CYEL
"Good morrow, Lady Martell."
"Lady Martell."
Those were the greetings that followed Cyel as she walked through the corridors of Winterfell. The Northerners had always treated her with respect since the day she had arrived eight years before, but she would be lying if she said nothing had changed since the news of her legitimation had spread. The bows were deeper, and the words spoke to her with more eagerness.
"They are strange people," her cousin Arienne would have said. Cyel felt torn about this new behavior. She had lived in the North for most of her life, so she understood how bastards were viewed in the Seven Kingdoms. Yet at the same time, her position had always been different from other bastards.
"You're legitimized!" Bran exclaimed with wide eyes as soon as Maester Luwin finished reading the words from her uncle and Prince, Doran Martell.
"Your name is Martell now, Cyel," the Maester had told her, not seeing her response. She was at a loss for words, almost unable to speak.
"But…" Cyel muttered, "How? Why? This holds no meaning in Dorne." She felt overwhelmed by the gravity of those words.
"Not in Dorne, but in the Seven Kingdoms, it is another matter, my lady." Cyel looked up at the Maester, feeling strange about it all. "Your legitimacy will stabilize your position in the eyes of other lords. It will secure your standing in a foreign land."
A foreign land. That much was true. In her heart, Winterfell was her home, but she was Dornish. People saw her as a guest from a distant land. A bastard with money and land, yet still a bastard in the eyes of the people of the Seven Kingdoms.
"My father and uncle have been protecting me all this time," Cyel now understood.
"Does this make the alliance stronger?" Bran asked curiously, his eyes shifting between her and the Maester. "Will Cyel be safer this way?"
Cyel glanced at her prince from beside her. His curious, blue eyes were fixed on Luwin, waiting for an answer.
"Being a legitimate lady from another land surely helps to keep Cyel safer," the Maester explained. The shock on his face was evident. "Now, Cyel's position is secured in the eyes of our tradition. Being a bastard and being a legitimate daughter of a prince are two very different matters, as you know."
"It does not matter to me," Bran's words made Cyel frown as she observed the boy. He was sitting up straight, his arms resting on the armrests. Feeling her gaze, Bran turned to look at her. "Your name never mattered to me. But if it'll keep you safer, then I'm glad Martell is your name now."
Cyel smiled.
The Maester had quickly written letters to announce Cyel's legitimacy. But she was now not only a legitimate lady of Dorne, she was also betrothed to Brandon Stark, and the people of Winterfell seemed delighted by the news. Dorea had screamed with joy, immediately calling her Lady Martell. Her mother kissed her forehead, repeating how grateful she was to Cyel's father and uncle. Prince Oberyn Martell had always voiced his thoughts on Cyel being left with little choice about her future. Her father had fathered eight daughters, and he raised them all with great care, leaving them free of any restrictions. But Cyel had lived a different life compared to her sisters.
"My sweet, I hope you know that my heart is always with you," he would say to her every time she visited Dorne. He would embrace her and never leave her side until she departed by ship. They would dance, study, laugh, and speak. Cyel may not have spent as much time with her father as her sisters had, but she loved him dearly and always felt his presence. He wrote to her every week, sometimes even sending poetry about her, along with many gifts.
"A knife, Father?" she had asked him during her last visit to Dorne. Oberyn Martell laughed, his lips brushing her forehead.
"Do you like it, my sweet?" he asked as he sat before her. Cyel examined the knife. It was light and thin but very sharp. The hilt was made of silver, adorned with a snake wrapped around it, its amber eyes gleaming.
"It is beautiful, Father," she had answered, "But a lady should not carry knives."
He took her face in his hands. "You are more than a lady. You're my daughter," a Sand Snake she was, "And I'll have you defend yourself, like all of your sisters." He spoke with fondness in his dark eyes, the same eyes she possessed.
Cyel smiled. "I do not have to defend myself from the Starks," she said.
"Maybe not," he replied, "Yet I'm not with you, and I want to keep you safe."
She kept the knife in her ironwood chest. Of course, she didn't wear it like her sister Nymeria loved to do. Cyel felt perfectly safe in Winterfell, but that gift often made her think of her father.
