They ship her Uncle Tyrion off to the Wall, along with Mace Tyrell and some other lords from both the Westerlands and the Reach that chose not to lose their heads. Cerelle watches them go through a window, but doesn't dare to go down.
Varys is long gone, most likely already in Essos, and with Littlefinger weaseling his way out of both the Wall and losing his head, and Pycelle dead, the small council of her brother has been dealt with.
There is a new Grandmaester in the Red Keep. He arrives by ship a few days before them, but it takes over two weeks for Cerelle to meet him alone. She has seen him in the meetings with Stannis, and he seems like a nice man. Middle aged, with pepper in his hair. He sits on the meetings in silence, taking notes, and only speaks to offer sound advice.
Certainly not the boot licker Pycelle was.
She goes to him early in the morning, before the meetings start. She finds him sitting on a desk, with an open book in front of him.
"Your Grace," he says, standing and bowing.
"Grandmaester Arlos," she greets him, coming inside and closing the door, Ser Aedan standing guard outside. "I hope I am not bothering you; I know it is early."
"Nonsense, I was just reading on the old trading agreements, before Aegon unified the continent. What can I do for you?"
"I was wondering…I just want to know my babe is alright. Growing like it's supposed to." She puts a hand to her belly, and the Grandmaester smiles at her.
"Certainly, Your Grace. Come along."
She comes out of it with her head spinning. She waves off Ser Aedan's concerns, and just mumbles how she has to speak to Robb. He is not on their chambers, and she realizes it is later than she thought, and he must be on the meeting already.
She makes her way to the meeting room, one big enough for everyone, and everyone turns to look at her when she enters. The Grandmaester is already there, and he smiles at her.
But her face must be something else, because Robb lurches to his feet at once, striding to where she is, one hand cupping her face and the other going straight to her stomach while other Lords ask questions.
"Has something happened? Are you alright?" he asks, his eyes scanning her for injuries or whatever seems to be wrong with her.
"Are you a greenseer?" is what she answers with, still dazed, and that makes Robb frown. Far away, she thinks she hears the Grandmaester calm everyone down.
"What?" he asks, obviously confused, and she finally looks up into his eyes.
"Twins, Robb." She puts her hands with his on her stomach, and she can see the moment it dawns on him.
"Are you certain?" he asks, like he's afraid of hoping. She finally allows herself to smile.
"You can ask the Grandmaester."
Robb turns around, and the old man nods in his direction, a small smile still on his face. Robb turns back to her, and he laughs, breathless, and he kisses her for one, two, three seconds, and then he's picking her around the waist and spinning her around, and she laughs too, and hits his shoulder so he sets her down.
They toast to her and her babes, the Northern lords most loudly, and Robb keeps her close for the whole meeting, taking her hand and putting his hand on her belly sporadically, like he can't help himself.
They feast that night in the Queen's Ballroom, possible thanks to the Reach providing food, as part of the punishment for going against the rightful King.
It is there where Robb announces that both Stannis and Lalia have accepted to fight with them against the Ironborn, and that they leave in three weeks time.
Grey Wind is miserable in King's Landing. He is constantly moping around—if a wolf can mop around—, and seems constantly irritated with the weather, much like Robb. The warm climate does not seem to agree with them, as Robb is fond of reminding her when he peels away sweat-soaked cottons. She can still remember his curses the first time he started sweating the second he left his bath.
It might be in part, of course, with the fact that he's not very good at leaving behind the leathers and wools and cottons for lighter clothing. At least Grey Wind has the excuse of not being able to take off his fur.
So she takes Robb on a ship. She also takes her ladies, but the most important thing is she takes Robb.
They had a ship, Myrcella and her. Just theirs. The Queen Elenei. Not huge, but big enough for them and their ladies, and they used to sail for whole days. Just enjoying the sun on their face, and the wind on their hair, eating sweets and laughing and feeling free.
She tries to give that to Robb. A day of relaxation at sea, stopping to watch sea creatures as they swim, trying not to think about the battles to come. Lalia even fishes, which amuses Robb to no end, and he takes to watch as she struggles with her biggest catches with a grin on his face.
He looks younger then, leaning back with his arms crossed, his sleeves rolled up, the sun turning his hair red. He looks the nine and ten name days he soon will be. He looks like the Robb she met on Winterfell, all those ages ago. Not Robb the Lord, not Robb the King, but the boy who kissed her hand and smiled when she blushed. The Robb who laughed freely at his siblings, the one who ribbed Lalia and egged Theon on.
She goes up to him and leans against his arm. He takes the clue and passes his arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her hair. She sighs and keeps watching as Lalia manages to catch a fish as big as her arm.
"This is what I missed," she says, trying to get her hair away from her face, but the wind manages to throw it into her face despite her efforts. Robb laughs and tucks the offending pieces behind her ear, then dropping his hand to her womb. "Not the shit smell, not the court. Not even the dresses, if you can believe it."
Lalia fights with the flopping fish, and Jenne jumps to kick a bucket closer so Lalia can drop the fish, and shrieks when it gets too close to her face, Lalia's laughter ringing.
There are people missing. It's not exactly what she left behind when she rode North to marry him, but…
"This, Robb. This is home."
Under his hand, their children make themselves known for the first time. They become real.
She wakes to hurried knocks on their door. It is light outside, from what she can see, but the sky is still pale. Robb is better at getting up, these days, quicker, and so he goes to open the door while she tries to find the will to. She's comfortable how she is. She shouldn't be getting up at this hour, not when there is a long day of planning ahead of her.
