HEY! I'm back again, as promised!

I don't own nothing, but my ideas, so don't steal them, please :D

This chapter is dedicated to darkwolf76, because she has really kicked my ass into gear and has helped me so much these past few chapters, I really couldn't have survived it without her :D

Chapter 22: ...But You Don't Succeed

On the far side of the godswood, settled beside the North Gate and enclosed by ancient moss covered walls, a glass and steel structure arose, bright and gleaming in the dim northern sun. Heated by underground hot springs, the gardens supported a wealth of vegetation that would never survive were it not for the pipes pumping the spring water throughout Winterfell.

In her first days as Lady Catelyn's ward, she'd been sullen, lonely for her home and for her family, and there was little that could bring a smile to her face. After being toured through Winterfell by the Stark sisters, she quickly decided the Glass Gardens would be her sanctuary from the rest of Winterfell. It was warm, it had familiar plants, and best of all, the Stark siblings never went there.

Her longing for home drew her to the humid gardens often. She would sit beside the box growing the carrots, feel the heat making her sweat in her thick northern dress, and close her eyes so she could pretend she was home—far from the Starks and far from the stupid boy her father wanted her to wed.

In her mind's eye, she could see the Red Keep, see Bryda, see her mother and father. She would play with Myrcella in their mother's apartments, setting up a pretend royal luncheon, setting three places, when only two of them would attend. But when she opened her eyes, she was back in the freezing north, feeling as though she'd lost something so vital to her existence, yet was made to live with the loss.

Time passed, and the princess warmed to her betrothed and came to accept Winterfell as her new home. Thus, her visits of indulgence to the gardens ceased. Women put away childish things, and pretending to be somewhere else was childish. The ache inside her faded, sure enough.

Sylvia all but ran through the grounds of Winterfell, her blood thundering in her ears as the frigid northern air burned her lungs with each quick breath. Her head spun with thoughts of that wildling, of the danger she posed to the young Stark boys. True, she'd yielded, and mercy was one of her husband's finest qualities, but she'd rather the wildling stay well away from her family.

The lady felt ill to think of what she could have done—what she might be capable of doing. She had reason enough, didn't she? Robb killed her companions, and took her prisoner, locked her in chains and set her to work. Wildlings surely didn't do things they way they did, and who was to say she didn't want revenge?

But, a little thought suggested, what if she is trying to make amends? She scoffed to herself. The southerner had heard the stories of wildlings, how they stole, how they raped (a Stark ancestor had apparently been taken by some "King-Beyond-The-Wall" and birthed a son from the union) how they followed no law and no king nor lord. She doubted the wildling knew what amends meant.

And still, the foolish little thought was enough to slow her feet, and quieten the thundering in her ears.

When the structure came into view, doubt began to creep into Sylvia's blood. She didn't want to fight with her husband, not when she knew he was trying to enjoy a bit of time with their child. One late night, moons before, they'd stared down at their little baby, sleeping peacefully in her cradle. Robb turned towards her and told her that Mini made the world seem simpler, his troubles seem smaller.

Deep in her heart, she knew he'd only given the boys a free day out of kindness. But his kindness had sent them to a wildling—a chained wildling, but a wildling nonetheless.

Anything could have happened. Anything. What if, somehow, that woman came upon Elane with Mini?

A rush of warm air washed over her when she pushed the wood door open, and then, suddenly, she was back home in King's Landing, soaking in the sun, breathing in the ocean, never knowing her days there were numbered. But then she heard Robb's voice, and let her head loll forward to rest against the frozen wood of the door.

"Look at this, sweet girl, look." she heard Robb say softly. "Your mother wanted to wear these in her hair when we wed." Sylvia pushed off from the door and stepped farther in. The door closed softly behind her, and Sylvia peeked around a tomato plant and spied her husband and daughter marveling at the winter rose bush a few feet away, unaware of her presence.

"But she wore a jewelled hair net instead." Mother said it suited me better. "She was so beautiful that day, I couldn't believe she was real. I thought she was one of Theon's sirens, come to beguile me." The honesty in his voice made her smile, heat rushing to her cheeks. She watched Mini reach out a pudgy hand for the velvety soft petals of the blue rose, tiny fingers brushing against them before Robb drew back.

"Soft, eh? But sharp. See the thorns? You mustn't touch those."

