The door hits the wall with the force she uses to open it, fury running through her veins.
"Robb!" she shouts, making him look up from the table on his father's solar. At his feet, Grey Wind also raises his head, just the smallest peek of fangs showing.
"Cerelle," he says, tired. His face was on his hands, bags under his eyes.
She may not look much better. Months sharing a bed with him has left her with troubles to fall asleep in her old rooms. It has been weeks, and between the crying and the raging and the keeping up with everything, it has been running her ragged.
"What the fuck is this?" She throws what the latest raven brought to her, the orange Lannister seal of Lalia already broken when it reached her.
Robb takes the parchment, reads it and puts it back down.
"Close the door," he says, leaning back and massaging his forehead.
She feels some of the fury dissipate. Answers, finally. Once she has closed the door, much softer this time, she accepts the cup of wine he offers her and throws it back in one go.
"Explain. Everything, from the beginning," she hisses as she puts the cup back on the desk, so Robb does.
He starts with the letter his mother received, from her sister Lysa. Follows with the suspicions of his mother about Bran's fall after the assassination attempt, and the evidence they found, and ends with her trip to King's Landing.
"If she captured him to put him to trial, she must have found the dagger to be his, or something along the lines."
"My uncle might be crass and like his wine and his whores, but he's not an idiot. Not even close. That dagger was not his." She pours herself another cup of wine and drowns it, and fills it up again. "My grandfather won't like this at all. This could begin a war, Robb."
Lannisters would do anything to protect the family. And over the family, the family name. Who cared if Grandfather and Mother hated Uncle Tyrion, he was a Lannister, and so untouchable. The only one who would defend him out of the goodness of their hearts would be Uncle Jaime.
They could put the country to torch for any Lannister.
"The war begun with the assassin, Cerelle," Robb says, bone tired, too much in shoulders so young.
For a moment, she feels pity. Robb wasn't raised for this. For scheming and plays for power and secrecy. He was raised by honorable people, the same honor Jon Arryn had tried to teach her and King's Landing had tried to steal from her.
She wasn't raised for murder and war either, but she had been raised among spies and people trying to get her favor only for power. She can understand it better. Can see it possible.
Robb puts the scroll of parchment in front of her and goes back to what he was doing before. She looks at him as she sips from her cup. He looks like a man grown now. He no longer shaves his beard, little as it grows, and he carries himself like a Lord now.
She leaves then, her mind swirling from the wine and so much new information.
A day later, another raven, this time from Poole.
Robb calls her to his father's solar to show her, and he looks as scared as she feels.
How long until her grandfather called for war? How long until they called for Lady Stark's head and the North rose to defend her?
How long until she was put between her old family and her new one? How long until she had to decide her loyalties?
And most important of all.
Who would she choose?
Bran's saddle is ready fast. Like promised, Cerelle saddles her own horse as well to accompany him, the afternoon he decides he wants to try it outside of Winterfell.
Their party is small, only Theon, Robb, Bran, Ser Aedan and herself. They refuse guards. They ride into the wolfswood, not too deep. The direwolves go to hunt at once, leaving only the humans. Both Theon and Robb settle on rocks, Ser Aedan asking for leave to go hunt not too far away, which she grants.
Bran's yells of joy echo around them as she chases after him on Apple, and it brings a smile to her face. She shares a look with Robb from where he's arguing with Theon, both smiling, and both look away at once, things still tense between them. She's still fuming from the accusations against her family.
She notices Bran get away, and she gives chase at once, bringing Apple to a gallop.
"Bran! Not too fast!"
Bran slows down, allowing her to reach him.
"Sorry," he says, looking around.
"It's alright. Do you want to go back?"
"No." Bran shakes his head as he makes Dancer cross a little stream, and she follows by his side. "Theon and Robb are arguing about something, and they don't tell me anything."
"They don't tell me things either," she half lies, the accusations fresh in her mind, even over a week later.
The rustle of leaves makes her snap to attention. Bran starts to look around, and she turns Apple just in time for a man to grab her reins, just like a woman does for Bran.
"All alone, in the deep dark woods," the woman says, and Bran sends her a terrified look, but she shakes her head. Best to let them steal than try to take on the four of them by herself. Her cloak might conceal her sword, but it could be easily stolen.
"I'm not alone," Bran says, courageous little lord. "My brother is with us."
"I don't see him, got him hidden somewhere?" the man closer to Bran asks, as Cerelle kicks softly Apple, trying to see if she can get closer to Bran. The man holding her reins tugs on them to stop her mare.
"Ohh, that's a pretty pin, silver," the woman says, and Cerelle sees Bran put a hand on his neck at once. Her golden pendant is luckily covered by her clothes.
"We'll take that, and the horses. Get down, both of you," the man, who she's pretty sure now is the leader, orders.
Cerelle hesitates. The moment she gets down they'll see the sword. Were Theon and Robb close? Did Ser Aedan hear anything? She needs to stall; in case they were close. They had to be close.
