For the next couple of days, Cerelle tries to keep on going as usual. She plays her roles and plays them well. She oversees their food supplies, the state of their tents, the clothes that would need mending.

But inside, she feels ready to collapse. There is a war waging on her mind, and she is being torn apart by it, little by little.

There is guilt, determination, grief, pride, despair.

She could have trusted the man instead of killing him. She could be on her way home, now. Her mother sent salvation and she refused it.

Cerelle knows it was the right thing to do. She has sworn vows in front of the Gods. Robb and the Starks are her family now. It is what she was always told. Her husband's family would be hers, his name and protection as well. Obedience and loyalty were wanted, expected, needed.

But it hurts. It was never meant to be like this. She was supposed to be able to visit home. She was supposed to seek her family when she needed it. Her children were supposed to be able to know the Red Keep, to grow alongside Tommen's and Myrcella's children.

Her father was buried by now. Had they sent his body to Storm's Ends? Had Renly accepted it or had he refused it when he called himself King? Had they burned him and buried him in the Sept like the Targaryen Kings that came before, or had they respected his wishes?

She was doing the right thing. She was being honorable. She would not be another oath breaker. She would not follow that side of her family.

But Gods, she should have stayed in Winterfell. Then she would be safer from the looks and the whispers and the thinly veiled distrust. She could have waited for the end of the war somewhere safe, without having to fight, without having to kill that man. She had been an idiot, thinking she would make a difference. The moment Joffrey did something to any Stark, her head would roll by the hand of some northern lord seeking justice.

Not Robb. Probably not Robb, but someone else. Hopefully not Robb.


Lady Stark arrives at camp when they are near the Twins. By then, most of the men have arrived, bringing their numbers to a whole 18,000. Nearly enough to fight the Westerlands' army in the Riverlands, though not the army that has started to form in the Reach, if rumors are to be believed about Renly.

There are those still distrustful of her, and as a compromise, she is kept out of the meetings, even if it is something quite useless, as Robb comes to her at the end of the day and gives her a summary of the day's meetings, complaining and bouncing ideas off her. She has no battle experience and no training for war like he does, but she is good at listening and letting him come up with his own solutions.

Cerelle is training when Lady Catelyn arrives, her strength finally back to something resembling normal even if her endurance is still short. She sees several Lords pass to their tents, quite a few hours early by most days standards.

She calls for a break and goes to see if Robb stayed behind, to see why the meeting would be cut short. She is disheveled, sweat coating her skin and making her hair stick to her face. Soon enough, she would be able to take it easier, once she was ready.

Lady Stark is sitting near the opening of the tent, a letter on her hand, looking at Robb with her expression set in stone.

"—our only hope is that you can defeat them in the field."

"And if I lose?"

"Do you know what happened to the Targaryen children when the Mad King fell?"

"They were butchered in their sleep."

"On my grandfather's orders, they say. But maybe the Reyne Rebellion would be a better example. Lady Stark." She bows to her good-mother, letting her eyes stay fixed on the grass at her feet. "My deepest apologies, for the harm my family has done to yours."

"Your Grace," Lady Stark says, ever the southern lady. "My condolences on your loss."

"Thank you, my lady."

Cerelle notices the letter on her hands, the careful script of Sansa on it.

"Did you tell her of the other letter?" she asks Robb, who shakes his head.

"Not yet." He points to where he stashed both letters, and she puts her hand on his shoulder on her way to retrieve it.

"This letter came to us by rider. From King's Landing," she says, stopping behind Robb.

She offers the letter to Lady Stark, who reads it quickly.

"Can we trust this?"

"I would trust this person with my life. You must understand why I refuse to name them."

She considers saying her name. But there are ears everywhere, even more so in this camp, and she knows the moment she says Lalia's name is the moment Lady Stark will refuse the help.

"We can only trust in our family, Robb. You cannot trust this person. Why would they send this to you, if not to gain your trust to betray you later?"

Cerelle knew it could be like this, but it cuts deeper than she expected. Saying her name would only put her in even more danger.

"It was sent to me, Lady Stark." She lowers her voice until she's sure even Lady Stark strains her ears to hear her. "This person would never betray me."

If only Lady Stark knew she had sent Lalia away, and for her daughters' protections, on top of that. Lalia had never wanted to leave her. Cerelle was like a sister to her, maybe even more than her own brother had been. They had been raised together. It ran deeper than blood.

And Cerelle had sent her away.

She never should have. Lalia should be by her side, unwavering in her support, a rock even sturdier than Casterly Rock, than Storm's End. Cerelle would have protected her, and Lalia would have supported her, and things would be good. She wouldn't be alone in the wolf's den.

Lady Stark sighs, looks at the letter one last time before looking at Robb.

"If we lose, your father dies. Your sisters die. We die."

She looks at Cerelle right in the eyes. Cerelle wonders if she's blaming her.

"That makes it simple, then."


Word reaches them of her Uncle Jaime's siege of Riverrun. Lady Stark takes the news with a stony face. She must have seen it coming. Riverrun is no stranger to a siege, being at the center of all wars, they were probably better prepared and better trained than any other keep in the continent.

The meeting is long, that evening. She stays in their tent with Grey Wind, who has been ordered by Robb to stay with her when she's alone, lest they have a repeat of the incident. There's not much for her to do, at that time. She could try and listen to the meeting, but that would only make people more distrustful if anyone caught her. She has to play by the rules, she has to be perfect if she wants to have a place there.

