THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED ON NOV 09, 2016
*Peeks out from behind a rock* Hey...remember me? Ok before anything, I just have a couple things to say...booty...that is all.
No not really.
Ok, I am sooooo sooo soooo sorry for the wait, but I hit a thick ass wall that refused to let me get through to the other side and finish this mother. Slowly, I chiseled my way through and found my muse again...it involved writing SMUT I plan to release pretty soon, but you'll know more about that lata!
I wrote a good part of this chapter listening to Carl's Theme from the Walking Dead. It's a beautifully composed piece and y'all should check it out! :D
PS I own nothing but my own creations
PPS You guys kept this going! I mean ZOMFG! 251 reviews! :'D you're just so great ya know? So I made this extra long for you :D
PPPS I really hope you guys like this! Please let me know what you think. Please give me lovin..
Chapter 11 : Until We Meet Again
Time was never kind; Sylvia learned this early in her youth but only remembered when time seemed to betray her once more. Either a moment was sweet and seemed to pass as quickly and fleetingly as the dying light of day, or moments were horrid, and seemed to drag on like the long winters of time past. Only regular, ordinary events seemed to pass on in natural time.
Time was not kind now, as Bran lay near death for nearly a month. Every day was slow, filled to the brim with the fearful expectation that Bran may die, and then, as day melted into night, that small ember of hope stayed burning, even as despair and fear whispered constantly the seed of doubt. He'd made it another day, but still no change.
Every morning the young girl and her lordling husband awoke and at once peeked outside their door to order the attending guard to see Maester Luwin and report back to them if there had been a change since they'd retired hours before. Always the answer was the same: "He sleeps."
The castle seemed dimmer somehow, colder. Sylvia walked through the halls she'd come to know, eyes as unseeing as a crone's. Her mind was much occupied these days. She thought of Bran mostly, about the circumstances of his fall, about the blind cruelty of whatever decided to allow him to fall from that godforsaken tower. Sometimes she didn't know what to feel, all these conflicting and confusing emotions she'd never felt before, and did not know what to do with. Sometimes she ended up weeping, other times she prayed to the Mother for guidance and strength. Most of the time, though, she tried to carry on as naturally as she could.
She wished she knew what Robb was thinking. Even after she'd gotten him to accept her comfort the night Bran lay on death's doorstep, he still felt distant, even as he lay in her arms at night. Sylvia understood it was the stress of undertaking his father's responsibilities and worrying over his younger siblings why he felt so far away. They were both tired, and it would take time to become accustomed to the sudden pressure of leadership, but it didn't stop her from missing him.
As long as Bran breathed, there was hope, hope that he would one day wake. Not everyone had such hope, and some could be quite cruel when dissecting the reality of what happened.
Early one morning, about a week after the fall, she'd gone to her father's expansive chambers at his behest, leaving her little girl with Elane and the Stark sisters, and broke fast with her parents and siblings. It was lovely, truly, despite the tense silence and scarping of silverware on plates.
"Is Bran going to be alright?" Tommen asked her as he popped another blackberry into his mouth.
Sylvia swallowed a mouthful of water and answered, "Maester Luwin says it is too early to tell. But Bran is taking the honey and water mixture he's been feeding him, so he won't starve." She smiled at her little brother.
The king grunted in his chair, his wine cup resting just below his mouth. "Such a bloody shame. Poor Ned. That's no way for anyone to live. We put down our lame horses when they break their legs. This boy will probably have much worse than lame legs if he ever wakes. They should do the child the same courtesy."
Myrcella continued cutting into her meat happily, as if deaf to their father's awful words, as Tommen looked back down at his plate, a frown etched into his face. Joffrey looked at their father as she did, only his face was thoughtful, and appreciative, and she knew the little twat agreed with every hurtful word the king had just spoken. Sylvia felt her face colour as fury washed over her. Had it been anyone else, she would have stood, marched over and struck them across the face with all the strength she could manage. The feeling appalled her. She'd never wanted to strike out at her own father before, not even when he embarrassed her at her wedding. But she wanted to now, very badly.
How could her father say such things? Bran was a little boy, not a horse to be deemed too feeble to ride. He was a child. Would father have said the same were she the one who'd fallen? She wanted to ask him that, but bit her tongue.
Cersei saw her eldest daughter's disbelief, and watched the fury grow in her eyes. Poor girl didn't understand that hope was lost on that boy. The boy would die, and her child would be left bitter and angry, and wounded by the loss. Sylvia had to learn fast the harsh reality of the world, to not to be caught unawares, to be hardened and without weakness. The queen had tried when she married the Stark boy, but the willful child had resisted.
"My dove," the queen called softly. Sylvia tore her eyes from her father and looked to her mother, a jolt of hope rising inside her at seeing her mother's gentle face. Mother would agree with her, mother would tell father to stop saying those awful things. "My dove, it is not wise to place so much hope in such a delicate matter."
The eldest princess frowned, a huff of disbelief coming from her, and Cersei nearly flinched at the betrayal in those eyes of hers. How could they say these things? How could mother take father's side, in the one thing she shouldn't? Bran was going to live, he had to. Maester Luwin would not let him die!
