CYEL
"Just a little higher," Cyel said to two servants who were hanging a wreath of blue roses around the entrance, while she was weaving another.
Everyone in Winterfell had been very busy since the arrival of a crow from the South to announce the imminent visit of the King and his family, following the death of the Hand of the King and Lord of the Eyrie, Jon Arryn. Cyel had never met the Warden of the East, but she knew that he was the man who had taken care of her Lord Stark in his youth. Eddard Stark had been sent to the Eyrie at a young age, and Lord Arryn had become a father figure to him and Robert Baratheon, who was Lord Stark's closest friend before becoming King. That was a story well known to her and the Stark children.
Cyel couldn't stop feeling sorry for her Lord. She understood what it meant to grow up in a foreign land while feeling at home. She could only imagine how painful it must have been to lose such an important part of one's past.
Cyel arrived in Winterfell at the age of four, and even then, the huge castle was very busy—though not for her arrival. Just the morning before Cyel walked through the stone door of Winterfell, Lady Catelyn had given birth to Brandon, the fourth and sweetest of the Stark children.
She still remembered her first day in the North, even if she was very young at the time. The summer snow was covering the fields, the cold wind was blowing against her cheeks, and the light mist gave an almost magical atmosphere to her surroundings.
Everything was so different from Dorne, yet she couldn't help but feel drawn to the North. Perhaps it was the landscape or the people, so different from anyone else she had met. And although she was nervous, she felt immediately at home. Her mother had told her that this was normal.
Her father could have been Prince Oberyn Martell, but Lady Phelya Rosemberg, Cyel's mother, was a noblewoman from a lesser house in the North. Their castle was far from Winterfell, near Brandon's Gift and not far from the Wall. Still, House Rosemberg had been very loyal to the Starks since they were Kings in the North.
"In your veins flows the blood of the far South and of the far North; do not forget that," her mother always told her. Perhaps that was why Cyel had never felt like a stranger in the North, even though she sometimes thought fondly of the welcoming and warm sun of Dorne and her father's embraces.
It hadn't been easy for Oberyn Martell to let Phelya take Cyel North. Even if her father was known for being ruthless and vindictive, he would have given the world for his daughters. Cyel had eight sisters—step-sisters, actually—each of them a Sand. "Sand" was the name given to the bastards of Dorne, just as "Snow" was used in the North. Since her mother and father had never married, Cyel's name couldn't be Martell.
"Is that alright, Lady Sand?" Cyel smiled at the servant girl, Mirana.
"It's perfect." Even though she was a Sand and, in fact, a bastard, in Dorne, bastards weren't treated differently from legitimate children. They had rights and were included in the line of succession. And even though she wasn't in Dorne, her father was a prince, which gave her a position in the Seven Kingdoms. That was why they called her Lady.
But her name wasn't enough to appease her father. Oberyn Martell didn't trust many people in the Seven Kingdoms, particularly after what had happened to his sister, Elia Martell, during King Robert's Rebellion.
Cyel's aunt, Elia, was Rhaegar Targaryen's wife, and she had been killed by a man of the Lannisters. Phelya tried to reassure Oberyn that Northerners were different from the people in the South, but he wanted to be sure that his daughter would be treated with respect. Because of this, he proposed an arrangement to the Lords of Winterfell; if they accepted, he would allow Cyel to go with her mother.
At the appropriate age, Cyel would have to marry one of the Stark boys. Even though Lord Stark never liked arranged marriages, both he and his wife accepted the proposal. Cyel had possessions in the South, and whoever married her would become a Lord of Dorne and would have the Martells as allies.
From what her mother had told her, she would surely marry one of the Stark boys, even though she didn't yet know who her husband would be. Lord Stark preferred for his children to know love, especially in times of peace, so the Starks allowed Cyel and Phelya to stay in Winterfell, not wanting to separate mother from daughter, and also because of the friendship between the Lord and Phelya, who had spent many years of her youth in Winterfell before the war. It was common for a young lady to spend the majority of her youth in other Lords' castles as their ward, to learn how to be a proper lady. So, since their first day in Winterfell, her mother had become Catelyn Stark's court lady, and Cyel had become Antea's.
"This is quite a good job, Cyel," Lady Catelyn said, prompting Cyel to stand and bow her head.
"Thank you, my Lady." Cyel had always admired Lady Stark; she was a perfect lady and very beloved by her people. She hoped that one day she could be as good as her in running a castle. But she couldn't deny feeling a bit of pressure when she spent time with her Lady. She studied her every move, wanting to learn as much as she could.