A warm smile spread over her lips to watch them together, her anger losing its bite. It always made her happy to see them spending time together, because Robb was a good father. He loved Mini with all his heart; there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for her. Although she knew he had to be pragmatic about Mini's future, she believed he'd never propose a match for their baby without knowing she would be safe, and happy. He would never ship her off to some stranger with only selfish ambition in mind.

Robb's arm curled around Mini, who went without her wraps and furs in the humid enclosure. With her arms freed, one little hand curled in her father's auburn locks, while the other hand reached out for the winter roses again.

He looked happy, at ease. Gods knew there hadn't been enough of that in the last few months.

It was then that she stepped away from the tomato plant and started towards them, the nervousness in her belly fading away. At the sound of her footsteps, the young Lord Stark turned to see her, and Sylvia was struck for a moment. His smile was warm, and there was not a hint of caution in his face. Sylvia didn't take joy in the idea of pouncing on him now.

"Robb Stark in the Glass Gardens." She spoke, a shade of humor colouring her voice. "I never would have thought." Until Lorry told me, after you set the boys loose in the godswood. She plucked up a pea blossom as she walked, holding it in her hands and twisting it between her fingers. "What made you decide to brave the humidity?" Robb got frizzy and sweaty in humid places. He didn't mind so much in the godswood hot springs, but the Glass Gardens was another matter entirely.

"I thought it was a good day to show her a garden." He replied, looking down at their child with a smile. In truth, it had been a raven's scroll that had been the root of it. A raven from his Uncle Edmure at Riverrun had come, bearing more news of the destruction of the riverlands. The Mountain—Tywin Lannister's lackey—hadn't attacked any holdfasts (yet), but the small folk and their homes were being reduced to rubble. Uncle Edmure concluded by asking for his nephew's support in defending his father's lands.

Of course Robb would back his uncle in any way he could, but when he voiced as much to Maester Luwin, he was reminded of the implications of such a deed. His House was still under scrutiny from the Crown, after his mother took the queen's brother as hostage. He was freed now, but still, the Mountain terrorized the Tully's lands, leaving behind ashes and homeless small folk.

If he acted, and sent aid to his mother's family, there could be consequences unforeseen to his House. To his father, his sisters, vulnerable in King's Landing.

With a heavy heart, Robb wrote out a short message back to Edmure. Bran was utterly confused at his brother's choice—he kept asking why they weren't going to help, why the Mountain was destroying their grandfather's lands in the first place, why they weren't going to help stop him when he was doing something unlawful. It was difficult to explain to the boy, and Robb's heart sank even further to the ground.

When had it stopped being simple? As he looked at Bran's face—confused and joyless—Robb made his choice. He called for Hodor and told Bran to get Rickon and to go have a bit of fun for a change. When his brother told him there would be no more lessons for the rest of the day, Bran didn't question him.

Once the two younger Starks were gone, Robb left as well, searching for a bit of solace.

"Mamamamamama." The baby babbled at seeing her, a smile brightening her sweet little face, two tiny teeth gleaming whitely.

Sylvia smiled back at her child, raising a hand to run her gloved fingers across her chubby cheek. "Hello, my sweet girl." She greeted her, holding the delicate flower out to her. The baby took it, staring at it with wonder, babbling excitedly as she examined it. Sylvia watched for a moment as her little fingers slowly approached the petals, seeming almost afraid of harming her new toy. Her heart ached with love at her sweetness, at her goodness.

"Did the boys not want to come?" she asked, tearing her eyes away from the baby, and looking back up at her husband.

He shook his head. "I told them to go play. It's been hard these past months. They've hardly smiled since mother went." His eyes turned down.

Rickon still asked after his father and sisters, after Jon, and now, after his mother. He asked mostly for his mother, though. Always, they'd tell the boy they'd gone because they had to, because duty had called them away. As if that would make him feel a little less lonely. Bran was still coming to terms with the loss of his legs, still getting used to the things he couldn't do, and the things that now required help.

She couldn't imagine how he must feel, to wake up with so much loss.

Suffice it to say the boys were not very jovial these days. Robb ought to have given them a free day sooner.

They needed their mother, needed her words, her love, her kindness. She will return soon, Sylvia thought, the notion giving her a bit of comfort. Tyrion was traveling back to King's Landing from the Eyrie and Eddard would track down her stupid Uncle Jaime with father's orders and—

Sylvia's thoughts stopped cold. It would be Joffrey's orders now that he was king, and Joffrey listened to mother above all. And mother loved Uncle Jaime. There was little chance for the slaughtered northmen to receive justice with Joffrey sitting the throne. She would be surprised if he even cared. The injustice of letting those deaths go unpunished would lay the first brick of many that would build her brother's rule as king. A weak foundation will not make for a very happy reign, the ominous thought made her shiver.

