the sun of winter

The King did not wipe at his face, the heat of shame was not new to someone as public as him. There would be stories and jokes, men would laugh in their cups and others would declare him weak and grow weary that he would not get them through the winter as if he hadn't got them through harder times as the Dance raged and fight carried on. Owen stared at the man in front of him. There was a moment when he weighed out the best options for what he'd done. And somewhere in him a laugh ripped through and he spread his arms.

"Forgive me, I have lost myself in the wine and thought myself still in the North where a few fist thrown can be a sign of a fine affair." The laughter started uneasy. "After all, we all know the song of Owen Stark. More wolf than man." He smiled again as the laughter came easier, the smile did not reach his eyes but men who wish to be rid of the tension would not look to see. "Crown or no, wolves tend to bite. Only if you ladies be asking." And now the laughter was louder and Owen didn't feel so exposed.

Owen stood there for a time longer, allowing his mind to wander briefly, offer smiles to those that passed and patted him on the shoulder. Some people would know the king was not as drunk as he played but it mattered not at all. This wasn't a fight between brother, a fight between lords. This wasn't a fight between equals in the eyes of law and man. It was a king battering his lord or a lord antagonizing his king depending upon who told the tale. And while north was not weak, it only took one story to panic men and lead them to believing in tales. Another rebellion. Some upjumped lord. Someone funded by his enemies. Why was he so bad at this?

The King in the North walked away, he did not know if the other would follow and he did not look back to invite. Perhaps the boy that lived within him and wept so openly hoped the other would follow but the man did not know, he did not dare to wish for this but he crowned the Targaryen or led him to be crown. The Hour of the Wolf was still told and he was the shadow of whatever that hour had been.

somewhere within the thumping of his heart and the sound of his own blood coursing through his ears, the lord of karhold realised that he had remained silent amongst the sound of thunderous cheers and owen stark's roar of laughter that only he knew sounded more like a howl than that of any truth. he felt his knuckles were raw from the deep, primal urge to wish he could defend himself: it was a part of him he was ashamed of, at least for wishing to rear its head toward him of all people - but could he blame himself? could he blame anyone else? a part of him wished to allow his head to sink in his hands, before all the men - and yet he knew if he were to do such a thing there was no way he would, or could be called a man in the north.

the utter feeling of nothing, and nobody; was enough to send any man to spiral - to have nobody within those hallowed halls and nobody to exchange discussion and talk with that was not the attending servants. as much as he loved his home, there was no denying the karhold had become an icy prison he had made for himself: it entrapped him on a frozen mold, as though it were awaiting him to descend into madness and trace the silhouette of a ghost on his walls. a ghost with vivid green eyes, and a strange laugh; he knew she was no longer there, and yet it took until this moment for him to truly realise that somewhere along the line, he had gone with her. perhaps he wanted to go with her. 

karhold was his home, but no longer were it the place where he was happiest: but rather it was where he had banished himself.

and so it was for his own consideration and thoughts that he thought of what he needed - what did any man need in this situation? they were raised to defend - himself, and his own. his keep. his family. his sister. his wife. brandon karstark had failed to defend them at all; and there was no denying the fact that it all seemed to follow an unnatural current back to winterfell. he had barely realised that owen was no longer entertaining the masses with roaring laughter as he remained where he stood - all it would take was for one to look upon the face of brandon karstark to realise that this was no mistake. no northern wrestling match. it had been something deeper than that, something he did not think they would have resorted to - but violence was a part of their custom. a part of their way. it should not have engulfed him the way it did, and yet he continued to hear the sound of his own heart thuming as though it were desperate to stop. to explode.

to be scattered across the floor; what was a man meant to do if he could not honour those who had crossed him? those who had cost him everything? was he to go mad with anger and regret? with fury?

he did not know, and yet, at some point he found himself feeling the outside cold air on his face - when had he even started walking? he could not recall pushing his way through the crowds, not even attempting to make some form of conversation with those who roared beside him and clambered him on his towering back - only continued to follow that which he would hunt, like a mad man.  for a man who could not avenge his wife would doomed to become a madman. a man who could not settle his cores was doomed; so rare was it a thing for them, for where they belonged. brandon karstark never once considered himself a man that would not be able to do what he needed - and yet, in this moment, he found himself willing to beg. there was a dark silhouette in the background, and he knew whose it was merely by his stature and the width of his shoulders. 

he stopped a few strides short of him, boots planted wide in the churned earth as if the ground itself might give way. the cold bit through wool and leather, sharp enough to clear his head, but not enough to still the shake in his chest. brandon kept his hands low, fists clenched, jaw tight. when he spoke, it was rough and steady, dragged up from somewhere deep. “this has gone far enough,” he said. “i’m done with it. you're - done with it.” he drew a breath through his nose, slow, measured, like he was forcing a blade back into its sheath. “i’ve stood quiet. i’ve taken the looks, the whispers. i’ve bent where i could.” his voice hardened; though it were obvious he were a man at his lowest. it was not in the grief, or the heartbreak - but rather, the desperation.

he stepped closer, enough that his shadow brushed owen’s. “jin renshu killed my wife,” he said plainly, no heat, no tremor. there was nothing more to it than that, and that alone. “meera’s dead because of him. and he still draws breath.” his throat worked, but he did not falter. “that’s a wrong i can’t live with. not in the north. not as a man.” his shoulders squared, broad and unyielding. “i’m not askin’ for favour. i’m not askin’ you to love me for it,” brandon went on. “i’m askin’ you to let me do what should’ve been done. give him to me. let me carry it out myself.” his eyes burned, not with tears, but with something harder. how had it come to this? how had he neede to beg? “i’ll see it finished, clean and final. no more blood after. no more noise.”

