In, under, weave three stitches, up and over, start again. In, under, weave five stitches, up and over, start again.

The slow, methodical movements of her hands as she wove her needle in and out of the delicate embroidery usually served to calm Ceilya down when she was feeling stressed, but it seemed nothing could soothe her now. Her spacing was sloppy, her stitches were too far apart, the thread had snapped halfway through and the knot she'd had to tie in it was glaringly visible in the design. She just couldn't keep her hands from shaking slightly, and in defeat, she set her sewing down, and rested her face in her hand. Rowan, who was sat peacefully at her feet, looked up then, his large, dark eyes much too inquisitive to just be those of a wolf.

It was little use anyway, to try and sew when her mind was so clearly elsewhere. Maester Luwin and the Septa had let Ceilya and her sisters see Bran only once the night before, and today marked the third day in a row he lay unconscious. He'd looked so pale, laying among the mountain of furs, so much like a little ghost.

She shoved that thought from her mind immediately; Bran was not dead! He was alive, he was merely…asleep. She bit her lip, holding back the fluttering feeling in her chest from coaxing her to cry once again. She didn't want to cry any more, she just wanted Bran to heal and to return to normal.

Ceilya's eyes darted up as her chamber door was swung open abruptly, and of course there was only one person who would enter without even a precursory knock; Arya. Rowan's head lifted in surprise, but he relaxed once again, seeing who it was. The girl stood in her sister's doorway, her customary scowl even deeper as of recently, eyeing Ceilya sitting in her chair with her half-hearted embroidery slipping off her lap.

"How can you sew at a time like this?" she asked rather bluntly, eyes narrowing slightly.

"How can you remain so sour at a time like this?" Ceilya was not usually so irritable with her youngest sister, she often found her antics rather cute, in a rebellious sort of way. But she was in no mood to entertain the eleven year old's brattiness today, and would have rather been left alone. The girl huffed.

"Bran was pushed off a tower, and all you can do is sew!" She scoffed heavily at this, though she stepped into Ceilya's room, poking around at her things, making faces every now and then. Despite her harsh assessment, Arya herself didn't seem to be too terribly distraught over their brother's recent injuries. Rather, she seemed content to be self-righteously upset at Ceilya's actions instead.

"He fell, Arya," Ceilya corrected, but her voice caught in her throat at the last word; she didn't want to be speaking about this. Arya fixed her with an incredulous look.

"You've seen him climb a hundred feet in the air, and you think he fell?" She picked up Ceilya's brush off her vanity desk, inspecting it; it was a rather fine brush, a set of three Ceilya had been gifted by Harrion Karstark upon announcement of their betrothal. It came from Dorne. "He's scaled the broken tower before, and slipped, too, and never fallen like he did. I think he was pushed-"

"Arya, will you stop it!" Ceilya stood suddenly, her voice raising in distress, and beside her Rowan stood as well. He did not take an aggressive stance towards Arya, instead looking to his mistress, agitated with her upset state. "I don't want to hear another word about this nonsense!"

"Don't tell me what to do, you're not Mother!" Arya shot back.

"And you're not clever, though you think you are! Bran wasn't pushed, how dare you say that!" Arya's face crumpled at that, her nose scrunching up in anger. Her fist tightened it's grip around the handle of the brush she held, and when Ceilya made a move to approach her, meaning to shoo her out of the room, the younger sister impulsively lobbed the brush at her. Ceilya ducked as the pewter and ivory hairbrush sailed right past her head, and a shocked gasp burst from her mouth as it clattered loudly against the wall, before falling to the ground. Rowan has set to barking and growling now, circling round Ceilya's legs defensively. The handle was in two pieces, and the shards of mother-of-pearl that had been imbedded in the ivory lay scattered and broken around it.

Arya's expression faltered, seeming a bit shocked at herself even, but she blanched when Ceilya turned back to fix her with the angriest look she'd ever seen of her eldest sister. Ceilya wasn't the type to fawn over trinkets and fineries (not any more than the average girl her age, and not nearly as much as Sansa) but her nerves were already so frayed, and she was already in such a bad mood, that this was the straw that had broken her back. Lunging for her sister, she seized her by the arm, and began to roughly drag her to the door.

"That's it!" she said, on the verge of sobbing from frustration. "I can't take you anymore, Arya! I try and I try to give you the benefit of the doubt, I try to understand you, I defend you, I tell Sansa to treat you gently because you're only a girl, but you do things like this-" she motioned behind her to the broken gift with a sweep of her arm, "-and I just can't take you anymore! You insist on being such a brat, and I'm tired of you!"

