cyrene frey;

HOUSE STARK OF WINTERFELL

it was not so simple, she said, because things rarely were. life was unkind, and the people who endured it suffered. it was a lesson he had learned many times, and yet it was one he found himself still needing to remind himself of. there was a feeling in the pit of his belly, a hollowness, like waking up the morning after you'd forgotten to eat dinner the night before.

"we'll leave it there, so," she said, with a nod. she was clearly a woman with much on her mind, and he would not be the one to add to it. "i wish you safe travels, princess. and i hope the north is all you're hoping it will be."

“Safe travels, indeed,” she replied softly, her voice carrying the weight of finality. Her lips curved in a faint, practiced smile, one that did not reach her eyes. “The North and I are long acquainted, Lord Blackbar. There’s little left to hope for.”

The faint smile on her lips was as much a shield as an expression, before she stepped back. But as she began to turn away, something in her stilled. She exhaled through her nose, the faintest flicker of hesitation betraying her iron facade.

Glancing back over her shoulder, her voice lowered to a whisper meant only for him. An acknowledgement, again. Perhaps for a part of her soul to be at peace. Despite the distance that separated them now, she knew him to be an honorable man. “You’ll keep him safe, won’t you? Mako. Whatever it costs.”

Her words hung in the air like frost clinging to bare branches, brittle and cold. She didn’t wait for an answer. She couldn’t bear to hear it, even if she already suspected it would be a promise. Cyrene straightened, her steps measured as she walked away, leaving Conall standing alone with the unspoken truth of what tied them together.

"I’ll take that as a compliment, little sister," he said, leaning back in his own seat and folding his arms across his chest. His eyes narrowed as he studied her, the faintest ghost of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Father was a great man, after all. Not that you’d remember—you were too busy running circles around him and Mother to notice."

He picked up his mug of black beer and took a long sip, savoring the warmth of the drink before setting it down with deliberate care. His eyes flicked over to hers, sharp as ever. "And you, you’ve done well to look the part of a Frey these days. Draped in finery, carrying yourself like a queen in your little castle of mud and bridges." His tone was light, but the dig was unmistakable.

When she mentioned not wanting to deter him, his brow arched, and he gestured broadly to the hall around them. "Interrupt? You didn’t interrupt anything of note, Cyrene. Just my brief respite from chaos, which I should’ve known wouldn’t last long. I’m beginning to think you hear silence and take it as a challenge."

“Just a dinner, Owen?” she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear, though there was enough bite in her tone. Her lips curved in a faint smile, deceptively pleasant, as if they weren’t standing at the edge of an argument. “You’re telling me that this whole assembly is simply for bread and ale? Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”

Her eyes flicked briefly to those of the King's council that were gathered here. “If this is a dinner, brother, it’s a dinner with a purpose. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

She took a sip of her wine, her gaze steady over the rim of her chalice before setting it down with deliberate care. “And speaking of things that don’t sit right, let’s talk about Brandon Karstark. His decision to abandon Winterfell and retreat to Karhold. It doesn’t bode well, does it? A man like him doesn’t simply walk away from the position of Hand of the King unless he’s lost faith in the crown… or the man who wears it.”

Cyrene’s tone remained conversational, but there was no mistaking the sharpness beneath it. “I know grief changes a man, and losing his wife was a heavy blow. But I also know Brandon. He’s not just mourning. He’s retreating. And the timing - well, let’s just say it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Not when the North is as restless as it is.”

She folded her hands before her, the movement calm, measured, though her eyes gleamed with a challenge as they locked onto her brother’s. “You feel it too, don’t you? The tension. The whispers. The way these halls seem colder, even with every hearth lit. The North is stirring, Owen, and not in a way that makes me think peace will hold for long.”

Her voice dropped slightly, a note of genuine concern threading through her words. “If Brandon’s departure is a symptom of something larger, then you need to face it. Quickly. The North can’t afford to splinter, not again. And whatever you called these lords and ladies here to discuss, you’d better make them believe you have a plan. Because right now, the cracks are showing.”

