The Great Hall of Winterfell had seldom seen such a riot of noise.

Ale sloshed across trestle tables, dogs barked beneath the benches for fallen bones, and some fool in Robert Baratheon’s colors had already tried to climb atop a table to sing before tumbling into a platter of river trout. The laughter that followed could likely be heard beyond the walls.

“Seven hells,” Robert roared, half drunk already, slamming his cup down. “If this is how the north weddings go, Ned, I should have come sooner.”

Eddard Stark only shook his head with that quiet smile of his. “You’re here now.”

Robert leaned back, eyes wandering toward Lyanna Stark where she sat with her brothers’ new bride among the Tully sisters. “Aye. That I am.”

Lord Hoster Tully watched it all with the tight satisfaction of a man who believed he had arranged the board well. His daughters sat together—Catelyn composed as ever, Lysa pink-cheeked with wine, and the eldest… the one now wed to Brandon Stark.

The match had been made six years ago when the two were fourteen. Lord Rickard Stark had wanted it badly. Brandon himself had wanted it rather less.

Once, half-drunk and sprawled naked in Barbrey Ryswell’s bed, Brandon had sworn he’d sooner wed a spearwife than some southron gi.rl his father chose. “Fuck alliances,” he’d said then.

Yet here he sat now at the high table with a cloak of Stark colors newly clasped about his bride’s shoulders.

And gods, but he looked the part.

Brandon Stark laughed louder than any man in the hall, dark hair falling loose about his shoulders, wolfish grin flashing whenever someone shouted his name. The northern lords adored him for it. Even the Tully men seemed taken by his boldness.

When a serving gi.rl nearly spilled ale across him, Brandon caught the pitcher and righted it with easy hands.

“Careful,” he told her with a crooked smile. “You waste that and half the hall will think it a bloody tragedy.”

Across the table Lyanna smirked. “You already are a tragedy, Brandon.”

“Only because you’re here to witness it.”

More laughter followed.

Soon enough the shouting began.

“BEDDING!”

It started with a few voices and grew until the rafters seemed to shake with it.

Brandon groaned theatrically. “Ah, shit. Here we go.”

Before the bride could protest, northern men were already hauling Brandon from the bench while Tully knights and laughing ladies descended upon his new wife. Boots were yanked free, belts undone, someone stealing Brandon’s cloak while Robert bellowed encouragement from the benches.

“Get him naked! The Stark must prove he’s no frozen statue!”

“Fuck off, Robert!” Brandon shouted back as someone tugged his shirt over his head. “Come try it yourself!”

The procession stormed through Winterfell’s corridors like a drunken warband until they reached the bedchamber. The door burst open, the couple were tossed inside amidst whistles and crude blessings, and the heavy oak slammed shut behind them.

Silence followed.

For a moment Brandon Stark only stood there, breathing hard, half-laughing as the noise faded down the hall.

He ran a hand through his hair and glanced toward the woman now standing awkwardly near the bed, wrapped hastily in furs someone had thrown over her shoulders.

“Well,” Brandon said after a moment.

His grin returned, though softer now.

“Gods… what a damned circus.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a breath.

“Look. I won’t pretend I was begging the gods for this match. But you’re here, and so am I.” He met her eyes, voice steady but not unkind. “And Winterfell’s yours now same as mine.”

A pause.

Then Brandon Stark gave a crooked, almost bo.yish smile.

“So… what say we bolt that door before Robert decides to come back and check how the bedding’s going?”