"Cerelle," Robb says, his voice urgent as he comes to her side. With some care, she rolls onto her other side. He looks excited, with a parchment on his hand as he reads.
"Good news?"
"From Riverrun. Theon has returned with Sansa…and Arya."
"Arya?!" she asks as she tries to sit up, and with a huff, she lets herself down again. Not getting up on the first try, then. Well. What could she do.
"That's what it says. There's not much detail, but…Arya, Cerelle. Arya is alive."
He looks close to crying, and Cerelle in turn feels the tears building. Arya, alive. Not presumed dead, not missing, but safe and sound at Riverrun. And they know that it is Arya, if she is with both Theon and Sansa. No false hopes, no impostors, no tricks. Just Arya, alive.
"Oh, no," Robb says when he hears her sniffle. "Relle, come here."
"I'm happy," she says through her tears. "I'm so very happy."
And it's true. Both his sisters safe is more than she let herself hope for.
But her own sister remains away from her, and it aches.
The ships leave before they do, as does Lalia and the rest of the Westermen. Lalia is supposed to try and rally as many men and ships as she can, but the hopes are not very high. They are people coming off a sound defeat, called to fight for a King that killed their liege Lord. No, there won't be many men joining the fight willingly, without threat, but even some ships will make a difference. There is news, after all, of reaping and pillaging happening around the Westerlands shores in the last few weeks since their defeat against the North.
The army will travel to Lannisport, to join forces and attack the Iron Islands and then to go on to liberate Deepwood Motte, while the rest of their forces are already about to reach Moat Cailin, though there they will await. It is too hard to directly attack, and they are only five thousand men.
She says a tearful goodbye around Hornvale, and leaves for Riverrun, where she will wait for it to be safe to go North. She thought about getting a ship to White Harbor and making her way to Winterfell. It would have been easier, and maybe even safer. But who really knew if there were any Greyjoys ships on the Narrow Sea, and who was she to return North when Arya, Sansa and Robb could not?
No, she goes to Riverrun.
They are expecting her, the day she arrives. They are all on the courtyard, Lord Edmure and the rest of Riverrun. Not Lord Tully, but she did not expect him, not when she knew him to be sick.
And there, right beside their uncle, the people she was expecting to see.
Arya has her hair short, and she's wearing breeches and a tunic instead of a dress, but she is unmistakable Arya. The sight of her nearly brings her to her knees. They knew her to have escaped King's Landing, but they only hoped her to be alive, most of they time they had tried to make peace with her death.
And Sansa, she's there too, taller and more beautiful than the last time she had seen her, back at Winterfell.
They all wait bowed until she gets down from her horse.
"Rise, my Lord." she says, coming to a stop in front of Lord Edmure. "I thank you for allowing me to stay in your home."
"Your Grace. Riverrun will always have a place for you."
Riverrun is not hers. It is Stannis', she knows that well, so she smiles and bows her head and walks to the side until she is in front of her goodsisters.
"We only dreamt of getting you both back," she says, opening her arms and allowing both of them to fall into her. "Your brother missed you terribly—he says he's sorry for not doing anything earlier, and he sends all his love to both of you."
"Are you with child?" is what Arya answers instead, voice cracking.
"Arya!" Sansa squeaks, raising her head from Cerelle's shoulder and glaring. "Don't be rude!"
"I am!" she says before Arya can retort anything back. "I am."
"We didn't know if we should believe the rumors," Arya says as she pulls back, going back to her place on the line with Sansa.
"I told you it was not rumors," a voice says from behind Arya, and Theon Greyjoy steps up to her, taking her hand and laying a kiss over her glove. "Your Grace."
"Theon Greyjoy," she says with her most regal voice. Understanding the shift, Theon takes a step back and stays with his head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. "For the crimes of your father, Balon Greyjoy, you should lose your head, as in agreement of the peace treaty between the Iron Islands and the Iron Throne. You were entrusted to the Starks of Winterfell, and they are responsible for carrying out the sentence."
She sees the way Theon's shoulders tense, the way he curls into himself, as if expecting the blow of the sword at any moment.
"However." Theon seems to tense even further, and he looks up to her between his lashes. "For the great service you have done to House Stark, in returning not one but two of its daughters, King Robb Stark, the First of his Name, King in the North, forgives your life. You are free to follow your own destiny, Theon Greyjoy, no punishment shall ever come to you from your father's sins."
She hears Theon's shaky breath and sees the way the tension seeps from him. She gives him a second to compose himself.
"Now," she says as the turns to the girls. "Show me my chambers and we can talk more."
Talking more means Arya tells her tale, of escaping King's Landing and then Harrenhal and finding Theon and Sansa on the road. She tells her of her friends, Hot Pie and Gendry, now both working on the castle, who were her family on the road, even if Gendry was stupidly stubborn and Hot Pie didn't know when to shut up.
Sansa doesn't talk much, only tells her Theon rescued her with help from Lady Lannister and another blonde woman –Jenne, Cerelle guesses—, how they took a ship to the Vale and then walked to Riverrun, and Arya holds her hand the entire time. There is something she is not saying, but Cerelle does not pry, not now.
She lets them put their hands on her stomach, and smiles at the look on their faces when one of her babes kicks.
Almost without thinking, she runs her fingers over Arya's head, tucking a small lock of hair behind her ear. Arya looks up startled, and it takes her a second to relax and smile.
Now they just have to wait.
