"Bran! Get down from there!" Cerelle yells, hands on her hips as she looks up.
"But Relle—" Bran starts complaining, way too up in the tower for her to be comfortable with it.
"Brandon!"
"Coming, coming." He starts getting down, and she knows he's careful and good at climbing, knows that he has been doing this for years, but she can't help feeling nervous.
"You know it's not safe, right?" she asks once he has both feet in the ground again.
"But I never fall," he says, looking at her in the eyes.
Cerelle knows the Starks have done everything to keep Bran from climbing. Maester Luwin showed him what could happen if he fell, his parents talked to him, but the boy kept climbing and they kept worrying.
"I know, Bran, but it could happen." She puts a hand on his head and starts walking back to the Hall, where they're supposed to be having lunch.
His hair is so soft, a nice shade of brown that goes well with his eyes. The little boy is so nice, so cute she can't help the affection she has for him. He, in a way, reminds her of her own little siblings, and yet she knows he's his own person. In the thirteen moons she's been there, Bran had proved himself to be a smart kid, kind and so happy.
"I won't fall. I won't."
"Okay." She smiles. She pushes his shoulder towards the Hall's doors, walking slower behind him.
An empty space is between Lalia and Robb, the place now assigned to her. She sits in front of Arya, winking at the girl with a smile.
For a while now she had thought about giving the girl the promised help, but every time she had even tried to approach the girl in training clothes, Lady Stark hadn't been far behind, her disapproving eyes following Cerelle like a hawk. It seemed it was enough Cerelle was already training with Robb, Jon and Theon, having her drag Arya into it would be too much.
"Good afternoon," she says, placing her hands on the table.
"Good afternoon, Cerelle," Lord Stark says, Lady Stark nodding to her with a smile from her husband's side. "Maester Luwin told me to remind you, you have lessons with him after."
"I know, I remember." She nods, looking at Robb with a smile.
Even though she's a princess and she was well educated from a young age, the North is so different from the South she has to learn new things before even thinking of being Lady of the House.
Not only the people she would rule in the King's name would be different, but everything from customs to trading was very different.
Maester Luwin had proved to be not only wise but also patient with her, taking time to explain the things she did not understand quite well.
"Your Grace," Maester Luwin says as she goes into one of the rooms in his Tower.
"Maester." She bows her head, sitting in front of him. "What will I be learning today?"
"How much Valyrian do you know?"
"High Valyrian, I learned with my Uncle Tyrion. I want to think we're...average, at worst. Low Valyrian, on the other hand...I don't think I could even try to talk to anyone from Essos who didn't know the Common Tongue."
"How about we work a little on that? Every city has come to develop a new kind of Valyrian, but we can train in those used in the cities we trade with the most."
"I thought they spoke the Common Tongue." She frowns, cocking her head to the side.
"Yes, they do," he answers and leaves it at that.
"Then why do I have to learn?" she insists. She hates when people won't give her good answers.
"Why did they have to learn the Common Tongue?"
"To...trade with us? But it's the Common Tongue!"
"Common to whom?"
"...to us," she realizes, and then she doesn't argue anymore.
One trait that is Baratheon in her is her stubbornness. Bull head, Lalia would to call her. It took a good argument for her to change her mind and even then, it was hard for her to leave behind the thoughts.
A knock brings the lesson to a stop.
"Yes, come in," Maester Luwin says.
"Maester, I need to speak with Cerelle. Would it be possible—?" Lalia steps into the room, looking at her with urgent eyes.
"Go. We'll continue tomorrow, this time with Robb."
"Thank you, Maester." Cerelle bows her head, getting up to leave with Lalia.
"Follow me," Lalia says, taking her by her hand and guiding her towards her room.
"What's wrong?" Cerelle asks once they are in her room, door closed behind them.
"I need you to keep Ser Aedan by your side at all times. All times, Cerelle." Lalia takes her hands, making her look at her in the eyes.
"Why?" she asks, furrowing her brow.
"Jenne wrote. Your mother might try to take you back, and if the times comes, he needs to be there to protect you. Remember Lyanna Stark? We don't need that happening again."
"But...I chose to be here. I want to be here." As she speaks, she realizes what she's saying is true. She hadn't thought about it in the last moons, but she had made a home in Winterfell. After so much time, she had learned where she fitted and yes, the cold was different from King's Landing, but she was comfortable here. She was happy.
"Your mother doesn't seem to think that."
"I don't care about that!"
"There is nothing we can do from here. Sending a raven is too dangerous."
"I just don't understand…why would Mother try to take me back?"
"Don't ask me to try and understand your mother."