And Owen just looked at him, something around them vibrated, something turned to a froze noise that was similar to the sound of ice showers. Owen could suddenly hear steel and screams and his eyes darkened on the man before because he missed him. He was desperate to turn to his brother beg, to tell him he needed him but the hurt overtook the anger and it made him want to collapse but he didn't collapse, he didn't give in the weight of pain and emotion and urges to cry.

Instead, he hit him.

He grabbed the man and punched. And he wanted Brandon to fight back and he knew that he would fight back and he knew that he was putting on a show for the realm and they would whisper but they were Northmen and Northmen did not care about rumor. Owen didn't take the time to notice the fight happening around them, the men jumping over the shared table and the uneasy feelings now on full display.

he felt the crack of it before he tasted the blood, sharp and hot at the corner of his mouth. the noise of benches went up in a storm, men vaulting the tables, shouting for order, others baying for more like hounds at the hunt. brandon didn’t move at first. didn’t rise, didn’t swing back. his hand only came up slow, thumb dragging across the split in his lip. iron on his tongue. old taste. familiar enough. what was unfamiliar — what near turned his stomach — was the sight before him. owen stark, crown still on his head, eyes wet like a boy, shoulders heaving like a man undone. crying. crying before half the realm.

his voice came out hard, sharp enough to cut through the din, and he didn’t care who heard it. “that it then? that all you’ve got?” he bellowed, the old karstark thunder filling the rafters. “go on — hit me again! if that’s all you’ve in you, all you can think to do with the crown your father left you, then swing ‘til your arm near falls off!” the words rang raw with contempt, and the more he stared at owen’s tear-streaked face, the angrier he felt. what did he weep for now? what grief was so great that it made him strike his own blood like this, in front of every lord and lady they were meant to hold together?

the hall was all noise now, men shouting for peace, others urging the fight on, hands half-reaching for swords though none had yet been drawn. brandon stood in the thick of it, shoulders squared, his breath misting sharp as if the cold of karhold clung to him still. he would not move first. he would not turn aside. if owen wanted to bare his grief before the realm, then let him — but the shame of it would not be his. a roar went up from the northern tables, some calling for restraint, others braying for blood, voices tangled in a mess of honour and fury.

brandon’s head snapped their way, eyes narrowing, and he thundered over them, “shut your fucking mouths!” his finger jabbed hard towards them, his voice carrying like the crack of ice splitting on a winter lake.

brandon surged to his feet then, boots scraping across the flagstones, and in the next heartbeat the chair beneath him went clattering. he caught it by the back with one great hand and hurled it across the laden table. platters went flying, a jug of wine spilled in a bloody arc across the white cloth, goblets and trenchers scattering. he did not care that gasps went up, that southern lords half-rose in panic while northmen shouted their approval or their shame. he wanted noise. he wanted to shatter the hall the way his brother had tried to shatter him. his chest heaved as he leaned across the wreckage, eyes locked on owen, words harsh and cold as a winter gale.

“what d’you cry for, eh?"

what: house karstark of karhold, of lands that stretch from east of the last river and the bay of seals house words: the sun of winter - these words are deeply rooted in the ancient traditions of the people of karhold seeing the sun as a deity, with equal love and adoration as the heart trees. duke of karhold: brandon karstark, hand of the king duchess of karhold: meera reed. vassals: house flints of grey cliffs, house lake, house lightfoot, house mollen, house moss, house wells. upon brandon’s marriage to meera reed, lord brandon karstark assumes reed lands upon the ruling lord’s death. this includes vassals of house blackmyre, house boggs, house cray, house fenn, house greengood, house marsh, house peat and house quagg.

ooc: below you’ll get a tdlr of house karstark’s history, lore and some traditions upon their lands. 

He still might.

"And you said nothing. You send no fucking word. Who do you think you are?" Owen asked him flat out now because this was a game to Brandon. Clearly he played at something and it made Owen want to flight him. It made him want to raise his chair over his head and slam it down on the other until he saw to reason. "Our personal issue have nothing to do with when I call you to court." If Karhold were so dear he would have answered and yet he stayed in his shit keep and moped because his witch wife got herself killed. A demon who shouldn't have risen from the dead to begin with. A wight. An other. Whatever it was, it was not Meera any longer but he couldn't say those words.