"You're the daughter of the Red Viper, my lady, are you not?" Little Walder had said one morning as they were breaking their fast.
When the Frey boys had arrived at Winterfell, Cyel had been surprised to learn that both lads were named Walder. One was older than the other, so he went by Big Walder, even though he was lean and short. The other, taller and bigger but younger, was called Little Walder. The two Frey boys enjoyed talking endlessly about lineage. They were both nephews of Lord Walder Frey, the aging lord of the Twins. Cyel knew the man had many wives and children, but now those children were grown, with children of their own. Still, Walder Frey seemed far more willing to be called by the gods.
The rants of Little Walder and Big Walder were rather tedious to Cyel. They got lost in their own family tree, arguing over which Walder was which, giving no room for anyone else to join the conversation.
"We have our own names at Winterfell," Rickon had said, and Cyel had to hide a smile behind her cup of milk.
Rickon didn't like the Frey boys as much as Bran, who mostly kept quiet while the boys ranted, glaring at them, even though they hadn't seemed to notice.
"Yes, my lord," Cyel replied to Little Frey as she sat next to Bran at the table. "Prince Oberyn Martell is my father." She couldn't help but glance at her betrothed, fearing he might feel pain from the mention of his own noble father. She didn't want him to feel uncomfortable.
"The Red Viper," Little Walder insisted, "Why was the name given to him? Yes, yes, for his use of poison during battle. That's what my grandfather says." Cyel noticed Bran shift in his chair, but she was quick to rest her hand on his arm.
"My father is a fierce warrior, my lord," she answered, trying to sound polite. "They say his movements are swift and harmonious, like those of a water snake. And yes, he has quite the knowledge of poisons."
Prince Oberyn Martell adored studying poisons, and he had passed his knowledge on to Cyel's older sister, Tyene. She seemed sweet and innocent but grew as dangerous as any of their sisters with that knowledge.
Cyel had seen her sisters grow into incredible warriors, even dangerous ones. Obara was the strongest among them, but they were all amazing fighters, regardless of age or weapon. Cyel had grown up differently, and her father knew that. When she was in Dorne, Cyel couldn't deny that over time, she began to feel separated from them, and she hated the feeling. So, one of the last times she visited Dorne, Tyene had gifted her books on the art of poisons. Cyel wasn't the type to wield a sword, but according to her sister, she had the right mind to learn such a complicated art.
"You are a Sand Snake," Obara had told her once, "Never forget it while you're in those frozen lands."
Cyel didn't want to forget her sisters, didn't want them to grow distant. But Dorne was so different from the North, and her life as well. Sometimes, it was difficult to find a balance.
"He studied at the Citadel, did he not?" Bran's question brought her back to the conversation. When she turned, she noticed that Bran was giving her his full attention. She smiled at him.
"Not poisons, my prince. Those he learned in the Free Cities. But at the Citadel, he forged his six chains," she answered. "Before growing bored."
That made Bran chuckle, his blue eyes shining. "Bored?" She nodded.
"I can understand that," he added.
Bran was very intelligent and mature for his age, but he lacked the motivation to study. Maester Luwin always reproved him for it.
Cyel giggled. Then she saw him blush and turn his head. This had started happening after the news of their betrothal. Their friendship hadn't changed; they spent much time together during breakfast and their free time, but Cyel had noticed that Bran became slightly formal whenever people were around them. She found that habit somewhat adorable on his part.
"I wonder how the succession works in Dorne," Little Walder asked suddenly, his tone vicious. He had that nasty habit, though it seemed to run through House Frey. Cyel wasn't sure what he meant, but before she could speak, Bran was quicker to answer.
"You seem quite curious this morning," Bran's tone was firm as he looked at the other boy. Cyel looked at her prince fondly. The two Walders would often take jests at one another, but Cyel hated when they did it to Bran. That day, they had turned their attention to her, and she was grateful that Bran would try to defend her, even though Maester Luwin wanted them to be good hosts and not indulge in any argument.
"It's quite alright, my prince," Cyel said sweetly, before turning to Little Frey. "Matters of succession must be confusing with such a large house as House Frey." She spoke with false courtesy, and the boy knew it, his cheeks burning red. "Do not fear for my succession, my lord," she continued, "I quite know what is meant for mine."