"Yes, sister." Joffrey added, his tone of voice only adding kindling to her fury. "The boy could very well die tonight. His legs are mangled beyond repair, his wits probably knocked out of him when he hit the ground. Why deny the inevitable?"
"Bran's going to die?" Myrcella piped up, her eyes suddenly fearful. Sylvia knew Myrcella had developed a little fancy for Bran, often blushing when he talked to her and offering him her favour as a lady would do a knight. Most often, though, Bran hadn't known what to do with her favour, but kept it nonetheless.
"Yes," Joffrey replied nastily to the younger princess.
"No he isn't!" cried Sylvia suddenly, dropping her hands harshly onto the table. Tommen flinched, eyeing her with wide frightened eyes, Myrcella stared in shock, and Joffrey glared, preparing to strike back. The eldest princess glared at her younger brother. "He's not a lame horse you daft fool!" She felt her fork in her hand, her fingers clenched around it tight. For a small second, she imagined stabbing it into his hand.
"How dare you talk to me like that, you worthless broodmare!"
"I dare you awful little-!" Sylvia spat.
"Enough!" Robert bellowed out, his voice loud and commanding. The children dropped their eyes to their plates, scolded little timid things, while the queen eyed Robert boldly, daring him to do harm to the four. "Seven hells! Can never have one peaceful bloody meal with you lot." He sat back down again, and it was a long while before anyone touched their food again.
The morning meal was quiet after that, and Sylvia bustled from the room as soon as she could say she'd eaten something. She slammed the door behind her, and she'd be lying to say it didn't satisfy her.
A month passed, eventless.
For a month, their prayers went unanswered and Bran remained asleep, never once making any sound or movement to show he would wake, never once shifting or murmuring the way other sleeping children do. He lingered in a state like death, and drove his poor mother mad. It was unnerving and heartbreaking at once to see him so, and yet, as his chest moved with each gentle intake of breath, a small kind of hope remained alight. Breathe Bran, she would think. Breathe and live and dream, and you'll wake. You can't sleep forever.
In the aftermath of the fall, Lady Stark never once left Bran's side—not for meals, not to bathe, not to mistress the castle, or to play hostess to the royal family. Not even for her other children could she stand to leave her broken son alone.
All those responsibilities then fell to Sylvia, a sudden heavy burden to carry which forced her to spend less and less time with her girl and husband. She and Robb were now lord and lady of Winterfell in all but name, and would be, officially, when Lord Eddard left them for the south, taking his two daughters with him.
At first she'd been confused by that. Why take the girls south? She hadn't thought much of it, too occupied by trying to keep the castle in running order with over a hundred guests to take care of. But mother had let it slip one night when they sat alone in her chambers, exchanging words. The queen had called upon her eldest not long after the evening meal, and Sylvia was delighted as a little girl to find that it would be just the two of them in attendance, along with Mini who played happily on the floor with her dolls and blocks.
They talked about many things, and eventually, Sansa came up. It was small at first, an offhand comment about the auburn haired girl, but she came up more and more and eventually, Sylvia asked why her mother wanted to know so much about her.
"Well," the queen began simply. "She will be my sons wife one day, it is only natural I get to know about her." And that was that. Sansa would be Joffrey's queen. "So tell me. Will Sansa be obedient? Will she ever defy Joffrey?"
Sylvia's mind was reeling and she could do nothing but utter a strangled "Why? W-why make her Joffrey's queen?" in reply.
"To unite our families twice over, and to remind the north who their loyalty lies with. Your father insisted." Mother had said.
Once more, Sylvia said nothing, the strangest feeling rising inside her. Uniting the Crown with the north had been her job; it was the one thing she'd been tasked with as a princess. And now Joffrey had taken that small bit of honour and glory from her—him and father both. She felt cheated in the stupidest way. This was something joyous, something anyone would be happy for, but Sylvia found nothing agreeable with the match.
It disgusted her. Revolted her. Enraged and embarrassed her. She didn't want Joffrey associated with the north, didn't want him to tarnish the life she and Robb had built themselves, and knowing him, he would if he found a way.
Was it because she'd given Robb a beautiful little girl rather than a strong healthy son? Did father think her marriage with Robb a mistake, and decided to fix it by marrying Sansa to Joffrey? Did he think her useless? She'd done her duty. She'd bound her family to Robb's and happily too. Not Joffrey. Never Joffrey. Joffrey scoffed at the Starks at every turn, and had no respect for Bran. He would disgrace his Stark in-laws.
But history would say different. If Sansa had a son off Joffrey before Sylvia had one from Robb, she would be utterly humiliated.
She was ashamed of this, loathing herself for thinking such things. If Sansa married Joffrey and became queen someday, Sylvia should be happy for her. If Sansa gave birth to Joffrey's son, she should be happy. But she wasn't. And no matter how she thought of it, she could not shake the idea of such an embarrassment being forced upon her.
Well, she thought spitefully, no more embarrassing than being married to that boy.