The differences in men who lost their wives, men who lost their way. Owen was lost long before he lost his wife whom he was not in love with nor did he think he would say his missing of her went beyond the great respect he held for her as his queen and mother of their children. Brandon was a man who loved and lost that love and for some reason he would hate Owen forever. Brandon could have killed Ren. All knew it. He could have driven his blade into the man's chest and it would have been the end but no. He demanded justice that is carried out beyond the hands of the King.

brandon’s fingers curled round the goblet until the chill of the metal cut into the bones of his hand, but he didn’t drink. didn’t blink. not even when owen’s fists slammed down on the table with the kind of force that made the southerners blink and flinch and straighten their backs like dogs half-expecting to be struck. the old rage — the kind that crept in through the ribs and climbed up the throat — stirred before he could stop it. he clenched his jaw tight, tongue against his teeth. the words came anyway, with the slow churn of a storm rolling down from the mountains. not shouted. but sharp, edged, and more northern than the wind itself.

“reckon i made meself clear.” he said, his voice low but growing in its weight, like snow beginning to crack the roofbeams. “no word came ‘cause there were no bloody word to give. weren’t different from last you asked. i weren’t comin’. you knew that.” the table between them might as well have been ice, just thick enough to stop their hands from reaching, just thin enough to see the cracks forming beneath. brandon didn’t rise, but the set of his shoulders changed. no longer hunched from the road, but braced now. steel beneath the furs. not court furs, not dyed or lined or perfumed, but worn things.

thick with wolf hair and smoke, still marked with salt from where snow had melted and dried again and again.

he didn’t raise his voice. it wasn’t needed. “you think i sit in karhold and brood? that i mope?” he leaned forward a little now, not much, but enough to make his meaning clear. “you know nothing of what it is to hold a keep like that in winter, one that don't have comfortable hot springs like you lot. i’ve buried children this year, owen. held a boy not ten winters old in my arms, still blue round the mouth, and dug through six feet of snow with my own fucking hands because the village tools had snapped clean in half. don’t you talk to me about silence.”

the urge to call him owen again sat bitter at the back of his throat. yer grace, he corrected silently, just before it broke past his teeth. but it was harder now. with every breath, harder. the crown on owen’s head felt thinner than the skin over an old wound. “what is it you want from me, aye?” he asked, the words slow and hard. “you wear a crown now, and i know what that means. but don’t pretend the summons weren’t personal. if you’d any shame left in you, you’d have left me to it. to my grief. to my hall. to the north.” the anger in him twisted, bitter and dry, but it didn’t burn like owen’s did. it froze. brandon didn’t move. didn’t flinch. he held the king’s stare like he always had — before the crown, before meera, before the ghosts. and in that moment, he knew that owen stark could bark and growl like his father all he wants - but he knew what was there too. perhaps he would leave this with his face blackened and blue, but he would leave alive.

The scrape of a chair broke through the music and laughter. A small sound — quick, insignificant. But Owen’s head turned, sharply, instinct carving through distraction like a blade. He saw him then.

Brandon Karstark.

Worn from the road, travel-dirt still clinging to his boots, hair untamed, face rough with days of unshaven stubble. He looked like a man who had ridden through storm and sorrow to get here, yet wore it with the same stubborn defiance he had always carried. He poured himself wine, the movement casual, careless, as if the long months of silence, of unanswered letters and broken oaths, had never passed between them.

Owen set his goblet down, the metal clinking softly against the hardwood table. His fingers curled against the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening. Every Northman at the table seemed to sense the shift in the air. Laughter softened. Forks lowered. Conversations trailed into uncomfortable pauses. One by one, the banners of the North quieted, tension drawing them tighter than any drawn bowstring.

Owen turned, the motion steady, deliberate, with the weight of a winter storm gathering behind it. He did not glance toward the southern lords who whispered behind their sleeves, nor toward the Reach knights who exchanged wary glances. His attention was solely fixed on the man beside him, the ghost of a brother who had once stood shoulder to shoulder with him against the world.

“Explain yourself,” Owen said, low and commanding. The words dropped like a stone into a frozen lake. He did not shout. He did not posture. It was the simple expectation of a king wronged, of a man who had waited too long for a loyalty that never came.

His grey eyes, hard as northern stone, bore into Brandon without mercy. Months of anger, grief, and betrayal twisted in the spaces between them — old brothers divided by new crowns, a kingdom splintered not by war but by silence.

brandon karstark did not flinch beneath the weight of his king’s gaze, though he felt it all the same - biting, a quiet chill which crept down the back of his neck and along his spine. gods knew, he had faced worse than owen stark’s fury — not including a real pack of wolves as a boy, and yet still, there was a silence he let settle between them like snow. fine, quiet, inevitable. the kind that blanketed whole forests before a man knew he’d lost his path. he raised the goblet again, but this time did not drink. the stem rested against his knuckles, cool and slick.

he watched the fire instead of owen — the way it caught the edge of the golden breadbasket, the flicker across some hightower boy’s chain, the dance in the thick wine that stained his cup. anything, but at owen.

