THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED ON AUG 4 2016
Oh my lord oh my lord oh my lord! Words cannot describe how sorry I am to have made you all wait! Life's been crazy, and my inspiration was killed most days by a crazy toddler :( but thanks to your AMAAAAAAZZIINNG reviews, (22-wow guys! WOW!) and a guy by the name of , I've returned ;)
This one is for moms, just because moms are awesome ;D
I OWN NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING...nothing.
Chapter 6: Minisa
The Mother gives the gift of life,
and watches over every wife.
Her gentle smile ends all strife,
and she loves her little children.
The Song of the Seven by George RR Martin
The cold light of daybreak came through the window as she lay there in her bed. She almost couldn't believe all that had happened in only a few short hours. She was tired, the fear had left her for the most part and now all she wished to do was sleep. But she couldn't. She wouldn't let herself, she was too afraid to sleep.
Maester Luwin said pains in the last few months happen sometimes; there was no way to predict them and they were dangerous. Sylvia took in a deep breath, the cold air burning her nose, and rubbed a hand over the precious bump under her night gown. Her baby was alive and safe inside her, kicking her, sitting on her bladder, and keeping her awake. For the first time she was thankful for these things. She was stupid before, an idiot girl who didn't think.
The last hours had seemed to stretch and measure out into an eternity; her heart was still making its decent down from her throat, and her hands still trembled as they rested worriedly around her middle. Robb knelt next to her on the side of the bed, his hand clenched around the fabric at her hip. But his eyes were solely trained on her pale, shaken face—while hers never looked from the swell under her hands.
He could have lost her, Maester Luwin had told him privately. The babe could have been born still and Sylvia...she could have died in the birthing bed, if Maester Luwin had not stopped the pains when he did. The thought was painful to ponder, losing his sweet Sylvia, and the child she gave him at once. They weren't even twenty, they weren't married two years, this was their first child - and their life together could have ended as quickly as it had started. It wasn't supposed to. They'd done nothing to deserve this, and yet fate had threatened them with it.
When he ran to fetch the maester, he'd hardly spared their baby a real thought, all he could think was that his wife was in pain, that she was in danger, and that she had to be alright. They could make another child, but there would never be another Sylvia. He bowed his head as he recalled it, deeply ashamed.
"You must lie abed until the child is born, my lady," the kindly old maester said, his voice serious and stern. "For the sake of the child. Too much activity in your condition will provoke labour pains, and next time I may not be able to stop them."
Sylvia didn't speak—couldn't—but nodded to show her understanding. The girl wasn't even bothered by the chain which had just shackled her to the bed. Her eyebrows narrowed, her arms cradling her bulging belly as if to protect it. But how can I keep it safe when my own body betrays it? she wondered.
Robb raised his hand to grip hers in comfort, but Sylvia moved her hand to run over her belly in an attempt to hide her rejection. He hardly seemed to notice, and gently touched his fingers to her shoulder, ghosting along her collar bone. The young wife resisted the urge to push his hands away. She didn't want him to touch her, the thought of it filled her with something heavy like guilt or fear, as though if he continued, his worry would end, and blame would set in.
She heard Maester Luwin take his leave, and when the door closed, Sylvia suddenly felt alone with her fears, even as Robb sat beside her. She kept her ocean blue eyes trained on the precious bump under her fingers, too afraid to meet her husband's eyes.
Sylvia's dreamy world was shattered with this scare, broken and scattered, taunting her with her naivety. There was more to think of than just names, of whether or not the child would look that her or Robb, if it would be a boy or girl. This was reality, and reality was ugly and scary, but it was the truth, and the truth was, she could have lost her baby tonight, helpless to stop it.
A sharp stab went through her heart, guilt weighing heavy on her shoulders. Was it her fault? It must have been; she was the mother, she was meant to protect her child. Had she missed some signs that would have alerted her to the danger? Had she done something to provoke it? What had she done? Suddenly, with hideous clarity, she remembered wishing she wasn't pregnant anymore after one nasty bout of sickness, and again after Robb had rubbed her aching feet. How could she have wished that? Had her gods decided to teach her a cruel lesson? Her fingers clenched around her midsection over her nightdress.
"Syl..." Robb whispered, watching her face with concern. Sylvia huffed, and rested a hand at the top of the bump. She had to be strong, now more than ever. After a moment of gathering her courage, she looked up at him, eyes clouded with fear, a touch of shame and tears. He held the back of her neck, rubbing the ridges of her spine with his fingertips. "Syl, it's all right; the baby is well. All will be fine, I promise."
How can you promise me that? she wanted to ask.
In his ears, he could hear how weak, how desperate his voice sounded, and annoyance prickled at the back of his mind. He had stood with his father outside the room in the early waking hours of the morn, as Sylvia sobbed pathetically inside their chambers. Maester Luwin and both septa Mordane and Maesa had barred him from the room as they attempted to calm his wife's pains. He was prepared to barge his way in, but father had stopped him with a firm hand.
