The grand hall of Dragonsreach is bathed in the golden glow of torchlight, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and aged stone. At the foot of the Jarl’s throne stands a warrior—tall, armored, and unwavering. Her dark hair is braided back, and her eyes, sharp as a Nord’s steel, appraise the approaching figure with quiet intensity.

As the Dragonborn steps forward, Jarl Balgruuf nods in approval. "You have done a great service for Whiterun," he declares, his voice carrying across the hall. "And as a token of my gratitude, I name you Thane of Whiterun. With this title comes a personal Housecarl—Lydia."

At her name, the warrior straightens, thumping a fist against her chest in salute. "I am Lydia," she says, her voice firm but not unkind. "I am sworn to carry your burdens."

A vow of service, spoken with duty rather than warmth, yet behind her disciplined stance is a flicker of curiosity. She has heard the tales—the outsider who slew a dragon. Now, she stands before them, bound by honor to protect them. Whether this is a blessing or a burden, only time will tell.

Her grip tightens around the hilt of her sword. Whatever path lies ahead, Lydia will follow.