"Hey, I-" She tried to protest, feeling genuinely sorry for once that she'd done that, but Ceilya wasn't in the mood to hear it; she shoved her out of the room, and slammed her door, locking it so the girl couldn't barge back in. Standing outside, Arya huffed again indignantly, her face red from embarrassment, but she just turned on her heal, and left. From her side of the door, Ceilya listened to her footsteps fade, before moving back, and sitting on the edge of her bed.

"…I shouldn't have said that," she sighed, wiping the tears that threatened to spill at the edges of her eyelids. Rowan had hopped up onto the bed beside her, still agitated, yet he lay his head on her lap to comfort her. An immediately sense of guilt washed over her as she realized she shouldn't have spoken out of anger to her. Arya was just a little kid! Ceilya had been a brat at times too when she was younger, she realized she still COULD be a brat at her current age; she'd just acted like one now. Groaning to herself, holding her stomach as she felt rather nauseous, she let her eyes stare off at nothing as she thought about how miserable she was feeling at the moment. Her Father would be leaving Winterfell to serve as Hand of the King, her brother was lying unconscious, her sister probably thought Ceilya hated her at this point….

She stood, smoothing out her dress hastily, tucking back a few curly errant strands of her dark brunette hair. She glanced at the poor beautiful, yet broken brush as it lay on the ground, and she sighed. Leaving it as it was for now, she made her way from her chambers to Bran's. Even if the Septa or the Maester tried to stop her, she was visiting with Bran, whether they liked it or not!

But it was not Septa Mordane or Maester Luwin at the door, blocking her entrance as she approached. No, it was two King's Guard at the door, eyeing her cooly as she stepped closer to the chamber door.

"Er…I'm going in to see my brother," she asserted, taking another step forward, but the two moved slightly to block her, their expressions unchanging. This ruffled Ceilya, until one of them spoke.

"No you're not; the Queen's in, visiting the boy," one supplied, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, more for show than for use, really. It actually struck Ceilya as a bit funny, that these two heavily armored and armed men meant to protect the Queen from a puffy-eyed girl of 16, whose only real weapon was a sewing needle! She didn't laugh though, only looked a bit dumbfounded.

"O-oh…." was all she said, clasping her hands awkwardly in front of her. She lingered for a moment, saying nothing. And just as she'd decided to leave and come back later, the chamber door opened slowly, and the Queen stepped out, nodding slightly to her guards. Ceilya froze, unsure of exactly how to greet the Queen; she was the QUEEN, but this was Ceilya's home. She was a polite girl but…she realized her decorum was severely lacking if she didn't even know how to properly address the Queen! Her cheeks flared red as the older woman turned her unsettlingly fierce gaze to Ceilya, and she dropped her own to the floor. "Your Grace," she mumbled, stepping aside to let Cersei pass.

But she didn't pass. She regarded the girl carefully, and then the wolf at her side, her look inquisitive but unwavering. She moved closer a step, everything about her movements seeming to be very cautious, very meticulous. Very intentional.

"You've come to see your brother," the Queen said, breaking the terse silence. Ceilya flinched, though she didn't know why, and quickly nodded. The Queen wore a kind yet tight little smile; it didn't look disingenuous, but it didn't look genuine either. "Then, don't let me keep you." She motioned for Ceilya to pass her instead, and after hesitating a moment, the Stark girl nodded quickly again, and skittered past the elegant woman, reaching for the handle. Rowan moved to follow her slowly, his gaze never leaving the Queen. Of course a wolf would never understand the intricacies of Royal politics, but he could sense the predatory nature of the woman who made his mistress cringe and shrink. "My condolences," Cersei said suddenly, causing Ceilya to pause, and warily turn back.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, bowing her head slightly. The Queen's eyes lingered for a few more moments, and then she turned, leading her guards away with her without another word. Swallowing the lump she harbored in her throat, Ceilya got on with it, entering the chamber quietly, and shutting the door behind her.

Bran was right where he had been when last she saw him. His face was turned up towards the ceiling, a peaceful look, as if he might only be dreaming, and could wake any moment. She dearly hoped that would be the case. His own Direwolf, Summer, was sprawled over the furs with him, gazing at the face of her boy as he lay unconscious. Her gaze didn't even break when Rowan set his paws on the edge of the bed to look at the two.

