Winterfell's rookery empties with the summons for the banners. Ravens fly to Last Hearth, to Greywater Watch, to the Flints from Flint's Finger and Flints from Widow's Watch, and replies tickle in over the following days, men follwing after that.
In the time it takes for them to arrive, she locks herself in her rooms, not in the mood to see anyone. Her appetite worsens over the days, and some days she cannot even bring herself to leave her bed to roam her room. Eline begs for her to eat, coaches her to take small bites of bread and to drink some broth, but the thought often makes her sick.
Rickon knocks, sometimes, begs for her to open the door and let him in, and sometimes she even allows him. He takes to telling her stories to try and cheer her up, his hair a rat's nest and dirt still smudged on his face. He leaves her twigs and rocks outside her door, and Eline takes to lining them up by the window. Once or twice, she even catches herself smiling.
But then he leaves, and reality creeps back in, and her mood worsens until her tears overcome her again.
Robb comes in, once. She pretends to be asleep, and he stays for a little while. When he leaves, he tucks her hair behind her ear, caresses her cheekbone softly. He runs his hand down her arm until her fingers are on his and places a soft kiss on her knucles. Leaves.
Her moonblood leaves her bedridden for days, exhausted and weak, and Eline worries enough that she calls for Maester Luwin, who just tells her to make her eat something and let her rest, she just needs some of her strength back.
There is no strength left in her. It left her the moment her father died, her brother declared her good father a traitor and her husband raised his army in response.
She does not feel better by the time the men start to come in, but she forces herself up. She makes herself presentable all by herself, her ribs a shameful sight, and leaves her rooms for the first time since the news arrived to make herself the acting Lady of Winterfell she is supposed to be.
She takes to watch the men march into Winterfell with Bran from the windows, to question him on the banners they carry, while Robb greets them in the yard with Theon by his side. To avoid people getting suspicious and offending some Northern lord, a Stark guard has joined Ser Aedan into shadowing her, her weapons have been all taken away, and if her correspondence was watched before, now at least it is official.
Robb apologizes for it. She stares at him, tired to her bones, and tells him she understands. She does, she really does. It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
As it is, no letter has followed her mother's, and Lalia has not written to her since weeks. She knows nothing about what really happened, knows nothing of why Lord Stark has betrayed her brother.
What she knows is this.
Bran was pushed out of a tower, and someone sent an assassin to finish the job.
The Starks—Lady Stark, most of all—believe it was her Uncle Tyrion.
However, her Uncle walked away from his trial, innocent in the eyes of the Gods.
The Riverlands—and Lord Stark—were attacked because of the accusations.
Father died.
Lord Stark conspired with her father's brother to deny the throne to her own brother.
But not just her brother, wasn't it? It wasn't just Joffrey; it was Tommen also. For some reason, Lord Stark had declared her father's sons to be unfit to inherit and had jumped all the way to the third in line.
But why?
She knows it's right in front of her, she knows it is. But what is it. What did Tommen and Joffrey have in common, or what did they not have, that Stannis did.
She thinks about it as she gets ready for the feast. She had helped plan it, one of the few duties she had been allowed to fulfil. By the time her bath is done, she cannot entertain any of the notions her mind has come up with.
However, she knows this about Lord Stark and her Uncle Stannis.
Neither were power hungry men.
They had honor.
They were dutiful.
They were just, and knew mercy.
She puts her black dress on, mourning Father still, brushes her damp hair and sits on the chair in front of her small looking glass. She can barely recognize herself—a shadow of the girl she had been four moons ago, before she had known the truth and the rift between Robb and her had appeared.
It is time. She must make a decision. And it must be now.
She enters the room once she knows every lord is inside, but before they start eating.
All eyes go to her, and they raise to their feet for her. She is still a princess. She walks with her head held high, even as she hears the whispers. Her hands are trembling, so she clenches them in front of her.
Some whispers are harsh. Most of them, actually. But some sound surprised—she supposes her looks leave much to be desired, skinny and pale as she must look.
But she pays them no mind, walking until she is in front of Robb, who bows his head to her once he has turned himself to face her.
"Your Grace," he says.
"My Lord," she answers, and she gathers her skirts and falls to her knees before him.
The whispers start even louder, but she cannot pay them mind. She must do what needs to be done. She must do the right thing.
"I, Princess Cerelle of House Baratheon, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, promise to be faithful to you, my husband, Lord Robb Stark, Heir of Winterfell. I pledge fealty to you, and promise to defend you against enemies and stand by your side in good faith and without deceit. You will have my sword, my loyalty and my counsel. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New."