when he finally spoke, it was slow and low, roughened by wind and disuse, as if the words had to be dug out from under frost. “there’s naught to explain, yer grace. i was at home.” the name that should have come out would have been too familiar, and too soft, and so it were impossible for it to spill from the tip of his tongue. his eyes drifted, not meeting the king’s, but close — the table’s edge, the pale linen caught in his brother’s sleeve. brother? how could they still be considered brothers? there was no manner in which they could be; not anymore.

there had been a time where winterfell too could have been considered home, but this? this was beyond even that, it were now court, and nothing more.

he shifted in his chair, the weight of the hall pressing on his shoulders like he wore the roof itself. southern heat clung to him like breath against glass, thick and perfumed. he didn’t belong here, in halls carved like wedding cakes, where lords drank from jewel-crusted goblets and the air reeked of roses and politicking. he’d passed a woman on his way in with golden leaves sewn into her hair. another with a dove perched on her shoulder. absurd. but most of all, this conversation and this interaction did not belong here; they were never supposed to be finally speaking about it in the south of all places.

some form of twisted, stupid entertainment, mere puppets on a string and being told to dance for the amusement of others.

The lady awaited for the Lord of Karhold to be summoned, and when he walked in to meet her, Anya offered a polite nod and a smile. She studied him quietly in the dim light of Karhold's hall, her sharp gaze quick to catch details that others might overlook. There were lines of exhaustion etched into his face, despite the obvious signs that he had just woken up, despite the odd hour to be sleeping. His tunic wrapped against his frame with wrinkles here and there. It was the way he spoke, the way he looked at her what gave her a sense of unease, though. He was measured as ever, but there was something heavier in him, something worn. “I hope you don't me coming unannounced,” Anya stated, not fully apologizing for her unexpected appearance in his halls.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have come all this way if I thought I could settle the matter myself,” she said plainly, stepping further into the hall, the furs at her shoulders shifting with her movement. “I hate to drag you into this, Brandon,” the raven-haired woman said in a low tone, her words laced with a sigh. She hated having to ask for someone to handle the matter with her rather than solving it on her own. And she hated feeling like a nuisance that might push him to get into a political affair he might not want to tangle himself with, not with the state of the North as it was.

“We can say it as it is. Halder Ryswell doesn’t take me seriously. He sees a former bastard, a woman with no land, no men, and no legacy worth bending to. He resents what I bring because it does not come from his fields or his forges. I have argued my case, and he will not listen, because it's only YiTish goods —luxuries, as you say, coming along the trade route”. At this point, they were fortunate enough to have linked the extensive trade route to other regions as well, like the Vale and Riverlands, connecting a good portion of the continent to that flowing vein of supplies. “He will not listen to me. But you...” Her nearly black eyes settled on him, lit into warm brown shades by the firelight in the hall. “You, he will listen to”.

There was no doubt in her voice, no hesitation in her request. It was a simple truth, that Brandon Karstark steadily carried the weight of his name, his blood, and the old Northern ways that men like Ryswell respected, even if begrudgingly. And so Anya hoped that for all that had passed between them, Brandon wouldn't let her be cast aside like a minor inconvenience. Even less when the North as a whole could benefit from the fruit of her hard labor.

he hadn’t thought she’d come, not herself. a rider, a letter, a steward, perhaps. but not anya. not the sharp-eyed girl who’d once sat beside him by karhold’s hearth, laughing into her hand at some joke she refused to repeat. and certainly not like this—like the cold wind had shaped her into something harder than before, sleeker too, but colder. and yet, still she was beautiful in the way only something familiar could be. and it made him feel... tired. ashamed, even, to have her see him like this.

thinner, duller. like something that had been left in the snow too long and now refused to thaw.

he let her words settle as he stared down at his cup, the warmth long gone. the fire cracked in the distance and the sound of it filled the silence he didn’t rush to break. eventually, he said, his voice low and worn, "you don’t need t’ apologise for comin’ woman. truth be told, i’m... i’m glad it’s you." he didn’t meet her eyes at first. instead he rubbed at his jaw, feeling the rough patch of stubble there and wishing he’d bothered to clean himself up. but what for? he hadn’t lifted a comb to his hair in days. had barely spoken to anyone aside from the cook, and even then it was just to grunt for more bread.

"i suppose i’ve not been... much of a lord lately," he muttered with a tired, mirthless huff. "don’t know what’s come over me. the days’ve been passin’ and i can’t seem to find myself in any of ‘em. can’t sleep. or rather, i sleep too much. and none of it feels real when i wake." he gestured vaguely at the hall around them, its quiet corners and looming stone walls. "this place is like a tomb when there’s no one to fill it. and i’ve not had much mind to do any fillin’." he looked at her then, properly, and felt something tighten in his chest. her eyes hadn’t changed. still that same burning dark, the same unflinching shape of someone who’d taught herself long ago that the world wouldn’t give her anything unless she took it first.

he admired her for that. he always had. and yet he hated the thought of her seeing him now—like this. a lord in name only, wearing sleep and disinterest like armour.