Then the truly disturbing knowledge came to mind that Sansa was marrying Joffrey. Sweet, guileless, gentle Sansa would marry that cruel, big mouthed brute. It was utterly mad. They were a mismatched pair, completely unalike—but they looked like something out of a song, she could not deny. But Joffrey was no gallant prince; he'd proven that when he called her daughter a bastard, Sylvia a whore and Robb a womanizing dog the first night he'd been at Winterfell. Jon Snow, who the royals looked down on so scornfully, had more honour in one hand than the Crown Prince did in his whole body. But Sansa could not see it.
Joffrey kept the ugliness of his character hidden from Sansa, and so well too. She'd spied them once, talking, laughing and talking in the godswood, and for a moment, she wondered if he was only ever awful to his elder sister. If so, why? Why was he so horrible to her? That question had bothered her since childhood, and even now, she could not find the answer.
The frightening image of the kind auburn haired girl cowering in fear of her brother made Sylvia feel sick. No, she resolved firmly. Lord Eddard would never allow Sansa to live like that. He would take her back to Winterfell if Joffrey showed the slightest bit of cruelty towards her, and their father would knock his teeth in for offending his dearest friend.
Still, the betrothal gave her as much enjoyment as birth did.
Her mother delicately cleared her throat and jolted her daughter back to the little table, the queen waiting for an answer, Mini's ragdoll flopping between her chubby fingers.
"Sansa is everything a lady must be—loyal and courteous and pleasant. She will...she will thrive in the Capitol." The onyx haired girl replied finally.
She would miss the girls—they'd been her first friends in this place. They'd included her in their games, in their lessons, and made living there for the first few months a happier experience. She would miss Lord Eddard and the stable ground of wisdom and peace he'd always emitted.
Jon Snow was leaving too, on the same day the Royal caravan would depart. While the Starks rode south to live in the warmth of King's Landing, Jon would ride farther north when his uncle returned, all the way to the Wall. Sylvia could always remember Jon talking about the Night's Watch, he knew their histories better than any of them, and he'd always talked so highly of them and his uncle for being a part of it. For this, Sylvia was not very surprised to hear Jon finally resolve to leave home for the Watch.
Like the two sisters she called her friends, she would miss the bastard boy. Jon was her friend, Robb's brother, the one other man besides his father he trusted most. Mini adored him, and even though he was somewhat awkward around the babe, he was a good uncle. He'd always been kind to Sylvia as well, even when she hadn't deserved it. Just after she'd arrived there, she'd called him out for being a bastard, more than once. She hadn't seen the harm in it—it was what he was, as simple a fact as the fact that the birds flew up. Septa Bryda had said bastards are different from true-born children, harder and crueler. She hadn't thought it would bother him. It wasn't until much later that she saw how badly it hurt him when she called him that, even in such an offhand way. And even then, he'd never spat insults back at her in defence, as Bryda had said bastards did.
Now he was leaving, and although she was sad to see him go, she hoped he found what he was looking for at the Wall. She hoped he didn't regret his choice some time down the road he was headed.
As the departure drew nearer, Sylvia and Robb took on their new roles as Lord and Lady of Winterfell, with the stumbling feet of unprepared children trying to stay afloat.
The little Lady Stark was especially knocked back from the sudden onslaught of duties she was tasked with. Robb still had his father to look to for guidance, whilst Lady Catelyn refused to hear about the tasks she usually handled. So her good-daughter tried her best to handle it all on her own, with Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole the head steward there to advise her. The girl was somewhat tempted to go to her husband or good-father and seek the guidance Lady Catelyn could not offer, but her pride kept her to the old maester and steward.
Constantly she questioned herself—is that too much money? Did I order enough? Winter is coming, is there enough in the stores? How many positions will need to be filled, again? Maybe I should ask Robb?—until she went over some problem countless times, and heard definitively from both Luwin and Poole.
Robb's duties called him away often, more often than before. When she woke in the morning, Robb was usually already gone or just finishing dressing. She would see him a few times during the day, but not for long—an hour at most. When he came back to her at night, she would already be in bed, sleepy but determined to wait up for him because that's what a good lady does.
When he returned to her, Mini would awaken, somehow sensing her father had come back, and obtain his attention with her angry little cries which only calmed when he picked her up from her cradle. He would hold her to his chest until she fell back asleep, exchanging soft, leisure words with his drowsy wife.
Mini felt it all—all the time she previously spent with her mother had declined by more than half, and she now spent her days with Elane or perhaps Septa Mordane if the younger servant was tired. When Sylvia returned back to her and Robb's chambers at the end of the day, her little one would whimper and cry, her pudgy little hands pushing her weary caretaker away. While Sylvia was happy to see her little one after what felt like an absurdly long day, she was often exhausted by the time she saw her. She was sad for this, guilty. By the day it was time for the Starks to leave Winterfell, Mini was mostly weaned from her mother's teat.
It hurt her, oddly enough, to leave her every day for so long. Before, it had been easier, when she was still just 'little Lady Stark' and not mistress to the castle in all but name, still unsure of these new responsibilities, still frightened over Bran's health. Sometimes during the course of her day, she wondered how Lady Catelyn made it all seem so seamless. At first Sylvia thought it was just experience alone, but then realised that Lady Catelyn hadn't had her mind occupied on such fearful things, or impending departure of loved ones.
