HELLO!

I am terribly sorry for the delay. It feels like I've been gone from here for longer than I have. I am working on Vows, and I will update, but it will take a bit more time.

Also, me and a few other authors for Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire fanfiction have experienced the scalding burn of PLAGIARISM. My story, and theirs, were copied and pasted by someone on another website, literally copied and pasted, and posted as their own work.

I'm sorry if this chapter seems lacking, but I've been more stressed now than I was in college.

Chapter 18: Cold As It Gets

When she'd been a girl, there was scarcely a time when Sylvia was left alone. There was always someone who trailed after her—be they maids, septas, knights, or masters who'd been brought in to teach her. Nothing less could be expected for the princess, and she never knew a different life. But there were times when she only wanted to play, to be silly and run and dance without minding if she were graceful or proper or if it would shame her later. There were times when she wanted to only be by herself.

So she took notice of when her sweet old Septa Bryda would doze off in her chair, when Fredrik had his afternoon meals in the kitchens and summoned up her bravery and left the safe confinements of her mother's apartments. It was terribly thrilling to walk the halls alone; it wasn't the least bit scary. But her moment of freedom was cut short when one of the passing guardsmen called out her name and promptly brought her back to her (very cross) septa.

It didn't deter her though; if anything it only made her more adamant to get farther than she had the previous time she'd escaped. It became a kind of game, to see how far she could go before she was stopped. But the time between escaping and being brought back, were what she treasured.

She'd dared to tread the battlements a time or two, adoring the smell of the ocean, the warmth of the sun striking off the sapphire blue water. But there were always guards on duty, and it always cut her trip short when they spotted her.

The gardens were lovely and largely empty, but she quickly grew bored of them. The bugs disgusted her and the smell made her sneeze.

But most often she would wander the halls, getting lost in the vast Keep for an hour or two. She never saw the same thing twice, because the Red Keep was notoriously massive, filled with secret passages and hidden doors and so many balconies and walkways that boredom was impossible.

On one such time she had taken steps down into the castle's bowels and found one of the last few remaining artefacts left over from the Targaryen dynasty: dragon skulls.

Her father had said he'd crushed and destroyed every little thing that was left over from the Targaryen rule (apart from the Iron Throne) and to see the massive skulls sitting there under her father's castle was alarming. Did her father know these were here?

She knew better than to ask him, because the memory of Robert lashing out at the mention of an old Targaryen name was still fresh...as were her mother's bruises. Sylvia still hadn't the courage to look up at her mother, knowing that the purple bruise smeared on her cheek had been intended for her. Mother never said anything of it, but somehow that was worse.

Sylvia flinched away from her father too, avoided him as best she could. She feared him. She never had before, but now she looked up at him and saw his anger, the look on his face when he'd struck out for her. In time, it would fade. It would never happen again, but nothing would ever erase the memory.

With morbid curiosity she'd approached the skulls, despite a little voice telling her to turn away from the thing her father hated and go back to him and be loyal. It was for her fascination with the Targaryen's why her father had tried to hurt her. These skulls, even to her young mind, had symbolized betrayal. But something urged her on and then her feet were moving.

She'd half expected the bone to be hot when she touched the largest one, but it was as cold as ice.

She visited them every chance she got from then on and never told anybody about them, not even her closest companions. She could not trust anyone with this; even the ones she trusted, because then it would not be hers any longer. The skulls were her secret, her favorite place, and in time, the old worry and guilt over adoring them so much faded off into nothing.

After all, they were only skulls. It was not as though she were harbouring a flesh and blood Targaryen. But she felt safer for knowing her father knew nothing about it.

Over the years, the skulls she'd been fascinated by had drifted further from her memory. By the time Sylvia married, the skulls of her childhood had lost their importance, and were no longer the biggest secret she kept.

Which is why it was so strange to see them suddenly in her dreams.

They felt cold against her fingers as they had years before, the obsidian coloured bone shining in the torchlight like freshly polished armour. She was vaguely aware of the black abyss behind her, the darkness threatening to swallow her whole if she moved away from the haven of skulls. She felt cold dread slide up her belly like a knife, but she held tighter to the bone, clenching her eyes closed as she pressed her forehead to the dragon's smooth tooth.

