The lesson had run long, and the castle was quiet by the time Cyel made her way back through the corridors.
The torches along this wing burned low — no one had come to tend them — and she walked with one hand trailing lightly along the warm stone of the wall, the familiar heat of it steadying her as it always had. Her mind was still on Dorea's words, turning them over with the same dissatisfied feeling she had been carrying since the lesson had ended. She had not managed to leave it behind in the septa's room, where it belonged.
After Shaggydog had sunk his teeth into Little Walder's arm, Maester Luwin had made his decision quickly and without much room for argument: Summer and Shaggydog were to be confined to the godswood until further notice. He had spoken with the careful tone of a man who believed he was being reasonable, and perhaps he was. Cyel understood the logic of it. She did not have to like it.
Bran had been angry for days. She had seen it in the set of his jaw at supper, in the brevity of his answers to the Maester's questions, in the way his eyes moved to the godswood door and away again with something that was not quite grief and not quite fury but sat somewhere between the two. He was doing his best — he was always doing his best — but the best had limits, and those limits had been showing.
Rickon had surprised her. She had expected worse from him — louder protests, tears, the kind of fierce and wordless misery that was his particular way of suffering. And he did miss Shaggydog; she could see it in the way he paused in the yard sometimes and looked toward the godswood gate. But since the attack he had been, somehow, less hostile toward the Walders. Not warm. But quieter in his opposition to them, as though something had shifted in how he saw the matter. Children found strange paths through things.
The Frey boys, for their part, had been insufferable about it. Little Walder wore his bandaged arm with the particular satisfaction of a boy who had gotten what he wanted through the worst possible means, and even Big Walder — usually the more restrained of the two — had been louder than usual at table since the wolves were shut away. Cyel had been doing everything in her power to keep her interactions with them at the level of simple courtesy. Measured and polite. But she had not, apparently, been succeeding.
"A lady should not show this much disapproval towards guests," Dorea had said that evening, her voice carrying the careful patience of a woman who had said something similar before and expected to say it again.
Cyel had shaken her head before she could stop herself. "Should I like everyone just because I'm a lady?"
The septa had looked at her with that particular expression — not anger, which would have been easier, but something quieter and more pointed. "You've always been so proper, Cyel. In the last days you've been restless."
Cyel let out a deep breath as she leaned back against her chair. "I feel like there have been many unfair things going on inside this castle lately," she admitted.
Dorea looked at her with a defeated look. "Are you again talking about the wolves?"
Cyel's gaze had found the woman. Direwolves, she had thought.
"Those are terrible beasts, my lady," Dorea had said with a small shiver. "I'm quite concerned by the amount of time you spend with them."
Cyel did not like when people spoke about those wolves in such matter. "I know what they are capable of." She knew how easily a direwolf could be dangerous and could end a life. She had witnessed it. She did not think she would forget. "Yet they defend our princes, and for that I'm grateful."
Dorea's eyes widened, "The boy could have lost his arm."
"The boy should learn how to behave around wolves." Cyel had said more firmly than she had intended to. Then she had paused, steadying her tone. "A wolf is still a wolf, that much is true. But I do not like knowing them to be away from Bran and Rickon."
Dorea had not answered that. The lesson had ended shortly after, in the particular silence of a conversation that had not resolved itself so much as exhausted itself.
Cyel was still thinking about it when she reached the corridor that ran past the chambers of the Stark boys.
She slowed her steps.
It was late — later than this part of the castle was usually occupied — but there was movement ahead. A shadow shifting at the edge of the torchlight, near the door that led toward Bran's rooms.
She looked. The corridor was not empty.
The hour was late enough that it could have been anyone — a servant on a forgotten errand, a guard making his round. But something in the quality of the movement made her pause.
What is going on? She thought just before making her way towards the step that lead up.
The movement, when she reached it, resolved itself into something she had not expected.
Two of the kitchen girls were pressed against the wall, their hands over their mouths, shoulders shaking with poorly suppressed laughter. A laundry woman stood opposite them with the expression of someone who had witnessed something she was still deciding how to classify. And at the door to Bran's chambers, one of the guards stood at his post with the particular stillness of a man who had chosen not to have any opinions about whatever was happening on the other side of the door.
Cyel looked at him. "What is all of this?"
"The prince is howling, my lady," the guard said, without inflection.
She looked at him for a moment. "Prince Brandon is howling."
"So it seems, my lady."
Cyel took a breath, rather confused. But then she decided to open the door and she went in.
"I want them gone!"
Bran's voice carried a force she had not heard from him in some time — raw and unguarded, the voice of a boy who had run out of patience for measured language. He was sitting up in his bed, his hands gripping the bar that Mikken had fixed above him, his face flushed with something that was not quite fury and not quite despair but sat uncomfortably between the two.
