"Ceilya, look." Bashfully presenting her cross stitching to her older sister, Sansa held her breath; hers was neither as complicated nor as crisp as Ceilya's, but it was her best work by far. The older girl who sat beside her smiled kindly at her sister, though, and set her own stitching down. "What do you think?"
"Oh, Sansa!" Septa Mordane let out a complimentary gasp before Ceilya could respond, leaning down between the two girls. "My, how lovely! Your needlework is coming along wonderfully!" Giving her tutor a polite but curt smile, Sansa shifted her gaze back to her sister. Ceilya nodded, holding back an amused smile as the elderly Septa puttered along to oversee their youngest sister's clumsy attempts.
"She's right," Ceilya said, picking Sansa's work up to inspect it. "You'll be better than me before I know what to do about it!" This caused Sansa to roll her eyes slightly, though she openly enjoyed her sister's praise. Somehow, receiving compliments from her meant more than from Septa Mordane.
"Don't worry," Arya grumbled from behind Sansa, yanking her needle through the cloth too roughly, tearing it a bit. "I'll always be the worst. Not like I want to be good at this anyway…"
"You'll have other talents," Ceilya pointed out.
"Like getting dirty and swearing," Sansa snarked, and just as Arya scowled and stuck her tongue out at the middle sister, Septa Mordane turned, and caught her.
"Arya!" she scolded, and Ceilya felt a little bad for her youngest sister. She remembered clearly being scolded as a young girl as well, for similar offenses. But being quite a bit older than Arya, five years older, she'd grown out of childish impulsivity. For the most part.
"What are you sewing?" Sansa asked, looking from the needle work in her own lap to Ceilya's. Smoothing the cotton out, she let Sansa lean over to see; black and white thread, woven intricately into the fabric in the shape of a sun.
"House Karstark's sigil," she supplied, smiling slightly.
"Ew." Arya's quick, sharp assessment earned her another chastisement from their teacher, and this time Ceilya openly laughed. Arya was only eleven; of course a betrothal sounded absurd to her. But to Sansa, who had only just turned 13, the notion of marriage seemed desirable and romantic, even an arranged marriage.
"It's not gross!" Sansa defended her older sister, "It's wonderful! The Karstarks are our most loyal bannermen!"
"But she doesn't even know Harrion Karstark!" Arya shot back, glaring angrily between them. "He's twice her age and a stranger!"
"Young lady, that is enough!" Shushed a third and final time by the Septa, Arya was seized, not unkindly, by the upper arm. "Why don't we just have a chat with your mother about your unruliness?" As she was led away, scowling, Ceilya sighed. Arya did have a point, she had to admit. She'd only briefly spoken to her betrothed, and that felt like ages ago. But Ceilya wasn't necessarily adverse to the idea of marriage. Her mother had been married at close to Ceilya's age, and she certainly was eligible. She hadn't been too keen on the idea when her father had approached her with the betrothal, though. Catelyn must have sensed her daughter's weariness, and for now, the engagement was just that. An engagement. Marriage was far and away for Ceilya, but it would happen eventually, she knew.
As she mulled all this over in her head silently, Sansa watched her, wary of any reaction from her older sister. When she finally realized Sansa was watching her, Ceilya looked up and smiled reassuringly.
"Oh, Arya's just young," she said, setting her sewing aside. "It's an honor to wed Lord Harrion."
"I wish I could be the one getting married," Sansa sighed, tugging the thread through the fabric gently. "It's so romantic."
"You could marry Lord Harrion's younger brother, Torrhen," Ceilya suggested. It was a real possibility for the sisters, to wed brothers of the same House. At this, Sansa turned a girlish shade of pink, and smiled down at her hands. It was a little disconcerting how much her younger sister looked forward to being wed to a man she didn't even know, but Ceilya brushed that thought aside for now. As daughters of the House Stark, it was their duty, after all.
Both girls looked up as there was a commotion in the courtyard just outside. Leaning back in her seat to get a better view out of the open window, Ceilya could just make out Arya, ducking away from Bran as the younger took a swing at her. Arya was laughing, though Ceilya knew Arya laughed at many things she wasn't supposed to laugh at.
"Now what's she doing?" Sansa asked, pouting slightly.
"Why are you always so upset by what Arya does?" Ceilya asked amusedly, shaking her head.
"She never behaves!" the younger whined, "and she's always getting herself in trouble! That's not how a lady should behave!" Her cheeks were rosy with indignation as she said this, and the elder sister just laughed.
"And since when are you her mother?" Ceilya asked, to Sansa's chagrin. The younger didn't reply, feeling hurt by her older sister's gentle reprimand, but instead cast her eyes back down to her sewing. Doing the same, Ceilya pulled the last few stitches through the cloth, finishing her design, just as another clamor kicked up outside. But this time, it was not child's play. Abandoning their projects, the two girls made their way outside, in time to see Jon sorting the last of the dulled practice arrows, and Rob exit the courtyard with Bran in tow.