Sylvia shook her head, hoping to shake the miserable thoughts from mind.
Now that Lady Catelyn was largely absent about the castle and as Lord Eddard and his girls prepared, Sylvia found herself spending a good amount of time with Rickon.
It was Robb and their father he usually tried to stay with, but usually the little lad was sent away and found his way to her solar where she was advised by the maester and steward on household matters. He stayed with her all day, sitting in on meetings, fidgeting by the fire, whining out of boredom, and would only go outside to play if she said he could unchain Shaggy Dog from the kennels. Those times she would forbid any entrance into the godswood, where they roamed, knowing how vicious Shaggy could be around strangers, but sent a few Stark guardsmen with the boy to watch over him.
Thankfully, when Lord Eddard was freed for the day, he would tend to the wild child, tuck him into bed and ease his worries, but both Robb and Sylvia dreaded the day when this would be no more. Lady Catelyn had to remember her other children needed her, Sylvia would think as Rickon wandered off, angry and confused. How would he react when his father, brother and sisters left? Would his mother be able to comfort him?
She couldn't understand how Lord Eddard could leave them now of all times, when they needed him most. With Bran as he was and his lady wife bereaved and half mad, how in the name of every god in creation, could a man leave his family? There was a strong urge in her heart to name him selfish, but shame would wash through her at the mere thought. Lord Eddard was a good man, the most honourable man besides her husband, she'd ever met.
But that made it worse. A good, honourable man wouldn't leave his family like this, with some measly explanation about duty. But Sylvia said nothing. It was not her place.
She hoped that once it all settled down—once all the preparation for the departure was through and Bran woke up—then things would be smoother.
"Did you see Bran today?" she asked her husband as he unlaced his breeches and pulled back the covers she happily snuggled under. He'd returned a few short moments before, his meeting with his father, Rodrik and the kennel master running too long, their opposing views taking much time to work out. The kennel master felt the dire wolves were growing too large to accommodate in the kennels, and he spoke rightly. Grey Wind was just starting to reach his hip, and soon enough, he and the other wolves would grow restless and volatile in such a little space. And hungry.
Rodrik still held firm that the wolves were better off dead, while the kennel master did not truly care if the pups lived or died. He only wanted them out of his kennels. After much debate, it was finally concluded that the godswood would be their roaming ground once the royals left.
"Yes, for a few moments." He replied, glancing cautiously at the cradle. Mini had yet to awaken, and he thought to keep it that way. "He seems so much smaller." He recounted steadily. Since the fall, he'd been careful when talking about Bran, not wanting to remember how bloody horrible it had felt when he first learned of the fall. He'd wept against his beloved then, and no one knew how comforting that had been, to know she was there, through the worst, through the tears and anger and despair. It felt good to soak in the warmth she emitted, his winter sun, but he would not let himself fall into despair again. Not for fear of losing his masculinity—not so much—but more for fear of losing all hope for his little brother.
"He'll be so hungry when he wakes." She murmured absently.
"Mmm." He hummed back, setting his doublet over the chair by the fire. He looked back at her, her long black braid peeking out from the covers, her long fingers curled over the furs, holding them close. He smiled softly at her. She was so tired lately, her days suddenly twice as long, but she still waited up for him. He climbed into bed, and curled himself around her, her back to his chest, his arms wound loosely around her. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder just because he could.
The last thing Rob heard before the world went black was a sleepy voice murmuring, "Goodnight love."
In the next moment, she opened her eyes to Mini's whimpers and Elane's movements as she began her morning chores, the light outside the shudders just starting to stream through, the lingering wetness of a kiss on her forehead, the warmth of her husband's missing body under her outstretched hand.
The princess sighed and rolled out of bed.
A few mornings later, it was time for the royals to return to the Capitol. Their carriages and wagons were packed, as were the Starks', the horses fed and watered and by midday, Cersei would finally be free of this godforsaken place. Of course they would be bringing remnants of their stay here with them in the form of Eddard Stark and his household, but Cersei did not care. She wanted to be far away from this cold waste.
But then, she would also be leaving her daughter. Again. She'd come and left her daughter once before, when the girl was wed, and had resolved that once was enough, once was all she could manage. Leaving Sylvia was like losing a part of herself, a small part but painful all the same. It was a merciless limbo the gods had thrust her in just over seventeen years ago—the ache of being without her eldest, but unable to escape the pain of having her close. She needed to protect her child; there was no instinct stronger than that, but she had to protect her other three.
Cersei had stayed up half the night, thinking about her eldest and the danger she was in, and posed to her siblings. The queen felt like she lost every way she thought of her little doe. Bringing her to King's Landing would raise questions, but it would keep Sylvia close and safe from harm. Leaving her in this desolate hole was dangerous. At any given moment, if war broke loose somehow, the wolves she laid with could rip her apart. But if it would help keep curious glances off her children, she would settle with it, hoping that by doing so, she was not putting the onyx haired girl at risk. Would that she could have all four with her, safe and sound. The queen had awoken with a sour taste in her mouth.