The north would never forget the murder of their men by the hands of Lannister guardsmen. Part of Sylvia feared they'd look to her and see nothing but the king's sister.

Gods be good, everything was changed with father gone. Often she had to remind herself that everything would be as Joffrey decreed it, as Joffrey deemed agreeable and just. She wanted to have faith, but she knew Joffrey. She knew how horrible and cruel he could be, and knew that at some point, something would displease him enough to bring out the monster in him. She only prayed it was not Sansa.

Yet, there may be some hope for the kingdoms. With Eddard Stark as his Hand, at least there would be one voice of wisdom and honour on the Small Council. The only other man she knew on the king's council was her sweet, dear Uncle Renly, but she knew him little when it came to his political opinions. When he wrote, he hardly talked of it, and it was a long time since he'd written to her. The last letter she'd been able to send to him was during her mourning period, and she did not expect an answer for a while yet.

Sylvia took in a short breath, reaching out and plucking a blue rose. "Next time, you must send them out with guards." From the corner of her eye, she saw Robb turn to her questioningly, and turned to meet his gaze, twisting the rose stem between her fingers. "I caught Bran talking alone with that wildling in the godswood." She explained, watching as he blinked in surprise. "I sent her back to the kitchens, and he got angry at me. So at least he's unharmed."

"They're still in the godswood?"

"With Hodor and their wolves."

Robb nodded, looked to their daughter, now happily pulling the petals out of her little flower. "I'll have words with him later." He promised.

"Have them with that wildling too. She's the one who ought to know better than to approach a little lord." She said coldly, remembering the way Bran had defended her, how his eyes had burned with determination and knowing, and suddenly, there was the strangest, most annoying sense of shame welling up in her belly. I've done nothing wrong, she thought.

Robb looked back up to her, listening to the anger of her voice. He could understand her feelings, but that didn't mean they were entirely called for. Not at this point. The wildling, Osha as she called herself, never complained about her station, or her chains. The cooks reported to him, and told him that she never complained about the work they set for her. More than a month passed them without incident from the woman, and Robb thought it fair to grant her the small freedom of leaving kitchens to seek solace with the gods.

"I'm not going to whip her in the streets, Sylvia." His voice was low and final. She was their prisoner, but also their guest since she'd yielded. To punish her for enjoying what freedom he granted her would be cruel, and bring shame upon him.

The southern girl blinked. "I'm not asking you to." She said, sounding a little affronted. A lashing sounded quite harsh, even to Sylvia. If there's ever a next time, perhaps, she thought. She hoped there was never a next time, both for Bran and for the wildling's sake. "Just remind her of her place here."

"She wears chains at all times. I don't think she'd ever forget her place here." Damn his quick wit, she thought. He was making it very difficult to stay angry.

"I don't like her talking to Bran." She countered indignantly. "It isn't right."

Robb raised an auburn brow. "All servants talk to their betters." He reminded her.

Her ears reddened. "But other servants didn't come under our employ after trying to strip a little lord of all his finery, or after trying to bash your head in. Other servants are not wildlings, without any sense of honour or control."

"What good would it do her to bring harm to Bran? A noose to swing from or a sword to chop off her head. The woman is bound in chains, so she can't get very far if she did harm him. She might be a wildling, but I don't think anyone is that stupid." Mini gave confused coo in his arms, her blue eyes leaving her flower to look up at her father.

Sylvia could not deny the logic in his words, and was quiet as she considered them, wondering if she was being ridiculous, if her worries had any merit. If the woman did not plan to hurt Bran or Rickon, was there still reason to be upset? But what if the wildling used her words to hurt him, telling him foul lies, making him feel wretched? Bran was already fragile, he didn't need someone filling his head with despair, or making him feel like he had no life without his legs.

"We've all been through hell, these past weeks." He reminded her gently, stepping closer to her. "I think we can allow ourselves one day of silliness before getting back to it."

A laugh broke out from Sylvia, and her amused eyes met his. "I think you're an imposter. This can't be my husband saying these things. Suggesting these things to me." Robb—her dutiful, lawful, lordly husband was suggesting...they play hooky?