"What's the matter now?" Ceilya asked, craning her neck up to where her father had stood only moments ago. Now it was only her mother overseeing the courtyard, with a sullen look on her face. "Jon, what's happened?"
"Ser Rodrik just informed Father of a deserter from the Night's Watch," he replied, raising an eyebrow as he glanced at his half-sisters. Sansa remained a half-step behind Ceilya, as she wrung her hands slightly. Ceilya's countenance remained unchanged, though it was troubling news; everyone in Winterfell, from the Starks down to the lowest born servant knew what that meant: an execution. Shoving the last of the arrows into their stationary quiver, Jon sighed. "He's instructed Bran to come with us to witness the sentencing."
"And Mother allowed this?" she asked, her eyebrows knitting together briefly, as she cast a sideways glance back up to their Mother, whose face was now turned away.
"He's not a little boy, he'll need to see more than a few executions in his time," Jon said, to which his sister merely scoffed.
"Not a little boy?" she said, all but laughing, "Jon, you're still a boy yourself." Jon rolled his eyes at this and turned to leave, dismissing his sister's light-hearted ridicule. She was younger than him, what place of hers was it to call him a boy? Even if she was a Stark.
"How rude," Sansa muttered under her breath, but Ceilya wasn't bothered by Jon's curt ways. He'd always been a bit on the sullen side, even as a little boy. He was never as visibly happy as Rob or Theon, but also never rowdy, or loud, or mean. She sighed, and as she turned to go, Sansa called after her. "Where are you going?"
"The Godswood," Ceilya replied over her shoulder without pausing. If there was to be an execution, then someone would have to pray for the poor man, even if he was a deserter. And Ceilya knew it wouldn't likely be her Father or brothers.
The ripples in the water of the pond that reflected Winterfell's old Weirwood tree liked to play tricks on Ceilya as she stared into the water's depths. They painted her reflection's face with wrinkles from time she'd not yet lived, and she couldn't help but study such an odd picture of herself. She wondered if she'd really look like that as an old woman, or if she'd look more like her Mother, or more like her Father's sister, Lyanna. She'd been told Lyanna hadn't made it to old age, she'd been kidnapped and murdered by the Targaryens, but that she was extremely beautiful. Once the water settled down and the ripples disappeared, Ceilya peered at her unmarred reflection and wondered; was she beautiful?
Sansa was beautiful. Everyone said she was the spitting image of their Mother when she was young. Arya was…well, Arya was pretty, but she wasn't old enough yet to be considered anything more than a pretty child. She definitely looked more like their Father, though, and by extension, must've looked a lot like Lyanna. but what of the eldest Stark daughter? Where was she on this sliding scale of beauty?
Ceilya could have followed this vain train of thought for eons, it seemed, out here in the silence of the Godswood. Her prayers had slowly died away to allow her own impudent thoughts to take over, and while she knew it was not very pious of her, she couldn't very well help herself. What was a girl of her age to do, when confronted with thoughts like these? But it was a good thing a distraction came swiftly; pondering one's own beauty in the Godswood for too long would surely not gain her any favor with the Gods.
Boots crunched through underbrush, and Ceilya heard it a ways off, but didn't look up until the footsteps approached the pond. She saw his reflection before she saw him, and when her gaze finally found her Father, she offered him a weary smile, which he returned.
"Welcome back," she said, sliding to one side of the boulder she sat on, patting the empty space beside her. Eddard Stark chuckled at her invitation, but took it, and in the process of sitting beside her, revealed the present he carried under his cloak for his eldest daughter. The pup he held by the scruff of it's neck whined as it was jostled, and Ceilya found herself immediately reaching for the poor little creature. "Whats this?" she asked, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a smile as she cradled the pup in her arms.
"You can thank Jon and Bran for him," Ned said. "It's a Direwolf pup. Seven pups and a dead mother, found on our way back home."
"But Septa Mordane said Direwolves only live North of the wall," Ceilya asked, smiling brighter as the pup attempted to burrow into the skirts of her dress for warmth. "How do you suppose a mother and her seven pups crossed the wall?"
"Only the Gods really know," he sighed. "But I'll tell you what I told Bran and the others; if you keep him, he's your responsibility."
"Of course," she said, stroking the pup's ashey-red colored fur. "If he has no mother, then I'll be his mother now." Ceilya's comment was innocent enough, but at the mention of being made a mother, Ned shifted slightly. It wasn't often he thought about his daughter's engagement; in fact, the thought hadn't truly crossed his mind since the arrangement had been brokered with Lord Karstark. The decision had been a hasty one, he did admit, but when it came right down to it, Ceilya was of marriageable age. Just because she was a Stark did not make her a man. And a woman must be married. He cleared his throat slightly.
"Ceilya, dearest," he started, trying not to let the words leave his mouth before he'd thought them over, "tell me honestly. Your betrothal…you understand my decision, don't you?" Ceilya paused, still watching her pup wriggle in her lap, before turning her dark eyes up, and giving her Father a quizzical look? Of all the times to ask such a question, now seems like a good time to him? Not when he first made the engagement?
