Bran wakes in the middle of the night. A guard comes for them, breathless, leaning on the guard outside their door for support, and they rush to Bran's rooms still in their nightclothes and barefoot, hearts on their throats. Maester Luwin has beaten them to it, already sitting on the edge of Bran's bed.
"Do you know who they are, Bran?" he asks when they barge into the room, as breathless as the guard and holding each other.
"My oldest brother Robb, and his wife, Princess Cerelle," his sweet voice answers. He looks awake and alert, eyes wide and intelligent.
Cerelle feels Robb slack with relief at her side, and she lets him rest his weight on her and hide his face behind her hair.
"Do you remember their wedding, Bran?" Maester Luwin asks.
"Yes. Arya and I danced a lot, and we fell asleep underneath a table. I don't remember anything after that." Bran looks at them, and then at the Maester.
Robb hides a sob against her, and Cerelle closes her eyes and lets the few tears that had gathered there fall. No justice would be passed now, with no leads except for a blade any sane man would deny owning.
"And his legs, Maester?" she dares to asks, her hand searching for Robb's. She's not sure whose grip is stronger.
Maester Luwin shakes his head, still looking at Bran. "I fear he may never walk again."
"That can't be," Bran says. "I can feel them. They are there." He looks at his legs, frowns.
"Close your eyes," Maester Luwin says, and once he has done so, pinches his thigh.
Bran doesn't react.
In the morning, ravens are sent. To Castle Black, for Jon, and her Uncle Tyrion. To King's Landing, for Lord Stark and the girls and the King. Publicly, to White Harbor for Lady Stark, though, unknown to her, that letter is never written.
They take turns taking their meals with Bran. One will take their meals with Bran while the other sits on the Hall with Rickon, Theon and their household, and like that, divided, Winterfell fells terribly lonely. So little company makes for a poor imitation of the loud meals they shared when all the Stark were still together.
Cerelle wonders, then, when would all of them be in one place together again. The girls, and Lord and Lady Stark, and them. In King's Landing, perhaps, if they ever visit? But with Bran bedridden, it is but a dream at the moment. And soon, Sansa would be wed, and then visits would be near impossible for her, as the Crown Prince's wife. And Jon. Oh, Jon. He was the nearest family Robb had at the moment outside of Winterfell, aside from Lady Stark at White Harbor, and seeing him again would be even harder than seeing Sansa.
It all exhausts Cerelle, and she longs for the days to end so she can crawl into bed with Robb and tell him about her day, to pass her fingers through his curls as he kisses his way along her collarbones and up her neck.
Bran falls into a sorry state. He can go outside his rooms, but that requires Hodor carrying him around, and that gets uncomfortable fast enough he never wants to. Old Nan is his one true companion, and Summer, the direwolf he finally named. Cerelle and Robb try to spend time with him, visiting through the day, but between running the castle and hearing the people and getting Rickon to his lessons, and making him stay in his lessons, there's not much time to spend aside from meals and quicks checks-ins, which Bran suffers with deadpan voice and face.
"Good day, Bran!" she says, entering the room with a maid behind her carrying their food. She takes the little table they've put by the window and puts it beside the bed as she says, "Nan, you can go take your supper now. Thank you, Jocelle. That will be all."
"I don't like this food," Bran says once the women have left and closed the door, looking at the food on his lap.
"Yes, you do." Cerelle frowns, looking at it. There's nothing wrong with it.
"No, Rickon likes this. I don't." He crosses his arms, and Cerelle sighs. She looks at her broth, which she favours on colder days, and to his plate of not-soup, and sighs again.
"Very well, you can have mine." She swaps the plates and takes a seat, and Bran takes a second to examine her plate before picking up his fork. "Anything to tell me?"
"No. My room has not changed since yesterday."
"We could go outside after we eat. I'll call for Hodor and—"
"I don't want to."
"Bran…"
"It's uncomfortable. I want to walk with my own legs again, so unless you can make that happen, I don't want to do anything." He snaps, keeping his eyes on his food and gripping his fork so tight she's afraid it could bend.
She nods, even if he can't see it, and goes back to her food.
"What if…" she starts, stopping when Bran sighs. "Listen to me. What if we put you on Hodor's back?"
"I can't hold myself using my legs," he says, like he's talking to an idiot.
"I know. But maybe you don't have to. Maybe we can use straps, to make like…like a seat. That way you can use your arms. It wouldn't be forever, Hodor is not a mule, but…but it could get you out, until we find another way."
Bran doesn't answer, but he purses his lips, like he's thinking.
"Maybe," he says, and Cerelle smiles. That's closer to yes, at least.
The gates to Winterfell open easily when his party approaches.
"Lord Tyrion!" a man comes to him, two stable boys behind him, one with a little ladder for him. "My lord and his wife wait for you in the Great Hall. If you'll allow me to escort you."
Tyrion raises an eyebrow and shares a look with Yoren. Not bothered enough to come outside? His niece certainly had more manners than that. Did the Stark boy suspect something? Surely not.
"Very well," he says, getting down from his horse and allowing the stable boy to take the reins.
He follows the man, the new steward, who announces their presence before the acting Lord of Winterfell. The boy is sitting in the Lord's seat, his niece to his left, Winterfell's master to his right. At his feet, his direwolf lounges. There are five guards, the sworn sword of the princess behind her left shoulder. No sign of Lady Stark, who, by all means and as far he knew, was a proper southern lady and so would have seen to a proper welcome.
"Uncle!" Cerelle's face lights up, getting up from her seat to come to him. She leans down for a kiss on his cheek and a tight hug, which he returns, his eyes locked on the boy at the table.
"Lord Tyrion," he says from the table, nodding to him.
"Lord Stark. Your brother Bran. I heard he woke up."