One...

This was far more frightening than anything she remembered of her time playing in the skulls. She'd played inside them for goodness sake!

Two...

As a child, she'd even pretended they were still alive, and that she had been swallowed whole by the long dead dragon it belonged to, waiting for...someone to save her, like a knight.

Three...

She wanted to scream, to turn and face whatever was lingering in the dark behind her, to whatever was whispering, but she could not find the heart to do it. What frightened her most was not what she might see, but what she couldn't. What might be staring back at her with invisible eyes? She swore she could almost feel it looking at her.

It wouldn't be right to look.

She felt the air shift, someone was moving, and her mouth went dry, her belly clenching with fear.

Four...

And then, there were more sounds to the dead silence, a small patter of feet echoing off the red brick, a little laugh echoing off the distant hidden corridors.

Her eyes shut tighter, and her body was pressed tightly against the cold tooth. Half of her wanted to turn to see who was there, to call out to them that she was a princess and to frighten her would mean losing a limb. But the other half, the stronger half, wanted to shrink away and hope whoever was there in the dark would leave her alone.

Five...

The patter grew louder into a gentle thump booming through the corridor, but the giggles broke off into badly hushed snorts, before settling down entirely. Then, the footsteps stopped, somewhere not too far from her.

You'll never find me. I'm the best hider in the entire Keep!

With that, Sylvia Stark's shoulders leapt from the bed, a strangled gasp choking from her throat.

Lady Sylvia breathed deep for breath, blinking into the darkness of her chambers with watery eyes and casting a look to the other side of the bed at once.

The space beside her was cold and empty, the pillow smooth and cool as her husband had not slept beside her. With a stab, Sylvia remembered that she was alone and Robb would bring no comfort to her tonight. She'd taken to sleeping in another chamber at night, leaving Robb alone in theirs with Mini shared between them.

Ever since news of Tyrion's capture three days earlier, and Robb's subsequent refusal to interfere, Sylvia refused to sleep beside him. If he would not even send a raven to order his mother to release her uncle, she would not share a bed with him. She'd sent two ravens in the past few days, one to the Eyrie filled with demands and pleas for her good-mother to see reason, and one to the Capitol with promises to her own mother that she and her husband were working tirelessly to right this wrong. She hoped the letters placated the women, because there was little else she could do.

A soft sob left her lips as she rested her elbows on her knees, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes to shove the dream away. Her hands felt shaky, and her face felt damp with what she hoped were not tears. She trained her ears to listen for her daughter's sleeping breaths, hoping the gentle lulls would calm her, but there was only silence. Mini had stayed with Robb tonight.

It was only a dream, she thought to herself, shaking her head dismissively. Only a damned dream.

But why did it remain with her, as she lay back down? The muscles in her shoulders were taught, and she was so very aware of the dimness of her chamber, the fire having burn down to embers in the night. But she had no notion how to properly build a fire herself, and she didn't want to leave the bed anyway. Not now.

Gods, she thought with a snort, I sound like a craven. Soon the little bit of humour dissolved, and she curled further into the furs.

She wished for Mini, wished her baby's gentle, slow breaths were there beside her to pull her back into a peaceful sleep. She wished for Grey Wind, because nothing frightened him and he would sleep over her legs and scare any threat away. She wished for Robb most of all, because there hadn't been a night they'd slept apart in years and being next to him at night made her unafraid of nightmares.

But how could she ever allow him close to her like that again? When he allowed such pain and humiliation to come to her family? To her by extension?

As she pulled her blankets over her shoulders, Sylvia closed her eyes and waited for sleep. The princess had never been very good at sleeping alone.

The Keep is a thousand leagues away; the skulls are in a dark cell, forgotten and hidden. I am here at Winterfell, I am safe.

I am home.

Four days more had passed them by, and Sylvia still slept away from her husband. No more nightmares had come, thank the gods, but she still awoke cold and reaching out for someone that wasn't there.