"Well, I'm sure I do," she said, laughing a bit. "Lord Harrion is the obvious choice, Mother says."
"But do you know why I've set you to be married?"
"Obviously, it's to get rid of your most troublesome daughter," she said, hiding a small grin behind her sarcasm. Ned laughed at this, patting his heavy hand on her shoulder and drawing her close for the sort of awkward hug fathers and daughters routinely share.
"And what trouble do you cause?" he asked. "Been stabbing the Septa with those sewing needles of yours?"
"Arya wishes," Ceilya joked, and again her Father erupted in laughter; he was a bit stiff and awkward at times, she thought, but she was grateful for his sense of humor. Not all daughters could joke with their fathers like this, and she was very grateful for that. Patting his arm reassuringly, she rose to her feet, hoisting her pup up with her. "I'm not upset about the betrothal, Father," she said. "What else was I going to do with myself? Take up arms and join the King's Guard?"
"Over my dead body," Ned muttered, getting to his feet as well. The two of them made their way back to the castle, Ceilya's pup protesting being held the entire way. "Those things really are more trouble than they're worth," he grumbled, more to himself than to his daughter.
"One day you may come to regret saying that," Ceilya pointed out. "They won't be pups forever. And won't the other Lords be jealous of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, the man with seven Direwolves under his command?"
"They'll be under you and your siblings command, I want nothing to do with the beasts," he replied. Reaching over, he scratched behind the pup's ear, directly contradicting his own words. "Bloody little things. Can't see the appeal."
"How many pies?" Ceilya looked down at the neatly written list on the table incredulously as she pinned her sleeves back, preparing to dunk her arms elbow deep in flour and dough. "Who are all these pies for, the Queen? I'm sure we won't need 25!"
"The King'll eat five himself, easy," one of the kitchen servants quipped, causing several others to twitter with laughter. "I hear he's not small."
"Now, that's not very kind," Ceilya chided, but smiled as she did so, kneading the dough that was set in front of her. It wasn't often that the kitchen was this busy, with servants and staff running around tirelessly to prepare for the welcoming feast Lady Stark had ordered for the Royal Procession. Ever since the raven carrying word of their journey North on the King's Road had arrived in Winterfell, if felt to Ceilya that she'd had no rest. Even though it was hardly required of a noble born Stark child to aid in the preparations, she couldn't have just sat around the castle, watching everyone else work so tirelessly while she was idle. Not that her mother knew she was here, but the kitchen staff was very grateful for the extra pair of hands.
"And who says we have to be kind?" one servant asked, and another agreed.
"I bet you a silver dragon we'll hear word of some menial complain the King and Queen have that'll be OUR fault!" another piped up over the din of pots boiling over and stokers being manhandled.
"I'm sure they'll be nothing but gracious," Ceilya assured, kneading the dough back and forth, working any air bubbles out. "They're royalty, after all."
"Not every house is as patient as the Starks." One of the older kitchen maids, a woman named Fryda said, coming to stand beside the eldest Stark daughter and knead her own pile of dough. "And not every noble as kind."
"But King Robert is a Baratheon," she replied, "he's not some mad Targaryen. He's not even a Lannister. He's Father's friend, so he must be more sensible than that." This rose a round of laughter from those in ear shot, and Ceilya's cheeks immediately went pink as she wondered what was so funny about what she'd said. Fryda didn't laugh, seeming to take pity on the naïve little Stark girl, though.
"Just because the King is your Father's friend, doesn't make him sensible," she pointed out, before focusing back on her work. Ceilya nodded, deciding to keep her mouth shut, for fear of saying something else to embarrass herself. And the talk in the kitchen shifted slowly, first to the musings of how many of the King's Guard the King was bringing, then to where all of these people would be housed, until finally talk turned to the Queen, and her Lannister brothers and children.
"The Queen is apparently one of the most beautiful women in the seven kingdoms," one said, wiping soot from the oven fire from her cheeks. "King Robert is lucky he's a King and can have any woman he wanted, or else he never would have had her!"
"I hear the Queen's brother is quite a good looking man, too," another woman said, and more giggles fallowed. Ceilya's ears perked up slightly as she stretched a circular piece of rolled-out dough over a filled pie pan.
"Yes, with that Lannister-gold hair and jawline!" Even though she was to be married, Ceilya did still enjoy idle gossip like this; she was a teenage girl, after all. Smiling again, she turned to look over her shoulder at the women talking.
"Which brother are you talking about?" she asked, "The imp?" Again, more laughter at Ceilya's expense erupted, and again her face went red.
"The imp?" someone asked, nudging her side slightly. "Yes, of course we're talking about the imp! He's soo handsome!"
"Just my type!" another woman said jokingly. Ceilya frowned, more at her own stupidity than their teasing, and turned back to her work. She liked to talk to other girls her own age, but she never seemed to say the right thing.
"Oi, shut up!" Fryda scowled at the women standing idle, and immediately they stopped their laughing. "Get back to work! Do you think three roasts are going to turn themselves?" There were a few hushed apologies as work resumed in the kitchen, but Ceilya didn't look back up again.