"He can't get down," Cerelle says, her hand inching to where her sword is, just to be safe. "He's strapped to the saddle."
As they get distracted by Bran revealing who he is and discussing what to do with them, she slowly, as quietly as she can, pulls out her sword.
And then.
And then.
"Drop the knife," Robb says. "Let them go and I'll let you live."
He pulls out his sword, and by the look the wildings share is obvious they will not. She uses that second of hesitation to kick the man holding the reins of Apple and run her sword through his neck. In the same movement, she drops down from her horse, running closer to Robb.
The woman also runs to Robb, tries to hit him but he parries with his sword, managing to grab her by her hair. At the same time, the man tries to fight her, so she puts up her sword against his ax, pushing him back enough for Robb to slit his throat.
And then.
"Robb! Cerelle!" Bran calls, and when they look, he's being held up on the ground, a knife to his throat.
"Drop the blades!" the wilding man says, looking at both of them.
"No!" Bran struggles to say.
"Do it," the man insists. She shares a look with Robb, and she drops her sword to the floor.
Robb is slower.
And then.
An arrow pierces the man from the back, and he drops both his knife and Bran. Behind him, Theon still has his bow up, Ser Aedan with his sword ready.
She doesn't wait for them to move, running straight for Bran, heart beating loud and fast in her chest, in her ears.
"Are you hurt?" she asks as she sees Theon and Aedan come up to the woman. She pushes his hair back and checks his neck is unharmed, before cheking his legs. His only wound is not deep, but he would need stitches.
"It doesn't hurt," Bran says as hurried steps come closer.
Robb drops down beside them, also looking at the cut on Bran's leg.
"Are you both alright?" he asks, looking at Bran and then at Cerelle.
"I'm fine," Bran says, but Robb is no longer listening, his eyes wide and wild—he reaches up to grab her hair and bring her face to his, pushing his forehead against hers.
She grabs his wrist, both of them trembling.
All the anger, all the resentment, all the uncertainty seem to fade away to the back of her mind. All she can think about is how real he seems, his grip on her hair anchoring her down. All she can think about is how she and Bran could have been killed, and she would have died angry at Robb, heartbroken and confused and alone. All she can think is they both killed for the first time.
"I'm alright," she whispers, nodding and breathing Robb in.
He kisses her quick, bruising hard, and lets her go.
"C'mon, Bran," he says as he scoops Bran up, hugging him close.
"They're tough. In the Iron Islands, you're not a man until you kill your fist enemy. Well done."
"Have you lost your mind?" Robb spats, frowning at Theon. "What if you'd missed?"
"He would have killed you three," Theon answers, still pointing his bow, his drawing hand starting to tremble but staying true.
"You don't have the right—"
"Enough. What is done is done, and Theon saved us. We must think what to do about her." She uses her chin to point to the woman under Aedan's sword.
"Give me my life, my lord, my lady, I'm yours."
"You are talking to the Princess Cerelle Baratheon, wilding," Aedan snarls.
The woman, already on her knees, bows until her forehead touches the ground. Robb looks at her, and she nods.
"We'll keep her alive," Cerelle says, and turns towards Robb and Bran.
The woman sighs out of relief.
"The straps were cut. I can take you on Apple, Bran," she says, pushing his hair out of his face. Bran nods.
That night, after Bran has been stitched and she has retired to her chambers to bathe and try and fail to fall asleep, there is a knock on her door.
The guard announces it's Robb.
She goes to open it, tying her robe around her nightshift. She lets him in, and closes the door behind him, putting her back to it.
Robb turns to look at her. It's all he does, look at her in his stupid night clothes and bare feet. He's lucky the springs also warm somewhat the floor.
"Well? Is there are reason for you to be here?" she asks, looking down and crossing her arms.
"I could have lost you today," he says, taking a step towards her. She sighs.
"Robb," she says, not knowing how to continue. He touches her elbow, uncrosses her arms to take her hands. Slowly, letting her know he's coming, he gets close enough to kiss her.
For a second, she doesn't answer.
For a second, her mind is clouded with thoughts of war and loyalties and captures and ambushes.
She breaks the kiss to study Robb's face.
She loves him. She knows this, has known it for a while. She has loved him, and it is not a love so easily discarded.
"I can't choose," she whispers, shaking her head. "I can't."
"Then don't," Robb whispers back, his hands gripping her waist, caressing her hip. "Don't choose. Not tonight."
For tonight.
For tonight, things could be like before. For tonight, she could be months in the past, living in the single day between her marriage and Bran's fall. For tonight, she could forget Grandfather, the responsible for crushing the Reynes, for killing Princess Elia, could very well be marching on Winterfell with 40,000 swords, demanding their heads.
For tonight, she promises herself as she rises to kiss Robb, as she lets herself be pushed against the door as her hands snake under his clothes.
Just for tonight, no loyalty would be tested.