"Let them do their work," father said. "They know better than you how to help her." His mother tried to push him to sit like a petulant child, but Robb refused and tried again to push past his father and see his wife who was now sobbing for him beyond that door. Maybe he called out for her as well, or maybe it was only screamed in his head, but his frantic mind never heard a reply. Lord Eddard wretched his son away from the door, the younger man's feet scraping across the floor as his father pulled him far down the corridor. He didn't remember what he said or yelled, but when father released him, he was again seized and made to look into his father's face, lined with years of worry and stress.
"Calm yourself, boy!" he had ordered, only some tenderness for his eldest shining through the lord's command. "You can't help her when you're as mad as she! You'll only make it worsen itself!"
"She needs me!" the desperate urgency in his voice surprised him.
"Sylvia trusts you more than anyone, and if she saw you as panicked as she is, she'll only frighten herself more!"
Something made him keep fighting, despite the logic in his father's words: his love for her. "She's frightened already without me there!"
"If she saw you like this you'll only panic her more! Think of the child, Robb!" his son's struggles faltered, and Lord Eddard knew he'd gotten through to him. "Think of the babe, and what will happen if Sylvia gets anymore upset." Robb swallowed dryly, a lump forming in his throat. He looked down the corridor where his family was gathered, his siblings watching with horrified fascination as their usually calm brother thrashed like a madman against their honourable father. He thought of Sylvia, his wife, his own and how afraid she must be. "You are her husband," Lord Eddard reminded, gripping the back of his neck to get his son to look at him. "You must be strong for her, when she is not. Be her comfort."
It was hours before Robb could go past the door and see his wife, and when he did, he repeated his father's words in his head a hundred times. He could be afraid to himself all he liked, but to Sylvia he had to be confident, calm, supportive. He had to be her rock.
Sylvia averted her eyes, and was quiet a long moment. Finally she spoke, "I just want to go to sleep, Robb." She mumbled. He wouldn't understand, she told herself. She was the one who was carrying their child, she was the one who was meant to protect it, and she was the one who was accountable for any blame that came from this. She didn't want to see it in his eyes, those eyes she loved so completely, which held such passion for everything he did and said. She didn't want to see those eyes turned on her.
Robb frowned as his wife began to gingerly slide down the bed, to lie on her back. She had a look on her face that he didn't like, one which pulled painfully at his insides like a hook. He didn't know what else to do—assurances seemed to go right through her, and he immediately saw the way she recoiled from his touch. Even if someone had told him long ago, that one day his wife and child would be in danger at the same time, no kind of preparation would have changed anything. He still wouldn't know what to do, still would have left her alone to find the maester when she first awoke him, still would have been half blinded by mindless fear.
Without thinking, Robb shifted his arms out to her, as if to help her lay flat and Sylvia felt prickles of anger surface from somewhere deep inside. "I'm not a child!" she spat. "I don't need help to lie down." Her eyes wretched up to look into his, forgetting her previous fear, for just a moment, in favour of anger. She saw no blame in those cool icy blue eyes, only surprise and worry. She fixed him with a glare half weak with fatigue, but being a princess for all her life, she'd perfected her scathing glare on servants and her bratty little brother. Robb pulled back, stung.
Tearing her blue eyes away from his, she tenderly, carefully inched her way down on to the bed, settling stiffly against it and staring up at the stones above her.
She hadn't intended to be so sharp at her husband—he'd only been trying to help—but his kindness made her feel small. He'd never seen her so vulnerable and weak, and she didn't want him to see her like this. When they were younger, when she was still a fresh summer flower yet to bloom in the frigid winds of the north, she'd been closed off to him, cold and shy. He'd never really known how afraid she was those first long months in the north. When they grew familiar with one another, and laid their armour down, wounds that came were always shallow, even when their bodies were laid up in bed.
Apart from the time he'd found her blubbering in the godswood when she was but four-and-ten, their wedding night was the most fragile she'd ever been. Until now.
This time was different; the first night they'd laid together as husband and wife, both Robb and Sylvia had been too eager to really mind the openness. This was sobering and frightening—a tiny life hanging in the balance, a thin membrane of flesh protecting it from the outside world. This time, their feelings were too different to let them share it with one another. She was responsible for housing the life of their child, but she'd very nearly failed, and this battered her heart with guilt and worry. Robb had only been trying to ease her stress and she'd snapped at him.
Tears began to well in her eyes, stinging and hot. "Just go away," she whimpered, turning her face away to hide her weakness in her hands. "Pl-please" the words were heavy in her mouth. Sylvia wanted to take them back, but as hot tears dripped down her nose, she kept herself from speaking out again. She was weak and small at present, not herself by any measure. Not the woman he'd married.
Her heart was warring with itself, she wanted her husband at her side, stroking her hair and promising her she was not to blame over and over again until she partway believed him. The other half of her wanted him to go away, to not be witness to her shame. Yet she ached for understanding, for assurance she doubted Robb could ever give her. In her heart, her mother's lessons on guarding one's self from their spouse still lived deep inside some hidden crevice of her being.