Sylvia did not think much of the gossip that would culminate between the savants due to the strife between her and her husband, because there was no way this could be twisted into being her fault. Robb was who refused to intervene.

Anyhow, they had no true knowledge of what transpired between her and her husband and what the servants gossiped about did not concern her. Now if it were nobles whose attention had been captured by her marriage...then that was cause for concern.

The young Lady of Winterfell walked through the corridors on her way to the steward's, her plum coloured gown making her stand out from the other women in their grey dresses in a way that was almost boisterous. If she was useless in the north to do anything but send letters of hollow assurances and meaningless pleas, she would at least get a bit of work done. The stores needed to be reviewed anyway, and she needed to hear how the new servants had settled in since arriving. Some new fabric needed to be ordered as well. Mini was quickly outgrowing her tiny dresses.

Ser Fredrik followed solemnly behind, having nothing to say that would cheer his former charge, and knowing speaking freely would incense her. Of course he knew of what troubled her—when a Lannister went missing, it wasn't very long until the entire country knew about it. He knew his little lady had every prerogative to rage. But he did not approve of the way she chose to punish her husband or even that she saw fit to punish him at all. It was childish, and it seemed ill for a woman to so unapologetically disapprove of her husband's choices.

Or perhaps he disapproved because he knew fighting with her husband made her miserable and she knew very little of how to conceal it.

One of the tailors had mentioned they'd sent for a roll of fine soft cotton from the Neck, (better suited to Minisa's soft skin, which had already proved too sensitive for wool), and at once, Sylvia cast her sharp blue eyes to the elder tailor, a tall bristly man with a work belt strapped around his waist.

"One roll? I asked you for three: one for both of the younger Stark boys and my own child." The man was taken aback by his lady's stern voice, shifting on his feet slightly and looking away from her. "Were you even listening?" The tailor, named Sharpe, opened his mouth to reply. "Oh never mind." She snapped, her hand waving away his attempts of apology. "Order two more. Do you think you can remember?"

He nodded softly, not letting on that he was thoroughly shamed and embarrassed. "Good. Now get to it." The lady ordered.

If she keeps on, thought Fredrik, the people will start to think this is her natural state. Usually, Sylvia treated the servants about the castle kindly enough, but never let them forget her status and become too familiar.

They knew she did not belong very well without being reminded of it; she was southern and soft and many were convinced that when winter came again, her skin would either freeze to ice, or she would hide away in the castle until the sun came again. Fredrik hoped that when that day came, she proved them all false. Sylvia could endure, he knew she could. She was a stronger little lady than others thought her to be. Sometimes, he thought even Lord Robb believed that she was a fragile southern flower.

When they were gone and it was just the two of them once again, Sylvia deflated, her shoulders slumping and a weary sigh leaving her lips. The tips of her fingers touched the table she stood by, where Sharpe's scrolls of plans and inventories once sat.

"That was...not proper of a lady." She concluded softly.

"It is your right." He replied simply.

Sylvia sighed and rolled her eyes, and Fredrik didn't know if it were for her annoyance at the tailors, him, or her husband which made her do so. A hand came up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"No. No. Bryda, she taught me to be kind and gentle to servants. She said I had a duty more than anyone to be kind to them." She took in a breath and released it. She still missed her sweet gentle Septa Bryda in times of trouble and wished for her arms even now. "I've always done my duty. Haven't I?" When Fredrik did not answer, she looked to him, and he was surprised to see true, naked question in her eyes. Have I done my duty, she asked silently. "Right?"

Fredrik thought about what to say, whether or not to attempt humour to make her smile. "Aye. Sometimes, not too happily...but always."

She looked away, his little quip not reaching her. "When my mother asked me if Sansa would be a good wife to my brother," her voice was filled with bitterness. "I told her that she was good, and kind, and gentle, and that she would abide her duty to the end, like a good lady. I did it despite my heart telling me to lie." She looked up at her knight again, bitterness and regret swirling in the blue pools. "I wanted to say that Sansa would run wild, and was like to humiliate Joffrey. It was my first instinct after laughing." The smile on her face was humourless, and fell away quickly and marred into a frown. Fredrik's brows pulled down with disapproval. Little Sansa and the princess were close friends, so how could Sylvia think of speaking such vile lies about the girl?