"you always knew how to say things plain," he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth though it never reached his eyes. "always knew how to look right through me, too." his hand curled around the cup again, but he didn’t drink this time. instead, he let it sit in his grip, grounding him. "halder don’t see what you are. he sees what he wants to see—some bastard girl playin’ merchant, forgettin’ her place. but that’s his weakness, not yours. the cunt's spent his whole life scared of the world changin’ without him."

he straightened in his chair, his pale eyes narrowing slightly, not with malice, but with the calculating sharpness that defined his every move. the firelight danced across his face as he spoke, his tone quiet but direct.

"aye, karstark, i know well what you say about rebuilding," edrick began, his voice low, purposeful. "but you stand between two worlds—one foot still tethered to the old gods and the other wavering, not daring to make a choice. you think the north can stand between them, but there is no middle ground left. either we keep our old ways, or we lose them."

he leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "unity in the north doesn’t come from bending to southern politics, but it doesn't come from standing in the middle either. the king’s ear may not be yours, but you’ve earned his respect. it makes you someone whose voice carries weight. it’s time you put that weight on the scales of what’s right for the north.”

he shifted, his movements deliberate, slow, and purposeful. "you speak of graves, and i’ve seen them too. seen what happens when you ignore the signs, when you let the wolves grow fat on the bones of the north." he looked at brandon, his voice turning harder. "but mark my words, karstark—there will be no rebuilding without first standing firm. the old ways are what have kept us alive. and the longer you stand by the fire of compromise, the quicker you'll watch it burn down to ash."

brandon let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw clenched tight as he listened to edrick. there was a sharpness in the bolton’s words, that cutting edge that always came with his kind—like every sentence was meant to dig in, to wound, or at least leave a mark. brandon didn’t flinch, but there was a heaviness in his chest, the weight of old grudges and older truths, or perhaps simply because he felt as though the other wished him to be a puppet and dance on a string.

the karstarks had already lost too much, had been served with disadvantage both personally and politically; he was too prideful of a northman to be edrick's example story.

“southern politics,” brandon repeated flatly, his northern drawl thick. “ye say it like it’s some curse we been shackled with, but i’m askin’—what the fuck do ye actually mean by it? the gold an' ships ships from cross the narrow sea? the trade routes that’ve made ‘em richer while we’re still out here counting barrels o’ grain before the first frost? aye, they’ve lined their pockets. grown soft, maybe. but coin’s coin. what’s wrong with wanting a slice o’ that, so long as our folk don’t starve for it?” he scoffed now, his hands on his rough beard. "yer own bastard brother few years back used just that to establish what you've got now - where the fuck were you, aye?"

he shifted in his seat, the old wood creaking under him as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “i know what yer hintin’ at. don’t go paintin’ me as some fool who can’t see it. i know the games they play. i just ain’t sure yer plan’s any better.” brandon’s grey eyes narrowed on edrick, hard and sharp. “you talk about standin’ firm, about holdin’ the old ways like they’re some sacred thing. aye, i get it. the north’s different. harsher. we look after our own. but there’s a difference between holdin’ fast and diggin’ yer heels in till the ground swallows ye whole.” the karstark was every inch the abrasion of a northern lord, his tone and his body language straight despite he fact he remained sat over his ale.

he let out a rough sigh, scratching his beard. “and don’t think i forgot who i’m talkin’ to. a bolton. house flayed man. you speak of loyalty to the north, but the likes o’ you’ve been carvin’ it up long before the southerners ever set their sights this far north. trust’s a hard thing to give a bolton. reckon you know that - go on and on about being kings of the dread. the north'll give its bones to the wolves of da north, happily. to the likes of you?”

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.”

brandon felt the weight of cyrene’s words settle deep, like fresh snow on heavy boughs. there was no softness in them, but no malice either—just that same tempered steel he remembered, honed by years apart and miles walked down rougher roads than either of them had planned. she hadn’t come for comfort, nor had she come blind to what the north had become. and still, she stood here, steady as the stones beneath their feet. it made it blindingly clear how much had transformed since their youth, and how those days seemed beyond grasping or longing over.

he let the quiet linger between them, feeling the cold bite at his cheeks, rough and real. wylla still looked up at him, that wide-eyed curiosity untouched by the heaviness that tangled between the adults. it tugged at something deep in him—something he’d buried, or thought he had. “aye,” he said at last, his voice rough as gravel. “it still stands. and that counts for somethin’, even now.” his eyes didn’t quite meet cyrene’s as he spoke. not out of shame—he’d worn too much of that for too long—but out of a respect that felt heavier than any old promise. he couldn’t quite read her, not fully.

there was distance there, and need for it, like a wound still half-healed, aching under the cold. she’d need her time. he understood that.

“yer no fool for wantin’ her to see what’s left,” he added, softer now, a note of something warmer threading through his words. “the north’s in her blood. can’t scrub that out, no matter how far south you go. and maybe even echoes ain’t the worst thing for her to hear.” he risked a glance then, at cyrene, catching that iron resolve in her eyes—the same fire that had once nearly pulled him into something reckless, something deeper than honour would ever have allowed. but there it was again, that iron chain around his own heart, the one he’d kept tight all those years. he wouldn’t cross that line now. not when the air still bristled with all that had been left unsaid.