Robb stood straight beside the bed, stung into silence like a meek boy. He'd almost lost her and the child both, leaving her now seemed nigh unbearable. As a lord-to-be, Robb always understood he would not always be home, but rather traveling across to different holdfasts through the north for weeks or months at a time. He'd always believed separation from his Sylvia would be bearable because nothing would keep them apart forever. Her arms would always be open when he returned. Now simply leaving the room felt as though he were leaving for Dorne, or for Essos. He didn't want to be apart from her, not now, not when she lay so small and vulnerable on their bed, cradling her belly. He wanted to argue, instinct told him to, but his father's words were still fresh in mind. "Be her comfort," he'd said. I can't comfort her very well if I'm away from her, part of him argued. But I won't calm her at all if I'm here when she doesn't want me here.
With calm silence which was very difficult to uphold, Robb turned and moved towards the door, shutting it silently behind him. Sylvia sniffled. She wondered if it would hurt less if he had just slammed it.
The northern boy stood outside, pulled up a nearby bench and made ready for a rather long wait. He should be in there with her, part of him seethed. Hours rolled by, the light from the windows stretched far across the floor and many came to inquire about Sylvia and their child. His sisters and brothers came, but were shy and cautious after witnessing their brother's madness. He was embarrassed by that now as he looked back, especially as Rickon clung to Sansa's side and eyed him carefully. His mother kept him company for a time, too, and she understood better than his siblings what was happening with Sylvia. She was more than happy to lend an ear when Sylvia refused to let her into the room. But, too soon, they all left to do their duties or lessons, leaving Robb alone.
His father came once, sometime around midday when he was free. He hardly said a word, but just having father there with him was enough. Robb was not ashamed when his father finally saw his resolve break, and saw as he rested his elbows on his knees, tears stinting his eyes. Eddard was quiet, allowing his son a moment of weakness, before Robb straightened, his eyes reddened, but dry.
Ser Ravenback, Sylvia's old hedge knight, and the maidservant she had gained as a wedding present from her uncle came to visit—they came for Sylvia more than him. But Sylvia refused to see any of them. While his mother tacitly admonished Sylvia's unladylike attitude, Robb rather preferred it. It was somewhat comforting to know he was not the only one she was shutting out.
Through the day, only Maester Luwin and Septon Chayle were permitted to enter the chamber, although Robb angrily put a stop to the septon's visits the second time he'd tried to enter the room. A septon was known to comfort the sick and dying when no Silent Sister is about to do the deed. Sylvia wasn't dying; he wouldn't let this man make her think otherwise with his presence. Syl wasn't going to die, she couldn't, their baby would need her when she was born, he needed her...she just couldn't leave the world.
Every hour, Maester Luwin would come to see Sylvia with teas or a tray of food, giving him and firm pat on the shoulder before entering their chamber. Through the wood of the door between them, Robb heard every sigh, every sniffle, and every creak from the bed. Robb treasured those gentle noises, the mundane sounds proving to him she was alive beyond the door that separated them. Every time the old man came out, Robb shot to his feet and demanded to know if she was well, if she wanted to see him, or if the child was giving her more pains. His old teacher would sigh, and assure him Sylvia was all right, that the child still had not decided to come into the world and that she was without pain or discomfort. The assurances were calming, but still Robb wished she wound ask for him, just once, just for a moment. Oddly, he began to feel...accessory. A faceless presence she had no need of in this time of crisis. Foolish as it was, it was what part of him felt.
Finally, when the torches burned bright and supper had been served, the wise maester appeared from the room for the last time, but didn't close the door as he typically did.
"She's asked to see you," he said. "But don't upset her; she's had a long day." Robb heard no more, and rushed into the room, elation and relief warm in his chest when he saw his wife's form.
Sylvia lay exactly as he'd left her that morning, stiff as a board and watching the stones above her intently. Her little feet peeked out from beneath the blankets, wiggling and stretching absently. Her hair was unbound and tumbling down her shoulders, over her breasts in soft, dark waves. Her soft hands rubbed gently across her belly, in those slow, decided touches that never failed to ease. He wanted to kiss her, to remember without worry that she was there.
"Syl," she looked up as he hurriedly moved towards the bed, his boots scraping against the stone heavily. "Syl," he murmured as one small hand pulled from her swollen midsection to reach out for his. He took it eagerly, the warmth from her hands melting the ice in his. "Sylvia, w-what—a-are you hurting? The child, is he moving? Will you be all right?"
The young wife looked down at their entwined fingers, licking her dry lips and hoping her husband would understand her. She didn't want to think about it anymore—she was sick with worry all day, she hadn't gotten any rest. Lost in her head, alone with her guilt and fear for hours. And it was all of her doing. She hated it. Sharing those fears with Robb felt like breathing more life into them, and at least until morning, Sylvia wanted to forget them, bury them for a while. When she looked up again, Robb really took notice of how tired she looked, her face pulled into a sad frown. This ignited his queries all the more, with greater fervour.
She spoke before he could, voice firm despite her feeble demeanour. "Robb, please, please don't ask anymore. All that the maester has told you, he's told me. Just...sit with me."
"But we shou—" he tried to protest.
"If you want to talk about this, talk to someone else. Not me. Not yet. Please. Distract me a while. Distract us both. I think we need it." She pleaded, tightening her grip on his fingers. The young lordling wanted to protest further, wanted to ask her how she could sound so cold, so distant. But...he looked down at her belly...