'I should have known they were talking about the Queen's twin,' she thought, mentally chiding herself on her stupid remark. 'Of course they weren't talking about her youngest brother. That's ridiculous!' Taking her frustrations about her lack of social finesse out on a new lump on unkneaded dough, Fryda turned to her, and cleared her throat.
"I hear the prince is around your age, child," she said, trying to change the subject. "You don't think the King and your Father will conspire to marry you into the crown, do you?"
"Me?" Ceilya asked, looking sideways at the woman. "No, not me. I'm already betrothed. My Father wouldn't break a betrothal with his most loyal bannermen." She paused, her hands hesitating as she went to grab for more flour. "…But I suppose, maybe for Sansa." She went quiet, contemplating this possibility. Sansa did express a desire to be married, and wouldn't that just fulfill her 13 year old fantasies? To be married to a prince, and someday be his Queen? That almost seemed too perfect.
"So there would be a Stark on the throne someday," Fryda went on, snapping Ceilya out of her own thoughts.
"Er, I suppose, in a sense," Ceilya replied. "But, surely not me. I would make a dreadful Queen. I never seem to say the right thing, anyway." She watched her own hands as they worked, and beside her the older woman dusted her hands on her apron.
"Saying the right thing is not nearly as important as doing the right thing," Fryda said wisely, patting Ceilya's shoulder. "You're still young. A quick tongue only comes from age. Now, get on with you. What'll your mother day if you get any more flour on you?" She wiped a smudge of the powdery substance from Ceilya's cheek as she smiled, and she nodded, graciously accepting her dismissal. Not like Ceilya had anything more to say to the other servants, anyway.
Ceilya's steps were quick as she made her way across the bustling courtyard. Rowan had grown quicker than she'd expected him to, and as she wove her way through the crowd gathering, he stayed close on her feet, his nose held low to the ground. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the water trough by the stables, she looked around quickly to make sure no one was looking, and checked to make sure her hair was still in place. Twisted on the sides, but kept down at her shoulders; it was how most Northern women kept their hair. When they weren't working, of course.
"Rowan," she called sternly, as several of the horses whinnied in annoyance; the pup gave up trying to run amuck under their hooves, and followed his master as they continued on their way.
Her Mother had gone off to find Bran, and bid her keep track of her sisters, but that was a task that was proving difficult. Sansa was the easy one, Ceilya knew exactly where she was, with Jayne, fretting about her dress or her hair or something along those lines. It was Arya Ceilya was anxiously looking for, and she quickly realized tracking down her younger sister was not going to go smoothly.
"Theon!" Calling out to her father's ward, whom had always been more like a troublesome older brother to her, Ceilya yanked up her skirts so they wouldn't drag in the mud, and hustled over to where he was directing a few stable boys.
"Going to greet the Queen like that?" Theon asked, nodding to her awkward grasp on her dress.
"Ha, ha," she laughed humorlessly, letting the fabric drop back in place and narrowing her eyes at him. "Have you seen Arya? She's not where I told her to be."
"When is that one ever where anyone wants her to be?" Theon asked, hiking up his belt slightly. "But I haven't seen her."
"Well, where would you think she'd be at a time like this? Mother had her put in a dress this morning, it's not like she'd be scaling the walls or…" Just as her sentence cut off, Ceilya's eye caught a light blue dress, standing atop a very precariously parked cart. Without properly parting with Theon, she marched her way over, meaning to snatch that girl off her perch and back onto the ground where she belonged, when a wave of murmurs began to sweep through the assembled staff and crowd in the courtyard.
"He's here."
"They're here!"
"Out of the way!" Craning her neck to see over the heads of those around her, Ceilya could just make out the beginning of the Royal Procession as it rode through the open gates. Panicking, Ceilya decided that Arya could find her own way down, and turned, shoving her way back through to get to where her family was assembled.
"Where were you?" Sansa whispered as Ceilya slunk to her place in line, between the middle sister and Rob.
"I had to-" she began to say, only to be cut off as their Mother looked up and down the line, noticing a conspicuously absent Arya.
"Where's Arya?" she asked, looking to Ceilya. "Ceilya, where's your sister?"
"Uh…" she trialed off, her cheeks glowing a slight pink as her mother looked at her expectantly. She was relieved when her gaze moved to the approaching procession, and let out a sigh. She felt rather bad, but was it really her fault their youngest sister was so difficult?
She breathed a sigh of relief, though, as the youngest Stark daughter came running up just before the King's Guard rose forward. She was caught by their Father as she tried to go past him, and the helmet she was wearing was taken from her head.
"Hey, hey," she heard him whisper, turning the adult-sized helmet over in his hands, "what are you doing with that on? …Go on." Motioning to dismiss her, Arya made her way to her place in line, shoving Bran to the side as she did so.