“still,” he murmured, glancing back at wylla, “if she picks up the karstark scowl, don’t hold it against her. runs in the blood too.” he exhaled in the cold, his furs clad easily around his shoulders as he glanced between the lady and her daughter. it felt harrowing, now more than ever before, to realise that many of his dreams and wishes had evoperated into dust. a faint smile ghosted his face then—brief, worn at the edges—before he let it slip away. he adjusted the heavy cloak at his shoulders, the weight of the north in it, and took a small step back. distance again, measured and careful.

“i’ll not keep you,” he said, the words low, carrying more than they said. “this place… it takes its time, same as folk do. but you’ll find your footing, little lass.” the wind stirred again, cold fingers brushing past them, and he let the silence have the last word between them. there was more he could’ve said—about the weight of honour, about owen, about the fraying threads holding the north together—but that wasn’t for now. he met her eyes one last time, steady and sure.

“i’ll see you around, princess.” his head bowed as it always did, and with that, he turned, boots crunching softly over the snow as he left, leaving space where his presence had lingered, heavy and hollow all at once.

his voice, though quieter than the karstark’s, carried the steady cadence of the stormlands. “ye speak of the stormlands like ye know them well. like ye’ve walked our hills and heard the rain poundin’ against stone. it’s rare for a man outside our borders to see it so clear.” he paused, the faintest crease forming on his brow. “where does that come from, brandon? experience, or just a sharp eye for the lay of the land?”

the firelight caught the lines of morgan’s face as he leaned back slightly, the movement slow and thoughtful. “yer words, they’re not wrong. the pride of my folk, it’s a strength. aye, it holds us together. but it can turn brittle under strain. these taxes—this unrest—they’re like embers, aye? it’ll only take one gust to set the whole forest ablaze.”

he traced a finger along the rim of his goblet, his tone softening but not losing its edge. “a statement, ye said. bold enough to be felt but not so bold as to bring ruin. that’s a fine line to tread, and it’s easy to stumble. we’ve no desire to see heads on pikes, not ours, nor anyone’s, but the weight keeps buildin’.” he hesitated, the weight of his words clear in the way his shoulders set. “if the stormlands stand together, we might weather the gale. but fractured? we’ll be swept away.”

morgan tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful, almost searching. “if ye were still wearin’ the pin, how would ye advise me? or is yer advice now the same as it would’ve been then?” his gaze lingered on brandon’s, quiet but steady. “because ye speak like a man who’s seen what comes of makin’ the wrong move.”

brandon karstark’s eyes flicked towards morgan wylde, catching the faint twitch of his fingers against the goblet. the stormlander’s steady composure betrayed little, but brandon knew better than to mistake still waters for calm. the quiet hum of the hall wrapped around them, the fire casting long shadows across the stone. “ye ask if i know the stormlands?” brandon’s voice rumbled low, the northern accent thick as the winter winds that howled through the north.

“aye, i know them. not from wanderin’ yer hills or feelin’ yer rain, but from knowin’ what it means to be forgotten. to feel the weight o’ the crown bear down, heavier than the storms ye weather. and yer closer to us northerners than any other.”

he paused, his grey eyes narrowing as he studied the flicker of the firelight across morgan’s face. “experience teaches a man plenty, wylde, but it’s the sharp eye that keeps him breathin’. i’ve seen enough to know what happens when pride turns brittle, and we've seen a whole kingdom crumble ‘cause they didn’t see the cracks ‘til it was too late.” brandon shifted slightly, the leather of his gloves creaking as his fingers tightened briefly around the edge of the table.

“rebellion, ye say? it’s a fool’s game against a king like jaehaerys. man’s temperamental, too quick to the sword. he’ll rip the stormlands out by the roots if ye give him cause. but there’s another way. nightsong—it needs to be yours again. it’s a start. a symbol, aye, but symbols carry weight.”

he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “ye want to make a statement? then do it right. refuse the tax. all of ye, together. they can’t punish ye all without cripplin’ themselves. it’s not rebellion—it’s a stand. one they can’t ignore, but one they can’t call treason neither.”

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.”

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.”

His heart sank further into his stomach the longer they rode, the closer they got to the crossing.

And then - there they were. Everyone around them was saying goodbye. Aleks looked over at his brother. "What was I made for? No idea." The comments he'd made were honest ones, sincere vulnerabilities he so rarely spoke of.

brandon shook his head, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips as he heard aleks’s muttered confession. the lad always had a way of twisting self-deprecation into humour, but brandon knew better than to let the jest distract from the heart of it. pulling his horse to a halt, he turned fully in the saddle, his gloved hands resting lightly on the reins. the winter air bit sharp at his cheeks, but it made him feel alive—made him feel grounded in the here and now. "aye, wolves wouldn’t have had you," he began, his tone steady and warm. "they’d’ve spat you out, scrawny pup that you were. couldn’t handle your bite, no doubt."

his rough grin slipped as he looked at his brother. aleks’s face, for all its mischief, was pale with doubt, and brandon felt a pang of something between guilt and pride.