"I can't stand them, I swear," Bran was saying as Cyel followed Hodor and Summer toward Maester Luwin's tower.
"They can be quite nasty, I agree," Cyel replied, looking up at Bran.
He took a frustrated breath. "Sometimes I just wish I could send them away... but I can't," Bran shook his head. "I'm useless even as a prince."
Cyel quickly placed a hand on Hodor's arm, gently stopping his steps so she could speak with Bran.
"You are not useless," she said, looking him in the eyes. "Politics is a complicated matter, Bran, and sadly, we cannot do as we'd like." She could tell he didn't like her answer.
"Now you sound like Maester Luwin," he said.
"Boring?" she asked, making him look at her with wide eyes.
"So, you find him boring too!" he exclaimed, making her laugh. Her laughter made him laugh as well, and it filled her heart with happiness.
There had been a time when Bran was quick to laugh, his smile lighting up the day for everyone. Always up to something, always sweet with everyone. After the fall, with the war and the death of Lord Stark, it had been difficult for Bran's heart not to grow distant, but he kept fighting. He smiled less, though, so Cyel was beyond happy when she managed to make him laugh like before.
"I hoped my prince would find my company just a little more pleasant than the Maester's," she said with a smile. He suddenly blushed before giving her a playful glare, which only made her giggle again. They continued on their way toward Lewin's chambers.
"Here is where I leave you," Cyel said just before knocking on the door to announce Bran's arrival.
"Do you have to go?" he asked, almost complaining.
"You've got your duties, and I've got mine, my prince," Cyel replied, patting Summer's head.
"Yes, yes, of course," Bran said, shaking his head. Cyel looked at him. This new title of his was overwhelming, and the war in the South only made everything more complicated. The Maester had to advise and help Bran in this difficult time for the North.
"But if it pleases you, when I'm done with Dorea, I could look for you," Cyel proposed. "So you can tell me how boring the Maester was today."
Bran glared at her again, "You're not funny," he said, though she knew he wasn't angry at her. Bran was never angry at her.
"I'll see you later, Bran," Cyel said sweetly, this time. With a final smile at Hodor and a pat on Summer's head, she left for her chamber, where she would have her lessons with Dorea.
The woman had become so excited about Cyel and Bran's betrothal, but if anything, she had become stricter.
"You shall be wed to a prince," she would speak solemnly. She was becoming worse than Septa Mordane. She would scrutinize Cyel's embroidery, correcting her posture and speech. Things Cyel had always been good at now had to be "perfect" according to Dorea.
Cyel tried to make her happy, not minding the critiques. She was sure that with time, Dorea would grow accustomed to the situation and would return to her usual self.
Her mother, on the other hand, was a constant worry in Cyel's mind. Lady Phelya had been tired those days. The Maester came to their chambers daily, but Phelya stayed in bed almost all day now. She kept saying to Cyel not to worry, that she'd be better in time. Cyel decided that until her mother regained her strength, she wouldn't let Phelya see her concern. She wanted to take care of her the way her mother had cared for her all these years.
Cyel had developed the habit of not letting others know what troubled her mind. She wondered if that was something ladies were accustomed to doing. Phelya, before her illness, had never shown her worries about Cyel's future, but only now did the young girl realize that she had. Even Lady Catelyn, before Bran's fall, had always been calm and reliable. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a grown woman: to protect those around her from anything that might hurt them. Cyel wondered if her guess was correct.
Cyel felt strange when these heavy thoughts came to her. Not long ago, her main concern had been avoiding scoldings from Septa Mordane, but now her position had changed. Since Lady Catelyn and Antea had left Winterfell, Cyel had become involved in the many concerns the Stark boys were facing. She had helped arrange the castle when the banners came to declare war. But now that Robb had become king, and she had been announced as Bran's betrothed, the people of Winterfell looked at her differently.
At times, it was overwhelming, but now Bran held Winterfell, and Cyel was becoming a grown woman and a lady. She had to keep doing her best for the people who had always cared for her. Now it was her turn to do good.