Cyrene’s lips quirked into a faint, sardonic smile, though her gaze remained unwavering. “But perhaps I’m overstepping. After all, what would I know? I’ve been away too long, haven’t I? Just a Frey in wolf’s clothing, sniffing around where I don’t belong.”

brandon listened in silence, her words settling like a weight upon him, familiar and foreign all at once. honour. the way cyrene said it, so soft yet heavy, carried more than just meaning—it carried history, shared and splintered. his gloved hands curled loosely at his sides, and he let out a long breath, the cold turning it to mist. “aye, honour,” he murmured finally, his voice low and rough as the northern wind. “funny thing, that. binds us when it suits, cuts us loose when it don’t. but it’s not the word that matters, is it? it’s what folk do with it.” there were times when brandon thought truly about honour and whether he had lived by it; was stepping down from his position an honorable choice?

for his whole life he had thought himself an honourable man, thought himself an honourable servant of house stark - much of his decisions about what he had done, and what he had not done, seemed to stem from it. one only needed to take one look upon cyrene and think of that; a reason they danced on the line of affection and familiarity and never found themselves giving in was directly because of honour. and now, as complicated as this reunion was, he was thankful to himself for knowing to never cross such a line for the sake of fleeting passion.

he let his gaze drop to wylla, still staring at him with that curious, unflinching look. her smallness reminded him of things he’d rather not dwell on, of children that might have been. he crouched slightly, bringing himself nearer to her height, though his voice remained directed at cyrene. “yer right, she’s got the look of more than one hall about her,” he said, his northern accent roughening the edges of his words. “a credit to her ma, if we’re bein’ honest. though if she stays here long enough, she might learn to scowl proper, aye. gods know, karstarks have a knack for that.” he stood again, his expression softening for a fleeting moment before the weight of the conversation pulled it back to its grimness.

“but you didn’t bring her here just to learn to scowl, did ya? nor to breathe. no, cyrene, you came here ‘cause part of you still remembers what this place was. everything before the targaryen war tore everythin’ to shreds.” and that was entirely okay to brandon karstark; though with this discussion, he couldn't help but keep his gaze lingering back down upon wylla. how much of this conversation should she be hearing? his words hung in the air, sharp and quiet, though his voice softened as he continued. “i get it. i do. you needed to see somethin’ that wasn’t the crossing. somethin’ that didn’t feel like walls closin’ in. but don’t think for a second this place will be a salve for old wounds.”

Wylla stood silently at her side, her gaze fixed on Brandon with unguarded curiosity. The sight of her daughter, so small yet so steady, fueled the quiet pride in Cyrene. She wondered briefly if Wylla could sense the gravity of the moment or if she simply saw a man who seemed as solid as the mountains she had heard of in stories.

Brandon’s comment about Wylla being a credit to her mother coaxed a faint smile from her, a touch of warmth breaking through the tension. “I'll remember that the next time she refuses to sit still through a lesson. It'll make sense, then.”

“I didn’t come here for salves,” Cyrene said finally, her voice measured, carrying none of the rawness she felt. “I know better than to expect comfort from places or people. But I came because I wanted her to see-” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “-what remains. Even if it’s only echoes of what once was.”

Her gaze shifted to the snowy courtyard beyond the window, the stark expanse a mirror of the North she had left behind. “Maybe it’s foolish,” she admitted, her words softer now, almost to herself. “But sometimes echoes are enough to remind us of what we’re meant to be, even if they can’t take us back."

But his last words lingered, cutting through the moment’s levity and settling heavily in her chest. “Maybe this place isn’t what it once was,” she said, meeting his gaze directly, her own eyes steady and unyielding. “But it still stands. And I need to see it for what it is, not just what it used to be.”

He took a step forward, closing the distance between them, his boots making a soft thud against the cobblestones. He was undeterred by her attempt at finality. Cyrene was too intriguing, too proud to simply ignore.

“Ah, but I forget,” Aidan continued, his tone casual, as if he were discussing the weather, “perhaps it’s not the heart you’re worried about. No, I imagine your pride is the thing you protect above all else, isn’t it? I’ve seen it in your eyes—the way you guard your name like it’s the only thing worth a damn. But pride doesn’t keep the years at bay, my lady.”

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze still on her. “Tell me, Cyrene, will you grow old in that armor, too? Or is there a softer side to you hiding beneath it all?”

“Cold?” she repeated, her voice quiet but steady, a faint, knowing smile curving her lips. “Perhaps I’ve simply learned not to indulge every jest, no matter how sharp it may be.”