"It's wretched, but I never wanted her to be queen. Never wanted her to marry him." Sansa deserved better, she thought. "But I couldn't thwart a plan which would bring boundless honour to the Starks. If it ever came out, they would all hate me. All of them." Tears had gathered in her eyes, and Fredrik was filled with pity for his charge. Sylvia never cried unless the tears were wrung from her. "S-so I abided my duty, to Robb, to the Starks because it was right. Because I couldn't betray them and go through life with that over my head. I never thought Robb would feel differently. I don't know why..."

She thought of her uncle, little Uncle Tyrion who'd always been so kind to her, who could very well come to hate her the longer he spent in captivity. She thought of her mother, and the disappointment she must feel towards her eldest daughter. She thought of Joffrey and the awful things he would say, things that would tear her reputation apart. Then she thought of her grandfather, Lord Tywin, who'd decimated houses who'd tried to overtake his. For just a moment, she saw Stark banners burning, and a cold shill swept through her.

It will never happen, though, she thought to herself. Never. It could never happen.

But I will be known as the woman whose husband spat in her family's face. I will have no one left to me in King's Landing. The only one who is not likely to shun me would be father.

Sylvia was quiet a long time, staring thoughtfully into the brazier, a touch of worry in her features. When at last she collected herself, running her fingers over her gown to erase invisible creases, she straightened herself and turned to him. The girl she was disappeared behind the mask of a lady without doubt.

"You're with me though, aren't you?" she asked with a tremulous smile.

"Aye." Always, he thought, knowing such a promise would likely not be easily kept in coming years, but knowing he'd do all he could to keep it.

"I'll need to apologize to Sharpe." She looked up at him, almost like a child realizing they'd done wrong.

"That would be the ladylike thing to do," he said with a little gleam in his eye.

"My lady! A raven from the queen," the maid was breathless, as though she'd run all the way from the rookery to her solar. "It's addressed to you." The maid concluded.

Sylvia unrolled the scroll with great carefulness, unwilling to damage the words inside by eagerness. She was eager to hear from her mother, wanting to know what news the raven had brought with it.

But the message was all the same. The lower Riverlands were burning, villages washed away with fire and steel, common folk displaced and left with nowhere to go, and others left dead. It was the same news on a different scroll, and studying the awful words made her belly feel queasy.

"...great insult to me, and your brother, done to us by your husband for his inability to talk sense into his mother. I implore you to urge your husband on, for every day that passes, the deeper he shoves the knife. Have him honour your marriage by reminding him who his loyalty lies with."

The queen's words stuck her like a hammer to her chest, and she found cold, insulted rage rising in her heart. Something she'd never before experienced from her mother.

Honour their marriage? It was as though she'd written with the idea in her mind that Robb had no value for their marriage, for her or the child between them. Of his faith, Sylvia had no doubt. There was no chance Robb would ever devalue their vows or the love he had for her. How could her mother think such a thing? He may push aside her wishes, but he was loyal to her, he loved her and honoured her in every other way that mattered.

It was Catelyn who had done this; Robb had no control of her. Some part of her felt ashamed to blame her good-mother so profusely because she loved the lady like a mother. Still, it seemed to perfectly logical to Sylvia to blame Catelyn over her husband. He was her husband; the fine details were what mattered to Sylvia. The fine details which softened the blow.

So her mother hadn't a right to assume what her husband valued, no right to seethe her resentment at her through a letter and expect her to meekly agree.

Without enthusiasm or conviction, Sylvia mechanically scrawled out a reply, assuring her mother she was doing what she could to rectify the situation at her end, but near the end of her message, the quill suddenly felt like lead in her fingers. Every time she wrote out one of these letters, it got heavier and heavier and the words felt more and more like lies. It made her feel wretched, dishonourable.