"Move!" she whispered, to which Ceilya gave her a disapproving stare. Robb gave them all one final 'Quiet!' before they settled down. Ceilya glanced sideways at her eldest brother; of course he could command respect from their siblings. She idly wished her youngest brothers and sister would invest as much authority in her as they did Robb. At times, it felt like only Sansa listened to her. Smoothing out her dress quickly and folding her hands neatly in front of her as the procession began to halt in front of the assembled house, she saw the Prince ride up first, accompanied by a man in a great dog-shaped helm, not one of the King's Guard as was obvious by his non-gilded armor, but intimidating none the less. Ceilya could practically feel the excitement radiating from her sister beside her, and a quick glance to her side confirmed the shy little smile Sansa wore. Robb was similarly interested in Sansa's expression, following her gaze to the haughty little blonde who sat atop his horse as if he owned the world. From him, Ceilya could feel over-powering resentment.
In seemingly one fluid motion, the members of the house and their vassals and servants all bent to one knee as the King himself rode up, assisted off his horse by a small team of royal servants. Ceilya kept her bow steady, her gaze tentatively on the ground in front of her, but beside her, Sansa kept sneaking glances at the Prince. Upon a quick hand gesture from King Robert as he came to stand in front of their father, the children, their mother and all those assembled behind them, including Jon, rose to their feet, and Ceilya's gaze could roam the royal procession freely.
"You got fat," The King said brusquely to her father, and after a tense bit of silence, the two men shared a laugh between them, and the anxiety dissipated from the air as everyone seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. "Cat!" he boomed, embracing Lady Stark and patting the youngest Stark, Rickon, on the head.
The ladies in waiting standing beside the great gilded carriage that had ridden up and come to a stop in the courtyard all bowed their heads in unison as the Queen stepped from the vessel, cloaked in Lannister gold, red and furs. It was likely far colder here in the North than anywhere Queen Cersei had ever been before, even Casterly Rock. Behind her trailed two small children, the Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, Ceilya presumed. Wide-eyed and shivering, they looked like curious little pigeons as they took in the completely foreign surroundings of Winterfell, in stark contrast to the annoyed glances their mother was giving to the assembled people of the North.
"Nine years. Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?" The King asked, clasping Ned about the shoulders in a show of brotherly familiarity.
"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."
"Where's the imp?" Ceilya's head snapped around as Arya spoke up, throwing her a shocked look as Sansa rudely shushed her. The eldest sister glanced back at the King, but he was too busy regarding Robb to have heard the youngest sister's remark.
"Who have we here? You must be Robb," he stated, and her brother nodded. Clasping his shoulder briefly, the King turned his gaze to the three sisters, standing side by side, and let out a pleased little chuckle. "My, my, but you've some pretty daughters, Ned! Ceilya, if I remember correctly?" Ceilya smiled graciously, dipping her head to him. "And Sansa; you look so much like your mother, don't you?" His eyes fell on Arya then. "And your name is?"
"Arya," she replied, her sullen look replaced by what Ceilya might have thought was bashfulness, if it were gracing anyone else's face. But their sister Arya? No, bashfulness was not something Arya felt! Or so she thought. Moving on to Bran, King Robert smiled once more. "Ooh, show us your muscles." Her brother obliged happily, causing the King to laugh. "You'll be a soldier!" he praised, before he returned to stand by their father's side.
Stepping from his horse, one of the King's Guard shook his head as he removed his helm, and Ceilya realized by the way the Prince and Princess by the carriage addressed him, that it must have been who the servants had been talking about, the Queen's twin brother. Her sisters beside her were bickering once again, but Ceilya for once paid them no mind; the servants had been right, Jaime Lannister was quite handsome. Ceilya realized she'd been staring, rather obviously, when Robb elbowed her gently; the Queen was now approaching.
"My Queen," Ned greeted her, bowing and taking her hand to kiss it. The greeting was echoed by Lady Stark, and the Queen looked as if she were about to speak, when King Robert interjected, beckoning Ned to move out of line and follow him.
"Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects," he commanded.
"We've been riding for a month, my love," the Queen spoke up, her voice softer than Ceilya would imagine for someone so fair yet fierce-faced. The King paid her no mind, though, once again commanding Ned to follow, and follow he did. Another long pause descended upon those assembled, and again, at the most inopportune time, Arya spoke up once more.
"Where's the imp?" she questioned again, this time a bit louder, and to Ceilya's horror, Queen Cersei looked over to the youngest Stark girl then.
"Arya!" Ceilya gasped, worried she'd offended the Queen by calling her brother such a crude name, but Cersei only turned, stalking back over to her brother, angrily addressing him.
"Where is our brother?" she asked, her tone terse. "Go and find the little beast."
"Ceilya?" Only tearing her eyes away from the Royal family at her mother's beckoning, she looked over. "Why don't you check on the preparations for the feast? Sansa can make sure her siblings are ready."
"Why do I have to?" Sansa asked quietly, shooting their mother a pleading look. "I don't want to go inside-"
"I'll be showing the procession to their accommodations," Lady Stark interrupted, shooing the two girls. "Now do as you're told. Bran, Arya, listen to your sister now."
