Over the next weeks, news slowly start to reach Winterfell.
First, her Uncle Tyrion's freedom after winning his trial by combat. This is carried by a raven from the Eyrie, and has Robb locking himself in the solar.
After that, rumors of raids on the Riverlands, the lands of Robb's lady mother's family, which are taken with solemn silence, and make Cerelle go pray for the people lost.
Details about the ambush on Lord Stark also reach them, though they seem to be overtly exaggerated.
Lord Stark was coming out of a brothel, drunk and still tying his breeches.
He was dragged out of the brothel, where he was with three whores.
He was visiting a new bastard of his.
They cut off his leg, both legs, beheaded all his guards, put a knife through their heads, Lannister soldiers tortured them on the street before killing them.
Each rumor has Robb clenching his teeth and avoiding her eyes, which in turn makes her mad enough to ignore him in personal matters.
The key to ensuring her ladies loyalty had always been kindness. It wasn't foolproof, but it was better than fear, she had learned.
And so, each morning she greeted Eline, and asked after her family, after the stable hand she had begun courting. In turn, Eline told her of the gossip around Winterfell, and what people spoke of her.
It wasn't kind, lately. People were wary of her, though there were those that defended her.
"You have always been kind, Your Grace, and people know it." Eline finishes pouring the water for her bath and leans back, huffing. "That fool Torren don't know what he's talking about, Your Grace."
"And the wildling woman? Osha?" she asks, turning to start to take her nightclothes off.
"Does her work quiet and good, as far as I know. Haven't talked to her, Your Grace. You want me to?"
"I want her to be treated fair. She is into our service, and deserves the same respect we offer all of you. Although we can't forget she is our prisoner." Cerelle walks to her bath, sinks into the warm water with a hum.
Eline washes her hair in silence, but stays once she has finished, as Cerelle lathers her body with soap.
"Your Grace?"
"Yes, Eline?" she answers, using a little jar to wash away the soap from her shoulders.
"D'you think…d'you think you and Lord Robb will be alright, after all?"
The question makes her pause, jar still pouring water down her back.
"What do you mean?" she asks, resuming her bath. She couldn't let people know she was so affected by it. She had to be strong.
"S'just…you were so close. Everyone spoke about it, Your Grace. You shared rooms. And now you are here all by your lonesome, and the Lord is not sleeping well. Marne said it to me herself, Your Grace. Says Pott can hear him pacing around his room when he's guarding the family halls, and he's burning through his candles. And look at you, Your Grace. Under your eyes it's as blue as midnight, and you're skinny as a winter rabbit."
"Things are difficult, Eline. The world is turning upside down and Robb and I are caught in the middle of it." Cerelle leans her head on the rim of the tub, looks at the ceiling and blinks away the tears. She would not cry anymore for it. "I thought our marriage would make our families stronger, but it's only breaking our hearts."
Her hear aches for him, it does. It's a horrible situation they have found themselves in, and doubtlessly, both are suffering. His father hurt, her grandfather attacking the Riverlands. War was one misstep from breaking out.
Would Robb set her aside, if the worst happened? Would she be returned to her family, scorned and spoiled? Would her family even welcome her back, useless as she would be? She was a princess, someone would want her, but it wouldn't be someone very important. No great family would look at her when Myrcella was right there, perfect and golden and so sweet they would fall at her feet in an instant. What would Cerelle have to offer, aside from a temper too big and a consummated marriage dissolved?
What could they offer her that compared to Robb's love and the home they had opened for her?
"Rickon Stark! Come here, immediately!" Cerelle calls from the middle of the godswood, where Rickon was last seen running to.
"NO!" Rickon answers from somewhere up a tree, close by.
Cerelle sighs, running a hand down her face. From behind her, Ser Aedan laughs.
"I would tell you it's not funny, but it is, a little," Cerelle says, looking up to try and see Rickon. Shaggydog was nowhere to be found.
