'Steel sharpens steel.'

Willam Dustin frowned as he recalled his late father's words, finding them more stifling than the warm southern air. He rode alongside his foster brother at the head of the North retinue, a place of supposed honor that felt unearned and misplaced.

Though he sensed his companion's gaze upon him, Willam focused on the road ahead. The young lord of Barrowton hardly needed eyes to see how much Brandon had changed and how he had failed to keep apace.

For over a moon, the Dustin lord and Stark heir had traveled together, parsing only the most basic courtesies. There was no quarrel between them, no great wrong that required recompense. Willam simply had no words for the Northern Blade, not when he had only ever known Brandon Stark.

Five years had passed since the Harvest Melee. Willam could still recall how Brandon and his trueborn brother had overwhelmed the Giant of Last Hearth, how the elder Stark had fought like the veteran of a dozen pitched battles. Gone was the spirited boy whose temper flickered and flared like a storm-caught flame, who would skip evening lessons to charm maids at the local tavern. Willam had not recognized the man who stood in his place.

He had cornered Brandon after the fight, had demanded to know how he gained skills never taught and learned techniques unknown to even Barrowton's master-of-arms.

'I trained with Ned and found a reason to improve.'

Brandon had said nothing more, and Willam had thought the answer absurd. Yet he had dueled the younger Stark himself, losing the exchange after a mere four blows. If the elder Stark were the better blade, Willam knew he was not skilled enough to discern the difference.

Robard Dustin had welcomed the change in his former ward, convinced his foster son had abandoned his boyish whims upon finding a proper rival and challenge. That Willam had failed to provide either went unsaid.

'Steel sharpens steel.'

The young lord's grip tightened against his reins as his father's words rang unwanted and true: In their attempts to best one another, both Starks had achieved greatness. The deeds of the Wolf Knight and Northern Blade spoke for themselves.

Before the Targaryen and their dragons, the direwolves had been kings, but they had not been the first rulers of the First Men. That honor had belonged to the Barrow Kings, whose blood still ran through Willam's veins. Mummers sang of the Thousand Year War that humbled his ancestors, but Willam could not fathom the conflict lasting even a decade had Winterfell fielded men alike its current heir. Had the Starks always possessed such strength or had William fallen short of his storied lineage?

The voice that replied was not his own.

"How is your wife?" His companion's words carried a weight that belied more than friendly inquiry, "Father mentioned you were expecting a child."

William turned and near glared at his foster brother. After weeks of silence, this was what he wished to discuss? Time had made Brandon less brash but no less blunt.

"Barbrey is well," he answered. "She thinks it's a boy. Maester Gareth believes the same." He thought to mention this was the first time the two had agreed on anything save the time of day, but this was no place for japes.

His father had arranged the match shortly before his passing, and Willam remained unsure if he felt anger or gratitude. Since their first acquaintance, he had found Barbrey stunning, yet he had been forced to admire her from afar, knowing her heart lay elsewhere.

Then came the Harvest Feast, where Lord Stark had banished Bowen Ryswell from his keep, never again to find warmth or welcome within Winterfell. Death would have borne lesser shame, but when Willam recalled the newly-built garden within Barrowton and considered the boons they had nearly lost, he could not fault the warden's judgment.

Lord Stark had stayed his hand from further punishment, but all knew House Ryswell had lost its liege lord's favor. No lady of the Rills would sit beside the Lord of Winterfell for at least a generation. With a few bandied words, the Ryswell knight had ruined his niece's prospects.

Robard Dustin had sensed opportunity. Disfavored as they were, the Ryswells remained one of the North's greatest houses and Barrowton's strongest neighbors. An alliance between their families was meant to combat House Manderly's growing influence: With Domeric Bolton fostering at White Harbor and his betrothal to Wynafryd Manderly all but assured, the might of the merman could not go unchallenged.

Understanding his father's decision had not made Willam's duty easier to bear. The marriage was announced and the wedding arranged far faster than Willam had thought proper. And what a wedding it had been with Eddard and Lord Stark in attendance. Willam recalled nodding absently at whatever excuse the former had offered for Brandon's absence while his stunning bride fought back tears.