"Mother," Ceilya greeted, nodding to Catelyn Stark, who sat tensely weaving straw into the idol she was constructing on her lap. The older woman looked up then, her eyes very far away. She was looking at her eldest daughter, but hardly seeing her. Ceilya hesitated, before moving to clasp her mother's shoulder comfortingly. The two said no more, just stood as they were, enjoying the company of misery.

"…Ceilya." After a long while, Catelyn spoke, her hand patting her daughters slowly. "I haven't gotten the chance to speak with you yet, about the plans for you and your sisters-"

"It's alright, Mother," she said, sitting down in a chair opposite her. "We understand."

"But these things must be sorted out." She cleared her throat, setting her slightly shaking hands in her lap. She looked a mess, honestly, as if she hadn't slept in days. She probably hadn't. "Now. Sansa will be travelling to King's Landing with your father, as you know, for her…betrothal." Her voice caught again in her throat at that, but she swallowed her uneasiness about the idea of marrying her middle daughter off to the crown, and continued. "And Arya will be going as well. …If there's anyone who can keep her out of trouble, it's your father. Gods know I try and fail." Ceilya's gut clenched momentarily at that; she couldn't seem to deal with her right, either.

"…You're…you're 16, Ceilya, almost 17," Catelyn continued, struggling to find the right words. "I was betrothed at 16, nearly married. What I mean to say is….your marriage to Lord Harrion is nearing, and it would simply be unwise to send you to King's Landing, when we would just need to fetch you back again right as you arrive-"

"I understand." Ceilya nodded as she interrupted her Mother, her expression softening. "And frankly, I'm a bit relieved not to be going. …I can hardly remain in the Queen's presence for a moment, let alone a month of travelling. She's quite-"

"…Unnerving?" For the first time in days, Ceilya saw the corners of her mother's mouth turn upwards in a smile, and she nodded, suppressing her own grin.

"She just stares at you!" she said quietly, watching as Rowan snuffled his nose against Bran's hand as it lay beside him on the bed.

"I hear she's always been like that. Must be a Lannister trait."

"Her brother is quite pensive as well, he's always making a face as if he thinks he's very important." Ceilya giggled slightly, before pausing, and then amending her statement. "Her- Ser Jaime, I mean. Not her dwarf brother!" Catelyn smiled knowingly at this, her tired eyes crinkling at the edges.

"I'll be glad to be rid of the lot," she replied, glancing back to Bran's form on the bed. "…This visit has brought us nothing but sorrow." The temporarily lifted-spirit of the room died back down then, and Ceilya's sordid mood returned, as did her mother's.

Standing, Ceilya made her way to Bran's side, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek. His skin was warm, and her fluttering heart died down; she would have burst out crying if he'd been cold to her touch.

"Bran…" she mumbled his name, perhaps in the vain hope that upon hearing someone calling out to him, he would wake. Of course there was no such luck in the world, and he slumbered on.

Jon's footsteps were always so quiet. Robb and Theon had spent their years stomping around the castle as if they owned the place, and of course Arya, Bran and Rickon were only children, and children were never quiet. But Jon stepped as lightly as if on freshly fallen snow, nothing about his movements was brash and loud. In a way, he reminded Ceilya a bit of a deer, so quiet and sure-footed. What in the world was he doing here, with a pack of wolves? Stepping into the room, Ceilya didn't look up just yet, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mother turn to him. She was scowling.

"I've come to see Bran," Jon said meekly, and Ceilya glanced up briefly. He had directed his statement at her mother, as if to ask permission. She only scoffed.

"You've seen him," she said curtly, and yet Jon still advanced into the room, standing beside the bed, opposite Ceilya. He didn't look to her, just his brother, lying so still. His hand twitched at his side, but he didn't reach out to touch him.

"I'm leaving soon," he started, as if Bran was awake and listening. "I wish I could be here when you wake up. …I'm going North, with Uncle Benjen. I'm taking the Black." Ceilya flinched slightly at this; she knew, and yet she still didn't want to hear of it. It still felt like a fresh wound. Catelyn was staring up at Jon with a barely concealed anger, her tear-soaked eyes wavering, as if she couldn't even bare to focus on him.

"I know we always talked about visiting The Wall together," he continued, kneeling on one knee beside the bed, speaking softly. His breath rustled the hair across Bran's pale forehead. "But you'll be able to come visit me there once you've got better. I'll know my way around by then. I'll be a sworn brother of the Night's Watch." He paused, swallowing hard, as if swallowing back some emotion that threatened to overtake his words. "…We can go out walking beyond the wall, if you're not afraid."