He kept silent for now, for her, for their baby. Robb licked his lips and climbed into bed with her, propped up against the headboard uncomfortably. Sylvia sighed gratefully, and shifted closer to his side, her arm flinging across his waist, as one leg wormed between his. Sleep would come for them both in time, but for now, they only pretended to sleep for the other's benefit.
Four days later
"No, no! I won't do it!" Sylvia shrieked, flinching back as she stared at the ugly black worms, wriggling about in their jar. Maester Luwin, Septon Chayle, and even Robb shared a collective sigh at her refusal. Four days had passed since that long night, and for three days, Sylvia had taken every tea, every potion and had eaten the herbs given to her to soothe her body back from rejecting her baby. But now she refused to accept the most basic treatment: leeching. Leeching would cleanse her womb, Maester Luwin said, take the tainted blood out, and leave the good blood, and it wouldn't harm the child; yet she refused to hear of it, watching them as if they were mad.
"My lady," began the maester gently, "There is only so much, potions and teas can do for you. Leeches will cleanse your womb of whatever ailment nearly took your child, and so it is essential—"
"No! I told you, I-I won't let you. The teas have worked, I feel better. I-I don't need leeches." She knew she sounded desperate, but she was past care. By the fireplace, across from the bed, Robb's fingers clenched around the fabric of his sleeve as he glared down at the rushes lining the floor.
"If you're worried for the child, lady, do not fear. Leeches detach themselves, and never take too much." Septon Chayle offered. Chayle was a librarian, not a healer, but Robb thought if the news came from someone of Sylvia's faith, someone of the Seven who she trusted, then she would take this unpleasant treatment better. Robb knew his wife, knew she despised creepy crawly things and that getting her to take the leeching was difficult at best.
"I'm not worried they'll take too much," she growled tersely, "I don't want them, and I don't need them!" Her cheeks flushed in anger barely contained, the restless child in her belly squirming and kicking harshly in response to her mother's distress. They were mad for thinking she would agree.
Before the fireplace, Robb clenched his jaw in frustration, uncrossing his arms to let them fall at his sides. He knew better. She didn't want them because she was disgusted by the creatures, not because she didn't need them.
He found himself growing angry looking at her, glaring at the septon as though he were a thorn in her side, her fingers clenched angrily at her sides. Anger was the only emotion that she seemed capable of in the four days—anger at him, at Maester Luwin, at Elane, Sansa, at everyone and everything, for the smallest of offenses. Yesterday morning, Sansa hurried from the chamber near tears because Sylvia slapped her hand away from her belly. When confronted on it, Sylvia had tensely admitted to him she shouldn't have been so harsh, but that Sansa should ask before laying hands on her.
Robb steadily grew more irate with everyday that passed. After that horrid night, she would even flinch away from his touch, like he revolted her, to the point where now he wondered why he tried.
His wife's small hand reached up and rubbed along the top of her protruding belly. There was another thing, he thought darkly, Sylvia hadn't talked about the baby with him since the night she'd nearly lost it. Sylvia, who once so cheerily talked about their child, now avoided the subject and briskly rebuffed him when he tried to bring it up. He wanted to hear her words about their baby, more than ever before and with a desperate, painful need that only grew stronger. He had to know she was all right, and that their baby would come out screaming as he should, not from the maester or from an outsider repeating things heard. Hearing her voice say these things, believing them, would comfort him better than hearing it from anyone else, because he loved her most of all.
The thought of being without her was unbearable, and he needed now more than ever, to touch her, to feel her heartbeat beneath his palm, to feel the telltale kick from their restless child, to be reminded she was here still.
The words between them for the four nights were small, meaningless words to fill the endless quiet. Robb didn't understand. Death nearly took away their child and could have taken her as well. He knew she knew this, she was no fool; yet she seemed to abhor talking to him and now refused to do the necessary to protect their child. And so, out of pure emotional torment, Robb hissed out, "Yes you do need them. You've not given us a moment's peace since that night. If the leeches will calm you, take them."
Sylvia looked up at her husband, outrage colouring her features a light pink. "I won't take them! I've no need of them, how can you—"
"Alright, my lady, peace." Maester Luwin broke in, halting the oncoming fight between husband and wife. "Peace, my lord and lady. We cannot force Sylvia to take the leeching, and it would not be wise to attempt it." He spoke softly to Robb. The young man never broke his glare from his wife. He looked to Sylvia, who was glowering right back. "We will take our leave now. Come, septon." With that, he and Septon Chayle left the chamber with the gentle shut from the door.
"How can you not take them—forthe baby?" Robb demanded at once.
For a moment, Sylvia was struck speechless at his words, but she found her words relatively quick. "I don't want them, Robb. You know why I can't stand the sight of them. And the teas and oils have been working just fine!" she retorted.
"What if they stopped working? What if you started getting the contractions again?! What if you needed to take the leeches? Would you refuse then?"
"Of course I would, if I had to!"