Cerelle, who is giving a perfect curtsy to Yoren, looks at him with a small smile, excited.
"He did, thank the Gods," she says, turning around to walk back to the raised table. Robb looks at her on her way, and his face softens.
"I would like to see him. I have something for him," Tyrion says, and watches as the boy's face hardens again as he turns his eyes to him.
He seems to consider it for a moment, before nodding to the side, where Tyrion now realizes the Greyjoy boy has been standing. Greyjoy nods back, and exits the hall.
"Did you enjoy your visit to the Wall, Uncle?" Cerelle asks after a few moments of silence, ignoring the look her husband sends her.
"While interesting, it's not an experience I might want to repeat. I'm much comfortable in the South, where it's warm."
"And my husband's bastard brother? Did he make it there okay?" Cerelle's face doesn't change, doesn't flinch at all. She sounds genuinely interested.
One day she might realize how dangerous that little habit of hers is.
"He arrived safely, Your Grace. Last I saw him, he was beating everyone at practice."
"That's good. Thank you, Uncle." Cerelle nods, and sits back.
The silence comes back, with the little Lord looking at him stone faced. It stretches until it's too umcomfortable, and he decides to break it.
"I must say, it was a different welcome last time I was here."
"Any man of the Night Watch's is welcome in Winterfell," the boy says instead. "And, of course, any family to my dear wife."
It looks like he would rather pull all his teeth out than say that, but at least he does.
"Of course," Tyrion smiles sardonically.
The sound of the door opening has them looking to it, and from it emerges a very tall man, one he had seen around Winterfell on his last visit, carrying a boy. Brandon.
"So it's true," he says as the man approaches, the boy's arms hanging and swinging. It must be uncomfortable. It would be so much easier carrying him on his back. Or on a chair. "Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?"
"He has no memory of that day," the Maester interrupts before Bran can answer.
So no way of knowing. Or a very good excuse not to disclose the plans for justice.
"Curious," he mutters.
"Why are you here?" Robb asks, and Tyrion looks at him for a second before turning to Bran.
"Would your charming companion be so kind as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt," he says, which is a bit true. What a beast of a man.
"Hodor understands anything you asks of him, Uncle," Cerelle says from her seat, her tone slightly reprimanding. Six and ten and reprimanding a man over twice her age.
"Apologies," he says as the man kneels and sets Bran on his thigh, leaving him on his level. "Do you like to ride, Bran?"
"Yes. Well. I mean, I did like to."
"The boy has lost the use of his legs," the Maester says, again interrupting the child.
"What of it?" he asks, now irritated. "With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride."
"I'm not a cripple," Bran says, lips tightening.
"Then I'm not a dwarf! My father will rejoice to hear it." He makes a show of looking at himself, and he can hear his niece snort. "I have a gift for you. Give that to your saddler. He'll provide the rest." He turns to the table, watching as Cerelle goes to Bran's side to also look at the paper. "You must shape the horse to the rider. Start with a yearling and teach it to respond to the reins and to boy's voice."
"These are like the ones you use, Uncle?" Cerelle asks as Bran looks up.
"Will I really be able to ride?"
"Yes to both. On horseback, you will be tall as any of them, Bran."
"Why do you want to help him?" the boy asks from the table, frowning much like Cerelle does at his question.
"I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things. And my niece wrote to me, asking about riding a horse with too short legs." He looks towards her to see her giving him a smile, much like Bran, which he returns.
"As I said. Winterfell's hospitality is yours."
"Spare me your false courtesies, Lord Stark. There's a brothel outside your walls. I'll find a bed there and we can all sleep easier."
"Uncle?" Cerelle asks, rising from her crouch, face confused.
"Niece." He gestures for her to lean down, and kisses her cheek. "Take care. And remember you are always welcome to visit home."
"Of course," she says at once. "But Winterfell is my home now."
He looks into her eyes, into her face, searches for any sign she's lying, that she's being treated as coldly as he's been. Any sign for bruises, unlikely as it might be.
But he finds nothing.
He nods.
"Safe travels, Uncle. Send word when you reach wherever you are going."
He gives a pat on her arm and leaves without looking back.
"Robb?" Cerelle asks the moment the Night Watch's man and her uncle have left the room, Theon following them out. "What was that about?"
"It was nothing," Robb answers, turning to Maester Luwin.
"Oh, it was something. Everyone out," she orders, and she hears everyone hesitate for a second. "Your princess said everyone out!"
The guards go out, as does Hodor and Ser Aedan. Luwin waits for a nod from Robb to do so, and Cerelle put that bit of information on hold on her mind.
Once they are alone, she goes to stand in front of the table.
Grey Wind stays laying down, though his ears have risen.
"Something happened. That was my Uncle, my family, and you behaved like an ass. You refuse to give him a proper welcome, you refuse to offer guest right, you don't even tell me his party was seen until they are riding to the gates, and even then it's to tell me we will greet him here. I have turned a blind eye to it, but it can not go on. You will tell me what happened, and you will tell me now."
Robb clenches his jaw, resting his chin on his fists. He's silent for almost a minute.
"Nothing happened."
Cerelle stands taller, even though she can feel her heart shattering.
You have an iron rod in your back, her Septa used to tell her.
You stand straight, you look ahead, and you do not cower, her Mother would say. You are a Lannister. Your mother is a lioness, and so are you.
You are the princess, damn it all. Act like it!
"Very well. I see. I will keep on with my duties replacing your lady mother. I will keep on visiting Bran, and overseeing Rickon. But the moment I step out of this hall, Robb, I will have rooms prepared. I will refuse all night summons."
Robb puts his hands down, sits back, and keeps looking at her.
She can feel her eyes fill up with tears, and her hands trembling, a pit growing on her stomach, her insides turning to stone.
She turns around and doesn't look back once.