These new responsibilities were hard on her, but they were hard on Bran as well. He was growing up very quickly, but he, too, felt overwhelmed. And that shared feeling had brought them even closer than before, in a different way, but comforting nonetheless. Sometimes they felt distant from the other children; they both wished they could be as playful as before, but it didn't feel the same anymore. But they still spent time with the others, especially for Rickon. The youngest Stark was still a babe; he didn't need a heavy heart more than he already had.
Because of this, Cyel was not surprised when she went to look for Bran and found him in the godswood.
As Cyel's presence was noticed, the children suddenly stopped. She observed the Freys playing with other children from Winterfell, all covered in mud from head to toe. She knew each of them—Turnip, the cook's son, Bandy and Shyra, Joseth's girls, Palla, the daughter of the kennelmaster, Calon, Cayn's boy, and poor TomToo, whose father had died in King's Landing.
Little Walder was seated on a log, drenched in mud, holding a stick. The other children were lined up in front of him, eagerly waiting.
Bran, however, was sitting under the heart-tree, alone but for Summer, his silver and grey direwolf. Summer sat peacefully at his side, his snout resting on Bran's legs, while the massive black direwolf, Shaggydog, kept his fiery green eyes fixed on Rickon, who was playing nearby.
"My lady," Little Walder greeted her, his usual red face still visible beneath the thick mud. "Are you here to become the lady of my castle?" His smug grin shifted briefly, aimed not at her, but at the others. Cyel, ever polite, offered a courteous smile.
"I'm afraid I'm too tired to play today," she said, "Perhaps another time. But I'd like to sit next to Prince Brandon," she added, her eyes flicking to Bran, who had been glaring at Little Walder but now turned to look at her. "If he'll have me, of course."
Bran's cheeks flushed, and his voice faltered, "Of course, my lady."
"As my lady wishes," Little Walder shrugged dramatically, his smug grin widening, "But I'm sure you'll support my victory."
Cyel knew he was jesting, but she maintained her polite smile. "I will gladly watch."
With that, Cyel made her way toward Bran, eager to take a seat beside him. But he was not looking at her. His gaze was still fixed on Little Walder.
"He asked for your favor," Cyel observed, frowning at Bran's expression. Did it bother him?
"To what game, though, I'm still not sure," she added, eyeing Little Walder again. He was sitting there with his stick, as the other children spoke in turn, making some kind of offer.
"It's called 'The Lord of the Passing,'" Bran said flatly. Cyel couldn't help but smile.
"By the enthusiasm in your voice, I can tell you're dying to play," she teased. The Freys and their obsession with the Crossing. Cyel hadn't known before meeting them how deeply ingrained their obsession with it was—so much so that they had created games to mimic the power of lords granting passage to others.
"Even if I wanted to, they wouldn't let me..."
"Are they afraid to lose?" Cyel asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Cyel..." Bran's voice softened, as though she were jesting. But she wasn't.
"I'm serious," she said, her gaze unwavering. "This is a game of the mind. You may not move like the others, but you can certainly think and speak. You'd make an excellent Lord of the Passing, my prince—perhaps the very best."
Bran blushed again, though he tried to deflect with humor. "Don't let him hear you," he said, nodding toward Little Walder. "He might not ask for your favor anymore."
Cyel chuckled, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. "Please, say no more, my prince—my heart would be destroyed by it." Bran's quiet laugh made Summer lift his head, golden eyes watching them intently. When the direwolf turned his gaze to Cyel, she reached out to gently caress him behind the ear. "Isn't that right, Summer?"
Summer's tail wagged happily.
"He likes you," Bran said, his tone thoughtful.
Cyel giggled, still caressing the beast. "Of course he does."
Summer, like his brothers, was not a creature to take lightly. Cyel knew well what direwolves could do. She had seen it before, and the image of that pale man, his throat slashed, still haunted her. But Summer had protected Bran—her, too—and for some reason, Cyel trusted him with a certainty she couldn't explain.
Suddenly, the sound of fast footsteps and laughter drew their attention. Rickon and Shaggydog were approaching.
Shaggydog was a stark contrast to Summer—restless, aggressive, and fiercely protective of Rickon, whom he cared for and defended against even friends. Bran had confided in Cyel that he, too, was wary of the black direwolf.