"How do you know for sure you don't need them?" he countered. She opened her mouth to retort that just last night, before he returned to their chambers, Maester Luwin said she was likely due to cease the course of foul tasting herbal teas he had her on. She'd taken that as assurance that all the child required now was rest, but he'd come back the following afternoon with bloody leeches. But before she could explain, Robb spoke again. "So how can you make this choice without me? He is my child too, and I cannot let you chance him or yourself because you are being a selfish fool—"
"How dare you?!" his wife screamed, a betrayed, hurt look in her face—one which he had only seen once before, at their wedding when her father humiliated her. That look pulled at his anger, receded it back a little like a wave lapping upon the shore. It was still there, his anger, but he wished he never caused that broken look on her face. Tears welled in her ocean blue eyes and Robb knew for certain, he had truly hurt her. "How can you—? We, I..." she gasped, her voice cracking in an effort not to cry. "You...get out." She sniffed, her hand rising to her face, either to hide her eyes, or wipe them dry, before dropping back down.
"Syl—I" he tried. He wanted to take it back, wanted to beg her forgiveness and just have things go back to the way it was, before this scare. But he was still angry, still stressed, still afraid for her and their babe, and his words came out rough and harsh sounding. His feet moved him towards her, to beside the bed where he always should have been, and Robb felt his stomach ache when she shifted away. "Syl, I'm sorry—" Robb wasn't the type of man to apologize for speaking his mind, but all men were different when it came to the woman who held their heart, and who carried their child.
"Go away!" she cried, her eyes flashing back up at him. She stared up at him a moment, her lower lip trembling and tears in her eyes refusing to be shed. Almost at once she broke the contact and shoved him as hard as she could with her weaker body. Robb stumbled back a little. "Go away." She said again, calmer this time, but her voice thick with held back tears.
His heart told him to stay with her, and for so long, he'd always known leaving a weeping lady was the wrong thing to do. But now he was torn. She so clearly did not want him there with her, and he didn't want to upset her anymore so as not to provoke more pains. But...he loved her...
With fast feet, common for those who are angry, Robb moved towards the door, jerking it open and swinging it shut with a loud bang.
When Robb left her, more tears came—big fat droplets rolling down her cheeks, itching and embarrassing. Father hated crying, she remembered with misery. He'd been so unforgiving when she and Joffrey were children, more so with Joffrey than with her. "You're a prince, and princes don't cry!" he had bellowed. His loud angry voice had only made her brother cry harder, and the coming blow would make him scream. So they silently developed a rule as they grew: never cry, at least not before father. It was the only thing they'd ever had in common. Being married has made me weak, she thought.
Come back, she wanted to cry out to him. Come back, stay with me, forgive me. But her lips couldn't move to say the words.
"Selfish fool," he'd called her. He'd hurt her, challenged her devotion to her baby, and she was so angry at him for that. How dare he? He didn't know what it felt like to feel it move, how it felt to know you housed life inside you, to know you helped create that life. He didn't and wouldn't understand the responsibility thrust upon her.
Things between them had been cold since that night and she didn't know how to fix it. He didn't seem to blame her, but that little fact could change as quickly as the tide. Like it just had. She sniffled.
Her baby suddenly landed a hard kick to her side, causing her to flinch at the roughness of such a tiny thing. The action which used to bring complaints at the discomfort, now only brought relief laced with regret and misery.
Keep that up, little one, she thought sullenly, and maybe your father will realize he's wrong. Her child...Robb's child...
Was she selfish? Would it have been so horrible, she wondered, to have allowed them to do what they wanted? But when she thought of those wriggling black worms, she knew she wouldn't consent. The thought of those ugly creatures moving and attaching to the delicate skin of her belly and womanhood made her skin crawl. With sharp clarity, she remembered an incident when Joffrey was little and had taken a jar of leeches from Grand Maester Pycelle, and then promptly put them (still alive and wriggling), into a cup of water she'd been drinking.
I feel fine, she thought as she rubbed a hand over her bulging midsection. She felt as she did seven nights before: fat, puffy, sore in the back and knees, and restless. Her baby was moving every day, pushing its legs out through her skin, stretching and rolling and healthy. It was almost as though nothing had happened. Sylvia sniffled, her tears slowing finally.
What in the seven hells would leeches do, anyhow? She thought with sudden anger. Just imagining those things on her made her heart beat harder and anxiety rise from within her belly; they could bring the pains again, and she would never risk her child for her husband's assurance, no matter how much it grieved him. He was angry at her for this, she knew it. The look in his eyes...he had wanted to say more, to ask why she wouldn't do this for their baby, for him, like she was betraying him—and perhaps she was in a way, by not discussing their options with him. But it was for their baby why she wouldn't...she didn't trust her traitorous body, not now, not anymore.
She felt normal now, and didn't want to aggravate the delicate state of calm. She was right...wasn't she?
Sylvia sighed tiredly and rubbed her face. She was tired of worrying, of thinking about everything that could go wrong, and everything she believed to be in Robb's head that kept her from talking to him. She cleaned away the last trace of her tears, sniffling.
Hours passed her by in that room, long and tedious, and Robb still had not come back.
Her tears dried and her eyes lost their redness, but try as she might, she couldn't get the argument out of her head. She lingered on the harsh words said between them, the way it had felt when she shoved him, the way he'd looked, all those emotions bubbling inside her. Sylvia doubted her choices now more than ever, now that her husband had pointed out his own uncertainties about them. But still, she didn't feel entirely wrong.