"Reminds me of my little brother, Your Grace." Ser Aedan joins her in looking up, his dark hair growing everyday longer. Soon enough he would look a Northman.
"He liked climbing trees?" she asks, turning around to see the trees at her back. From the corner of her eye, she can see Ser Aedan nod.
"Yes. We had an orchard, you see, back in the Vale. I can still hear him laughing between trees, if I close my eyes. He must be twenty, now. Not so much a little boy."
"Sounds peaceful," she remarks. She wonders what it could feel like, to not have to fight for that freedom. No sneaking out, no whipped hands, no missed suppers for wanting to play a little longer, for wanting to see the city, for wanting something other than the red castle walls of all her life.
"It was, Your Grace. It very much was."
Then he nudges her arm and points to a tree.
With a small smile his way, she goes to it to try and get Rickon down for his lessons.
It's not that she doesn't speak to Robb. It's just that every conversation between them is about Winterfell, or Bran and Rickon. Those are safe topics.
They are eating and talking about it in Lord Stark's solar when Maester Luwin finds them. They have been spending so much time together the last week, working together. Robb is organizing the latest exports while she reviews the stock of grain they had received three days ago, and which of their own stock needed to be used, Theon sorting the ravens from the day before in front of them, when the knock makes them all raise their eyes.
She's sitting by Robb's side, her paperwork leaning on her knees as she hunches over it. Robb sets aside his quill and calls for the person to enter.
Maester Luwin does, closing the door behind him.
"My lords. Princess. Ravens from the South." He puts two scrolls in front of Robb, one with the grey seal of House Stark, the other with the Lannister crimson seal, her name on the outside.
Robb takes the latter first, offering it to her. She takes it for the token of truce it is.
"Bad news?" she asks, not daring to reach for it. If both Mother and Lord Stark decided to write at the same time, something big must have happened. Something bad.
"Only one way to find out," Robb says, hand still stretched towards her.
She takes a deep breath before taking it, sliding her chair closer to him for support. Robb leans closer to read from over her shoulder.
"My little doe," she reads out loud. So tense a situation it is that not even Theon has something to say to it. "It is with a heavy heart that I write to you to inform you of the most tragic news. Your father—Oh, Gods, no." Her throat closes up, her eyes start to sting. "King Robert, was in a terrible hunting accident. His wounds were too grave, and he has since...passed away. I urge you t-to come ho-home—" her voice breaks then, the sobs she was trying to hold back winning the battle. The letter crumbles in her hands as she bends over, the papers on her lap all falling to the ground as she wails.
Father, dead. And from hunting, of all things. Her head is static, thoughts scrambled until there is nothing she can understand.
Father, dead, is the only thing repeating through her mind.
She feels a hand on her shoulder, an arm passing behind her back, bringing her face to a shoulder. By smell alone, she can feel it is Robb, and it only makes her cry harder. She holds him around the waist, feels as he holds her so tight she could be fused to him in any moment, and she holds back just as fiercely. He runs a hand down her hair, rubs circles on her shoulder with his thumb, allows himself to press kisses to her hairline.
A lifetime later, once her sobbing has stopped, she pulls away and accepts a handkerchief he offers her to clean her face.
"My deepest condolences, Your Grace," Maester Luwin says, bowing his head to her.
"Thank you, Maester," she answers, wiping her nose and sighing. She has a little trouble breathing. Crying has always tired her so much.
She searches for the letter, finds it crumpled beside her foot. Someone, most likely Theon, has gathered her papers and left them on the table in front of her.
She smooths out the paper, clears her throat when she realizes there is more to the letter.
"I urge you to come home with your husband to swear your loyalty to your brother… King Joffrey, as Lord and Lady of Winterfell." She coughs. She's confused. She looks to Robb, scared, and finds him looking back at her, a mirror image of her own face, she's sure. "Lord Eddard Stark has acted in a treasonous way, plotting with Stannis Baratheon to deny your brother his throne, his birthright, before your father's body was even cold. What?" She looks up to Robb, watches as his face freezes. She hurries to continue, only pausing to cough once. "Put wrongs to right, questions of your loyalty to rest, and secure the peace. What does this mean? Robb!" She watches as he lounges for his scroll, unraveling it so fast it almost rips. She stands, lightheaded, goes to his shoulder to read a letter written by Sansa's hand.
