To Mira and Julia's credit, they give me an extra half hour in the sack before they wake me and—expressions appropriately contrite—inform me that Septa Eleanor has passed away.

"When?" I ask.

"The early hours of the morning," Julia says as I sink into my bath.

Gods, sitting in this bathtub full of warm water is the only time of the day when my body is the slightest bit calm. Maybe I ought to consider taking three baths daily instead of the usual two.

"How did it happen?"

"Maester Ormond says it was quiet and peaceful. She just…went to sleep and didn't wake up."

Went to sleep and never woke up? Some girls have all the luck.

"How awful!" I say, my hand on my chest.

I wonder how much Furrow bark I'd have to smoke to bite the dust so peacefully. I don't think it's possible to die of over smoking Furrow, though.

"It is. And today Your Grace is very busy with the Ironrath company arriving so Mira and I have been searching your schedule and it would appear that you do have a free half hour later in the day to meet with Ser Calvin, who will be handling the funeral preparations."

Septa Eleanor couldn't have picked a better time to kick the bucket. I suppose if I step in to help with the funeral preparations, then I'd have a legitimate excuse for not being around Robb and Talisa. I liked Septa Eleanor. She was one of the few people in this shithole who didn't regularly make me want to eat poison. I'd have much preferred if someone else had died, like Ser Garret or Ser Brixby or maybe Robb. And while Septa Eleanor's death means that the Israel wagon is missing a loyal passenger, let it not be said that the woman died in vain—her death has served a purpose and an advantage. It would be almost insulting to her memory if I didn't use this opportunity to distance myself from the hurricane that is most likely going to roll in with Talisa Maegyr. I'm not much of the praying type—I can't imagine the Gods would be big fans of mine right now—but I'm definitely going to be praying for Septa Eleanor.

On the other hand, I really would like to see Talisa Maegyr again. I said it before and I'll say it again—she's one of the most likeable people I've met in Winterfell to date. I liked hanging around her. Her situation was one that I handled really well and regardless of how Robb reacted to it I'm still proud of how smoothly I worked things out with her. It made me feel like a queen. Even though technically she was supposed to be queen. Part of me is sort of nagging like I should be there around her, but another part feels like I should give her space—like hanging around her might make her uncomfortable. Well, to be honest, I can't even believe that how she feels or what she thinks has any weight with me, but it does. I'm more concerned about how she feels than I am about how Robb feels. Because in a way, she and I are both victims of this deal Robb made with my dad. She lost a great love (if only she knew she's not missing much) and I lost my peace of mind. I'm not too sure what it is that Robb's lost, but it would seem that he's made up for losing it by winding me up and watching me go bonkers.

I told myself I'd work on being a queen first and then worry about being a wife, but now that reconstruction is complete there's enough room in my head for both. I don't like thinking about the state of my marriage because it sucks. It'll get easier as time passes but until then it fucking sucks. So now's as good a time as any to figure out what I'm going to do. I'm not too sure why I feel this way, but I can't shake the feeling that Talisa being here might just be a good thing.

Everyone is abuzz as the day wears on. I don't see Robb until we're all standing on the steps outside the entrance hall, when he takes my hand and gives it a kiss. Germs, gingersnap. Lick them off and die tomorrow.

"You should go inside soon," Robb says. "I'll not have you falling ill again and this cloak is no good in this weather."

Uh…duh. That's why I'm wearing it. I'm freezing my ass off but at least I don't have to linger.

Shit. I've been so wrapped up in this whole Septa Eleanor thing that I forgot to go to see Maester Ormond. As much as I'd like to theoretically infect all of Winterfell, I don't fancy the idea of being forever remembered as the queen who killed the North.

Oh, Gods above. Ser Lanagan has never looked so bad. His beard's gotten white and he's covered in distantly healing cuts and bruises. He sinks into a shaky bow when he sees us.

"Your Grace," he addresses Robb, and I'm afforded the perfect view of a slowly balding shiny spot on the crown of his head. "My Queen," he adds in my direction, catching my hand and kissing it.