And all the while, she was so very aware of the people suffering through the Riverlands. Innocent people, poor people who had nothing else but their lives by the end of a raid. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Slowly, Sylvia let the quill drop from her fingers, the ink dripping down onto the unfinished letter and soaking into the parchment. She was tired of the same old argument, the yelling, the cold silence, the frustration—all of it. She'd had a long, tedious week of it, and she felt like she was dying—drowning in a shallow pool and wondered if Robb felt the same.

Every time the sea of her anger pulled back and it seemed easier to return to her husband's side, she would remember her family, Tyrion, the Riverlands and Catelyn, and she would sink back into it. She would not allow suffering on innocent people over a matter of trivial pride.

She would not let Catelyn drag them through the mud.

When she stood, Fredrik followed her, albeit at a distance. It was as though he knew where his lady was headed and wanted to give her apt space.

She was at his solar doors in less time than she realized, and the realization froze her hand halfway to the door handle. Was she really about to battle with her husband, again? Was it worth it? As she lowered her hand back down to her side, she heard the muffled voice of her husband through the door, his and their daughter's garbled words bleeding through the tiny cracks.

"...no Mini, that's my letter from grandfather—don't tear it—hey!" Her husband said to their daughter, a loud ripping noise coming with his words. Mini squealed with laughter and Robb gave a long suffering sigh. "Oh that's funny?" another moment passed and another rip sounded through the air, and Mini laughed harder. "Silly girl."

Sylvia's lips twitched up and her head rested on the doorpost. He must have relieved Elane to care for Mini by himself. Mini never laughed like that for the maid. The baby babbled happily, and Sylvia listened a moment to her husband and daughter, wishing to join them without bringing dread and coldness into the room.

She wondered if she should leave them be for now and come back later when Mini was gone and she could try once more to pierce Robb's implacable shell. But the people in the Riverlands could not wait, nor would her mother.

Looking back at Ser Fredrik, she motioned for him to stay and then pushed open the door.

Her husband sat on his chair settled before his desk, Mini lying back on the soft bear fur rug, kicking her chubby legs up and clinging to a torn bit of parchment Robb must have given her. Her auburn haired lord sat with his back to her, his elbows settled on his knees, and she could just make out the unrolled scroll he held in his hands.

Robb, who was always so watchful, who had the senses of a fox, did not notice his wife watching through the doorway, and read and reread the scroll until he knew every word. It was from his father, sending him the briefest summary of events in the Capitol in the wake of his attack. Jaime Lannister had fled King's Landing. Robert had gone on a hunt and left him to rule in his stead. The girls were to be sent home without him as soon as the carriage was readied. Finally, he concluded that the raids in the Riverlands were being handled, as he'd sent out a band of good men to seize Gregor Clegane, the leader of the pillagers, and bring him back to the Capitol to answer for his crimes.

"Message from the south?" she asked, causing Robb snap his head around in alarm. He'd crushed his letter in his hands, making it impossible for anyone else to read it.

Feeling a bit embarrassed for his reaction, he stood and tossed the scroll to his desk. "From my father."

Sylvia licked her lips. "What says he?"

He paused, and Sylvia felt something heavy settle in her belly. He hesitated because he either didn't want to tell her, or he was advised not to. He loved his father more than she ever loved hers, and Robb had always strived to be as wise as him. He'd always listened to Eddard's council, to his advice and orders. Whatever the words on that scroll were, they held so much weight because of who had sent it.

Finally, Robb answered. "More news of the slaughter in the riverlands." They both bowed their heads in shame. News of the pain spreading throughout the riverlands struck Robb hard. They would not be suffering had his mother not taken a Lannister hostage. He wished to stop it, to ride down to meet the Mountain himself and deliver him bound and gagged to the king's feet. But his duty was here and involving himself in the quarrel too soon would be perceived as treason if he did not treat lightly. His father had told him to stay out of it, to keep the north out of it.

"You could..." she broke off, the words in her throat catching. This would hurt him. "You could stop this, Robb."

Her husband sighed and stepped away from her. "Now isn't the time for this, Syl." He cast a look down to their child, who had just become aware of her mother's appearance and abandoned her little parchment to twist around to see her better.