With none of the quiet subtlety Jon possessed, Ned approached the open doorway then, watching as Jon stooped to kiss Bran on the head. Ceilya's hand quickly wiped the tears on her cheeks away, smiling at Jon as he straightened, but hatred was radiating from Catelyn, still yet unaware of her husband's presence.

"I want you to leave," she said quietly, though volume was not needed to and weight to her words. Her eyes were hard as she commanded the son that was not hers to go, and it was only when Ceilya turned a hurt expression to her mother, did Catelyn seem to snap out of her quietly enraged trance, and look around to realize that it was not just her and Jon in the room.

"Mother," she gasped quietly. Ceilya was not blind….of course she knew her mother was not fond of a bastard son. But, she thought, perhaps given the circumstances, she might be able to set her hatred aside, if not only to share in their collective misery over Bran? Shocked at her mother's selfishness, she watched as Jon obediently left, and quickly made her way after him, leaving her father and mother alone. "Jon, wait!"

"She wants me to go? I'm going," he said over his shoulder, not stopping for Ceilya, though she easily caught up.

"Jon!" Grabbing him by the arm, she finally got him to halt in the hallway, and as he opened his mouth to tell her to let him be, she pulled him down to her level, for a hug. And she held him tightly, too tightly, really, not intending to let him go. Her face buried into his shoulder, tears wetting his sleeve. "I'm sorry," she whispered, not knowing what else to say. What else was there to say?

But after a moment's pause, Jon hugged her back, letting her cry on him. She could cry for the both of them.

"It's not your fault," he told her, but she shook her head, squeezing him tighter.

"So?" she asked, voice breaking. "You're my brother, my REAL brother. It hurts my heart to see my mother hate you."

"You won't hurt anymore once I'm gone," he said, patting her hair gently. "I won't be around to irritate your mother anymore."

"And then my heart will hurt for a different reason." They both fell silent for a long time again, just holding each other. Jon would miss this. He would miss his sisters most of all.

"…You best be off," he finally said, pulling away, albeit reluctantly. "Arya and Sansa have already packed, and Father already made the preparations to leave. The Royal family has all but picked up to go." Fidgeting with her nose and wiping her face girlishly on her sleeve, Ceilya nodded.

"You're right," she said, "I should say good bye. Or at least try to."

"And what do you mean by that."

"Arya and I had a row earlier." Jon smiled at that; even during tragic times, Arya could still kick up dust. "I doubt she'll want me to see her off."

"I doubt you doubting yourself." Holding his arm out for Ceilya to take, in an almost comic fashion, he smiled earnestly. "But in any case, Arya and I said goodbye on good terms, shall I escort you to her? I doubt she'll be angry with you if I'm with you." Chuckling, Ceilya graciously accepted him arm, and let him lead the way. This might very well be the last time she and her beloved brother would be able to share such a pleasant moment.

She very much hoped she was wrong, though.

"He's only getting under our feet."

"He's my brother, Theon. That's what brothers do."

"If your mother won't come out and see to him, at least give him to Ceilya!" Rowan was sprawled at Ceilya's feet as she absent-mindedly flipped through her book in the great hall, but sat up straight as soon as Robb and Theon approached, Rickon and Shaggydog in close tow. "She'll be a mother soon enough anyway, give her some practice!"

"What are you two squabbling about now?" she asked with a sigh, still in a sour mood from watching half of her family ride off to only Gods knew where nearly a month ago. Her spirits hadn't lifted since. Setting her book down on the long table, she looked up, irritated with the smarmy smirk Theon wore. "Give me what?"

"Rickon," Theon replied, taking the boy by the shoulder and leading him to stand bashfully in front of his eldest sister. "He's irritating Robb."

"He is not," Robb protested. "He's just following me around. Mother won't come out and Rickon is worried." Looking to her youngest brother, she held her hand out to him, and let him sit beside her.

"I can read to you, if you like?" she asked him, to which he shyly nodded. She smiled at the boy, before looking back up to Robb. "I was speaking with Mother earlier. She was…not in a good mood when I left."

"I could guess as much. Jon said she was still there when he said his goodbye to Bran."

"She hasn't left the room at all, I think." Robb seemed to look a bit agitated, and pushed his dark curly hair out of his face.