I'm thinking about warning him about the fact that I'm possibly contagious, but I change my mind because in truth this guy looks like he might just drop dead before whatever plague I'm carrying gets a chance to do anything to him.

"Welcome back to Winterfell, Ser Lanagan," I say.

"It's very good to be back, Your Grace," he says to me, rising to his full height. "I bring with me the healers and trainees from Ironrath," he gestures to the small group behind him. They all sink into bows.

Though I know immediately which one she is, I don't get a chance to eye Talisa because my stomach gives a funny lurch and I'm feeling dangerously queasy again. I discreetly slide my hand underneath the flimsy fabric of my cloak, patting my stomach and inhaling deeply, silently willing myself not to vomit all over this guy.

Don't do it, Israel. You will never live it down. The entire castle is here to see you and they will never ever let you forget it. You will never ever let you forget it. Throwing up here and now is worse than drowning in a tub of brass. Please do not vomit in public. Inhale again. That's right. In. Out. Breathe. Do. Not. Puke. In. Public.

"Though we are terribly sorry to have arrived under such circumstances," Ser Lanagan continues.

Shut up. Shut up and let me get my ass back inside before I shoot a projectile stream of whatever it is I've eaten in the past few hours into your face.

"Indeed," Robb says, nodding. "But the success of our mission has cheered us all."

"I was referring to the late Septa Eleanor," Ser Lanagan says. "We only just heard from Lord Edmure. I offer my sincerest condolences, my Queen," he tips his head to me. "I understand she was a dear friend of yours. I'm sure she's in a better place."

No, she's not. She grew up in Highgarden.

"How very kind of you, Ser Lanagan. Let's not keep you out here in this cold. Ser Garret, show our guests inside. I'm sure they're awfully tired after their journey."

Get inside. Get inside. Get inside. Turn the corner. Turn the corner. Turn the corner. Run upstairs. Run upstairs. Run upstairs. Puke up your lungs. Simple as breathing. Air in, brunch out.

"Your Grace," Brienne steadies me and hands me a glass of water. I slosh it around in my mouth and spit it out. Mira and Julia close the door to my chambers and crack open a window to let some air in.

"Send for Maester Ormond," I tell them. "I'm afraid I've come down with something. But do it quietly. I don't want anyone to know."

Julia runs out the door. Mira closes it behind her and moves the cushions from the chair by the fire as Brienne sits me down.

"Lady Catelyn wanted to speak with you later," Mira tells me. "Would you like me to tell her you are indisposed?"

"Do that," I say. I've not the slightest interest in dealing with that lady complain to me about holding onto my husband when—in all likelihood—I'm probably going to be holding onto my life in the next few days.

Maester Ormond arrives on Julia's heels in a few minutes. Normally I suppose it would take a little longer for him to get here but he must have been nearby anyways because of the arrivals.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace," he says as he sinks into a deep bow. "Lady Julia tells me you are feeling unwell."

"I think I've got food poisoning," I tell him.

"When did you first suspect this?" he asks.

"A little over a week ago," I say. "Nearly eight days."

"Eight? I've never heard of food poisoning that can last that long."

"I also think maybe I might possibly have contracted something," I say. "Perhaps a stomach virus?"

Like hell I'm going to tell him I'm possibly bubonic. The last thing I need right now is to be held accountable for a viral outbreak.

"Well, let's have a look and see. If your Grace would permit me to inspect your hands?"

I hold out my hands to him and he eyes my palms. "You've grown terribly pale. What symptoms have you been feeling?"

"Headaches," I say. "Nausea. Terrible nausea."

"It could be a slow growing fever," he says. "Or you may be eating something nauseating on a regular basis. Anything else?"

"Well, I suppose…"

Hang on a minute. I know what the fuck is going on here. Oh, shit. No fucking way.

I'm pregnant.

Here I was thinking my life was finally looking up and now the gingersnap's gone and knocked me up.

The truth is that what's really given it away is the last symptom—it's been over a week and my period is late as fuck. Which wouldn't be unusual because in truth it's never on time. And so when this whole misery business started eight days ago being pregnant wasn't even worth considering because statistically speaking it's the least possible thing that could ever have happened to me. I mean—the odds are freaking astronomical. Everyone knows that. Even Robb knew that when he married me.