Ceilya watched in dismay as the King ordered yet another flask of mead. He was already far past drunk at that point, and had taken up swinging his arms wildly around as he recounted, again, the tale of how won King's Landing. She sighed; it was greatly embellished, and glancing down the table at her brother, seated beside Theon and several other boys. He was wearing a similar expression.
Ceilya was seated with Sansa, and several other girls from the manor their own age. Arya was a bit further down the table from them, battling with Bran over ownership of a spoon. Setting an elbow ungraciously on the surface of the table, Ceilya leaned her cheek into her hand; for a Royal feast, this wasn't anything like she anticipated. Even watching Sansa be summoned to the head of the table to address the Queen didn't lift her spirits much. She couldn't even put her finger on what it was, exactly, perhaps it was merely the fact that despite appearances, the Royal family wasn't at all what she'd expected. Perhaps it had been naïve to expect a fairy tale, but at least, something besides a drunkard for a king? It was just a bit disappointing.
Standing, Ceilya was only stopped briefly by Robb as she passed him on her way out.
"Where are you headed to?" he asked her, quirking an eyebrow up at her. "Had enough of the 'entertainment'?" He was of course referring to the King, and Ceilya rolled her eyes.
"I'm going to go find Jon," she said, over the music, wiggling her wrist from his grasp. "It's too loud in here, anyway."
"Don't be gone long," he warned as she retreated from the hall. "Mother'll notice and scold you." She paid him no mind, and knew her absence wouldn't be missed all that much. Stepping from the hall and closing the great door behind her, she breathed easier as soon as she was out of the deafening roars of drunken laughter and music, and let the crisp night air clean the musky scent of alcohol from her nose.
"Oi, little girl!" Ceilya's head came down from the clouds right quick as a man called out to her as he rounded a corner. In the dark as they were, she froze, her gut clenching nervously, despite the fact that she was still within castle walls, and the guards posted at each entrance wouldn't have let a deviant into Winterfell while the Royal family was inside. But the man drew nearer, and as he stepped into the light of a torch, her nerves dissipated. "I hear those troublesome Starks live within these walls; they've demanded I come all the way out from The Wall to see them and the King, so where are they?"
"You've nearly given me a heart attack, Uncle!" Ceilya laughed, taking a few quick steps to close the distance between them, and reach out to receive the hug he offered her. "I thought you were some thug!"
"Come to kidnap the Princess of Winterfell? No, she'd bite my ear off if I tried to carry her away!"
"No I wouldn't!" she laughed, grinning up at her Uncle Benjen, "just a finger, maybe."
"That's my girl! Don't let 'em take you without a fight!" He ruffled her hair slightly, and while that would have annoyed her to no end coming from someone else, especially considering how meticulously she'd styled it, from Benjen, she could forgive it. "Why're you out in the dark, anyway? I haven't missed the feast, have I? Or have they kicked you out? Drunken misconduct, hmm?"
"Hmph. Perhaps the King, but not me." Glancing over her shoulder, back towards the main hall, Benjen just chuckled, nodding slightly.
"Still at it, then, ol' King Robert? Rest assured, 'Little Seal', he's always been that way." Giving her a good-natured wink, he patted her on the shoulder, before making his way past her and towards the hall. "I'd better get in there before all the fun starts and a chair gets broken over someone's head." Pausing, he looked back at her, his dark eyes glinting in the lantern light. "Jon's in the courtyard, if you're still not feeling up to returning to the feast?" Ceilya's face lit up then, and Benjen knew he'd hit the nail on the head. Even as small children, he'd known Ned's eldest daughter to cling to her bastard brother, preferring his company to that of others. Nodding once in farewell to her Uncle, she gathered her skirts and quickly made her way through castle grounds to the courtyard.
Ceilya was just about to round the corner then, but, it wasn't Jon's voice she heard speak from the other side. Halting, she remained concealed in the relative darkness around her corner, peeking out only slightly, to catch a glimpse of Jon standing beside a training dummy, sword in hand, and a man speaking to him from the other side of the courtyard, similarly shrouded in shadows.
"Your Uncle's in the Night's Watch?" the man asked, his silhouette seeming….a bit on the short side.
"What're you doing back there?" Jon asked, and it was only then that the man started to step from the shadows, and his lack of height not only became noticeable, but unignorably; it hit Ceilya like a ton of bricks, this was the 'imp' of a brother to the Queen. This was Tyrion Lannister.
"Preparing for a night with your family," he replied, lifting a flask to his lips to drink from it. "…I've always wanted to see The Wall."
"You're Tyrion Lannister," Jon guessed, though how could it not be? There weren't any other dwarves in the Royal Procession. "The Queen's brother."
"My greatest accomplishment. And you." Tyrion's eyes scanned Jon up and down, an unreadable expression on his face. Or rather, unreadable from Ceilya's vantage point. "You're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you." Both Jon and Ceilya visibly bristled at that, though only Jon's reaction was visible to Tyrion. Jon turned away then, obviously insulted, though Tyrion was quick to reply to his unspoken emotion. "Did I offend you? Sorry. You are the bastard, though?"
"…Lord Eddard Stark is my father," Jon replied.
