he hadn’t ridden south with the rest of them. let the banners fly and the horns sound in white harbour or winterfell—karhold had remained quiet. the snows had begun to thin, but the cold hadn’t, and brandon karstark had stayed in his hall, dreaming of blackwood eyes and the silver gleam of a girl who no longer stood beside her brothers. dreams twisted in root and stone. he’d woken with his jaw clenched and the taste of smoke in his mouth. ben’s name on the wind. alysanne’s laughter in the trees. never his wife. he’d left three days later, without pageantry, just a satchel and a blade at his back.

the verdant concord was a southern thing. gardens, and wine, and soft robes; not meant for him. nor his people.

but he knew the last place alysanne had been seen was on route to highgarden, able to pass through the thickness of woods of the neck.. he wasn’t fool enough to think he'd find her—but he wasn't fool enough to ignore what pulled at him either. the feasting hall had been set like a painting. long golden tables, the smell of honey and roast drifting through the high ceilings, ivy wound up the stone like it belonged there. there were thousands. or it felt like it. reachlords with their pearls, dornishmen in silk, ironborn with salt still crusted in their beards. he’d meant to slide in at the edge somewhere, vanish into a corner.

but the southern scribes had no sense for northern politics. placecards were a southern disease, and this one, tucked neat into the table just left of the high seat, had his name on it. his brother had seen it first. gave him a look across the table, a slow nod that said don’t, but also said go on. the chair beside it was empty. not for long. brandon stepped forward. the click of his boots on tile was quiet, but it might as well have been a hammer. the hall noticed. they always noticed. they’d seen the king of the north sit five minutes ago. seen no one take the place beside him. he hadn't realised. neither had owen, he could tell.

he sat slow, his limbs stiff from travel and sleep he hadn’t had. he looked scruffier than he liked. hadn’t shaved proper in days. hadn’t planned to be seen. the chair creaked faint when he sank into it. he didn’t look at owen at first. poured himself a drink instead, letting the wine bite his lip. fruit and fire.

were they doing this in front of everyone? the firelight hit owen’s crown like it meant something. king. that’s what he was now. not the boy who’d bloodied his nose wrestling behind the kennels. not the man who’d sworn to hold the north with him, shoulder to shoulder. brandon didn’t mention alysanne. didn’t ask about her. wouldn’t. the king in the north saw fit to behave as though he had no sisters - all whilst his brother had robbed him of his.