remember, before Robert's Rebellion, Westeros had enjoyed two decades of peace, and most young knights would have earned their spurs fighting off bandits or winning tourneys. Arthur Dayne, arguably the most famous knight of that era, was best known for killing an infamous outlaw. Compared to that, Ned's daring rescue of Lorra Waynwood from the clutches of the mountain clans would have been seen as something exceptional.

Brandon and Oberyn:

Another fun exchange. I wanted to demonstrate the sharp contrast between how Brandon treats family and how he engages a potential enemy. Again, reputation plays a big role here: the Red Viper is a man best known for sleeping with Lord Yronwood's mistress, then (allegedly) poisoning said lord when he demanded a duel. Frankly, it's not a great reputation, and this is a young (~22yo) Oberyn we're dealing with here, not quite the lovable prince Pedro Pascal played a little too well. Furthermore, Oberyn's now Prince Rhaegar's brother-in-law, and Brandon knows that anything he says could make its way back to the king.

Like with Eddard, the scene helped show Cyril's influence on Brandon. Make no mistake, he's still short-tempered and impulsive, but there's a maturity there as well. Wanted this Brandon to ring true to his canon counterpart, rather than feel like a complete character overhaul.

Of note: Oberyn's motivation for approaching Brandon (while hinted at) will be expounded in future chapters, and yes, he is being intentionally difficult:

Lord [last name] is reserved for the head of house, i.e. Brandon should be 'Lord Brandon' and NOBODY should be calling Rickard just 'Lord Rickard.'

Disclaimer: this fic will not have 'character bashing,' so to speak. If there's one thing asoiaf has, it's monsters, and they're everywhere. I don't need to make more.

Ned vs Tygett:

This was our first action scene in a while. Thought it would be fun to include one of Tywin's lesser-known brothers. This one happened to kill three knights before he was old enough to squire (yes, asoiaf feats are insane). Tried to show the Stark brothers at their best while keeping their skills believable. Cyril's mentorship may have done wonders for the boys, but victory is something that remains hard-earned and hard-won. Wouldn't be fun otherwise.

Aside note: Been watching Frieren: Beyond Journey's End, a wonderful Tolkien-esque show with a flavor of fantasy that really resonates with me. Highly recommended.

As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his help.