Maester Luwin stood at the foot of the bed with the expression of a man who had been at this for some time and was beginning to feel the length of it. "Would you stop and consider their position—"
"I do not care about positions." Bran's jaw was set. "I do not want them in Winterfell. I want them gone. You say I'm the prince, you should do as I say."
"They are your mother's wards. They have an arrangement."
"Good evening, my prince. Maester." Cyel's light voice made them both turn in her direction. She stood in the doorway with her hands folded in front of her and her expression entirely calm.
"Cyel..." Bran said. Something in his voice shifted, getting a little softer.
"My lady." The Maester inclined his head, and she could see the relief move across his face before he remembered to contain it.
"The hour is growing late," Cyel said, stepping inside and letting the door fall closed behind her. "What is all of this shouting?"
"The prince is being his willful self," Luwin said, in the tone of a man reporting a recurring condition. "As usual."
"I'm not being willful!" Bran protested.
Cyel looked between them for a moment. "Maester," she said, "could you leave us alone for a moment, please?"
Luwin looked at her. Then he looked at Bran. Then he looked at Cyel again, with the expression of a man passing a burden to steadier hands and feeling no guilt about it. "May the gods be with you. Perhaps your sweeter voice will fare better than mine." He moved toward the door, gathering his things. "I'll prepare the tonic."
The door closed behind him. The room was quiet for a moment.
"Bran," Cyel said. "What happened?"
He was still holding the bar. His knuckles were pale. Outside, somewhere in the dark of the godswood, a wolf that was not there made itself felt in its absence.
"I've been a good lord," he said. His voice had lost its sharpness now, replaced by something heavier. "He can't say I wasn't. I've been polite. I've shared bread and meat with them." His jaw tightened. "I did all that Father used to do." Then he paused for a moment. "But I want them gone. They sleep in Jon's chamber. And it's because of them that Summer is not here."
Cyel observed him for a moment. She knew how much patience he had been having. He was really trying to be good as it was asked of him, but his guests were making it far more difficoult than anyone would ever think possible.
"I share the same feelings," she said, finally.
He looked up at her sharply, his eyes wide in surprise, "You do?"
"Indeed." She crossed to his bed and sat on the edge of it, close enough that he could see her face clearly. "But, my prince — I'm afraid our feelings have little bearing in this case. There was an arrangement between houses. A matter far greater than us both."
Bran's expression shifted. He did not like that answer. She had known he wouldn't. "The Freys hold such power?"
"Alliances do, I'm afraid."
He said nothing to that, which meant he was thinking about it, which was its own kind of progress.
Cyel tilted her head. "But what were you doing?" she asked, and let the warmth back into her voice. "I heard words that you've been howling at the moon."
The tips of his ears went slightly pink. "I want to be a wolf."
This time she was surprised, "Do you?"
"I've dreamt of being one." He said it the way he said most true things — directly, without decoration, watching her face to see what she would do with it. "I was Summer. I could smell everything — prey, rain, the cold. I caught your scent as well." He got silent just for few moments.
"And then I looked at the moon and ran." Something moved across his face that she had not seen there in a long time. "It actually felt like running again."
She would always felt pain in her chest when he spoke about how much he missed running, or walking, or climbing.
Cyel looked at him. "So that you could run and be free?"
"So I can run," he said. "And fight alongside Robb." The words came faster now, as though he had been holding them for some time. "And free Sansa and Arya. And kill the Kingslayer. And bring everyone back to Winterfell." His hands loosened around the bar, just slightly. "And be happy again."
That was something she had no trouble to think true. The thought of Robb at war, and the girls taken hostages in King's Landing, and Lord Stark cold and forgotten in the South... It had not passed so much time since they all left, and yet everything was so different now. Some part of her wished for it to. For him to be able to do all the things that he dreamt.
"You plan on coming back, then," Cyel said after a moment. "I was fearing you'd leave me behind, my prince."
He looked at her. "I would never." A beat, quieter. "I'd never leave you behind."
She smiled at him. "As if I'd ever let you go."
The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. But close.
After a moment, he looked down at his hands. "Maester Luwin thinks I'm crazy. To believe in the children of the forest." He did not look up. "Do you think I'm crazy — to want to learn magic?"
Cyel knew that lately Bran had been asking many questions, about old magic and old creatures. All because he wanted to feel more powerful than he felt right now. So that he could help, at least just a little. The Maester did not like those kind of questions. He thought that Bran was getting too fixated on that. But Cyel did not share the same thoughts.
"My family descends from a great queen," Cyel said, "who was said to be a witch."
He looked at her sharply. "Don't say that just to make me feel better." He was always so suspicious.