"And Lady Stark is not your mother. Making you….the bastard." Ceilya couldn't see Jon's face, but from the way he fell silent, her heart clenched. Who was this Lannister imp, who did he think he was!? Her muscles tensed, wanting to desperately leap out and defend her brother, consequences of speaking to a guest rudely be damned, but Tyrion spoke again before she could move an inch. "Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."
"The hell would you know about being a bastard?" Her gut twisted in sympathy for Jon and irritation at Tyrion's rude, blunt, unsolicited advice, Ceilya stepped out of her shadow right as Jon spoke up, and Tyrion looked back at him.
"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes." The words Ceilya had planned to say died in her throat as Lord Tyrion made his final reply, tipping his flask back to drink, but nearly choking as he saw Ceilya standing there, staring between the two men with a somewhat irritated look on her face. "…Ah, a Stark girl, I presume?" he managed to get out without coughing.
"Ceilya," she supplied lamely, her fists still balled up in the bulk of her dress skirts.
"Well then, my apologies for my lateness, Lady Ceilya. You haven't come to fetch me, have you?" He glanced over his shoulder, the way he came from. "I thought I did a rather good job of sneaking in unnoticed by the guards."
"Er…no. I came to…speak to my brother." She said the last bit with a bit more conviction in her voice, emphasizing the word 'brother'. She'd never been fond of the term half-brother, anyway. Tyrion smiled slightly, tipping his head, before passing by her, on his way into the great hall.
"Then don't let me keep you."
"Lord Tyrion," she bid him farewell, curtsying slightly, and making sure he was fully out of earshot, before turning back to Jon. Her elder brother wore a slightly annoyed expression as she walked over.
"And what do you want?" he asked, Ceilya taken back a bit by his tone of voice.
"I came to find you," she answered, puzzled by his apparent venom, and flinched slightly as he picked his sword back up, swinging it at the practice dummy. "…I couldn't take another second watching the King drink himself stupid, and…and you know I'm not good with parties."
"No, I wouldn't know," he said, smacking his target so hard it set the post wobbling. "I'm never invited."
"Jon," she laid a hand on his shoulder, and it was his turn to flinch, shying away irritably from her touch. Ceilya huffed, grabbing his shoulder more firmly, insisting he pause and look at her. "Jon Snow, will you look at me when I'm talking to you?"
"Of course, My Lady," he said sarcastically, pulling away but turning to her.
"Cut it out, will you? Honestly, what's gotten into you?"
"Isn't that how a bastard should address his betters?"
"Jon!" Smacking him by the shoulder, she'd had just about enough of this tantrum; he was older, but he was acting like a child! "You know I don't care about that! And you're more stupid than I thought you were if you think for one second that I'll be swayed by those kinds of comments! You're my brother, now stop acting like a little girl whose feelings got hurt!" She stomped her foot at that for good measure, scowling up at him. "You said it yourself, what would he know about anything? He's an imp! ….And even if YOU were an imp, it wouldn't matter because I would still love my imp brother, now please shut up with this 'bastard' business. I came out here to get away from stupidity, not to be surrounded by more!" She stood her ground, even though she was looking up at him, she held her chin high, not ready to back down just yet. Jon's eyebrows were raised, surprised by her little outburst, but he quickly began to laugh, turning away, not able to take her angry face seriously. Ceilya's look morphed from annoyance to shock, confused that he would laugh at her at a time like this! "A-and what exactly is so funny?"
"You!" Jon said, wiping his eyes, setting his sword down by the practice dummies and sitting on a bale of hay nearby. Ceilya moved to stand in front of him, arm's crossed.
"I wasn't trying to be…"
"You rarely have to try to be funny to make others laugh." Jon patted the hay beside him, and Ceilya huffed, rolling her eyes, but nonetheless sitting down. Her skirts billowed out a bit in front of her, and she had to work to punch them down to lie flatter. "See? Like that!"
"I can't help it, it's this dress!" she pouted. "It won't behave!"
"That makes two of you."
"I behave!"
"Hardly!" Jon motioned to the castle. "You're supposed to be inside, aren't you? Rubbing elbows with the Royal family?" Ceilya rolled her eyes again.
"Please, Jon, don't act like you think I LIKE going to parties!" She shook her head, shrugging her shoulders as she glanced around the darkened courtyard. "I'm dreadful at speaking to anyone. You know that."
"You could just bust out your sewing and show the Queen?" he suggested, nudging her in the side slightly. "She might ask you to be a Royal Seamstress-"
"Oh, will you be quiet?" She shoved Jon playfully at that, laughing. Anyone watching the two would not guess this was the same well-behaved and composed eldest Stark daughter; with her favorite brother, she felt almost like a different person. She'd always gotten along best with Jon, since the time they were young; there was hardly an age difference between the two, after all. And, she hated to admit it, but since Jon was not a full Stark son, he'd never bossed her around like Robb, something she was not at all fond of. He'd always seen her as more of an equal. "…I'd rather be out here, bored to tears with my favorite person than in a room bored to tears with people I hardly know."