She still remembered the first time she met Lady Catelyn Stark. Catelyn had just given birth to her fourth son the day before, yet she looked beautiful, like a lady from the stories, and she regarded Cyel as if she expected a lot from her. Since that day, Cyel had tried her best to impress her Lady, who had always been strict yet caring.
"How is your lady mother feeling today?" Lady Catelyn asked, looking at the roses on the table.
Phelya had fallen ill a couple of months prior. Her fever never seemed to go away, and she always felt weak. She and Cyel had tried to convince their Lords to let them go to Thornhill, the Rosembergs' castle, because they didn't want to be a burden to their hosts, who had always been so kind to them. But Lord and Lady Stark had insisted that they remain in Winterfell, where Maester Luwin would take good care of Lady Phelya.
"You are part of the family," Lord Stark had told them.
Cyel couldn't be more grateful to her Lords. They allowed Maester Luwin to care for her mother every single day, even if he didn't seem to understand what was wrong with her.
"She slept well last night, my Lady," Cyel answered, looking at Lady Catelyn, who nodded with a sympathetic expression.
"I shall visit her later." Lady Catelyn had always visited Phelya every day, but with the King's arrival, she had been so busy that she hadn't been able to.
"I like how you've arranged these decorations. They are lovely," the Lady said, brushing delicately against the petals of the flowers before turning to Cyel. "I need you to look after the gardens now."
"If it pleases my Lady."
Cyel felt so honored to help with the arrangements for the arrival. In fact, she and Antea had been chosen to assist. At first, both girls were happy to avoid Septa Mordane's lessons, but now they didn't understand why they had complained about them for all those years.
Running a castle was stressful and hard, even for someone like Cyel, who had always enjoyed making things beautiful.
But doing it for fun was a different story.
Now everything had to be as perfect as possible, and Lady Stark was meticulous about every detail. Cyel had a secret weapon, though: when Sansa had the time, she asked the young lady for her opinion. Sansa was as strict as her mother and very honest.
"I like these wreaths as well," Lady Catelyn said. "You could hang some of them in the gardens." Cyel smiled.
"I will." Immediately, she began picking roses, aided by two servants. After bowing her head, she walked toward the gardens.
Winterfell was huge and wonderful; its walls were tall and warm, and everyone seemed so happy. The Starks were kind to all their people, noble and common alike. She spent her life playing in those yards with the Stark children and other kids who lived in Winterfell. Cyel always loved playing in the snow; they had so much fun running through the white fields, chasing each other.
"Are you sure it's safe for you to be up there?" she heard Robb Stark call as she hung one end of the wreath on the castle entrance. Cyel looked down and saw him smiling broadly.
"I am, my lord, but I appreciate your kind concern," she replied, causing him to laugh, drawing the attention of some servants and guards. They were used to it, though.
Whenever Cyel and Robb talked in the yard, people would look at them. The two of them were accustomed to this attention and often joked about it. They knew about the arrangement, but Cyel recognized it was highly improbable they would marry. He was the future Lord of Winterfell, after all. She might be a lady, but she was still a bastard by name. Even though Robb was a great young man whom every girl would be lucky to have, he was certainly handsome, a great warrior, and very funny. He had always made her laugh since their very first day together. He was so different from Jon Snow. Jon was quiet and shy, always seeming to study everyone and everything around him.
She had noticed this the first time she met the Stark children. Robb was outspoken and humorous; he immediately treated her like part of the family. Jon had been silent at first, very silent. It took a while for him to open up to her.
Talking to Jon Snow was pleasant once he did; he loved his brothers and was always happy around them. Yet when he was alone, he often looked a bit pensive and melancholic. The only times Cyel saw him genuinely happy were when Princess Cassandra Baratheon was in Winterfell. Jon and Cassie enjoyed each other's company, surprisingly understanding one another.
"Have you seen Antea?" Robb asked her. "I haven't seen her all day."
Cyel always noticed the love that connected all the Starks; they had always been together. Lord and Lady Stark didn't send them away to learn their duties in other Houses; they lived their lives in Winterfell. She often thought about how much she would like to spend more time with her sisters in Sunspear. Tyenne wrote to her every week, telling her what was happening in Dorne. Cyel and her sisters might not be as close as the Starks were, but they loved each other. Even her older sister Obara wrote to her from time to time.
"I think she was supposed to be in the main hall," she replied, jumping down and accepting the hand that Robb offered her.