"Mamamama!" Mini babbled excitedly. Sylvia gave her baby a grin, the only smile she could muster. But nothing could stop or deny the joy a greeting like that gave her. Stepping forward, the young lady scooped the child up in her arms; the tiny grey dress of her daughter's looked almost white against the plum of her own gown. Sylvia held her child close, pressing her nose to her black curls and inhaling the scent she knew by heart.

"Oh my sweet girl," she murmured softly. She never wanted Mini to know awful things existed, never wanted her to feel afraid to enter a room because it held both her parents. There were times when Robb chided her on being too protective of Mini, thinking it would make her weak willed and timid, but Sylvia would always reply, "I am her mother. She will be fifty and I'll still try to protect her."

Holding Mini in her arms, Sylvia knew it wasn't the time. Grabbing the bundling, rabbit fur lined blanket from Robb's chair, the young girl wrapped her daughter up, never looking up at her husband, though he followed her with sad, hardened eyes. She'd only come to argue with him, and now when she couldn't have that, she was leaving him alone and taking their little girl with her. He made move to stop her, but she was already at the door.

Without even thinking it over once or twice, Sylvia peered out the door and walked over to her ever dutiful knight. Kissing her child as an attempt of apology, the southern girl passed her daughter off.

"I will be with you soon," she murmured softly to her. Mini was too little to understand and began to cry, reaching out for her mother with insistent little whimpers. Before it could get any worse, Sylvia turned and strode back to the chamber, feeling her heart tear apart as her daughter's cries echoed down the hall. Hopefully, Elane could calm her and Mini could forgive her.

The door shut with a thump behind her and she stood before her husband once again. He looked irritated and as though he were about to move her out of the way and bring Mini back. Really, she couldn't fault him for it and was surprised at herself for having done it. But it was done already, and all she could do was ride out the wave.

"Now we will talk." He sighed and turned away, and her anger ignited. She didn't give up Mini to be ignored. "Do you realise how badly it hurt me to pass her over like that?"

"Will you blame me for that too?" he snapped, whirling around to look at her. Every night Robb battled with himself, resenting the empty spot beside him in their bed. But every night he slept alone and miserable. If his wife wanted to blame him so badly, she could do it alone.

"I don't blame you. I'm angry, but I...I don't blame you."

To Robb's ears, she sounded unsure, and it hurt. "There is nothing to discuss. The riverlands are burning. My father is trying to get a handle on things, and my mother hasn't sent word since she started for the Eyrie." He explained in an exasperated rush. This was hard enough to deal with. He didn't want Sylvia here nagging him and making it harder.

"Have you thought to send aid? Thought of trying to dissuade your mother from starting a war?"

"Your mother's men killed my father's men. Good men, men you knew." He stepped closer to her until they were almost abreast and she could smell the scent of boiled leather and smoke on him. "You've bought pies off their wives, they stitch your clothes. You've kept company with them. You've seen their children play in the godswood, run through our halls. You know them, Sylvia!" Sylvia broke his gaze, closing her eyes to rid herself of the memory of agonized widows and confused and frightened children.

She'd been beside Robb when they informed the wives of their husbands' deaths. Not since Bran's accident had she heard such naked misery, and in a rush to quieten their tears, she'd promised them protection and compensation to keep their families going a few months until things had settled. It had felt so wretchedly futile, insulting in its meagreness, but Elane had told her that the widows would be grateful for it later.

"I know!" she shouted.

"And do they not deserve justice?" he bit back.

"Of course they do, of course, but—"

"Their lives are not worth as much as one Lannister?" he said harshly.

An icy fist closed around her heart, pain seeping into her veins like ice water. "Do not insult me to keep from answering a question!" she did not want him to truly know how much his words had hurt her. Robb saw it though. He saw her flinch, he saw her eyes widen, he saw the little tremble in her lip, and regret swelled within him. He wanted to take it back, but doing so would admit defeat.