Sansa, setting aside her own anger at Sylvia, came by to practice her social graces on her horrid good-sister for an hour, before leaving with her septa. And like the perfect lady Sylvia was meant to be, she accepted her company.
Maester Luwin had come back to give her some sweet tea, and once again inquire about the leeching he was so intent on. She didn't change her answer.
Ser Fredrick came and thankfully her dear knight didn't inquire about her unwillingness to take the leeches. He knew what Joffrey had done all those years ago—he had been the one she cried to, since everyone else thought the leeches in her cup was just a bit of silliness. Her sweet knight only played cards with her and nothing more, and she loved him for that. But far too soon, he left her.
The only thing that made the time between visitors tolerable was her sewing. Carefully, she pulled her needle in and out of the fine linen fabric, crafting a simple garment for her baby to be clothed in. A lady of her status usually has a seamstress or a wet-nurse to take care of all the clothes her child would ever need, but Sylvia had nothing better to do all day, and it was rumoured that Lady Catelyn made all of her baby's clothes by hand herself. Sylvia never wanted to be in Lady Catelyn's shadow, to appear lesser than the woman, which is also why she tolerated visitors. Her own mother had spent all her marriage in another woman's shadow, and here, where she was an outsider, she had to prove herself.
When she was partway done with the little dress, the heavily pregnant princess laid her work on her belly, wondering if the garment would fit well, if the fabric would chafe her baby's delicate skin, or if her baby would ever wear it. Sylvia sniffled, and began to carefully fold the small bundle of cloth. Would her baby ever get the chance to wear the clothes she'd made it? Would it survive, she wondered with agony. Her hands trembled as she set down the small bundle by her side.
She needed someone, she needed...something she felt empty without. She wanted her mother. Yes, that is who she needed. Her mother was strong, and had four children and would know exactly what to say to make her feel better. She always had before, when she tried. Sylvia felt an old familiar ache flare up inside her again, at remembering that her mother wouldn't be by her side anytime soon. Warm tears dripped down her cheeks, and fell onto her chest. About to be a mother herself, and still she wished for her own so desperately.
A gentle knock at the door brought her out of her head, and she hurried to dry her eyes. Her cold fingers were hot on her cheeks, and hurriedly she pulled her warm furs up under her breasts for modesty's sake. The door slowly creaked open, the gentle scrape of leather sole against stone, and Sylvia looked up, smiling a shaky smile at kind Lady Catelyn. If her good-mother took notice of the redness of her eyes or the wobbliness of her smile, thankfully, she did not say.
They exchanged fond pleasantries, and Sylvia was so grateful for the distraction. Like her dear knight, Lady Catelyn didn't bring up the leeching, thank the gods, but still Sylvia prepared herself for it. Lady Catelyn was a determined woman, she knew right from wrong, and would defend the integrity of her beliefs till the end. And she was Robb's mother, and was likely to take her son's side no matter what.
They poured themselves hot lavender tea, a type that was not common around Winterfell, but when she took to bed, Robb had sent away for it, knowing it was her favorite. She had never thanked him for that.
A little while later, Lady Catelyn steered their conversation to harsher waters, treading carefully but not careful enough. "Have you thought of names yet?" Catelyn asked, nodding to her swollen belly.
Sylvia drew in a deep breath to stop the hurt. Her eyed followed her hands as they rubbed across her belly and felt a gentle prod up into her ribs. "W-well," she began unsteadily. She cleared her throat daintily. "We thought of a few, but we-we couldn't agree on any. There was...R-Robert and..." tears began shining in her eyes, and in a feeble attempt to hide them, she looked away. "And Myra and Jeyne, and maybe even Da—" she broke off, unable to find the voice to continue. She began to cry quietly, all the events of the last few days finally settling down on her.
It was the first time she talked about her baby like there was nothing wrong, since that night.
"Sylvia?" her good mother prodded worriedly. Sylvia looked up at her, vulnerable as a little girl, unable to articulate what she felt, only able to pray that the warm woman understood, as mothers often do. Catelyn took her hand between both of hers, squeezing firmly enough that she was able to feel her good-daughter's rapid heartbeat. Sylvia loved Lady Catelyn dearly, she was always so kind to her, so understanding and gentle and she trusted her. "Sylvia what is the matter?"
The onyx haired girl sniffled, a hand coming up to brush away a tear at the tip of her nose, and pulled in deep shuddering breaths. It was a few moments before she could speak her voice fragile as glass. "I...I'm frightened."
"Of what?"
"I can't...this room! It's driving me mad just lying here day and night! And Robb, he-he wants me to take the leeches, and I'm afraid if...if I get too upset I'll lose my baby. But Robb doesn't see it that way, he thinks I'm a fool and selfish, and I think he might—" she broke off panting.
"Shh, be calm." Catelyn murmured, warming Sylvia's hands in hers. "Calm." The Lady of Winterfell was taken aback by Sylvia's fright, but she had five children of her own, so calming a hysteric child was nothing new. But this girl was not her child, and never would be, no matter how much affection Catelyn had for her.