My mother didn't get pregnant with me until maybe three years into her marriage. And that was a miracle because it took maybe a gazillion prayer circles and a hundred and one frightening fertility tonics to make it happen. And that means that I'm not supposed to get pregnant for at least that long, if not longer. I was supposed to be barren as a brick. That was sort of the idea.

Seriously? Fuck. This is not a good time to be baking Robb's munchkin. His ex-lover being here and all—it sort of complicates the equation.

Oh Gods, how fucking ironic is it that Septa Eleanor dies on the same day that I discover I'm preggers? In the midst of death, there is life. Hahahahehehe.

Moving on.

"Your Grace?" Maester Ormond is still waiting.

"I've been eating parsley," I say quietly. "Parsley always makes me sick. I didn't notice it before, but now I think on it I've been eating parsley. Thank you, Maester Ormond."

No way in hell am I going to tell anyone about this until I've cleared my head. It's a lot to take in, and I'm not going to ask anyone to try to wrap their heads around what I'm still trying to figure out. So…for now it'd be best if I just buried this little detail.

But keeping it from Robb probably wouldn't be too smart. I mean—it's his baby, too. But it's early. I mean—I think it is. Late and irregular bleeding patterns mean that I—unfortunately—have no real way of knowing how far along I am. But if no one's noticed anything strange about me yet, and this chronic nausea is the worst of my problems, then that means that I'm still early on. And if I'm still early on, then there's still a chance that this might not work out. Miscarriages happen in the first three months, right? If I tell Robb—and then end up losing this thing—then I'm probably not going to get any more popular with these people.

So…what then?

It feels like the smartest thing for me to do is to wait until I'm out of the woods. Once I've steered clear of the danger zone, then I can tell him. No point getting anyone's hopes up for nothing.

These guests are more worn out than I first thought, because most of them don't even pop up for luncheon. Well, that's what Julia tells me, because I sure as hell don't go around to check. I head down to dinner though, because if I do intend to get out of the woods than I'm probably going to need to feed this thing something.

Holy monkey madness. I'm gonna be a mom. Oh, shit. I mean—I figured it would happen eventually, after a few years when Robb and I seriously start to worry about it and start on the fertility treatments and the healers and shit. Who would have thought I'm actually more fertile than my mother? So I need to rethink my theory on fertility statistics. An infertile mother doesn't always guarantee an infertile child.

I get chicken at dinner. Bless the cooks. No parsley anywhere in sight.

"You were absent at luncheon," says Catelyn to me over her wineglass. "Maester Ormond tells me you've gotten poisoning. I had no idea parsley did so much damage to your constitution. I thought you simply didn't like the taste."

"Oh no, Aunt Catelyn," I say. "A single whiff is enough to put me off my dinner."

I drain my glass of water and that's around the time that I notice that Robb's not here. I look to my side. There he is. Right next to me. Why is it that his hands haven't found their favorite spot on my ass tonight? Oh…right. His eyes are somewhere else. I look across the hall quickly. She's not looking at him. Her eyes are on her friend, talking aimlessly. If his expression is any indication, he's not doing too well right now.

Told you that it's easier said than done, dumbass.

Robb's hands stay to himself for the remainder of the evening. You'd never see a guy on better behavior. But that all flies out the window when we go to bed for the night, because suddenly his hands are flying everywhere they shouldn't as if he's only just noticed and is trying to make up for it.

I'm half tempted to tell him that his baby batter's already done its magic, and if he's gonna do that Bait thing then I'll definitely consider it. But he's distracted tonight. Thinking of her, definitely. I'm not counting on any kind of consistency in the next few weeks.

"Do it to me baby," he says. Bait Voice strong.

Asshole.

I bite my lip to avoid sinking my teeth into his throat. Well, at least his head's still in the game. If he's focused enough to try and poke me right now then clearly his promise is one he intends to keep. But it's going to take serious therapy and maybe some hypnosis for me to forget the words I've just heard.