It is night by the time Robb arrives. He looks exhausted. He drops himself on the chair in front of their table, pulling his gloves off and unclasping his cloak with heavy movements, his sword following.

"A Lannister scout was caught," he says, pouring himself wine.

"And what did you do?" She goes to him, kicks his cloak aside and helps him with the straps holding the plates to his shoulders as he works on his arms, letting them fall to the ground on their side. She leaves them close by, in case anything happens, and he needs to be ready quickly.

Robb has no squire yet, though she has been trying to convince him to get one as they approach battle. She has no trouble helping him dress in private, but she will not clean his armor or be his messenger through the camp. She helps him out of his gorget, leaving him just in his brigandine over his gambeson. Luckily, he doesn't usually use mail with all of that, otherwise he would be too heavy for fighting.

"I let him go. Wyl, as well. No need to keep him here, now, if he really is a spy."

Robb drowns his cup, refills it and offers it to her. She takes a few sips, leaning over his shoulder to put it on the table. She's pulling herself back to keep working on him when Robb catches her wrist, pulling it down until she's embracing him from behind.

"We'll see battle soon enough," Robb says, his other hand coming up to her free wrist. "Either the Kingslayer's army in Riverrun, or Tywin's."

Cerelle closes her eyes, puts her chin on his curls. Robb is warm, at least the parts she can touch. She kisses his temple, his auburn hair tickling her. It is terrifying to think that she could lose him in battle, and only know about it afterwards, when they carried his body back, if they even could.

She could follow him into battle. She is strong enough now—perhaps not for full armor, not like in the South, but perhaps for the northern version, she could be. She wouldn't even be the only woman fighting, and she has the training—not the full strength, but the training. She has trained with master at arms for over ten years, castle training that was nothing to scoff at.

She pulls away and starts to unbuckle his coat of plates in silence. She's nearly finishing when she speaks again.

"I'll be by your side. That is my place." She doesn't look at him, even though she knows his eyes are on her. She pulls the coat off, and Robb tries to chase her eyes.

"Cerelle—" He twists around, grabs her arm, but she shakes him off, looks at him finally.

"No. I... I have to take a side. Doing nothing will kill me."

"You don't have to fight to take a side." Robb takes her hand in his. She drops them.

"I could protect you. I could help you."

"There will be a whole guard with me, all castle trained."

"Robb. Please. I need to do this."

She doesn't know why she's begging. She's a princess, even if he is her husband. She should be able to do as she wants, damn it all to hell.

Fury starts to build inside of her. She wants to scream. She wants to topple over the table. She wants to weep. She wants to fly away.

Robb must see some of it on her face. Even if he doesn't understand her, even if she herself can't understand the need to prove it.

He stops putting up a fight.


The was a training drill they would run on Winterfell. Turn cloak, they'd call it. They would stand in a line, hands stretched, eyes closed, and Ser Rodrik would touch a single hand. Then, they'd form pairs, Robb, Jon, Theon and her.

They'd start combat then, all of them using swords, though she did use the war hammer on some distant occasions. Ser Rodik would wait until they got a good pace going, pair against pair, and then he'd yell "Turncloak!".

Then whoever he had touched would turn on their partner, and it would become a 3 against 1. She'd liked being the turncloak, watching the boys eyes go wide when she would suddenly turn against them, sword swinging, knowing when to step aside to let others attack, knowing when to strike, working together as a unit.

She didn't like much the being attacked-by-three part.

That's the training drill they use in the morning. It's Theon and Ser Aedan, Robb and her. They stand in line, very aware that half the camp has reunited to see them. They're using live steel, a recent development in their training, brought forward thanks to the imminent battle they are waiting for.

She still has her hand extended when Ser Rodrik calls for them to take their places.

She puts herself in front of Ser Aedan, used by now to his fighting. Robb stands in front of Theon, grinning and goading him on, to which Theon answers gladly. They've been training together for eight years, they know how to take the other down.

They stand, her to Robb's left, swords raised, stance lowered. A second passes, two seconds, and then the sound of a sword against a helm.

Theon attacks first. Robb raises his sword to block him, and the sound makes her look Robb's way, an opportunity Ser Aedan uses to attack as well.

He comes for her, and she manages to fight back just enough until she can knock his helmet back, hitting him near the ear with the flat of her sword. He rears back, more for the hit than the sound, and she turns to see Theon holding Robb doubled over, hitting him over the back over and over.

She runs over to help. If this was a real fight, she would sweep her sword over the backs of his knees and wait for him to fall and bleed. Since it's not, she goes and kicks him, making him fall to his knees and let go of Robb. She's raising her sword to hit him when she hears it.

"Turncloak!"

Theon looks up and grins.

She doesn't waste time, turning and taking her place by Robb's side, leaving his right for Theon, who she can hear getting up.

They make quick work of Ser Aedan, used as they are to fighting together. They know what it means when one shouts their name, when they say duck and mean dodge, when they say left and mean right.

When they win, she shares a look with Robb, smiling and panting, her dark hair absolutely stuck to her head thanks to her helm. Robb lifts his visor, and his eyes seem to take her on, from hear to toe.

And then he smiles back.