The king's daughter dried her cheeks and released a shuddering breath. "I was so sure before—I knew leeching was not the way. But now...now I don't know." She went on, her voice a little more resolute.
"You're afraid. Fear is crippling sometimes, especially when you are alone with it." The woman with auburn hair assured firmly. She rubbed her older hands against the younger girls'. "Have you spoken with Robb about this?"
"No." She sighed. "Robb...he could never understand. If I...I'm the mother, I'm meant to protect our baby, and I haven't. He already thinks me selfish, and a fool to boot." She finally whispered sadly.
"Oh, my sweet," Catelyn began in a tender voice. "Robb would never for a moment believe that. He is afraid as well. You and the babe were in danger, and he could do nothing. My father, I am told, would wear out his boots for all the pacing he did, when my own mother was lying abed." Sylvia looked up, uncertainty in her eyes. Lady Catelyn's face had grown a little harder, a small crease forming between her brows.
"Y...your mother had to lie in as well?" Sylvia asked lowly. She knew little of Catelyn's mother—she knew only that she was of House Whent, had married Hoster Tully and had three children—Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure. Septa Bryda had never told her about Lady Tully's troubles, but then it wasn't a septa's job to teach a child gossip.
"Many times." The lady said. "My mother, Minisa, lost many children—some early on, but others were lost in birth and the last time, my brother took our mother with him." She looked down at her lap, lost in a very vague memory. The auburn haired woman remembered little of her mother, but she remembered enough that it still pinched her heart to have lost her. "She would try her hardest to keep her children alive," she recalled, "But of many pregnancies, she only had three children." She paused. "My mother, was the strongest kind of woman, my father told me once. To have lost so much, yet still be sound of mind and have a gentle heart is a rare feat. I hardly remember her, but I hope I've made her proud."
There was a long stretch of silence, where Sylvia was at loss of what to say. Finally she murmured, "Your mother sounds very wonderful." It was lame to her ears, but she knew Lady Catelyn appreciated the words by the soft smile on her lips. "It isn't fair." She murmured.
Catelyn thought a moment. "No it isn't. My mother tried everything to keep her children but sometimes there are things that only the gods decide on, things we have no word in...But about the leeching," Sylvia looked away. "I don't know why you've refused, but you'll not hear me trying to persuade you. You are no fool, Sylvia; you'll not gamble your child on a whim."
The onyx haired girl sniffed and nodded. "Thank you." Her good-mother's words were so good to her ears, so welcome after hearing petty chirps from Sansa or insistent orders from Maester Luwin or Robb. But there was still more words to say. "Before the pains happened, I...I didn't feel anything was wrong." She looked up at Lady Catelyn's face, feeling small as a child. "I woke up, uncomfortable in my back, and even that is nothing unusual. I should have known something was to happen, I should have felt it, shouldn't I?" this was what battered her heart at night, wondering if she should have known, and if she was somehow to blame for not noticing anything wrong.
"How could you have known? I noticed nothing amiss when I saw you before all this. There is no real way to know what child will thrive and which one will fail. You are not to blame, Sylvia." The lady enunciated firmly. Sylvia nodded, letting the words sink in through her skin, into her bones and into her soul. "Sometimes there is no one to blame, no matter how much you need to."
Not to blame, not to blame, not to blame... how odd that sounded after days of thinking it was her fault.
"Robb is just outside the door. He hasn't left all day." Lady Catelyn broke in, picking her cup of tea back up from the table, and taking a dainty sip.
"He hasn't?" Sylvia asked curiously.
"Not a moment. Should I let him in? I'm sure you have a lot to talk about."
Sylvia thought a moment. Then nodded.
When he came in, Robb suddenly felt very foolish as his mother passed him by. There lay his wife, belly round and swollen with child, and when he last saw her, he had hurt her. The entire argument seemed small and so stupid, blown out of proportion from high emotions. She had needed him, even when she tried to act as though she didn't, and he had gone along with it—left her alone, really.
She looked like she'd been crying—Sylvia who never cried. She looked scared and vulnerable. A softness came to his eyes, as she smiled shakily at him.
Slowly, quietly, Robb sat down with her, her hand clinging to his. And he stayed with her.
The screaming of an infant was a foreign sound in Winterfell's halls. The shrill wail had not been heard since little Rickon was born many years before. The bells rang above in the tower, announcing to the world that Robb Stark's heir was born healthy. The smallfolk rejoiced the arrival, preparing a fine feast in celebration of the lordling's child, as the news spread through the north.
It had been many weeks since Sylvia awoke to pains in her abdomen and weeks since she had been shackled to her bed for the good of her child. In that time, her fear and guilt had waned quite a bit—it no longer kept her from her husband, and no longer held an ugly storm cloud over her head. But she let go of all that now, as she watched Robb hold their daughter, all swaddled up in her warm blankets, sound asleep.
When the midwife burst from the room and announced to the waiting Starks that Sylvia had given Robb a healthy baby girl, they'd been a bit surprised. Everyone had believed there to be a boy in Sylvia's belly, a boy which would secure Robb's reign as Lord Stark of Winterfell entirely. But there was peace in Westeros, and so no one was too upset by the birth of Robb's daughter, instead of a son.