Not long after, the queen sat in the Great Hall with her lover and children. Although she was still cross with him for his brashness, she felt better when he was close. They were half of each other and half of themselves when they were apart. She felt half a woman when he was gone and out of site. Sometimes she wondered if the loss of her twin was why Sylvia had seemed so fanciful as a child, so...odd.
She had hoped for a last quiet, peaceful breakfast with Jaime and their children, since Sylvia had not had breakfast with them since that unpleasant day when Robert opened his fat mouth. Joff had gone to take Sansa on her last stroll through the grounds, and soon after, the misshapen form of her little brother waddled into the Great Hall, booming out demands and plunking his ugly self right across from her.
She gave a taught, unwelcoming smile. It was for Jaime's sake, she'd never had him killed in his sleep. Only for Jaime. He did love the little whoremonger so, the thing that killed mother and shamed their father.
At once Myrcella posed her question to him—would Bran die? She'd asked her mother often since that unpleasant breakfast, and earlier this morn as the queen brushed her golden curls. Cersei had gently replied it was possible and to not put too much hope in his survival. Apparently, this was not the answer Myrcella hoped for, and now asked her Uncle Imp.
"Apparently not." Nothing in her silent, indifferent expression gave way to the horror slowly blossoming inside her. Sylvia was a child, a green girl with little knowledge of the harsh reality of life. Tyrion was a foul little monster, used to cruelty, used to returning it. He knew the world far better than Sylvia, Cersei acknowledged, and for him to say such a thing stopped her short, and made her listen. The queen eyed her ugly little brother carefully, softly asking what he meant.
"The maester says the boy may live." Tyrion answered. Myrcella shared a bright smile with Tommen, who had found a playmate in Bran Stark until his accident. Tyrion watched his sister's face, while the kingslayer sent his twin a meaningful look. The queen carefully searched for words, unease hidden under the calm mask, but worry sparking to life in her green eyes.
"It's no mercy letting a child linger in such pain." She replied, her voice soft and gentle.
"Only the gods know for certain. All the rest of us can do is pray." The dwarf countered. He fixed her with his ugly laughing eyes, and reached over to steal a rasher of bacon from her plate. "The charms of the north seem entirely lost on you." He pointed at her heavy shawl with his bacon. She ignored the remark. What charms? she wondered. She remembered the ice Wall, just a few hundred leagues farther north, and chastised aloud her brother's ridiculous idea to take in the cold structure. She would not stop him, though, however stupid it may be. Gods be good, with any luck, he'll fall of the edge, maybe end up in a wildling's belly.
A few more words and Tyrion began spouting off disgusting things her children should never hear. She, Tommen and Myrcella left the Great Hall, her head held high, her eyes calculating.
The queen send off the little prince and princess to take an idle stroll about the grounds with five guards in company, whilst she paced in her borrowed chambers, her freezing hands clenched tightly in front of her. Twisting her stone ring round and round, she thought over and over on her grotesque little brother's bit of news.
Over a month had passed, and still the boy would not slip away. He lingered on somehow, refusing to die. He'd fallen far, and the maester was old and feeble. The old fool must be losing his wits for the boy could not possibly survive after falling from that tower.
Jaime, you beautiful fool, she thought tersely.
Perhaps the Imp was misinformed. After all, when had Tyrion become such good friends with the Stark's maester? She had to see for herself, she had to see if the child was sickly, pale, and weak, to see if it was just a mother's hope and a maester's old eyes that made the Imp say such fearful things to her. She would go to Lady Stark, speak with her, and hopefully find the boy failing.
She climbed the steps to the boy's chambers with heavy feet, and an even heavier heart. The boy's life was the price of her and Jaime's sins, and it was a heavy one to pay. Still, there was no price too high to keep her children safe, especially when she knew how fierce Robert's wrath could be.
A memory, ages old, appeared before her, reminiscent of a time when her love for Robert had still been alive inside her heart.
Sylvia had just been a little thing when her mother gifted her with a puppy. Joffrey was still little enough that he did not mind being held by his mother, so he watched from her arms as his sister babbled away to her pretend friend about what to call her new pet. It had been a happy moment; one she had thought would make Robert see how much she could give him, how wise it would be to finally relinquish his rotted corpse in favor of a life with her. We could make more memories like this, your Grace, she'd thought. The queen didn't remember the name Sylvia had picked, but she knew it was a Targaryen name. A grave mistake in her father's presence.
As soon as the word slipped from the child's mouth, Robert's eyes, blurred and dull from the wine, blazed like hot coals. At once, the king moved towards the little girl, his hand raised to deliver unwarranted punishment to his own child. Joffrey screamed in protest when she shoved him into a guard's arms, and Sylvia cried out when she pushed her to the floor, her puppy slipping from her hands to cower in the corner, but even now the queen did not regret it because Robert's hand met her face instead of Sylvia's.