"I thought you knew," she said, "that I can be as willful as you are. And that I would never lie to you."
They looked at each other for a moment and then Bran nodded his head, "Yes," he said, quietly. "I know that."
Cyel was still for a moment, the her hand reached out for one of his. "I do not know if there is any magic left in the world, Bran. But that does not mean it does not exist anymore." She met his eyes. "And even if you never learn it — even if the children of the forest are nothing but stories — I still believe that you will make great things."
"Now you are lying," Bran protested, more sad than angry. "I'm useless and broken."
"No." She said, making sure that he looked at her. "You are Prince Brandon Stark of Winterfell. Willful and intelligent. There is nothing you cannot do."
He looked at her. The candlelight moved across his face, and for a moment he looked very young and very tired, and then he smiled — small and slightly shy, the smile she remembered from before all of this — and she felt something loosen in her chest that had been tight for a long time.
The door opened.
Maester Luwin came in with a small cup in his hand and the expression of a man who had taken his time and was not entirely sorry for it. Bran was having many nightmares lately. Sometimes he would wake up screaming, so the Maester had begun to give him some tonic to make his sleep less restless.
The man looked between them, realizing that Bran had calmed. "I should have come to you sooner, my lady," he said.
"You should have," Cyel agreed, looking at Bran to give him a smile. "I would have loved to hear the howlings."
Bran let out a quiet laugh — brief and unguarded, the kind that surprised him as much as anyone. It was the best sound she had heard all evening. Then she rose from from the edge of the bed.
"I wish you a good sleep, my prince." She dipped her head to him, then to the Maester. "Maester."
"Sleep well, Cyel," Bran said, making her give him one last smile before exiting the chamber and pulling the door closed behind her, and the corridor was quiet, and the torches had burned lower still, and Cyel walked back through the dark of the castle with her hand trailing along the warm stone wall.
When Cyel opened the door to her chamber, her eyes immediately searched for her mother's figure, as they always did when she returned.
Phelya was lying on her side, her legs hanging off the edge of the bed. Cyel felt her heart beating faster as she observed her mother.
Why was she sleeping like that?
"Mother, are you not feeling well?" Cyel asked, rushing toward her. She knelt beside her mother, her heart hammering in her chest, and gasped in horror when she saw Phelya's blue eyes wide open but unfocused, staring at nothing. She wasn't seeing her.
"Mother…" Cyel whispered, but there was no response.
It can't be, she thought desperately, as she took her mother's shoulders in trembling hands, shaking her, trying to get any reaction.
"Mother! Mother, wake up! Wake up!" Her tears blurred her vision, but there was still no movement, no response.
Gods, no, please… she thought, panic clutching her throat, as she rushed to the door.
"Help!" she screamed, her voice echoing down the dark corridors. She had never felt so alone, so terrified. She knew deep down what had happened, but it felt like an eternity before Heren appeared, running toward her chamber.
"My lady," Heren said, her voice trembling with panic as she grabbed Cyel's arms. Only then did Cyel realize that she was shaking. "What happened?"
"It's my mother," Cyel's voice broke. "Maester Luwin, I need the Maester, please!" Heren's eyes widened, glancing quickly into the chamber. She gasped, then turned back to Cyel.
"I'll be quick, my lady," she promised, hurrying down the corridor. Cyel rushed back into the room, falling to her knees beside Phelya. Her mother wasn't moving, blinking, or breathing.
"You can't go, Mother," Cyel pleaded, gently touching her mother's face. There was still warmth, but it wasn't the usual warmth. It wasn't comforting. Cyel let out a sob, closing her eyes as she continued to shake and pull her mother, calling her name desperately.
"Little lady…" Cyel heard Osha's voice behind her.
"Help me, Osha," Cyel cried, hot tears streaming down her face. Her breath was shallow, her lungs tight. "Wake her up, please. Help me wake her up!"
The wildling woman looked at her with a sad expression, then stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Cyel's waist to help her stand. Cyel tried to resist, unwilling to leave her mother's side, unwilling to be separated. But Osha was much taller and stronger than the little lady, and it was easy for her to pull Cyel up. Just as this happened, the Maester rushed into the room, moving quickly toward Phelya.
Cyel's hands clenched the hem of Osha's vest, unable to stop crying as she watched the Maester examine her mother. He called her name, rolled her onto her back. He tried several ministrations, and Cyel prayed to every god she knew, hoping they would bring her mother back.
Please, gods, don't take her, she begged silently, her sobs growing louder, her tears falling faster. Please…
"I'm sorry, my lady," the Maester's grave voice shattered her heart. Cyel felt her legs give way beneath her. Her knees hit the floor, but Osha's strong arms kept her upright, kneeling beside her. Cyel's breath became more ragged, as she could do nothing but cry and call for her mother.
