It is when they are staying at Moat Cailin that there is a rider, in the night. A guard wakes them up, tells them there is a rider that will only deliver the letter to Princess Cerelle's hands. Robb and she are weary of it, trading looks across the room, him from the doorstep and her from beside the bed.

"Let him in," Cerelle says, closing her robe around her nightgown. Robb does the same, coming to stand two steps in front of her with a sword on his hand.

From outside, Ser Aedan leads the men inside, placing himself to the side of her, not a hint of sleep on his face. A boy comes in with them, and the guards don't let him out of their sight. He's young. Maybe fifteen years of age. He seems nervous when he sees the sword.

"Who are you, and what do you want with me?" Cerelle asks, coming closer but still a distance away.

"Name's Wyl, Your Grace. I come with a letter for you. I cannot say from who with so many people here, it's treason against the Iron Throne and death is the punishment. But you will know who it is, Your Grace."

"Give it to him," she says, nodding to Ser Aedan, but Wyl shakes his head and takes a step back. For a moment, he almost seems brave.

"They said to give it to you, and you only." Wyl extends the scroll to her, and after looking at Robb, she walks ahead to take it, her husband and shield a step behind her.

As Cerelle opens the letter, sealed with plain orange, no sigil, she hears Robb question the boy's origin—Flea Bottom, but he works for a merchant and that is how he is there—and give the order to keep the boy fed and safe, but not to let him go.

Cerelle's eyes drink in the letter, the careful script of Lalia. There are few sentences, but it's good information.

"When was this written?" she asks the boy.

"Two weeks after the arrest of Lord Stark, Your Grace."

Cerelle nods to Robb, and he dismisses everyone. Once the guards have left back to their posts, she speaks up to Robb.

"It's from Lalia. Arya escaped the Red Keep. They cannot find her. Sansa is being watched; she swears loyalty to Joffrey. She's a smart girl. Everyone else is…everyone else is dead. Your father is in a cell in the dungeons." Cerelle offers the letter to Robb, who clenches his jaw as he reads.

"Are you sure Lalia sent this?" he asks when he finishes the letter. "Are you sure it's real?"

"Yes. It's her hand and her words. She risked her life for this, Robb."

"If your mother or brother are behind this—"

"They gain nothing from admitting they let Arya escape and lose a bargain chip. They had three Starks, when my father died, and now they only have two. They wouldn't announce it to you."

Robb says nothing, just sits at the table and reads the letter again. And again.

"We need to call for the council," he decides, and she agrees.


The Lords are weary of it. They meet in one of the rooms in the Gatehouse Tower while it is barely day outside, but everyone feels bright awake.

"How can we know it is true? They could be tricking us!" Lord Glover says as he passes the scroll around. She has not said from whom it is. Refuses, in fact. If that information leaves that room, Lalia could be dead in days. She has even removed the seal, in case anyone knew she used orange as her personal color.

"Trick us into what? They gain nothing from admitting they have lost Arya," Cerelle says.

"They might have sent the boy to spy!"

"Which is why we are not releasing him just yet." Robb stresses, accepting the scroll when it comes back to him.

"My lords. The person who sent that letter put their life at risk. If anyone in King's Landing knew, they would be dead in a heartbeat. If you do not believe it, it is alright. It changes nothing of our purpose. But this letter." She takes the letter from the table and waves it around to show her point. "This letter shows us we have a spy inside the Red Keep. And it allows us to know if they were ever to offer Arya to us, they would be lying."

"And the boy?"

"We keep him as a prisoner. If he saw anything, it was just our numbers, and since we are still waiting for the Manderly, Flint and Reed men, it could work in our favor for him to report our numbers as they are." Robb looks over the map on the table, frowning. She can see it behind his eyes—he's planning. He's always planning.

"Fourteen thousand would make Tywin Lannister come running to crush you, boy," Lord Umber says with his loud voice. That man probably didn't know how to whisper.

"We will keep the boy prisoner. We won't engage with this spy, but we will remember what the letter says," Robb decides, and it seems to be a good compromise for the lords.


It is on the road from Moat Cailin to the Twins that it happens. She's finished sparing with Ser Aedan as usual, and they have parted ways, each to their own tent to freshen up. She throws her sword to the side, and takes her long braid in her hand, fanning the back of her neck. Even if summer snows have been following their army, training sessions leave her covered in sweat.

She's going for her towel to soak up the worst of it before her bath when a hand covers her mouth, a knife to her throat.

"Do not scream, Princess," a voice she doesn't recognize whispers on her ear. "I'll let you go if you don't."

She nods, and pushes the man away when he takes the knife off. She does not know him. He looks like a common soldier, which is how he may have infiltrated. There is no coat of arms anywhere on him.

She has no weapons, her sword near the entrance to the tent. She takes a step forward, and the man raises the knife.

"Who are you," she demands, looking around for a knife or dagger, but nothing is in sight. The man probably took care of it.