She did not regret it as she fell to the floor, cradling her face as lights flashed before her eyes. She didn't regret it as her children screamed in fright for what they'd just seen, as Robert spat curses left and right before stomping from the room. She didn't regret her actions then, and she did not regret them now, because her daughter had never felt the pain of her own father's hand. A few days after, Robert, then sober, went to Sylvia's room and spent the whole day with her. He never apologized, but Cersei knew the day he spent with their daughter was out of shame. Not affection.
The memory rekindled her hate for her king and a fierce instinct to protect her children from any harm anyone would bring them. Robert had been willing to harm his eldest daughter—his favorite—for something as simple as a name slip. She'd been a child, a babe more than anything that still had all her baby teeth and talked to a fictions apparition day and night. Gods knew what he would have done to them if he ever learned the truth about Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella's true father.
She would kill him first, she'd vowed. But that would be terribly inconvenient.
Speaking and building a sort of trust between herself and Lady Stark was a small attempt to clean up the mess Jaime's brashness had flung them in, but perhaps the smallest thing could have the largest impact. Cersei braced herself as she spied the final step.
The door was open when she reached the top, unbarred and trusting that no one would sneak in to harm the boy as he slept. She strode through with ease, causing the auburn haired woman to glance up.
Catelyn Stark looked awful. There was no other word for it. She looked as though she'd aged ten years in only a month, her long auburn hair unkempt, tangled as a rats nest as though she constantly pulled at it. Her eyes were watery, her face pale apart from the dark half circles under her eyes. She had only dressed in her nightdress and robe, as though she could not take precious time away from her vigil to do something as menial as dress. Pity stabbed at her, empathy slicing through her at the reminder of her own loss. She shoved it away from her like poison.
Lady Stark had enough left in her to manage to look embarrassed. "I would have dressed your grace..." she mumbled as she stood.
"This is your home; I am your guest." The queen replied easily as she stepped further into the chambers. She eyed the boy lying peacefully in his bed. He was small, pale, his cheeks sunken in from the days without proper food. She had thought he would look worse, but he looked like a sleeping child, frail and sickly, but a sleeping child nonetheless. Steffon, she thought. "Handsome one isn't he?" she said with a gentle smile.
Lady Stark nodded, returning to her seat, reaching forward to take her son's small hand in hers.
"I lost my first boy," she said abruptly and Catelyn returned her eyes to the regal form of the queen, hardly having the energy to appear very surprised. "Little black haired beauty. Sylvia's twin." She smiled at the memory of the midwives laying him on her chest the first time, how beautiful he'd been, even so wrinkled and red. He'd been so demanding, even so small, roaring in anger when he did not get what he wanted. She remembered marveling at those two little figures laid in their cradle, facing each other, clutching at one another, knowing safety was with each other when their mother was not in sight.
Her smile dimmed. "He was a fighter too. Tried to beat the fever that took him." She looked away from the small boy. "Forgive me. That's the last thing you need to hear right now." Cersei had always been a good liar but it was not so easy to conceal the discomfort and pain of talking about her boy to this stranger woman. It had been a very long time since she'd spoken about Steffon. The last time was when Robert betrothed Sylvia to Robb Stark, and she'd called Jaime to her in the hopes he could promise to stop the foolish match.
"I never knew." The lady said. Catelyn could not believe it. Sylvia, her good-daughter, had a twin. A brother she'd lost. She supposed it didn't make a difference in Sylvia's character, but still, it was quite a surprise. Why hadn't the girl mentioned it?
"It was years ago. As far as anyone knows, Sylvia came into the world alone. She doesn't know. I never allowed anyone to tell her. It would break her heart if she knew about him." She paused, the old wave of grief crashing over her once more, still fresh and biting as it was the first moment she awoke and found her son lifeless in her arms. "Robert was crazed; beat his hands bloody on the walls. All the things men do to show you how much they care." He smile was wan this time. Robert only knew violence, especially when he was wounded—whether it was in matters of pride, or matters of heart, he reacted in much the same way.
Their twins...Cersei forced back the prickling of tears. She would not weep in front of this woman, but even now, she felt she was losing the battle she'd come here to fight.
"He and Sylvia looked exactly alike; no one could tell them apart, not even Robert." Only their mother had been able to tell between them and had prided herself for it. "Such little things. Couldn't stand to be apart, not for anything." She recalled how Sylvia had screamed when she took Steffon from their cradle how Steffon had made his anger clear in the way he'd whimpered and grasped for his twin. She sighed, absently digging her nails into her palm, the pain sharp and biting and so much better than the feeling inside her.
"When he died...they came to take his body away. I screamed, and battled, but Robert held me." She had to stop; she had to. She would start screaming or weeping if she didn't. She visited these memories on very late nights, and had never recounted them aloud to anyone before, not even her sweet brother. Jaime and Robert both knew what happened, and she had no desire to relive her account of those events to anyone.
But now she told Lady Catelyn, another mother in a similar position. For just a small, fleeting moment, the queen forgot that the boy was a danger and hoped he would open his eyes. "Sylvia screamed for days after, as though she knew. Nothing would console her." tears stung her eyes and breathed in deep to steady herself. "That little bundle..." he was so little, she wanted to say. So beautiful and everything I'd ever wanted in onesmall little bundle. She wanted to say these things, but could not form the words. Somewhere, past this cloud of old pain, she knew this woman, at her core, was an enemy. She would not share her pain with someone she did not trust. Not even to ensure a she was never implemented for Bran Stark's fall. "They took him away and I never saw him again. Never visited the crypt, never...I could never tell Sylvia about him..."