Her eyes met his, calm and unflinching, as if his attempt to prod beneath her skin had no effect. She did not let the teasing tone of his words get to her, though his challenge did stir something deeper. “And pride,” she continued, her voice almost thoughtful, “it’s an unfortunate thing, I suppose, to be misjudged so readily. It’s not my pride you should concern yourself with, my prince. It’s your own.”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze not unkind but firm. “If you think a hardened heart is the result of a lifetime of protecting one’s name, perhaps you don’t understand the meaning of strength, Aidan. Nor the cost of it.”

"'sides, i know fully grown lords who can't hold a conversation. they eat peas like champions, though," the grin on his face was boyish, making him look younger than his years. "look, i get it. you are his mother. you want him to be smart and strong and all that." that was what mothers do, isn't it? he had never known one. he could not be entirely sure.

“The same thing?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, though there was no sting in her voice. “You’re getting too old for such easy mistakes, Benji. But I suppose I’ll allow it this time,” she added with a playful flick of her hand, a subtle concession.

His boyish grin, so familiar and yet always capable of making her smile, softened the edge of her thoughts. He was right about one thing, though. There were grown men who could barely hold a conversation, yet managed to do well enough in the more trivial aspects of life. She couldn’t deny that.

When Benjicot grew serious, his tone shifting to something more distant, Cyrene felt her expression soften, a hint of protectiveness creeping into her heart. She could see that he was trying to give her advice, the kind that only someone who had known the weight of a burdensome past could offer. And though his words were not always easy to swallow, she listened carefully.

“I know, Benji,” she said quietly, her voice softer now. “But it’s hard. When you’ve seen what the world can do to those too innocent to protect themselves… sometimes, it feels like you have no choice.”

She paused, her gaze turning distant, her thoughts briefly drifting to her children and the weight of her own fears. “I won’t push him away from childhood, but I can’t help but want to prepare him. I lost so much time to things I never saw coming… I don’t want him to face that.”

“thank you,” she said with quiet pride, her hands folding loosely before her. “arthur’s birth has been a blessing to us both. his grace and i are indeed overjoyed.” her gaze shifted momentarily, softening as she thought of her son. “he’s a strong little thing, and already so full of life. perhaps it’s the lion’s blood in him.”

pale hues flicked to a cluster of golden lilies swaying in the breeze before returning to cyrene. “and how are your children, my lady? i've not had the honor of meeting them yet. they must be growing so fast. do you see much of the North in them, or do they remind you more of their father’s kin?”

she paused for a moment, letting the sunlight catch on the delicate gold chain she wore. “it’s strange how children seem to carry pieces of the places we’ve left behind, don’t you think? even little arthur—i sometimes catch a look in his eyes that reminds me of my father, though he’s never seen the craggy hills of silverhill.”

She glanced down at her hands, taking a slow breath. The mention of Rosalyn heavier in her heart than she would have thought. She had not met Owen's Queen often, their interactions brief and seemingly insignificant before. The weight of loss was ever present in Cyrene’s life, but Katherine’s sympathy was genuine, and for a moment, Cyrene allowed herself to feel it.

“Thank you,” Cyrene said softly, the words weighed down by the heaviness of grief. “It is strange, how grief lingers. As for Owen… I suppose he carries on. He must.” The corner of her mouth lifted briefly, but it was not a smile—more of a knowing, a weary understanding of what her brother, all of her siblings really, had become since their shared losses.

“He’s four, Benji,” she corrected, her tone soft but firm, as if she had said it a hundred times before. She didn’t mind the mistake, not really. It was more the principle of it.

"Freys are notoriously ugly. Like Valyrians, the really inbred ones with big teeth and slacked jaws," Aidan jested with the men around him. While his sellswords were not lords, he made sure to dress them as such. They would look like men who traveled with a Prince. Men in breeches and doublets with fine swords and cloaks instead of dressing like villains and whore mongers. Men did have to look how they were.

Even Aidan himself was dressed well after so much time dressed in Pentoshi rags. He wore a deep blue doublet adorned with silver embroidery, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. His trousers were made of fine leather, tucked into polished black boots that reached his knees. A red cloak clasped at his shoulder with one trout brooch and one of bread, depicting the sigil of House Tully at its center. His deep blue eyes, sharp with both wit and mischief, took in the surroundings.

The garden at Riverrun was a peaceful retreat, with cobblestone paths winding through lush greenery and vibrant flowers. Wooden benches scattered throughout, the sound of the rivers adding to the quiet playing of the bard.

She turned slowly, allowing the faintest flicker of a smile to cross her lips, though it held no warmth. Her gaze swept over him, the fine clothes he wore, clothes too refined for his manners, before meeting his eyes. “I fear,” she replied, her voice calm, “that your jokes are as tired as your travels, my Prince.”