"Would an imposter know that you are dreadful at pulling carrots?" He teased, plucking the rose from her fingers and slipping it into the braid at her temple.

Sylvia blushed, a wide smile pulling at her lips, and she looked down to hide it. She'd run away to the Glass Gardens so often, that her betrothed's parents took notice, and in an effort to bring the two closer, they'd sent the lordling and the princess to the gardens together, tasked with picking carrots and onions for supper.

"This is servant's work." She complained as she half-heartedly tugged on the carrot leaves. Back in King's Landing, the princess had picked apples and strawberries with her little sister, but that was a lot less dirty, and more for fun than actual work. They'd also eaten most of what they harvested before they made it to the kitchens.

"You can go back to mother and father empty handed if you like." Young Robb had groused back to her, yanking his onions from the dirt with a grunt, spraying the princess with damp earth. Indignant and wanting to prove herself, she gripped a carrot's leaves, and pulled hard, only for the leaves to rip off. The damned vegetable remained in the dirt, and she'd stumbled back and slipped on a bit of manure.

"That was once, you damned bully." She grumbled, lightly shoving his arm. "And anyone could know that, with how you laughed about it after." She got him back though, she was happy to say. With a little help from Arya, Robb's room had stunk for weeks. Sylvia lost a dress to the stink of manure, but Robb lost an entire bed.

Robb got a thoughtful look on his face, and after a moment, it dissolved into wickedness. I'm the only one who gets to see this side of him. This playful side of him, unobstructed by formality, because he loves me and trusts me. The thought gave her pleasure.

"Would an imposter know that you have a strawberry birthmark, very, very low on your back, shaped a little like a—"

"Shut it!" she hissed, rushing forward to cover Mini's ears. Robb chuckled, and let her take the baby from his arms.

"Mini, your father is a very mean boy." she jested to the infant, brushing her nose against the baby's. Minisa smiled at her mother, raising her little hands to her face.

"And your mother is terrible at pulling carrots." Robb countered, coming closer to his wife and child. The couple shared a smile, and for a moment, they were quiet, and enjoyed the peace of the moment.

But too soon, Sylvia's smile waned.

"I should get back." She said softly, swaying on her feet out of a habit formed when Mini was first born. "I want to send a guard to make sure that woman stays away from the boys." Even if Robb was right about that wildling not intending to harm the boys, she wanted the assurance of a sword close at hand.

"You sent her back to the kitchens, and the boys have their wolves. Don't fret over this, Syl, you've no reason to." Robb reminded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You know the boys are safe. I imagine they're trying to make the most of today, as well. We should too."

Sylvia considered this for a long moment. Robb made a keen offer, to be sure. She could play with Mini, could be with Robb and laugh and talk and just...be a family for a while. The notion of spending an afternoon with her husband and daughter made her pile of letters and scrolls and her open books accounting for the inventory of Winterfell's stores seem very...cold and unappealing.

"You're good at arguing your point. You'd be a fine vendor, you know."

Robb laughed.

Robb and his lady had long since left the Glass Gardens when Maester Luwin found them.

Mini had begun fussing, and Sylvia concluded it was hunger. So the lord and lady made way to the Great Hall to take in a late supper. Plates, cups and half eaten meals still remained left over from the servants taking their supper, and Robb piled a few plates up to make room for him and his wife. Before long, a serving girl set down two bowls of leftover lamb stew and a small serving of mashed turnips and carrots for Mini. Since Mini had taken to chomping down, Sylvia had begun to wean her off the breast.

They ate and talked happily, and by the time Mini's mashed vegetables was half gone, the babe was dozing sleepily in her mother's arms.

"Can we go riding, soon?" Sylvia asked, softly, mindful of her sleeping baby. "We haven't been out on our horses together in so long."

Robb grinned. "I thought you might not want to go after what happened in the Wolfswood."

When she smiled at him, it was full of mischief. "I wasn't thinking of riding to the Wolfswood. Maybe the moors will spin their magic a second time, and bless Mini with a brother." They shared a secret smile. In private, they liked to joke that they'd made Mini on a ride they'd taken through the moors. Their jovial ride took a pleasurable turn when they decided to rest at the base of a grassy hill, and soon they were tangled together, hidden where no one could see them, lost in a lusty haze until they pulled apart, breathless and sated.

As they smiled and made plans to run away for a private ride in the coming days, Maester Luwin found them, stepping into the Great Hall, his maester's chain rattling softly as he approached his lord and lady. For a moment, seeing them together at the table—laughing, smiling, a babe in the southern woman's arms—it was almost like watching Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn.