There is silence, for a second. Complete silence.
Then the clapping starts.
Bran watches from his seat at Theon's left as Relle walks all the way to Robb's side, pale and weak, only to fall to her knees and swear fealty to him.
There is silence for a second, Lords and Lady exchanging looks, like waiting for something.
Then Theon starts clapping, and Bran follows, and soon everyone else does, too.
Robb offers his hand to Relle, and his good sister accepts it and raises herself to her feet. They stand together, side by side, and Relle raises her hand. The clapping dies, and she looks at all of them, turning to also look at the men at her back.
"My Lords, my Lady," Relle says, voice strong and clear. A Princess. "Many of you I met on my wedding day. You were witness to my vows. I am not an oathbreaker." She pauses to look at every lord in front of her, her eyes stopping on him. She seems to soften, for a second, and then harden. "My loyalty remains to you, and I apologize for the hurt and the slight my family has brought onto all of you by taking Lord Stark, an honorable man, prisoner. I do promise to seek justice, like all of you, and hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me for my family's sins."
Robb is still holding her hand, and he's looking at her like he hasn't in moons. He's looking at her like he used to look at her in the year before the wedding, like he looked at her shortly after his fall.
Bran looks at Theon, a little lost on what to do, but this time Theon does not take the lead.
Instead, Lady Mormont does.
"You're brave, girl. Now sit down and eat something. You're not finding justice anywhere skinny as you are."
Cups are slammed into tables at this, agreeing, and Cerelle bows her head to them before taking a seat between Theon and himself.
Everyone starts eating after Relle sits, and the talking quickly goes to the fighting and planning, on which she does not comment on. Bran, likewise, only eats and looks as they discuss.
Grey Wind is laying down by Robb's feet, but every so often Bran can see Relle toss him pieces of her chicken, which is the only way it disappears from her plate. She eats a bite or two of other things, but mostly pushes her food around.
Then the talking goes to who will lead the vanguard. Robb says it will Lord Glover, but Greatjon Umber tries to change his mind. Relle stays silent the entire time. Bran knows she cannot contradict Robb. Not now, when he needs to earn the respect of his men.
"Galbart Glover will lead the van," Robb repeats, clearly starting to get mad, just as the Greatjon.
"The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover!" Greatjon yells. "I will lead the van, or I will take my men and march them home."
Robb's face changes at that, and Bran can feel the tension escalate around the table. He can see Cerelle clench her hands around her cutlery.
"You are welcome to do so, Lord Umber." Robb rises, hands on the table. This is a new Robb. This is not big brother Robb, who used to toss snowballs at him and goad Arya into chasing him. This is Lord Robb, the man that called his banners for Father.
"When I am done with the Lannisters, I will march back North, root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oathbreaker," Robb threatens.
"OATHBREAKER, is it?!" Greatjon throws his plate and cup to the ground with a swipe of his hand as he raises, and beside Bran, Cerelle also raises, her chair falling to the ground, table knife on her hand and the other in front of him as if to protect him, ready to throw herself in the middle on the table if needed be to put herself between Robb and Greatjon. She looks fierce. She could be a wolf instead of a doe.
Or at least, that's how it looks to Bran. Several other Lords raise to their feet at the same time, chairs scrapping the ground.
"I'll not sit here and swallow insults from a boy so green he pisses grass!" Greatjon says, hand going to his sword, which in turn makes Theon raise and take out his dagger.
But then Grey Wind goes over the table and grabs the Greatjon in his snout, and then Bran can't see anything, but hears the struggle and the screams.
Everyone is quiet, except for the Greatjon, and Cerelle takes one of his hands on hers, trembling. She's using the other hand, the one with the knife, to stabilize herself with the table.
But Bran can't look away for too long from where the Greatjon is. He's scared, but he's more expectant to know what is happening.
"My Lord father taught me it is treason punished by death, to bare steel against your liege lord," Robb says once Greatjon brings himself to his feet, fuming. "Doubtless, the Greatjon only meant to cut my meat for me."
The man kicks a chair, and Bran feels Cerelle put her hand in front of his chest again, ready to throw him back if needed be.
But then the Greatjon only says Robb's meat is tough, and then he breaks into laughter, and so does Robb, and so does everyone else, even if it was not really funny. Bran looks around and everyone is laughing, but he thinks it may be out of nerves more than anything else.
Except Cerelle, who falls into her chair with a sigh. She pours herself some wine and sips at it, putting her cup back on the table.
She looks at him, and musters up a smile.
"I think they're insane," she says, and Bran laughs at that.