Sylvia lay in her bed, hair a mess, skin still flushed and damp from the birth that happened not even an hour ago, and the last of the bloodied bedclothes were being taken from the chamber. But she was happy. So amazingly happy.
"She's so tiny." Her sweet husband whispered, a smile stretching across his handsome face.
"She didn't feel so tiny." She replied, a gentle laugh. It had hurt, much, much more than she ever thought she could handle. Robb wasn't permitted in the room, the midwife, septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn barred him from the doors, and kept him from his wife no matter how badly he wanted to be there with her.
Sylvia had wished he had been there, holding her hand, instead of his mother. In the early months of her pregnancy, when she felt fatter than a cow, she had told him to stay away from the birthing room, not wanting Robb to see her in such an ungodly state. Yet as the hours passed and one day bled into the next, and she screamed and clawed at the bed sheets, she wished more than anything that Robb was beside her. Maester Luwin was kind enough, but he was not her husband.
She thought she would die; surely nothing that hurt that much would allow her to live and by the end, death seemed almost a mercy. She wept for her mother. She had thought she couldn't go on, and then Maester Luwin pulled the baby from her body and she saw her for the first time.
Such a perfect little thing, dark wispy hair on her small soft head, long little fingers, bright blue eyes, a perfect little face with round cheeks and full lips and wide eyes. All the fear and guilt and worry meant next to nothing now, because there she was—the one who'd been kicking her for months. Everything was peaceful, everything made sense. Everything seemed right. And It didn't matter that her baby was a girl and not a boy as she and Robb had wanted, because she was hers. She was a mother. She was her mother, and she would protect her with everything she had.
"Come, lay with me." She asked softly. He looked at her, and suddenly she was struck by how beautiful he was, how wonderful he was. Her heart swelled with love.
Her husband walk around the bed, and over to the extra space on the other side of her, the little child still asleep in his arms, his amazed eyes hardly leaving the baby's face. Wordlessly, he slipped into bed with her, boots and all, gently cradling the infant in one arm. Her heart beat worriedly in her breast, the image of the sleeping bundle slipping from his arms and falling harshly onto the bed, suddenly flashing in her mind. She almost snapped at him to be careful, but he was already seated beside her, the baby still asleep.
Robb came close beside his wife, hardly disturbing his daughter as he pulled her mother close. Sylvia's pale skin was damp against his, but he hardly minded. He shifted the newborn again, earning a sweet coo from the nameless baby, and handed her back to Sylvia's waiting arms. The princess adored the feel of her child in her arms, the light weight of her, the smell of her, the warmth from her delicate skin...she loved her.
Sylvia raised her hand, and carefully, afraid she might disturb her sleeping baby, brushed her hand against the feather soft dark hair on her little head. Gods she was so perfect. She couldn't imagine being without her. She never knew it was possible to love something so much after so much pain.
"We're a family now. The three of us." She lifted her head and smiled at Robb. This moment felt so sweet, so worth it, such a release of all the fear that had no merit now. Here was the fruit of their work and worry, a beautiful healthy baby girl. Robb grinned back and kissed her hair, inhaling the scent of her hair.
"I love you." He whispered to her, rubbing his thumb on her bare arm. There was nothing else to it; he simply loved her more than anything in that moment. She'd given him everything he could have possibly hoped for and more. She was perfect in his eyes, the sun in the winter.
"I love you." She smiled. That vow seemed even truer now that they held their child in their arms, a gift they had given each other, the little thing that would forever link them, across oceans of time, this fact would always be. They created this perfect little thing together. "She needs a name." She reminded him. "What should we call her?" she whispered, now rubbing her daughter's tiny hand with her pointer finger, counting the little fingers on her hand for the second time. That was strange: her daughter. Robb reached out, and felt along the blanket by her baby legs, until he found a small foot.
"Darla?" Robb suggested jokingly. Sylvia gave him a sharp look, which made him laugh. "I'm joking, sweetheart. But it does have its charms, you must agree."
"It has little in the way of real charms," she muttered in distaste. "This little beauty needs herself a proper name."
"Alright, what do you think?" he asked. Sylvia looked up, and thought about all the names she'd collected in the last months. A small smile graced her lips as she thought of the woman who still had a sound mind and a gentle heart after everything she'd gone through. Robb didn't notice her smile and went on. "With your meticulousness, she'll not have a name until she's at least three. Shall we just call her 'Baby' till then?" He mocked.
"I like Minisa." Sylvia said. Robb looked at her, frowning curiously. She never mentioned that name before.
"Minisa?" The name was familiar, and it took him a second to remember who possessed it before. His mother's mother...
"Yes. For your grandmother. You have to agree, it does have its charms." She grinned.
After a moment, Robb gave her an uncertain smile, and then looked at the babe in her arms. "Minisa." He tried. The little one shifted and cooed, her fingers clenching and unclenching in her sleep. He rubbed her tiny feet, and smiled. "Hello Mini."
Hi hi hi! So are you surprised it's a girl? :D
This is the last chapter of the pre season 1 stuff
PLEASE REVIEW MY DARLING ONES!