"fear’s natural, lad. means you care, and that’s the first step to doin’ right by anyone. folk who feel nothin’? they’re the ones to fear. but you? you’ve got enough heart for it. just need to trust yourself." he leaned forward, the reins creaking in his grip. "aye, it’s heavy. all of it. every decision, every life you hold in your hands. but you’ll find your way, aleks. you’re not a boy anymore man, and we’ve no time for you to act like one." brandon’s voice lowered, not with sternness but with something close to affection.

"karstarks ain’t wolves, like you said. we don’t need to huddle together to survive. the winter sun reaches further than that. you’re takin’ greywater watch for meera—for her people. it’s your duty now, but it’s also your chance to make somethin’ of it. of yourself."

but if asked, he would say it was the former.

and so, when brandon karstark's distinctive voice met his ears, ben turned, and that was exactly what she did. "not my fault. fucking giant of a woman," he grumbled. it was a slight exaggeration - whilst the princess was tall, she was not exceedingly so. it was just that ben was not, could never be, considered a tall man himself.

but when his eyes met brandon's, the man who had been a friend and a mentor in times when ben had needed it most, he was smiling.

he nodded his assent, eager to spend time in the company of the northman. he had heard many tales from their neighbouring kingdom, one ruled by his own cousin, and it would be a lie to say that the misfortunes of stark and karstark alike did not cause a knot of concern to make an appearance in his stomach. and yet, ben had never been a man to give into emotion. the boy who had cried upon seeing the bodies of the dead was long buried himself, replaced by something else entirely, though his shade made itself known from time to time. "shall we go outside? it's stuffy in here." and he inclined his head to the open doorways, where the light of the bonfires could be seen in the near distance.

brandon’s lips opened into a bark of a laugh as ben’s grumbling reached him. "giant of a woman, aye?" he repeated, letting the words roll out with a lazy drawl, his northern burr thick. "and there i were thinkin’ you’d conquered bigger foes, benny. though, by the look of you, maybe not." he chuckled, low and rough, his arms still crossed over his chest as he surveyed the younger man. there was something about ben—always had been. he weren’t a boy anymore, but brandon couldn’t shake the memory of him, all fire and fury and too little sense on a battlefield where no child should’ve stood.

he clapped ben on the shoulder as they stepped toward the open air, the bonfires crackling in the distance. "aye, let’s breathe somethin’ that ain’t sweat and southern perfume. stiflin’, that lot." the cool night air greeted them, sharp and crisp, and brandon took a long breath, letting it fill his lungs. "nobody likes the freys, you say?" he shot ben a sidelong glance, his smile broadening. "that might be the wisest thing to’ve come out your mouth all night. aleks’d raise a mug to that. though gods forbid he’d ever trust your men for it—he’s too stubborn, worse than me, and that’s sayin’ somethin’." the teasing tone softened the barb, though there was no missing the way his eyes lingered on ben’s face, searching.

brandon leaned against the stone railing, the flames casting their light across his weathered features. he didn’t speak for a moment, letting the crackle of the bonfires fill the silence. finally, his voice came quieter, more thoughtful. "pokin' at the freys from the south?" he ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling sharply; lord blackwood was young, and had not been able shadow his father in his duties as ruling lord for long enough - and now here he was, ruling lord. "don't be makin' enemies at home for me and aleks sake...you need yer allies, ain't ronan bracken now hand?" he asked, his arms crossing over his torso as he looked upon him.

he still saw a small, war-torn boy with eyes that appeared unstable. fearful, even. unsettling. quick to jump to violence, quick to shed blood.

he glanced at the northman, his expression contemplative. “his grace has done much to strengthen his hold on the crownlands, but with every move that favors the valyrians, the stormlanders feel their own footing slipping. some speak of old grudges, of the baratheon blood that once ruled. it’s subtle, but it’s there. a wrong word, a slighted lord, and the whispers could grow louder.”

morgan leaned back in his chair, the weight of his thoughts pulling his shoulders down. “it’s not just the weight of the coin they resent. it’s the feeling of being… less. less trusted. less important. they see the valyrians flourishing under another targaryen king, and in contrast, they feel forgotten. that, i think, is the true wound.”

he hesitated, watching brandon’s sharp grin with a flicker of unease. “i'm sorry, i didn't know." morgan was not the nosy type, though curiosity did not elude his features, and it only elicited another question. "still, you’ve seen more of this game than I have. if you were still hand, what would you do? how does a man serve his king without losing the trust of his own people?”

brandon karstark’s grey eyes narrowed as he listened, the weight of morgan wylde’s words settling over him like a fresh layer of snow on unforgiving ground. the stormlander’s voice, though steady, carried the undercurrent of unease, and brandon could feel the tension coiling tighter between them. for a moment, he let the silence stretch, his broad fingers drumming once against the rough wood of the table. finally, he leaned forward, his shadow long and looming in the flickering firelight. his voice, thick with his northern accent, came low and deliberate.