"She will never hear it from me." The other woman assured, surprising the queen a moment. She nearly forgot Lady Stark was here. The queen nodded thankfully, her eyes on the small boy in the bed, strange emotion rising inside her. She took in a deep breath to settle herself. Apart of her was angry at this boy, at whoever decided that this child should look to live, while her boy had withered in days without hope for recovery. She thought of Tyrion's words at breakfast, about praying. Prayer was nothing, she thought bitterly. She'd prayed hours and hours on end, begged and promised the Mother for just a pinch of Her mercy, and still her boy left her.
But Sylvia lived, a voice whispered. She lived and thrived and she grew beautifully. She could not deny this, but it had been her son's recovery she prayed for and those prayers had gone unanswered.
"I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she return your child to you." She will not listen, Cersei thought. She never listened to me, why ever would she listen to you?
"I am grateful." Cersei could see right through that sour smile of hers, one that betrayed her mistrust and wariness. The woman was no fool, but Cersei hoped she was just foolish enough to accept the boy's fall as an accident.
"Perhaps this time she'll listen."
Jon was just saddling his horse, and saying his goodbyes to Robb when Sylvia walked through the yard, her little girl perched in her arms, wrapped securely in cottons and furs, a little cap pulled over her black curls to protect her delicate little ears. Both men smiled at her, Robb taking Mini from her arms and greeting the babe as though she would greet him back. Jon watched as the little baby babbled something nonsensical to her father, tugging at his hair. Robb didn't seem to mind.
"So this is it then?" Sylvia asked with a wry smile. "You're leaving us forever?"
Jon grinned back. "Just until I swear my vows and find my place. I'll come back when Bran wakes."
Sylvia tugged at her gloves. "I hope so. I would like Mini to know her uncle's. All of them." She smiled at him and Jon's heart warmed. It was not the kind of warmth he could see spread inside Robb when she smiled at him. No, never. Sylvia Baratheon had been Robb's the moment she set foot in Winterfell—first in obligation, and then in heart. For such reason, Jon could never see her as a free woman to adore and desire. She was not his. She was his brother's and even if he could see her like that, he could never betray Robb in such a way. No. Warmth spread inside Jon Snow because she seemed wholly truthful. She would make a kinder Lady Stark than Robb's mother, he thought mildly. "Stay safe on the road, will you? Don't be the only one to arrive at Castle Black with a freshly torn off limb." She joked.
Robb and Jon chuckled. "I don't intend to lose anything." The bastard boy replied. His good-sister stepped forward, her arms winding around Jon's body for a brief moment, as he awkwardly patted her back. When she pulled away, she once more stood beside Robb.
"Goodbye Jon Snow." Sylvia said after a long moment, a sad smile on her lips.
"Goodbye Sylv." He replied. Jon turned his smile to the babe in his brother's arms, reaching out so he held her little hand in his. "Farewell Mini."
"Say bye-bye to uncle, sweetheart." Sylvia smiled at her daughter. Minisa blinked, her mouth opening to reveal her two tiny bottom teeth, looking between her mama, uncle and father curiously. She liked that they smiled at her. Finally she gave a loud cry of glee, waving one free arm through the delightfully crisp air. The three laughed.
Saying farewell to the Stark girls was a bit harder. As the two little ladies and Arya ate their last meal together in Winterfell's kitchens, Sylvia could not help but dwell on the fact that she would not see Sansa and Arya for quite a long time. She hadn't seen her siblings until she was wedded and bedded with a child in her arms. Will she see Sansa and Arya before that? Will their lady mother go entirely mad when her girls were gone?
Sansa was all aflutter, babbling on and on about how gallant and charming her brother was, about how wonderful it would be to be made sisters with Sylvia twice over. Sansa was in love with the glamour of being betrothed to a prince, giddy and excited, she couldn't—wouldn't—stop talking about the magnificence of it all and saw nothing fearful in leaving the only home she'd ever known.
Sylvia thought of this with a little shame heavy on her heart. When she was sent away, alone and scared to marry some stranger, she hadn't made it easy on those charged with her protection. She'd felt betrayed, cheated, and had made Ser Fredrik and sour Septa Maesa drag her all but kicking and screaming up north. Once, she remembered such things with a kind of fondness, feeling that she'd done her House proud for not taking something she thought so awful with the meekness of a rabbit. Now she wondered if she should have been courteous, well-mannered, regal and stoic, the way she was raised. She was embarrassed as she thought about how she'd been, while Sansa embraced leaving home with such ease and happiness.
She understood Arya a little more than her elder sister—a first really since knowing the little wildling. As Sansa gleamed with excitement, Arya patted her wolf—Nymeria she'd named her—and snuck a glare or two at her sister. Arya was unwilling, she didn't want to go, didn't want to wear the pretty dresses the queen had given them as a gift, didn't want to ride in the royal wheelhouse and hated her septa for forcing her to. Now that sounded quite familiar to Sylvia.