"Doesn't matter. I was sent by the Queen. Your mama wants you back, little princess." The man smiles, lowering the knife. She flinches back.

"What do you mean?" she demands.

"Means I came here to take you home. I got in, I can get out. You'll be back with your family in no time." He goes to the entrance of the tent, listens to what goes outside. There should be a Stark guard outside, but no one was there when she entered. She wonders if this man killed anyone to get here.

"You will never take me away from here," she says to buy herself some time. The main entrance is not an option. She could try to crawl under the back, but he could catch her easily. She cannot fight him, not when she's still somewhat weak and he looks strong.

She could scream. Someone would be bound to come running to her, wouldn't they? But that leaves too many seconds for the man to act.

"I can. And I was told to do it by any means necessary."

Fear freezes her blood. For a second, she is scared. For a second, she actually wants to go home. It could be easy, if they win the war. Her mother and brother, that is. Maybe they would let her mourn, and not marry her off. She would be near the sea, and she would have Myrcella and Tommen with her. It could be enough, for thing to be as they were when she was a child.

But in the next second, she knows it is not possible. She could not live knowing Lord Stark would be rotting on the dungeons under her, punishment for a crime he may not even have committed. She would not be able to live knowing she would have broken her vows to Robb, both the ones she swore in front of his Gods and the ones she swore to him on her knees.

In that second, she also knows that she cannot go back. Not when Joffrey would rejoice to brand her a traitor, not when the court would despise her for laying with the enemy, for publicly giving them her loyalty. Whatever rescue this is supposed to be, it is only a dream.

In the third second, she runs and throws herself against him. They both topple to the ground, but he doesn't drop his knife like she hoped he would. She tries to pin his arms, but he is stronger and manages to throw her off. He climbs on top of her, his mouth twisted in a sneer as he kneels on her hands and put the knife to her neck.

"You little bitch, she said you would come willingly. I'm finishing this job, like it or not. And it would be hell of a lot easier if you liked it."

She considers just…pushing her neck against the knife and ending it. Everything could be easier if she died, and this wouldn't even be her fault.

But she can't do that. Not when she promised to Rickon she would be back. That she would make it. Not when Robb is half a camp away. Not if she wants to see her siblings again.

With a snarl, she raises her head and headbutts the man, making pain explode in her forehead. He is thrown back, hands to his nose, and through the pain, she can notice when the pressure on her arms lessens. She slips her hands from under his knees and throws him off her, lounging for the knife he dropped.

Without thinking about it, she raises it and sticks it on his stomach. Once, twice, thrice.

He screams and throws her off hard enough to make her roll away, but the damage is done. She takes the knife with her when she falls, but it falls away from her when she hits the ground. His blood quickly starts to stain his clothes when he gets up. There is blood on the knife, and it drips into the ground in little droplets when he takes it.

He doesn't even get to turn around when Grey Wind comes into the tent with a growl and throws himself into the man, snarling and snapping his teeth, pinning him to the ground.

The blood is pooling around him, and he screams. He raises his hand to attack Grey Wind, but the direwolf tears it off him before he can do much.

Guards come crashing into the tent. The man is still screaming, clutching the arm where his hand is missing, and blood is trailing down.

"Your Grace," one of the guards comes close to her, and she startles and flinches back. He stops where he is. No coat of arms, but his leathers are familiar, and so is his face. A guard from Winterfell.

"Mors," she breathes, sagging with relief. She knows him. She had hired him herself, following Lord Stark's departure.

"What happened, Your Grace?" he offers her a hand, and she takes it with gratitude. She pulls herself to her feet and notices she has stained his hands with blood. She wipes her own against her dress but knows there will be blood under her nails and in the creases of her hands that won't come off so easily.

"A man sent by my mother. We need to call the council. Take this man to a healer. Try to save him so we can question him."

She looks to where the man is. He has stopped screaming and has fallen unconscious, though she can't tell if he has died or not.

Robb enters then, stopping when he sees the man and the blood, Grey Wind still standing near.

"Cerelle," he calls the moment he sees her, coming to her. Behind him, the guards take the man away.

"Robb," she says, embracing him and leaning on him. Her hands tremble when they grip his cloak.

"What happened?"

"My mother sent him, to 'rescue' me. I don't even know his name, or if he was telling the truth."

"You are safe now," Robb says.

And she thinks she is.

But if she hadn't fought him, if he had been telling the truth, maybe she would have been safe with the man, too.


For those that may think it weird that Cerelle keeps thinking about King's Landing, even after vowing to follow Robb, I think that what home means and who your family is will always be at odds with doing the right thing, for her. Even if Cerelle logically knows what she is supposed to do and what will happen if she goes back, and Cersei was kind of a shitty mom, she was still her mother and showed her enough love for Cerelle to know she would be safe with her, if neglected. We'll see how it evolves when she learns what Ned found in King's Landing.
Also, there is something to be said about being ripped away from your home. In my mind, and as I plan to explore in the future in later seasons, Cerelle will always miss the sea and the Red Keep.