“ye’ve the right of it, wylde. walkin’ a blade’s edge, aye, and the steel cuts deep if ye lean too far either way. but here’s the truth of it—the north, the stormlands, even the vale—we’re all walkin’ the same edge. and it’s sharpened by valyrian hands.”

his gaze hardened, his tone steady but edged with the bluntness of a man who had seen too much. “pride runs deep in the stormlands, ye say. good. pride’s what keeps a man upright when the winds come howlin’. but pride alone won’t shift nothing. it’s action that matters now, though not the sort to bring the king’s wrath down on yer heads. nae, what’s needed’s a statement—one bold enough to remind those silver-haired bastards the stormlands won’t be cowed. but careful, mind. too bold, and it’ll be yer necks swingin’ from their bloody gallows.”

he sat back slightly, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, making him look more wolf than man. “ye say yer folk feel forgotten. less. that’s the wound, aye, and wounds fester if left untended. but ye don’t heal it by beggin’ for scraps from a valyrian table. stormlanders’ve always stood tall, same as northerners. remind them o’ that. remind them who they are, who they’ve always been—lords of their own fate, not lackeys to some foreign crown.” he paused, his expression darkening as he mulled over his next words. "do something, something that'll hurt 'em where it counts."

the lord's lips twitched into a wry smile at brandon’s sharp remark. “indeed, the boltons know a thing or two about standing in rooms full of daggers. we’ve survived by knowing when to wield one and when to dodge one, at least those of us smart enough to know where we should stand.”

the fire crackled in the silence that followed, edrick letting the warmth settle over them, though it did little to melt the frost of mistrust between their houses. he studied the man, noting the steel in his posture, the wariness in his eyes. it wasn’t surprising, loyalty to house stark had cost the karstarks dearly before, and the whispers of discord between the former hand and his king only added to the intrigue.

“aye, karhold’s blood has run deep for the north,” edrick began, his voice quiet but deliberate, carrying an edge of steel beneath its calm. “and it’s that blood that makes you the man every lord in this hall watches. they may not say it outright, but they’ll follow where you tread, even if it’s to the gates of the dreadfort itself.”

he allowed himself a faint, bitter smirk. “and the king? if anyone holds his ear, it’s you. the rest of us? our voices are just echoes in Winterfell’s stone, swallowed up before they can reach him. but you? if the king hears a karstark and still chooses to turn away, then perhaps we’ll know the measure of his vision for the north—and just how far he’ll let it stray.”

brandon leaned back in his chair, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face as he studied edrick. the bolton lord spoke with the precision of a blade, each word crafted to provoke, to prod at the fractures in his loyalty. but brandon was not so easily swayed. his grey eyes, cold as the karhold winters, met edrick’s sharp gaze without flinching. “aye,” he said, his voice low, the northern accent thickening with the weight of his words, “ye’re clever, bolton. always were, i reckon. clever enough to know a man like me don’t care for flowery words or talk o’ daggers. but ye’re still missin’ the mark, man.”

he shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “let’s set somethin’ straight, aye? the king’s ear? i don’t hold it. never will. reckon owen stark listens to his own counsel more’n any man alive, and if ye think he’d bow his head to me or any other, ye’ve been drinkin’ more’n yer share of winterfell’s mead.” brandon’s lips turned downward, a clear sign of his displeasure. “ye think i’d use that for yer ‘true north’? ye think i’d lend my name—karhold’s name—to a cause that’d splinter the north clean in two?” he straightened, his voice gaining a harder edge as he continued.

“the north’s bled enough, bolton. ye talk o’ stubbornness and pride like they’re virtues, but i’ve seen where they lead. graves, that’s where. rows and rows of ‘em, with lads too young to hold a blade buried in frost they’ll never thaw from. and all for what? to prove we’re unbroken? unbent? i’ll tell ye somethin’—the north don’t need provin’. it needs rebuildin’. he stood then, towering over edrick for a moment before he walked to take a hold of another drink, the furs on his shoulders brushing against the air heavy with the scent of firewood and whiskey. “as for them gods and southern alliances ye sneer at, i’ll say this: the north’s never been stronger than when it’s had a hand steadyin’ it. whether it’s stark, manderly, or any other house, it’s unity that’s kept the wolves from our door.”

brandon’s gaze bore into edrick’s, unyielding. “so no, i won’t join ye. i won’t stand with ye, and i won’t let karhold be the spark that lights the fire ye’re so eager to stoke. the north’s my home, aye, but i’ll not see it burn just to keep yer pride warm.” with that, he stepped away, the echo of his boots on stone punctuating his final words. “find another fool to hold yer banner, bolton. i’ve no interest in yer war that ya seem to want to stoke.” he looked upon edrick's face there, knowing he agreed with him. agreed with him wholeheartedly, but the method...the execution of it all, would lead to more execution. he was sure of it.