Phelya couldn't be dead. She couldn't. And yet, there she was, motionless on the bed. Her eyes were open, but blind, staring at nothing. She didn't respond to Cyel's cries. She wasn't rushing to her like she had when Cyel was a child, waking her from a nightmare. She wasn't speaking the comforting words she always did when the Maester visited. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't breathing.
Suddenly, she felt something moving at the door, and when she opened her eyes, Cyel immediately found blue eyes looking at her.
Bran...
"Cyel," He was in Hodor's arms, and he was observing her with wide, worried eyes. She wanted to call for him, but she could only sob. "What happened?" Only then did Bran notice Phelya's body.
"Osha," Maester Luwin called gently, "take Cyel to Princess Antea's chamber." Cyel shook her head, tears falling harder.
"I want to stay with her," the little lady protested, her voice breaking. "I can't leave her… not like this."
"Cyel," the Maester said, kneeling in front of her, speaking with as much gentleness as he could muster, though his words did nothing to soothe her. "It's not safe here. You can't stay here tonight."
"I shouldn't leave," Cyel repeated, her voice almost a whisper, shaking with grief. "She always took care of me. She wouldn't leave me…"
The Maester exchanged a worried look with Osha, who was still holding Cyel tightly.
"Cyel," Bran's voice cut through her despair, soft and insistent. "Maester Luwin needs to make sure Lady Phelya is properly taken care of. Tomorrow you can be with her. But you can't stay here now. You have to come with me."
Cyel felt as if the world were spinning around her. Her mind was a whirl of pain, confusion, and loss. How could she leave her mother like this? She wanted to scream, to fight, to refuse. But as she looked into Bran's eyes — eyes filled with concern, kindness, and something that felt like hope — something inside her shifted.
She didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave her mother's side. But she couldn't stay here, not alone, not with this emptiness consuming her.
"Please, come with me, my lady," Bran said, his voice gentle but firm.
Cyel looked at him, at the way his eyes shone with understanding. He knew. He knew better than anyone else how she was feeling. So she decided to trust him, and with a broken nod, she let herself be guided away. It felt like abandoning her mother, and that thought broke her heart.
"Alright," she whispered, barely audible through her sobs.
Osha gently guided her toward the door, and Bran followed in Hodor's arms. His presence a fragile lifeline as Cyel stumbled through the corridors, her heart still breaking.
She did not even remember the way they had taken to reach Antea's chamber, but suddenly she found herself being seated on the bed where once her best friend had slept.
"How did you know?" she heard Osha whisper behind her.
"Maester Lewin was with me," Cyel heard Bran answer, "Hodor, please, put me down next to Cyel."
"Hodor," the tall stableboy said with a sad tone, as he moved so that he could seat Bran at Cyel's side. The girl did not look up from her hands. She felt like she had not the strength to do so.
"Can you leave us alone a moment, please?" Bran spoke with a calm tone, but she could feel his eyes on her.
They stood in silence for some time. Cyel could not close her eyes — she kept seeing her mother's still face, living over and over what had just happened.
"I… I am so sorry, Cyel," Bran's voice reached her as more tears went down her cheeks.
"How will I manage, Bran?" She asked in a whisper, not turning to him.
"You feel lost… and scared…" he said with a tender tone. He was trying to be strong for her, knowing very well what it meant to lose a parent.
"I feel like my heart has shattered in my chest," she confessed, finding it hard to breathe.
"Like something is missing…" His words made her turn to look at him. He was seated at her side, observing her.
"How did you manage?" Cyel asked without harshness.
"I don't think I do, Cyel," he answered in a quiet tone, shaking his head.
"You've lost so much," she said, thinking of how Bran's life had been different not long ago. "And yet, you never cry." He seemed to take in her words, thinking deeply about what she had said.
"I think I'm angry, more than anything. Frustrated even…" he confessed. "That doesn't make me any different from you."
Cyel felt more tears stream down her face. "This void… it feels impossible to be filled. And it hurts and it scares me." She looked over to Bran, who was listening to her attentively. "I don't want to be alone…"
Then she felt him move, so that his hand would lay on top of hers. "When the bloody raven came, with words of my father's death, I felt as lost and alone as you do. But…" he grew quiet for a moment, before speaking again. "I don't know if it'll be able to make it any different, but I'm here." Cyel felt more tears run down her cheeks as her hand turned so that her fingers could close around his. "And I will never make you feel lost, or alone. As you do with me."
A sob left her lips. She moved forward to envelope Bran into a hug.
Only then did she notice that he was wearing his clothes for the night. He had rushed out of bed just to make sure she was safe.
"Thank you, Bran," she whispered in the dark.