"What you did was dangerous," Robb says the moment he sees her, when he comes back from The Crag. He's not angry, but he's aware of the consequences her actions have. Consequences she did not think through.
"I know," she says from where she's sitting. "It's all I keep thinking about. If Sansa has not been rescued, I have doomed her. I was just so—so angry. In my mind, all I could see was the man that cuckholded my father, who pushed Bran from a window, and I swear, Robb, I have been telling myself I would not be hurt by them, no more, but I'm so angry."
There are tears streaming down her face before she even realizes it, and she tries to hold in her sobs, clenches her jaws and purses her lips, but that's not enough.
Her fear is a living thing in her chest, but it's cast into shadows by the anger, the burning desire to tear everything to the ground to her get revenge, to settle the feeling in her chest where she's hurt and tired and confused.
She looks at her husband, at Robb the King, and decides she should maybe ask. She should get it done instead of letting it consume her as it has until now. Her tears have not stopped, easy to come and refusing to leave as of late. But she has to ask. She has to know what will happen in her future.
"Robb," she says, and Robb looks at her from where he's been standing, staring at the table as she speaks.
The first time she had burst into tears, he had been scared, rushing to her side and asking what the matter was. Now, he usually waits for her to pull herself together before approaching. There's some dignity in that, she thinks.
"My father... he went to his grave thinking my brothers and sister were his children, I'm sure. They would not be alive now, if he knew." Red cloaks to hide the blood, the tale goes, and dragonspawn. Her father was not forgiving to those that made a fool out of him. "My children…they will look like me. What…what happens when you die? Will I be accused like my mother? Will I lose my head like she will? I know you wouldn't—but it's all I've been thinking about, I just—" the sobs make it too difficult to speak, and Robb then comes to her, kneels and shushes her, his hand pulling her hair back so he can look at her face.
"Cerelle. Calm down or you could have an attack."
She tries. She really tries. She takes deep breaths and tries to stop crying, but it's hard, and it takes her a while.
"Children look like their mothers all the time. I do, and I wasn't labeled a bastard," he tries to console her, but that only makes her cry harder.
"Then how—my mother? I'm not—saying it's not true—What sparked the suspicion? " She manages to say between tears and sobs.
She allows him to take her into his arms, to try and calm her down from what could trigger an attack.
And she hopes, hopes, hopes, he can hear what she is not saying.
What can she do to avoid her mother's fate?
She never makes it to Riverrun before the battle. They begin their march soon after Jaime's punishment, but the Lannister forces have the better terrain, and so they cross over the Red Fork before they can get close, and in doing so, they close her way to Riverrun.
It's not the end of the world, but it does leave a bad feeling in her chest. As much as she wants to be near battle, to not have to wait days for news, sitting idle and anxious, the Maester's confirmation has put things into perspective.
She cannot bring herself to risk her child's life, now.
Battle comes sooner than she would have liked. Their scouts tell them of Tywin's army two days away, and the Northmen decide to deploy their plan. Lord Edmure's forces must be ready by then, and their victory promises the end of the war, even if Stannis doesn't manage to take King's Landing.
She helps Robb with his armor, piece by piece, in silence. The whole camp seems to have fallen to silence except for the clang of metal pieces, as if speaking would break a spell that has been cast over them.
She dares to break it inside their tent, where it's just the two of them, Robb's squire dismissed for the time being.
"I always liked the name Emelya, for a girl," she says as she ties Robb's shoulder piece. She feels him stiffen under her hands, and when she goes around him to look at his face, she finds his eyes have filled with tears.
"I love you," he whispers, bringing her close and pressing his lips to her temple. She clings to him, swallowing her tears and trying to enjoy feeling close to him. She tries not to think of how this might be the last time they would see each other.
Would it have been easier if she was not here? Or would this goodbye be the last thing he saw, if he were to fall, a last glimpse of a love well deserved?
"My father…" he whispers after a few seconds. "He was a good man, and a good father. He deserves to have his name carried on."
"So come back, and teach our little Edd to be a good king," she says, closing her eyes and letting the tears fall, tucking herself under his chin, breathing in his smell to commit it to memory.
"I could always teach little Em to ride a horse."
She laughs wetly against his throat. Gods, she loves him. Fiercely, and deeply, and she cannot bear the thought of him never meeting their child.
"We'll be here when you come back. I promise."