"By your tone, I understand that you do not wish for me to go," he said, still smiling. Cyel laughed, patting Grey Wind's head, Robb's direwolf. Since they had found those puppies, they had never separated from them. It was as if they shared a bond with those creatures.
"She was trying to hide," Cyel explained, recalling her friend's idea of hiding in the Winterfell crypts so no one would find her. "And I'm sure you will help her escape."
"You know me so well, my lady!" Robb said, placing a hand dramatically on his chest. Cyel shook her head with a smile.
"Well, if you go there, I didn't tell you anything," she said, putting her hands on her hips.
"Told me what?" he replied with a smirk. She nodded knowingly; he never failed her.
"Thank you, my lord." Robb smiled one last time before patting Grey Wind's head.
"I'll see you later," he said, starting to walk toward the castle, with his direwolf following behind. "Do not tire yourself."
Too late, Cyel thought, returning to her duties.
It had been another hour of intertwining wreaths, making more space in the yards, and ensuring everything looked perfect. She hoped the King's visit would pass quickly so that everything could return to normal.
"Here you are!" Cyel turned to see a furious Theon Greyjoy marching toward her in the gardens, clearly agitated. Something must have made him very angry, but she always found his angry expression amusing, so she tried to hide a small smile.
"Where is he?" Theon demanded, frowning in surprise and confusion.
"Who?" Cyel replied, genuinely puzzled.
"Who?" Theon rolled his eyes, becoming even more annoyed by her words. It had become a normality for the two of them to bicker; since their very first encounter, they had never stopped.
They'd always felt comfortable with each other, and sometimes Cyel thought it was because of their similar situations. They were both wards of Lord Stark, far from their own homes.
She remembered the first time she learned that Theon was, in fact, a hostage and not a guest like she was. Cyel had been so surprised. He studied with the Starks, hunted, trained, ate, and played with them; it was strange. The Starks didn't treat him like a prisoner; it felt as though he was part of their family, making it easy to forget the circumstances that had brought him to Winterfell.
"Your little friend, Cyel. Where is he?" Now she knew who he was talking about.
"Why should I know where Bran is?" she asked, turning her back to him to hide a smile.
"You always know where he is," Theon replied, letting out a small growl. And that was true. Cyel always seemed to know where Bran was. He was special to her, but he was also special to everyone who met him. He was a sweet boy yet stubborn, easy to make laugh, and impossible not to love.
She remembered when Antea took her to meet her new little brother. He had been in his mother's arms, looking at her the entire time she stayed in the room. His eyes hadn't changed much over the years, and as they grew, the two of them easily became friends, spending a lot of time together.
"Well, apparently I don't this time," she said, turning back to look at Theon, who was studying her face, trying to determine if she was lying. He, of course, knew that she was, just as he knew that Cyel would never divulge Bran's whereabouts.
"You know I will find him," Theon said after a moment of silence. Cyel shrugged her shoulders with a knowing look.
"I know you'll try." She watched him storm away, and when she was sure he was gone, Cyel walked to one of the tallest trees in the yard. Looking up, she called out, "You can come out now, Bran." Immediately, Bran appeared in front of her, upside down, wearing a surprised expression.
"How did you know?"
"I know you," she replied. He stared at her for a moment before climbing down from the tree. Cyel had watched him climb a million times; sometimes they even climbed together. But Bran was much better at it—far better than she could ever hope to be—and she was always impressed.
"What have you done this time?" she asked, hands on her hips, an amused look on her face.
"Nothing," he said, but his direwolf bounded toward them, betraying him. Seeing her skepticism, he finally admitted, "A prank."
"I cannot believe it!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "You did it without me? I'm offended, my lord." Bran's smile returned, and she couldn't help but smile back.
"I did try to find you," he said, shifting from foot to foot. "But you've been so busy these days." Indeed, she hadn't spent much time with Bran or his sisters lately, and she felt guilty about that.
"I know," she said, nodding lightly. "But the King is coming; we need to make a good impression." Bran looked at his feet, bored. They always played together, but now no one had time.
"Tell me," Cyel said, trying to lift his spirits, "how are you feeling about the King's guards coming here?" His face lit up immediately. Bran's dream was to be a knight. He knew everything about them, including the story of each one.
"I am so happy!" he exclaimed, making her smile. "I can't believe it! I will see real knights!" In the North, there weren't knights in the traditional sense; for them, a man could have honor without being called Ser.