She did not allow herself to be ruffled, though a tightness settled in her chest, an uncomfortable irritation she had learned to bury long ago. His words were little more than the play of a spoiled child, but there was something beneath them, something that gnawed at her patience. She stood taller then, lifting her chin slightly, eyes never leaving his.

brandon looked down at the girl’s small hand in his, so much smaller than he expected. wylla’s eyes, bright and curious, flicked between him and her mother. she didn’t shrink back, didn’t cower like some children did when faced with his grim demeanor. there was something in her gaze that made his chest ache—a hint of cyrene, from the days when she had laughed more easily, before everything unraveled.

“a princess, is she?” he murmured, his voice rough but quieter now, as though louder words might shatter the moment. his fingers closed gently around the girl’s hand, surprising even himself with the tenderness of the gesture. “she has the look of one. though i’d wager she has more sense than most i’ve met.” he glanced at cyrene, the faintest flicker of humor in his otherwise somber expression. an olive branch. “a credit to her upbringing, no doubt.”

as wylla tilted her head, studying him as if he were some towering figure from a storybook, he felt an odd pang—of reality. how different might things have been if their paths hadn’t diverged so violently? if oaths hadn’t been broken and alliances torn apart? but those questions lead nowhere. the past is a closed door, locked and barred. straightening, he released wylla’s hand and looked to cyrene, his expression softening, though his voice remained measured.

The faintest trace of a smile touched her lips, cold and practiced. “Must there be only one answer, my Lord?” she asked, her voice low and measured. Her gaze flickered down to her daughter, who was still staring up at Brandon with unguarded curiosity. “Children should know the world they inherit. It is theirs to shape, after all. The weight of the North is as much her birthright as that of the Crossing. Perhaps more.”

She folded her hands before her, the rings on her fingers catching the dim light of the room. The gesture was instinctive, a shield against the discomfort of his scrutiny. Cyrene knew Brandon well enough to see the questions behind his eyes, the unspoken thoughts that lingered. Or, she once did. She thought she did. He had always been this way. Direct, yet careful, his silences as potent as his words.

“And perhaps it was for me,” she admitted after a beat, her tone sharper now, though not unkind. “You know how things are in the Crossing. A ruling lady is meant to stay where she belongs, tethered to her hall, her family. But I-” She faltered for only a moment, then continued, her gaze steady. “I needed to breathe. To see something beyond stone walls and scheming faces.”

Her hand fell gently to Wylla’s shoulder, the touch grounding her even as the memory of Mako’s absence twisted in her chest. “Her brother could not come. My husband was… unwilling to part with him.” There was a bitterness in the words that she could not entirely mask. “His heir, after all, must learn his place. But I wanted Wylla to see what it means to belong to more than just one corner of the world. To understand what it means to have roots deeper than the Crossing.”

Brandon’s mention of war pulled her thoughts back to the present, and she met his gaze head-on, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. “You are right,” she said quietly, her voice softer now. “Another war would break us all, no matter which banners prevail."

Her lips curved, though the smile was faintly sardonic. "I’ll take your compliment as I hope you meant it. A credit to her upbringing, is she? I’ll make sure to remind Lord Frey of that when next he claims otherwise.”

Her voice turned drier, teasing despite the tension lingering in the air. “You’ve always been better with words than you let on, Brandon. And with children, it appears. Perhaps I should leave her here with you for a time. You could teach her to scowl properly.”

“I can imagine,” Cyrene replied, her voice soft but steady. “It must offer a kind of release, a moment to step outside the confines of one’s duties, to live without the weight of responsibility.” Her fingers brushed lightly over the edge of her gown, a habit when she was contemplating. “I suppose it is easier to slip into a role, to become someone else, than it is to face the person you are meant to be. Though, I think there is a certain… comfort in being who we are.”

and there was regret when she turned away, but something else, too. it was like a door closing, quietly, without fanfare, and he had watched her walk through it. a letting go, that should have been done a long time ago.

She had lived in this secrecy too long, carried it in the dark corners of her mind where no one else could trespass. She had learned to push it away, but sometimes it rose, unbidden, like now. “It is not so simple.”

Her eyes flickered back to him, studying him for a moment, but it was as if a shadow had fallen over her once more. She stepped back, the space between them widening once again, not from any physical distance, but something far more insurmountable. “Some things are better left alone,” she said, her voice barely more than a murmur.