"I'll have a talk with her. Just keep Rickon occupied until it's time for him to go to bed." Nodding concisely, Ceilya watched as the two older boys left the hall, before opening her book back up, and reading to her brother at a slower pace, her finger tracing the words as she did so, so that he could try to follow along. Shaggydog had settled down next to Rowan, the two brothers curled up at their masters feet to snooze, and for a long while, that's just what they did. And at first, Ceilya didn't notice the two beasts growing restless. But as soon as they both sprung to their paws, both brother and sister watched them lunge out from under the table, and burst through the doors of the hall, out into the courtyard.

"Rowan!" Ceilya called, frustrated at her direwolf's unruliness, but Rickon nearly giggled, hopping down from the table to chase after them. "Rickon, no, leave them- …Gods." It was obvious the boy was not going to listen to her commands, and so reluctantly abandoning their place in the book, she followed after them all, three wild beasts charging through the night. Annoyed, she pushed through the large oak double doors, about ready to call for all three of them to return, when she realized why the wolves were acting as strange as they were; a fire had broken out in the courtyard, and Shaggydog and Rowan were yelping and howling as they pranced around the flames.

"Oh, it's- Somebody, bring water!" she shouted, dashing forward to snatch Rickon by the arm, yanking him away from the flames, which were quickly overtaking a section of the stables. Picking him up, with some difficulty, she ducked back into the great hall, peering out of the doors just as Robb was returning to the courtyard.

"Water from the well!" he shouted at the frantic servants, joining in the efforts himself to put out the blaze. Ceilya held Rickon tightly, though he squirmed to get away, as she watched the fire be easily contained, and the extinguished all together. And when the final embers were finally stomped out, she let her brother go, as he ran back out, surprised Robb, who was surveying the damage. "Rickon?"

"It was Rowan and Shaggydog who smelled the smoke first, Rickon had run after them," Ceilya said, stepping out onto the charred grass beside her eldest brother. "I had to drag him away from the flames."

"I saw the fire from the window in Bran's room," he said, crossing his arms. "What started it, do you know?"

"A spilled oil lamp? Could be anything," Ceilya replied, wondering why Robb would ask her that; as if she would know? She wasn't the one who caused it!

"Hm." Turning away from her then, he bent to catch Rickon by the back of his shirt as he and Shaggydog ran by, the both of them covered in ash. "Oh, look at you!"

"Give him here," Ceilya said, suppressing a smile. "I'll take him to have a bath."

"No!" Rickon gasped as she said this, struggling to escape his sibling's grasps, but was dragged away nonetheless; Ceilya wasn't too strong, but she was strong enough to drag her brother, that was for sure!

"Lady Ceilya!"

"Lady Ceilya, please, where are you going?"

"My Lady, you mustn't-" brushing off the protests of the Septa and her chamber maidens, Ceilya swept out of the castle in a flurry of unbraided hair and skirts, whipped up by her quick movements and the wind. Her expression was grim, yet determined, and Rowan, ever growing large trotted at her side, his head held low over the ground.

The guards at the gate gave her quite a puzzled look, but they let her pass through without a word; with such a look on her face, it would have been useless to ask what she was thinking of doing out in the Godswood. It was pretty obvious.

"Mother. Maester Luwin. Ser Rodrick." She nodded curtly to those assembled, though leaving her greeting to her brother and Theon conspicuously absent. She had no greeting for them, they'd known she should have been invited, and yet they said nothing over breakfast! Catelyn looked at her daughter in surprise, and both Luwin and Rodrick exchanged glances.

"Lady Ceilya-" Luwin tried to start, but the girl fixed the old man with such a fearsome glare that he very nearly physically recoiled.

"It must've slipped everyone's minds to tell me that we were discussing important matters out here in the Godswood," she said, rather snappily. "Good think I heard from a servant that you had assembled everyone out here, Mother, or I might not have made it in time."

"…Ceilya, dearest," Catelyn started, and behind Robb, Theon snorted in amusement. Rounding on her father's ward, Ceilya shot him the nastiest look she could muster, before directing her vitriol back at her mother.

"-Because surely, if the WARD is allowed to hear your words about the welfare of MY family, then I am too." Robb nearly laughed himself at that, though at Theon's expense, and the latter shut up immediately, sobering up quickly. Catelyn exchanged a look with the Maester, before letting out a heavy sigh.

"Very well," she said. "But what I am about to tell you must remain between us." Letting the hair on the back of her neck lay back down flat, Ceilya began to calm herself, knowing for sure now that she would not be commanded to leave. Standing beside her brother, she folded her hands neatly behind her back. "…I don't think Bran fell from that tower. I think he was…thrown." Arya's words from before drifted back through her mind, and another pang of guilt washed over her, but she hid the feeling well, and listened on.