Barbrey had been brave, managing a smile as they paraded past endless throngs of well-wishers, but when they were at last alone, her strength had been spent.

It would be weeks before they became husband and wife in truth, longer still for Barbrey to view their marriage as more than duty and regard him with some semblance of love. Now she carried his son.

Willam turned to his companion, the man his wife had wanted, the foster brother who had grown great only after leaving Barrowton.

Neither man had wronged the other, yet there were wounds between them all the same.

Brandon received the news with ponderous silence as he held his companion's gaze.

"I am happy for you, Willam," he said, and the words rang true.

Willam dipped his head, "Thank you, Brandon."

The Northern Blade nodded and turned back to the road. The Lord of Barrowton followed his example.

He no longer recognized the man who rode beside him. But they had shared a boyhood, and for that, Willam could call him brother. When the day came for his brother to assume his birthright, Willam could call him lord and follow him through triumph and ruin.

Urging his destrier onwards at a languid pace, Eddard trailed behind the vanguard, failing to maintain formation–or appearances—as other troubles harried his mind.

'I will have a Hunter's contract ready for you the next time we meet.'

After five years, the young Stark had thought himself accustomed to his mentor's proclivities. The Hunter's words and actions often elicited alarm, but his promise to Brandon had shaken Ned to his core. Worse yet, his brother had refused to discuss the offer and all it implied.

Eddard knew frightfully little about his mentor's profession, only that it entailed perils he would not wish upon his kin. Were that his only objection, Ned would respect Brandon's decision, whichever he made, for the Starks have never shied away from death or duty. Instead, Ned feared for what Brandon stood to lose: Hunters preyed upon beasts found west of the Sunset Sea, far from the North and the only life his brother had ever known.

Ever since Ned's return from the Vale, Father had requested his presence at council and court, entrusting the young Stark with more duties than most second sons saw in a lifetime. Recognizing the tasks as training, Eddard believed he would one day serve as Brandon's hand, just as Kevan Lannister acted as Lord Tywin's shadow.

He had thought the reasoning sound: Lord Fairchild and Lady Evetta were the first Yharnamites to visit Westeros, but it was foolish to believe others would not follow. Their son, Luca, would inherit lands that made paupers of most great houses. Once the Hunter returned west, news of the Seven Kingdoms would spread. Maintaining cordial relations with these newfound powers would prove a headache once the South interfered.

Eddard had thought this to be his burden when Brandon assumed his birthright. He had hoped Father would grant him lordship over the Stony Shore to facilitate correspondance between Winterfell and the West. Now, Eddard suspected Father had made arrangements he was only now beginning to grasp, for when Lord Fairchild had made his offer, Brandon had not shared his brother's surprise.

Ned shook his head. Not even in his dreams did he dare to imagine himself seated upon his father's chair, knowing the tragedies necessary for that to pass. Now he was presented the prospect without the promised tragedy.

The young knight recalled the day he had received a silver sword, how the weapon remained in his possession despite the threat it posed to his future kin.

With a tired sigh and shake of his head, Eddard urged his steed into a gallop. He passed the other lords and took his place at Brandon's side. There would be time to press his brother for answers, to insist he decline Lord Fairchild's offer and volunteer himself for the task. Their teacher would understand, being himself a second son

Eddard allowed his thoughts to calm and mind to rest as five misshapen towers appeared against the horizon, piercing the dawn.

Harrenhal lay within view.

TBC

Author's Note:

Hope you've all been well. Been busier than usual, but trying to resume the story despite work (and Lies of P) keeping me preoccupied.

This is the prologue to Part 2. The outline for this chapter was just "Northerners arrive at Harrenhal." Used this opportunity to do some world-building, highlighting the importance of reputation in medieval/Westerosi life, exemplified by the far-reaching consequences of Bowen's misconduct.

I also wanted to show the Stark children growing up and all that entails, including the distance that has formed between once-close friends: Bridges don't have to burn to fall into disrepair.

Anyways, hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Next time, we'll be visiting Harrenhal properly. As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his help.