Her mother was… not a simple person. She had told her she loved her, and she had put up a fight when she was to leave for the North, but in Cerelle's years alive, Mother had not cared much about anything but Joffrey. Often, not only her but also Myrcella and Tommen had been left aside, had been ignored in her Mother's obsession with her eldest son.
Truth be told, the three of them had been raised by Septas and servants more than their own parents. Even if Father had paid more attention to her than Mother, he did not exactly have an active role in her rising, not to mention Myrcella and Tommen's. It was, in a sense, what had made her so close to them. Be it as it was, different hair, different eyes, they were family and she did not like children being left behind.
"When?" She just sighs, looking at Lalia with resigned eyes.
"I don't know."
"Very well, then."
The next day, she and Ser Aedan are walking when they come across Arya. She's by herself in the training yard, and Cerelle knows very well that, even if she can train, Arya herself cannot. And yet, the dark-haired child is training with the bow and one lone arrow. Looking around, she notices no one is near them.
"Stay near, Ser Aedan," she says to the man behind her.
"Your Grace." She hears him bow and with a glare, she reminds him she had told him to stop that nonsense.
"Arya," she calls, attracting the attention of the young girl.
"Relle!" She's surprised, and as she turns around, she hides the bow behind her. It doesn't work very well. "What are you doing here?"
"I did promise, didn't I? Alright, show me your stance."
She refrains herself from correcting too much on her. Arya has some understanding of it, having watched her brothers all her life and Cerelle feels that the girl would feel better if she hit bullseye by herself.
The hours go by with her standing behind the child and Arya trying and trying and trying, going to pick the one arrow she has to use.
And then, she does it. The arrow hits dead center, sticking there with a satisfying sound.
And a slow clap sound behind them.
Cerelle knows, with all the time she has spent in Winterfell, that while Arya loves her mother fiercely, her father has a place in her heart a hundred times more special. The way her face lights up, her eyes shine; it speaks a thousand words she would never say out loud.
Arya gives her father a mocking bow and a smile so bright Cerelle actually feels like crying.
They were not the ones at wrong. They weren't, they couldn't be. Not when Arya is so happy, so free by her accomplishment.
The others had to be wrong. What would she give to be able to take Arya to Bear Island for a while, where she knows Lady Maege Mormont and her daughters were warriors.
Her mother had, once, talked about them. Not kindly, mind you, Cersei did very little things kindly, but Cerelle had drank up all the information about them she could. She longed for a life like that, where they could be taken seriously by the men.
A few weeks later, she's again walking with Ser Aedan, talking about the last time she had tried to secretly help Arya with the bow, even if the child was picking it up much faster than Cerelle did, when Robb approaches them.
"Cerelle," he says, far more serious than the usual for him.
"Robb." She smiles at him, trying to ease the tension. She hears Ser Aedan take a step back, knowing she's safe with her promised.
"A raven arrived," he says, unsure.
"Is it too bad?" she asks, remembering all too well the saying.
"Jon Arryn died."
She gasps, surprised. The man was healthy as a horse the last time she had seen him. She had even, once, thought his son would die before he did. She can feel the tears welling up in her eyes as she realizes she would never see him again.
He had been a good to her, always, and there was deep affection for him in her heart.
"You can cry, Cerelle." She hears Robb whisper, opening his arms to her. She falls easily there, sobs ripping from her throat.
Jon had always been someone constant in her life. He was there when she was learning to ride a horse, when she could have her first lesson on sword fighting. He had taken overseeing the princes and princesses' education and upbringing as another Hand duty where their father failed, and he had done so diligent and kindly.
He had explained to her what war was, how it changed people. It was him she had run to, sometimes, when her mother was too busy and her father too absent. His wife had not liked her, not at all, but he had known to ignore her in favor of a small child that had no fault in her parent's behaving.
His son, Robin, was not the most darling child she had known, but she stills remember Jon's hand on her shoulder as she had seen the child for the first time, and how he placed the baby in her waiting arms.
He had been a father to her own, she knew, always trying to advise him while trying to keep the Kingdoms afloat.
He had been a good man. It just did not make sense for him to die.
As she lifts her face, wet from tears, to try and wipe some of them away, she notices her sworn sword still standing there.
Her mother, she remembers suddenly, and if she's honest, she cannot put it past her.
"Your family is coming to the North," Robb says, rubbing circles in her back from where he still has her in his arms.
"What?" she whispers, trying to work her head around it.
"Your family is coming. The King, the Queen, everyone."
And then she knew.
Her mother wasn't sending anyone to get her. She was coming herself to take her away.
"I... I think I want to be by myself," she whispers, not daring to lift her voice.
"I'll take you." He nods, helping her. She tucks herself under his arm, longing to feel close to someone. "It's going to be okay," he says against her hair. "I promise, it's going to get better."
And she really, really wants to trust him.