Bran didn't want to be just a knight; he wanted to be a Kingsguard, the elite guards who protected the King. When they took the vow, they gave up lands and marriage. Cyel looked at him and always felt a pang of sorrow, because even Bran could have become her husband one day, and if he did, he would have to give up his dream.
But that day was still distant; for now, they were just children.
"Cyel." She looked over her shoulder to see Lady Catelyn waiting for her.
"I have to go." She glanced at Bran, who was pouting.
"Can you not spend a little more time with me?" he asked. She would have liked that very much, but sadly she couldn't.
"I'm so sorry, Bran."
Bran turned to his direwolf with a scoff. Cyel quickly looked at Lady Catelyn, who was observing the two of them, still waiting for the girl to join her.
"What if…" At her words, Bran looked up. "As soon as I'm done here, I'll come looking for you so we can spend some time together. Is that alright?" He glanced at her before smiling and nodding.
"Yes, that's alright." Cyel smiled back as he started running away with his direwolf toward the Godswood.
She kept her promise, and once she finished the arrangements, Cyel spent the rest of the day with Bran and his direwolf. He still hadn't chosen a name for the wolf; Bran wanted to find the right one.
Evening arrived soon, and she ran to spend time with her mother. They would have dinner together, just the two of them. She loved spending time with the Starks, but it was nice to have some quiet moments with Phelya. Her mother was everything to her—Cyel's closest friend. Phelya always radiated happiness, even now that she was sick. Sometimes Cyel thought she was putting on a brave face, but her mother had this beautiful quality of always seeing the best in every situation.
"How are you feeling?" Cyel asked, trying to hide her worry, as she set a plate before her mother. She always brought meals to Phelya; she was her mother, after all, and it was her duty to look after her. It was heart-wrenching to see Phelya like this—pale, with dark circles under her usually bright blue eyes.
"The Maester was relieved. The fever is slowly going away." At her words, Cyel couldn't help but smile, bringing her hands to cover her mouth.
"Truly?" If this were a dream, she prayed the Old and the New Gods wouldn't wake her up.
"Mother, this is wonderful!" she exclaimed, hugging her mother, who began to laugh lightly. Cyel didn't know how long they stayed like that, but she didn't care—she was just so happy. In the last few months, she had tried to stay strong for both of them, but even with all her efforts to keep busy, she couldn't help but worry. Now, Phelya was getting better, and that was the best news of the day.
"So, how's my sun today?" Phelya asked, patting her bed and inviting her daughter to join her under the covers.
"Very tired," Cyel replied, laughing sweetly as she took a bite of her meal. "I think I'm going to fall asleep on the plate." She was indeed tired, but that day had been wonderful, and she couldn't wait to help her Lords again tomorrow.
"If you're so tired, then you won't be able to open your present," her mother said with a playful smirk, and Cyel smiled immediately. Her father must have sent her something from Dorne. It was common for Oberyn Martell to send gifts to his daughter now and then, just to let her know he was thinking of her. Along with the gifts, there was usually a poem, one that always managed to make her cry.
Cyel usually traveled south once a year, but with her mother in this condition, she didn't want to leave her. Even though Phelya was now healing, she still needed to rest and recover—everything else could wait.
"Maester Luwin left it when he came," Cyel explained. Maester Luwin was a sweet old man; when he wasn't teaching them, he could be a bit intimidating—though not as much as Septa Mordane. Well, perhaps not. No one was quite as scary as Septa Mordane.
Cyel took the box her mother was offering and, with careful movements, opened it. Inside, she found a dress. It was beautiful, white with delicate orange embroidery that seemed to dance around the gown.
"Gods, it's beautiful," she murmured, admiring the fabric in her hands. She couldn't wait to show it to Sansa. The lady loved Cyel's dresses, but unfortunately, Sansa couldn't wear them because she was much taller. Once, she and Antea had tried to make Arya wear one of Cyel's dresses, but the wild girl had run away from the chamber, leaving them laughing. Arya was so different from the others. Phelya often said that Arya reminded her of Lyanna Stark, Lord Eddard's sister. The wildness must have run in the Stark blood, for even little Rickon, at just three, had a fierceness about him.
"I think I'll wear this for the King's arrival," Cyel said, feeling her mother's smile.
"I think you should," Phelya agreed, watching her with pride.
Even though she missed her father and sisters every day, Cyel was grateful to have her mother and the Starks by her side. She had never felt like an intruder in Winterfell; she had never felt unhappy or alone—not once. She would always be thankful to her Lords for the care they had given her. She would never forget that.