"Any move I make could ignite us into war, Sylvia." He spoke calmly. "If I move one way, I lose respect in the north. If I move another way, I insult your mother's pride. Nothing will work in our favour to move now." he moved away, meaning to go around the desk and find the raven's scroll his father had sent, relaying that fact.

"Removing Tyrion from Catelyn's custody would work in everyone's favour." Robb halted his searching, saying nothing. "You haven't even sent word to her, have you? To the Eyrie? Does she even know the turmoil she's caused?" she concluded accusingly.

Her husband's eyes snapped up to hers, hard and wild. "You think I haven't sent letters to the Eyrie asking my mother what she was thinking?! Every letter I've sent goes unanswered. I don't know for sure if they're even reaching her."

"You told me you would do nothing to stop her." she snapped hotly.

"I ask her to plead with Lysa for aid to the riverlands." He could see the doubt written on her face, an incredulous look of disbelief and annoyance that irked him. "I'll write a letter to her in front of you. Would that please you?" His voice was fast and derisive.

Sylvia repaid his sarcasm with some of her own. "Oh yes, please. Even though you won't send it, I'll be giddy to know you've made an effort." Her husband huffed and stepped around to grab some fresh parchment stacked on a cluster of books near the fire.

So fast and angry were his movements that he didn't notice Mini's rattle lying on the floor between him and the pile and suddenly stepped on the round head of it. Sylvia watched with wide eyes as Robb fell back and landed on his high born arse with a startled cry. For a long moment, it was quiet, the two of them staring at each other with astonishment.

But then Sylvia shattered the silence with a tentative giggle, mindful that this could embarrass and irritate her husband further, but unable to hold back. His face! That startled little yelp!

She laughed long and high, her eyes tearing up and her belly aching as her mirth rolled on and on, until she was breathless and red and clutching her stomach. She was as giddy as a little girl, her worry and stress and fear and anger melting away to reveal her for the young woman she truly was.

Robb could not stop the smile forming on his lips as his wife laughed. When she laughed herself onto a stool and then promptly off of it, landing with a thump and a cry, he snorted at her. Before long, they were both laughing like they used to, without any sign of stopping.

"Our families are starting a war and we can't stop them." She giggled as she righted herself on the floor. She sat across from him, her dress tangled about her legs.

"My mother abducted your uncle from an inn!" Robb bellowed breathlessly.

"My mother actually cares!" she chortled.

"I have no idea what's happening!"

"Neither do I!"

They shrieked with mad glee, Sylvia nearly falling over once again, only steadied by a hand anchored to the floor. Robb tossed his head back and smacked the bookcase behind him with a thump that made them laugh harder. It was all so absurd. The entire situation, and the only way to keep from suddenly crying or screaming, was to laugh.

But as their laughter at the ridiculous situation faded, the true stink of their circumstances came back around.

Sylvia's smile faded away, her hands sliding slowly from her belly and to her lap where they rested limply. Robb tilted his head back to rest on the bookcase and sighed.

Sitting there had a calming quality about it, the silence dragging them into a sense of normalcy. Perhaps it was because they both knew it was rare, that it would not last and that it was unknown when (or even if) this would be again. She looked at her husband, and he looked at his wife. Both without annoyance, and without thought of the circumstances which had brought them here. At odds with each other.

They'd been together through so much and they'd promised to be by each other's side through much worse. But now that vow was challenged and it was harder to keep it. They needed each other now, but they were on opposite ends, pushing against each other.

Without being asked, Sylvia pushed herself up and crawled to Robb's side, curling herself against him with her head on his shoulder. The northerner curled his arms around her, holding his wife close and pressing his nose to her hair.

For just a moment, the world was forgotten. For just a moment, they were husband and wife. For just a moment, they could support each other without betraying their beliefs.

"Will you come back to me tonight?" he asked softly, as though afraid to know the answer.

"I will." She replied after a moment, pressing her cold nose against her husband's neck.

"Do you love your children?"

"With all my heart." The northern lord replied.

"No more than I love mine." Said the queen.