"Oh just think Sylvia, next time we meet, I'll marry your brother, and I'll be the queen. How splendid. And perhaps Joff will make Robb his Hand, and you can come to live in the Capitol!" Sansa exclaimed happily. Sylvia smiled back, knowing that would probably never happen.
"That won't be until the king dies, idiot. And the prince is mean to Robb. Why would he want to be Hand?" Arya replied edgily.
"He is not! Robb was rude to him first!" Sansa huffed.
"Liar! The prince is vile and stupid, just like you!" Arya snapped back.
"Shut up!" the elder girl countered. "You're jealous you will never be the queen. You'll marry some ugly horse breeder and have horse face babies!"
Sylvia had had enough. "Whatever happened with Robb and Joffrey is meant to be left between them. Sansa, Arya will marry someone wonderful and have beautiful babes." she cut in, her voice as sharp and final as a knife. Sansa looked at her good-sister—her princes' royal sister—and felt her face colour in shame. Tactless children indulge their ill-mannered little sisters in petty arguments. Not a lady who would be queen one day. She hoped Sylvia wouldn't tell Joff about it. The last thing she wanted was to shame herself in Joffrey's eyes—his beautiful, emerald eyes that shone brighter than the sought after jewel. But Arya was already spoiling everything!
"I don't want to ever get married!" Arya decided with a scowl at her elder sister, to which Sansa replied with a muted grimace. Sylvia's lips twitched.
So their time together ended as it began—Sansa and Arya arguing, Sylvia having a difficult time trying to get between them.
Soon—too soon—it was time to bid the royals and the Starks farewell, truly and for the last time.
Robb and Sylvia stood in line, backs straight and proud, Robb standing where his father once stood, with Sylvia to his left like a true Lord and Lady, as Rickon stood beside Sylvia. The Lady felt sad that the child's mother wouldn't attend, at the very least to give the boy courage. His lip was trembling already. She would have held his hand, but knew Robb would be displeased at her 'coddling' him. Strong men were not built against their mother's bosom.
King Robert moved forward, his face stern as he regarded the new Lord of Winterfell. She was proud of her husband not flinching where lesser men would look away. Her father took his big meaty hand and closed it around Robb's. "Good luck. Keep an eye out for my girl." The king grumbled sternly. Sylvia couldn't help but smile, a giddy flutter in her belly. Father hadn't called her 'his girl' in so long. Her husband nodded solemnly.
"Safe travels, your Grace. It was a pleasure to house you here at Winterfell." Said Robb, his lord's voice coming through.
Robert grunted and turned to his daughter, struck once again at seeing the little babe blinking up at him curiously, her black hair reminding him once more that Sylvia was a mother. He gave the little girl a smile, his hand reaching up to tickle her under her chin. Minisa gave a gurgle, her little hand reaching up to examine the thing that tickled her. Sylvia smiled, and looked back up at her father.
"It was wonderful to see you again father. You are always welcome back should you decide on another visit." She spoke graciously.
As callous as Robert could be, as embarrassing as he was when drunk, he would always be her father. The one who'd picked her up and thrown her in the air as a child, the one who sat her on her horse the first time she rode, and the one who'd planned the match between her and Robb. He was responsible for countless other memories, some good, others bad, but he was her father. Her father. The one who'd always been. The one who she thought was invincible.
"Take care, child." He said to her, his hand coming awkwardly to her shoulder. She nodded, offering him a soft smile. He suddenly reached into his cloak, and brought out a little thing, obscured by his large hand. "Here," frowning, she took what he offered in her hand, her heart swelling as it settled with a gentle rattle of the contents within. The wood was smooth and sleek, freshly made and never played with. "For your girl. And any others you carry." He grumbled out, his voice as brisk as ever, unaware just how touched his daughter was.
"It's beautiful," she agreed, nodding up at her father, her soft smile spreading into a wide joyful grin. "Thank you." He nodded, and moved on to pat Rickon on the head, before turning and striding towards his horse. As he walked, Sylvia looked down at the little rattle, heart warming at spying the little stags on the round bulbous top, playing and running and nibbling on the grass. Flowers encircled the handle which extended no longer than her index finger.
Robb looked at her, watching with a smile as she shook the new toy at Mini, the baby reaching out to grab it, her mother grinning happily.
Sylvia bid goodbye to the rest of her family, Robb saying his farewells to his father and sisters beside her. Eventually Rickon could not hold his courage any longer and began to weep, stumbling into Sylvia's legs and clinging for life. She hadn't the heart to push him away and tell him to be mindful of the eyes who would laugh at him. She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, keeping him close to her, hearing his sniffles grow louder as his father rode out the gate behind the king, that large creaky wheelhouse rattling behind.
She did not weep; princesses did not weep in public and cause such a scene. But she would have if only she'd known the future. If she'd known this was the last time she would see her family without the resonating feeling of loss and betrayal set into her bones.
She would have if she'd known.
But she didn't.
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