"The boy was always sure-footed before," Maester Luwin commented.

"Someone tried to kill him twice. Why?" Catelyn's gaze swept across those assembled. "Why murder an innocent child? Unless…he saw something he wasn't meant to see."

"Saw what, M'lady?" Theon asked, genuine concern flashing through his eyes. Theon was a pain to Ceilya, but she had to admit, he had a genuine love for her family, that much was obvious.

"I don't know," Catelyn admitted, looking away briefly. But I would stake my life the Lannisters were involved."

"That's a serious accusation…" Ceilya said, though as soon as her mother had said it, it felt as if the very same thought in her heart had just been confirmed.

"We already have reason to suspect their loyalty to the crown," she pointed out.

"And did you notice the weapon the killer used?" Ser Rodrick asked, revealing the knife that had been used by the assassin the night the fire had broken out, to make an attempt on both Ceilya's mother's and Bran's lives. "It's too fine a dagger for such a man. The blade is Valyrian steel, the handle dragon bone." He looked around at them gravely. "Someone gave it to him."

"They come in our home," Robb said quietly, turning to look at Ceilya. "Try to murder our brother. If it's war they want-"

"Robb, don't speak that way!" Ceilya was shocked at such a hasty conclusion, jumped to by the ever-reasonable Robb. He wasn't usually the type to say such drastic things, even in grave situations such as these. But Theon was quick to jump at the chance to stoke his ego.

"If it comes to that, you know I'll stand behind you," he quipped, clasping her brother on the arm.

"War?" He was interrupted by the Maester, who chuckled humorlessly at the suggestion. "Is there going to be a battle in the Godswood? Hm?" He glared between the two boys slowly. "Too easily do words of war become acts of war. We don't know the truth yet." He looked to Lady Stark. "Lord Stark must be told of this."

"I don't trust a raven to carry these words," she said, her face falling.

"I'll ride to King's Landing," Robb offered, but that suggestion, too, was shot down quickly.

"No." Catelyn's tone was laced with finality. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. …I will go myself."

"Mother, you can't-" Robb began to protest.

"I must." Ceilya's stomach twisted at those words, and it felt as though her heart was beating in her throat.

"Then I'm going too," she finally spoke up, stepping forward. Robb rolled his eyes heavily behind her, and Theon let out another condescending snort.

"You?" he asked, causing her to look back at him defensively. "Why would she take you?"

"Ceilya, you're staying here," Catelyn said, brushing the suggestion aside, and yet Ceilya wasn't done.

"No, I'm going. You still need someone to tend to your hands, and you can't very well do it yourself." She motioned to her mother's deeply injured hands, which could barely curl to grab anything. Catelyn had to admit, there was a point there, but Ceilya continued. "And if you're on the King's Road, you'll need protection, and Rowan won't listen to you, only me."

"…My Lady, if I may?" Both women turned to look at Ser Rodrick as he interjected. "I can have Howl draw up a team of guardsmen, to protect you, Lady Stark. You won't need the wolf."

"No…no, too large a party attracts unwanted attention," she said quietly, mulling over the possibilities. "…I don't want the Lannisters to know I'm coming."

"Summer ripped that assassin's throat out, and Rowan is nearly twice her size already," Ceilya said, resting her hand atop her wolf's head. "And he's much less conspicuous then a team of men on horses."

"Ceilya, that's enough-" Robb set his hand on his sister's shoulder to try and reason with her, and just when she shrugged him away angrily, Catelyn held a hand up, conceding.

"No, she's right." She heaved a sigh. "She's right. It would be more convenient to travel with lighter protection, and a direwolf is as light as they come. Figuratively speaking, of course." Lady Stark fixed her daughter with a very stern stare then. "Ceilya, if you accompany me, you're not to cause any trouble. You're to do as I say, when I say it, and you're to keep your mouth shut and your head down in King's Landing."

"Yes, mother," she said, nearly breathless with excitement; "of course!"

"Let me accompany you, as well, at least," Ser Rodrick said, looking between the two women helplessly. "I don't trust your lives to the direwolf…" Catelyn agreed, to Ceilya's chagrin, but none of this was sitting well with Robb.

"And what about Bran?" he asked, dumbfounded that his mother would agree to go herself, and take Ceilya with her! "Who'll watch over Bran if you're both gone?"

"The Seven," Catelyn said quietly, her gaze unfocused as she was once again reminded of her son's precarious condition. "I have prayed for his life to the Seven for months now….only they can watch over him, now."