For a long moment, Cyrene said nothing. She simply watched Minthara, her eyes cool but studying. The mischievious glimmer in the younger woman’s eyes, a freedom that seemed to come without thought, was unnerving in its ease. In another life, Cyrene might have admired it, but now… now it only made her uncomfortable. The difference between them, small before, had grown wider.

“I do hope you’re not in the habit of sniffing at everyone you meet,” Cyrene said, her tone soft but edged with a trace of something sharper beneath. It was a joke, but not one that reached her eyes. Her fingers twitched ever so slightly, a reminder of how unfamiliar this moment felt.

She paused, collecting her thoughts, then spoke again, her voice warmer this time, though still careful. “It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To find wonder in something so simple. Or maybe it’s not strange at all.” Cyrene tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. “You do have a way of making life seem a little more… interesting, don’t you?”

silently, she followed cyrene away from the memories that had enveloped her, up upon the walls where her sister's daughter would be found. still, she hovered silently, inexplicably shy. it was ridiculous. she was the adult, wylla nothing but a small child, but she was a child dacey did not know. it was different with owen and adam's children. she had known them since they were born, but to wylla, she was a stranger.

But time had worn that impulse down. Dacey’s silence wasn’t weakness; it was something harder to define, something solid and unyielding. It was courage, though Dacey would never claim it.

Cyrene glanced down at Wylla, her small hand still clinging to her mother’s fingers. She felt the weight of her daughter’s curiosity as Wylla’s wide eyes flickered to her aunt. And still, Dacey said nothing.

“She’s braver than she seems,” Cyrene said softly, her words meant for both her daughter and her sister. The irony of it struck her. She had spent so long wishing Dacey would break her silence, only to now realize how much strength it carried.

She crouched, steadying Wylla as the girl peered up at her aunt with quiet fascination. “This is your Aunt Dacey,” Cyrene said, a smile tugging faintly at her lips. "She’s braver than she’ll let you believe, I'm afraid.”

shit

cassana thought she’d mastered this by now. being home was supposed to be enough—the walls of winterfell, her family around her, the assurance that the man who haunted her was dead and buried, far from where she would ever see him again. but still, it crept in, icy fingers of panic slipping under her skin when she least expected it. she didn’t even know what had triggered it this time. a sound, a smell… something subtle yet powerful enough to pull her back to places she’d rather forget.

she was a stark. a wolf. a greenseer. she was supposed to be strength itself. she would be strength, no matter what memories tried to claw at her from the shadows. swallowing down the rising panic, she forced herself to breathe, to stay still when her entire body urged her to scream, to run. cassana fixed her eyes on something distant, something real—the line of trees in the distance, a bird arcing across the gray sky, or the thin plume of smoke winding up from a chimney. small, solid things to anchor her in the present. back to her strength.

she was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice her sister’s approach until cyrene was suddenly beside her.

“shit oh, gods, cyrene, you scared me.” the words slipped out, a little sharper than intended, not exactly the composed tone a princess was supposed to maintain. but cass had never been as polished as her sisters. “sorry,” she muttered at the unlady like language like she was kid trying not to get scolded again.

cass looked around at the slightly busy training grounds then back to her sister, “come on,” she said, gesturing to a path that led away from the bustle, a small corner of the grounds where the world felt more still, more private.

as they walked, cass stole a quick glance at her sister, searching her face. “everything alright?” she asked, her voice soft but edged with a quiet protectiveness. cyrene had come to find her, after all. that meant something.

“Everything is… as well as it can be,” Cyrene replied at last, her voice low, carrying a note of practiced composure. She glanced briefly at the canopy of bare trees overhead. “I might ask the same of you, though I suspect you’d tell me nothing’s amiss.”

Her words hung in the frosty air, a quiet challenge and an offering all at once. Cassana had always been the one whose emotions lay closer to the surface. Cyrene envied that, in a way — envied the vulnerability that her sister seemed to wield without apology.

“Did you read my letters?” she asked suddenly, her tone lighter now, edged with the faintest trace of teasing. “Not that it matters, I suppose. Stubborn wolves, all of you. But gods, Cass… if you had seen the way I worried.”

She exhaled, a soft plume of breath escaping her lips, before shifting her attention fully to her sister. “I can’t lose another one of you,” she said, her voice quieter now, more deliberate. “Not again.”