"Treason?" Robb asks once he has finished, looking at her and then at Maester Luwin. "Sansa wrote this?"
"Your sister's hand, yes, but the Queen's words, surely. It starts the same way hers does. You are both summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new King."
"This doesn't make sense," Cerelle says, shaking her head and falling back into her seat. She tries to breathe, but the air does not want to get into her chest. "No, it can't be," she whispers, suddenly crying again.
Father, dead. Joffrey, king. Lord Stark, a traitor. Father still had years on him. Joffrey couldn't be king until Father was dead. Lord Stark betrayed his best friend to crown his brother, third in line.
"He put my father in chains!" Robbs says, throwing the scroll back down.
A Stark in chains in the Red Keep. A Stark called to King's Landing. Fire and a Tyroshi trap and a thousand nightmares after her lessons.
"Joffrey is king, now," she whispers, her voice giving out at the end. "It is a royal command." A deep breath, coughing after. "Another official raven must have arrived, with news of…my father's…"
Maester Luwin nods.
"If you were to refuse—"
"I won't refuse. If His Grace summons me to King's Landing, I'll go to King's Landing. But not alone."
"No," Cerelle whispers, her breaths too short now. Her tears are choking her, and her head is swimming, and the fear is a living thing in her chest.
She knows what is happening, but cannot find her voice to speak. It has been happening more, with the Northern cold, but not this severe in months. Tears are still streaming down her face. She's scared, heart pounding, chest constricting. She feels like she's going to die.
"Call the banners," Robb says. "All of them."
Theon is starting to smile, seeing Robb finally react, but it dies on his lips when he catches sight of her.
"Robb," Theon says then, getting up. Robb doesn't hear him.
War. This means war, even if Robb never meant for it, because her grandfather's armies in the Riverlands would be waiting. They would never make it to King's Landing without battle.
The world is upside down. Father is dead, Joffrey is king, Lord Stark is a traitor and Robb is marching for war. No.
No, please, Gods, no. Not against her family. Not against the Crown.
She grips his sleeve, fingers weak. Tries to pull, but can't.
"Robb!" Theon calls, and she sees everything blur as she falls to the floor.
She wakes on the way to her rooms. When she looks up, she realizes it's Robb carrying her.
For a second, she forgets what happened. For a second, she almost wants to bury herself deeper in his arms.
Then she remembers, the smell of herbs sticking to her nose, tired to her bones.
She moves, but Robb shakes his head when she goes to speak.
"Don't talk, you'll only hurt yourself," he says, stopping so Ser Aedan can open the door to her rooms. Once inside, he lets her down on her bed.
"Robb," she says, her voice barely coming out.
"Rest. We can speak later." He stands straight, turns around to leave.
"Robb," she whispers, voice already breaking, tears already gathering. "Please," she begs, though she does not know what for.
"He has my family, Cerelle. My father, and the girls." Robb turns around, looks at her. Really looks at her.
She suddenly notices he's trembling.
She offers her hand, and after a second, he comes closer. Robb sits by her side, takes her hand. She tugs on it, and he gives in.
Robb lays by her side, pulls her until she's resting on his chest.
She hadn't realized how much she needed comfort and proximity until that moment.
"My father wouldn't have betrayed yours without a reason. Something happened." He doesn't look at her, talks to the ceiling. She keeps her head on his chest, her hand resting on his abdomen. It's a familiar position for them.
He's right, of course. Lord Stark would not risk his life, his daughters' lives, without reason.
But why. Bran's assassination attempt could not be the only reason. Not unless that same reason was enough to deny her brother the throne.
"I'm scared," she rasps out.
Robbs holds her closer.