But Robb doesn't promise anything back, and she understands. So she tucks his hair under his cap, and she kisses him and gives him his sword and is left with her heart trying to beat out of her chest.
The battle takes over two days. She's sure there must have been lulls, there must have been more than just fighting, but it is two whole days before they ride back.
She had taken to sit on her horse with Ser Aedan at the edge of camp. Time had passed slowly, and all her food had tasted like ash, the only sounds near her the ones from the few women in camp, and the youngest squires and soldiers that had been left behind.
She had been tense the whole time. Her horse was never unpacked, and at the first sight of a Lannister banner, she and Ser Aedan would have fled North. She knew the price of defeat, and she knew what staying would mean. Once upon a time, she would have faced a whole army if that meant she went down fighting.
But things have changed, and her life is now worth something beyond just her. She cannot think only about herself, but also her baby, and it has broken through all her plans and all her ways of making decisions, and at first, she might have thought this was not something that was supposed to happen now, it was the worst time, even if it was her duty, even if on paper it was the best thing to happen.
But now? Now her baby lives in her mind, and she has found herself thinking about it, thinking if it will have her black hair or Robb's auburn curls, what shade of blue their eyes would be. She dreams of its joyful laughter and the way it will run around the godswood with snowflakes in its hair.
Emelya. Eddard. She dreams, and dreams, and wakes with a hole in her chest and hope in her heart.
It is not Robb who leads the march back to camp, but it is Stark banners they fly. She does not dare to get down from her horse until she recognizes some faces, body tense and ready to flee. Lord Umber, Lord Harrion, Lord Flint. They laugh when they see her, and throw fists in the air, and call for the King and Queen in the North.
Without a warning, her tears threaten to choke her as she laughs. She has been more sentimental lately, but these tears would have come whether she was with child or not. Finally, the end of the war seems near. The hardest things are yet to come, but she can think about it later, after she has taken Robb into her arms to feel him close and alive.
They ride to the Lannister camp at once. The mood of everyone is uplifted, and she finds men laughing more freely, grins on their faces. This victory is so important, this victory once seemed impossible.
Robb is being followed by a routine of Lords through the battlefield when she arrives. She barely even waits for her horse to slow down before she's jumping from it, one hand to support her belly as she lands and takes off towards him.
He's dirty and speckled by blood, surrounded by bodies she has to navigate through, but his eyes are shinning, and his smile is relieved when she throws herself into his arms.
"You won," she says, over and over, still in disbelief. "You won, you won, you won."
Once the important prisoners are secured, and the victory has been quickly celebrated, both as camp and inside tents, they march to Harrenhal. They need to make good time, before word reaches them of the Lannister defeat, before they have time to react, and so they divide the army. Some will march straight to Harrenhal, to take it and liberate the Northern and Rivermen prisoners in a lightening attack, while the rest follow with the prisoners they're to take to King's Landing.
She stays in the second army. She has to make sure Jaime and Tywin are at different parts of the camp at all times, and make sure they are heavily guarded. She does not visit them, not while they are on the move, not until Harrenhal is on Northern hands with minimal loses and prisoners have been liberated and reunited. They feast on Lannister's food and fuck on Lannister's beds and, when spirits seem to be calming down, they receive word that King's Landing had fallen to Stannis' army. The war is so near done Cerelle can taste the victory, if they can manage to liberate Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin, which had fallen to the ironborn while they marched to battle.
The news only means another feast and Robb and her fucking until sunrise in celebration. She's fairly certain the guards heard her scream, which means she doesn't have the courage to look them in the eye when she exits the room at midday, after they sleep like babies until late into the morning.
Grandfather is sitting on the cot when she goes to see him. For a man past sixty namedays, he looks well. He is still a man able to ride into battle and come out alive.
But he doesn't fight this time. He's calm in his defeat. Dignified. He has not raged, has not screamed his head off like some other men would have. He didn't try to fight his guards, though perhaps he has tried to bribe them.
She stands outside his cell, drinks him in. Her grandfather always seemed so much bigger than life. He was the Lion of the Rock, the ruthless Lord who butchered two houses and put a stop to any rebellion in his lands. In the last years, his actions have soured in her mind, turned to poison against him. They turned into the reason she stands here, now.
"Cerelle. Came here to gloat?" He asks. He doesn't look at her, but he doesn't bow his head either. She wonders what he's thinking.