"They're all Jaime's." Ned felt sick then, his mind swirling with thoughts of his son's wife, his own good-daughter, who had given them a little wolf pup to love. She was part of this abomination, born from the kingslayer and his sister, raised in lies and passed off as Robert's. Half of Ned wanted to leave the queen in the garden, to forget what he knew and spare his family—his son and granddaughter—the hurt and shame of knowing this depravity.

The queen looked very bitter then, a joyless smile crossing her lips. "No," she finally answered. "Robert got a child on me once, and I abided my duty as his queen and wife to give him an heir. But I gave him a girl; Sylvia is his." She would not tell this schemer about her lost boy. He had no right to even have Steffon's name in his mouth. She laughed at the soft sigh of relief that left him. "Look not so afraid, Lord Stark. If Sylvia were born golden haired, it would make no difference now."

"It would make all the difference." He insisted.

"Would it? If she were born Jaime's—if only that were changed, nothing else—she would still be your son's wife, would still have bore him a daughter, and would still be loved in the north. You'd be hard pressed to uproot her, when she's lain her roots down already." There was pride in the queen's voice, for although she would have it that Sylvia could come home and be away from the snarling wolves, she was pleased that Lord Stark could not simply cut the tethers which held her there. It made her safe.

"Why none else? Why only Sylvia?"

"Do you think I'd give him the honour of fathering my children?" she paused. "I haven't allowed him inside me in years. In the rare even that Robert leaves his whores long enough to stumble drunk into my bed, I finish him off in other ways; in the morning he doesn't remember."

"You've always hated him." Eddarad concluded. If she hadn't had any other children from Robert but for the firstborn, how could she love him? She did her duty, and that's where her devotion and respect for Robert had ended. With Sylvia.

"Hated him? I worshiped him. Every girl in the Seven Kingdoms dreamed of him, but he was mine by oath." She lifted her chin proudly, meeting his eye without flinching. "When I finally saw him on our wedding day in the Sept of Baelor, lean and fierce and black bearded, it was the happiest moment of my life. It's only for that adoration that Sylvia is even here. My love for Robert Baratheon faded when he climbed on top of me the night we wed, and moaned Lyanna over and over in my ear. It lasted long enough to bring Sylvia into the world." she said. "But your sister...She was a corpse and I was a living girl, and he loved her more than me."

Eddard looked away, as though he could not look at her a moment longer. The royal marriage was not the sort of marriage he would wish on anyone. It was cold, loveless, with four children put between them—regardless of whether or not they were all Robert's. He pitied their children. Pitied the woman before him for living as she did. Pitied Robert, his oldest friend for having nothing else, not even a wife and children, left to carry on his legacy.

"When the king returns from his hunt, I will tell him the truth. You must be gone by then. You and your children. I will not have their blood on my hands. I will keep my son married to your daughter. She is innocent of all this and I will ensure she is well cared for. But go as far away as you can, with as many men as you can. Because wherever you go, Robert's wrath will follow you."

The queen eyed him curiously. Did he think himself honourable? Did he think himself clever or merciful? Cersei knew not what the foolish lord thought of himself, but whatever it was he was none of those things. Her son would be king. Her children would not live a life of fear, would not live looking over their shoulders, in fear that the man they'd once called father would find them and butcher them. She would not have her name dragged through the mud. She would not have Sylvia shamed and shunned, alone in the world with all that she'd known called into question. She'd die before any of that happened.

He would not threaten her and her children without consequence.

"And what of my wrath Lord Stark?"

THERE WE ARE!

I know Sylvia seems like a bitch, but she was raised a princess, prim and proper, and was under Cersei, Robert and Tywin's shadow all her childhood. Tywin's influence on her really shows up now that the riverlands are under attack on his orders. Sylvia was raised to respect and fear Tywin in equal measure, but now she fears him more than respects him because she and the people she loves, are on his bad side. Fear makes people angry, and frantic, and all she wants is to get the Starks away from Tywin's wrath, which she knows to be boundless and ruthless.

Please oh please give me reviews. I can't go on without them. Sounds pathetic, maybe, but I would like some feedback to I know if I'm doing good or if I need to reevaluate.