At that moment, Little Walder knocked Turnip with his stick, sending the poor boy tumbling into the muddy water with a splash. Rickon burst into laughter.
"I want to play!" Rickon said, his eyes wide with excitement.
"My lady," Little Walder boomed, his voice brimming with false pride. "Have you seen my victory?"
Cyel couldn't claim she had, nor did she care, but she answered with practiced courtesy, "A fair fight, my lord."
Little Walder seemed pleased by her words. "An easy win," he said, grinning.
"I'd like to see my prince fight for the matter," Cyel said suddenly, her gaze flicking to Bran. She could feel his eyes on her, questioning. "I assure you, he is not an easy opponent to defeat. It would be a fine sight."
Cyel recalled the days when Bran trained under Ser Rodrik Cassel's watchful eye, learning the ways of combat alongside his brother. Bran had shown promise—he would have made a great knight.
He wanted to be a knight.
"As much as I'd like to, my lady, I don't think this game fits for Bran," Little Walder's impenitent words sparked an angry flare in Cyel's chest.
"Prince Bran," she corrected firmly, her smile fading. The Freys' arrogance and lack of respect were wearing thin on her, but before the conversation could go further, she felt Bran's hand gently rest on her forearm.
"It's quite alright, my lady," he said softly, turning to her. Though his expression remained composed, Cyel could see the hurt beneath the surface. Yet, he stood tall, his head high, unbowed. "It's too easy a game," he added, his blue eyes narrowing at Little Walder.
"Me!" Rickon jumped up and down. "I want to play!"
"Rickon will make a fine opponent," Bran added, leaning back, his eyes still locked on Little Walder, whose face had turned a shade of crimson.
Rickon was quick to get in line, eagerly listening to Palla as she explained the rules. Shaggydog followed Rickon's every move, and when Rickon told him to sit with Bran and Cyel, the massive black wolf obeyed without hesitation.
Cyel couldn't tear her eyes away from Bran. She was continually amazed by his strength—how he bore so much pain with such quiet grace. Everyone looked at him differently now, but Cyel still remembered the cruel laughter of Lord Karstark's men when Bran had crossed the yard on Hodor's back. Yet, Bran had never faltered, his chin held high, never allowing those words to wound him. Cyel knew—those men, or the Freys, did not possess his strength.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Bran asked, his cheeks flushing once more.
"Sometimes I forget how strong you are," she said, her voice soft but heartfelt. Bran seemed taken aback by the sincerity in her words.
"Nobody thinks I'm strong," he muttered, his gaze dropping to his hands. "They don't even want me to play because of my legs."
"They are wrong," Cyel replied, her voice firm as she reached for his gaze. "And one day, you'll show them—and yourself—that there's nothing you cannot do." Bran's doubt was still there, but the heaviness in his eyes seemed lighter, as if her words had planted a seed of hope.
"How do you know?" he asked, his brow furrowing in a mixture of skepticism and longing.
"I know you," she said with a warm smile. "And until you see it yourself, I'll be here to remind you that you're stronger than anyone believes."
Bran's eyes widened as he took in her words, a flicker of belief igniting within him. But before he could speak, a loud scream pierced the air, causing both of them to turn sharply toward the commotion.
Everything happened in an instant. Cyel barely had time to register that Rickon had fallen, clutching his arm, before a large dark shadow pounced on Little Walder, sinking its teeth into the boy's arm. The shrill screams filled the yard, and Bran's voice reached Cyel's ears.
"Summer!" Bran called out, his voice sharp. Summer ran across the yard, teeth bared, but Shaggydog wasn't letting go of his prey. Blood flowed freely from Little Walder's arm, turning the water beneath him a terrifying shade of crimson.
"Bran, he's going to rip his arm off!" Cyel gasped, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched the scene unfold. The boy's agonized screams echoed in the yard.
"Rickon, stop him!" Bran shouted, desperately trying to regain control. But Shaggydog only released Little Walder when Rickon finally shouted for him to stop. The Maester and guards rushed toward them, pale and frantic, but Little Walder's cries continued, the blood staining the water beneath him.