"Isn't that going to be your wedding feast, though?" Ceilya's easy smile faltered slightly at this comment, and Jon looked as if he had not yet realized he'd said something to throw a wrench in the conversation. Her expression fell, just slightly, as she considered his words; she hadn't given it much thought, but….he had a point. Hopefully, her wedding fest would contain less drunken kings, but…besides her family, it WOULD consist of mostly strangers. After all, she'd never been in the company of the full Karstark clan, and had spoken to Lord Harrion but once. They WOULD be strangers. Suddenly, Arya's comments about being wedded to a stranger came rushing back to her.
It took Jon a full minute to realize he'd said something to cause Ceilya's sudden silence, and he looked away awkwardly.
"Er…sorry," he mumbled, but by then, Ceilya had once again chased those thoughts from her mind, and tried to regain her cheery attitude. There was no use fretting over it, after all. She couldn't change it, so why worry?
"Don't be. You sound just like Arya."
"That's good." Jon smiled. "She's very wise."
"Oh, yes, of course she is!" Chuckling, she plucked a pin from her hair that had been stabbing her in the scalp all day. "Wisest eleven year old I've ever met."
"I'm going to miss her, and you, when I'm at The Wall." He leaned his elbows down on his knees, getting a slightly faraway look in his eye, though Ceilya had not grasped the full subcontext of his words just yet.
"Oh, is Uncle Benjen taking you for a visit?" she asked, wondering about The Wall herself. She'd never seen it, of course, and likely never would, but, it was interesting to think about. They said it was 100 stories high, and miles and miles long, all made from ice. That must have been such a sight to behold…
"A visit? I suppose you could call it that," Jon said, smiling ever so slightly. "A visit for the rest of my life."
"What?" It seemed like the entire night fell silent at those words, and Ceilya turned a worried expression on her brother; what did he mean, his whole life? He didn't…he wasn't going to join, was he? "Jon, what are you talking about? You're not joining the Night's Watch! …Are you?"
"…I want to." He said this almost ruefully, as he could sense the disappointment from his sister. Her face fell at that, looking borderline horrified.
"No! Jon, you can't!"
"What else am I going to do with myself?" Those words struck Ceilya deep, as well; she'd said the very same when her father had asked her about her feelings on her engagement. But…but this was different! Jon wasn't merely getting married, he'd be actively putting his life in danger! "I'm not high born like you," he continued, standing, scuffing his boots in the dust. "I can't marry and have my own manor; who would marry a bastard? And I'm not going South, so the only way for me is the North."
"Jon, it's dangerous!" The words felt stupid in her mouth; of course he must know that, but she couldn't help it! Standing as well, she circled round him to stand in front of him. "You can't change your mind, if you do! …Father would have to behead you if you tried!"
"I won't be changing my mind."
"You don't know that!" Her mood kept plummeting, and she shook her head, errant curls springing loose from her hairdo. "And there's wildlings, and Direwolves-"
"I'll have Ghost with me," he reminded her, but it did nothing to soothe her frazzled nature.
"Jon, why would you want to join the Night's Watch? I know you talked about it when we were young but….but I used to talk about becoming a Knight! And look at me! Am I going to run off right now, steal a sword and armor, and fight in the Kings Guard in the South? No!" Jon kept trying to shrug off her worries, but she kept insisting on getting in his face, trying to talk some sense into the boy! "And, besides! Like you said! …I'd miss you." He did stop at this, and turned a somewhat softened expression to Ceilya. Jon had always been a sensitive boy, and if there was one thing he'd never stop being soft about, it was his sisters.
"I won't be dying," he said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. "You've seen me with a sword. I won't let some wildling get the best of me. And I'll visit, like Uncle Benjen does." And when this did not seem to placate his sister, he let out a sigh, pushing his shaggy black hair from his face. "…You're going to be married. So is Sansa, and Arya. You'll all be in different corners of Westeros, and where would I be, if I didn't join? Here. I'd just stay here. At least you'll be staying in the North, and I can visit. Arya may not be so lucky, and the way things are going, it looks like Sansa will be going to King's Landing with Father to marry that Prince." They both made vaguely uncomfortable faces at that.
"But….It's just….."
"I need to make something of myself." She turned her eyes upwards, watering slightly at that. "I can be useful at The Wall. Here….I'm just the bastard-"
"You're my brother!" Ceilya asserted.
"Your brother, the bastard. And I want to be more." They both fell silent at that, and Ceilya quickly wiped her eyes; she wasn't yet crying, but the tears were threatening to fall.
"You're such an idiot," she finally sighed, shaking her head. "There's nothing at The Wall that can make you more than you already are to me." Jon opened his mouth to rebut that, but before he could reply, Ceilya continued. "…But I know I'll feel much safer, with you guarding Westeros for us there." Jon's face settled into a rueful smile at that, and quickly, Ceilya reached out to him, hugging him tightly. "Please don't do anything stupid like desert or die. I won't pray for you if you do."
"I make no promises."
"Idiot."
"I love you, too."