"No," she answers. "It gives me no satisfaction to win a war against my family."
Her grandfather scoffs.
"It is true, whether you believe it or not. But it is not why I am here. I'm here for answers. True answers."
Tywin looks at her for a long time before nodding.
"Would you have tried to kill me, if the war went on?" she asks, her hand coming to her belly, where her child is, even if unseen by her dress. She had begun to expect the quickening, though she knows it will not be for months yet.
"I did try to kill you. When we heard rumors of your pregnancy. Some didn't agree. Most did. We just didn't get the chance."
It hurts more than she thought it would. It seems no matter what she has decided, it will always hurt some.
She looks at him. Really looks at him. Before she entered, she thought she would find him defeated. Exhausted, a weak old man.
He is none of those things. Even after days in this cell, he holds himself straight, proud. His voice is just as she remembers from her childhood, a lifetime away.
"You called your father weak, remember? When you told me about the family history, the year we went to Casterly Rock. You thought he would bring the end of your house. Did you ever think it would be at your children's hands?"
He stays silent. She waits, for a time, until she thinks the answer will not come. He doesn't answer until she's almost all the way out of the cellar.
"Yes."
The days pass slowly for Arya, spent walking and listening to Hot Pie ramble. It's not unwelcome, not exactly, but it does get tiring after the tenth recipe for a meat pie.
He's talking about the best way of beating eggs as they walk, she thinks, when she's sure she hears another voice, one not belonging to their group. A glance at Gendry tells her he's heard too, and they both shush Hot Pie.
Of course, Hot Pie keeps talking, and so Gendry has to slap a hand over his mouth, swords in hand and at the ready. They've been practicing when they make camp, barely more than the basics Arya knows, but at least now Gendry can safely hold a sword.
The voices don't seem to be moving, and Arya approaches if only to get an idea of who's out there before getting the hells out. She just has to be quiet as a shadow. She hides behind a tree, and stills her breath and opens her ears. Gendry and Hot Pie stay behind, also in waiting.
It's a man, and he seems to be bickering with another voice. A girl's.
"—in the middle of the woods! You think I haven't been shitting?"
The girl's voice says something Arya doesn't catch, and then the man is laughing, and it's familiar to her ears. It tastes like Winterfell.
"Oh, pardon, m'lady high, please excuse my foul language," the voice says, mocking and still laughing, and then the soft thump of clothes hitting someone. "Sansa!"
Sansa? Arya's heart starts beating even faster in her chest. It couldn't be her sister, for she was in King's Landing, but hope was hard to extinguish once alight. How many Sansas could there be here in the South?
But then the girl's laughing, and it sounds like the chimes on the Sept in Winterfell, and snowballs that crumbled on her hands, and whispers in the night when she still shared rooms with her sister.
Arya dares to look around the tree, to walk the steps that lead her to a clear view of the people. The man has his back to her, but on the ground is Sansa. Sansa. She's dirty and her dress unkept, but the graceful curve of her back, the red shine of her hair, the way her lips are curling on a smile, that's all Sansa.
Even in the middle of the woods, Sansa looked like a Lady, and shame threatens to bubble to the surface in Arya's chest. Would Sansa like her still, with her hair cropped short and her trousers and the sword on her hand?
She almost considers turning back. Just quietly turning back to Gendry and Hot Pie, and making her way to Winterfell. Her brothers wouldn't care about how she looked, or how she dressed.
But Sansa is right there, and her heart aches for the comfort of her family.
She's debating what to say, how to approach, when Sansa looks her way and sees her. She jumps to her feet, and the man turns around, and—oh, that's Theon. That's Theon keeping Sansa safe. Arya takes a step forward, and Theon's hand goes to the sword he has on his hip, and Sansa also takes a step forward, and her hand goes to his arm, and then she's asking in this really tiny and broken voice, "Arya?", and then Arya is running, and she's crying like a baby, and Sansa is hugging her, and she's taller than before, Sansa has always been taller, and she smells like sweat and dirt, and their sobs don't align but that doesn't matter because that's her sister in her arms, and she had missed her, even when she had hated her, and for a moment, all Arya can hear are her screams in the platform after Father had died, her shrieks mingling with the cawing of the crows, black against the blue of the sky, but then Sansa is repeating her name over and over like a prayer, just "Arya, Arya, Arya,", and she's rocking her from side to side, and Arya can't stop crying.