Lord Stark was Robb's age when he went off to war the first time, and now young Robb would have to answer the call to rescue his family, just as his father had years before.

"My lord, my lady," he greeted them. "This matter requires your immediate attention." His hands appeared from his sleeves, holding out a rolled up scroll to Robb. Sylvia could see the crimson seal, the roaring lion of House Lannister stamped into the wax. Sylvia felt her heart sink at the maester's solemn voice, steeling herself for whatever horrible news he surely had.

Carefully, still holding her sleeping baby, she lifted her skirts as she stepped out from the bench, standing beside her husband. Courage, she thought, lifting her chin. A stag of Storms End doesn't flinch in the face of a storm.

Robb took the scroll from his old teacher, and quickly read through the message with stern eyes. Sylvia watched him, her belly twisting a little when his brows furrowed with bewilderment. What could be scrawled on that little bit of paper? Dark wings, dark words, the saying went.

Finally, her husband spoke, and it was the worst possible thing he could have said. "Treason?" his voice filled with shock and horror alike.

Catelyn appeared in her mind. Sylvia paled. "Treason?" she gasped. "Robb let me see." One hand holding her daughter, she took the scroll from her husband's limp hands.

Robb,

Our lord father, Eddard Stark has committed high treason against His Grace, King Joffrey Baratheon, in an attempt to steal the throne. He remains the Crown's prisoner until His Grace decides his fate. I am well, I am safe. You, your lady wife, and our lady mother must come to King's Landing and bend the knee to King Joffrey. Come at once. Save our father, save our House. Prove to the King that the Starks are not rebels and traitors, and beg leniency for our father. Make haste.

Sansa Stark

For a long moment, the southern girl could only stare at the scroll, wondering if she'd read it right, or if it was counterfeit. Because it couldn't be true. It simply couldn't. Her brother couldn't have arrested Robb's father for...treason. Lord Eddard couldn't have tried to usurp Joffrey. Why would he? His daughter was to be the queen one day. It made no sense for him to contend Joffrey's rule. None at all.

But she was staring down at the words that told her otherwise. In Sansa's handwriting.

Fury bubbled in her belly the longer she stared at the scroll, the more she thought of what her vile, stupid, reckless little brother had done. Was this a show of power, to the new king? Was this revenge for Catelyn taking Tyrion?

"This is vile filth." She hissed, tossing the scroll to the floor.

"Sansa wrote this?" Robb asked, his voice a little calmer than his wife's. But he sounded...betrayed.

The maester nodded once. "It is your sister's hand, but the queen's words." He assured judiciously, his eyes straying to Sylvia's still form. The lady didn't react. "You and Lady Sylvia are summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king." Sylvia looked up at the maester. Summoned to the Capitol, when her good-father rotted in chains under allegations of treason?

"Joffrey puts my father in chains, and now he wants his arse kissed?" Robb's voice was harsh.

"This is a royal command, my lord." Maester Luwin explained sagely. "If you should refuse to obey—" it would be treason, Sylvia thought. Maester Luwin had taught her what it meant to be a rebel, what happened during war, and sieges. They were not lessons befitting a lady, but they were necessary. If she was to be Lady Stark, she had to be prepared for the worst.

If they refused, they'd be hunted down, northern lands burned, their men slaughtered like animals in the field for fighting for their lord. Their forces would be driven back, and they'd become trapped in their castle, until starvation took them, or Winterfell was sacked. Then, the King would deal out justice if they were still alive, and their heads would be dipped in tar, and put on spikes as a warning to other would-be mutineers.

But my mother is the queen...my brother is the king. They wouldn't do that to me, wouldn't do that to the Starks.

"I won't refuse." Robb said. "His Grace summons me to King's Landing; I'll go to King's Landing." There was something queer in his voice, a determination Sylvia hadn't expected. She'd thought he'd be angry, frightened and confused as she was. But he was determined. "But not alone." She looked up at him just in time to see him look Luwin in the eyes, those river blue pools, now cold as ice. "Call the banners."

Coldness swept through Sylvia, horror clawing up her throat. "No, wait Robb. Let's just think about this for a moment." She pleaded, raising a hand to grip his arm.

Robb met her eyes. All the joy was gone, and in its place was all the fierceness of a wolf. "There is nothing to think about, Sylvia. That boy-king put my father in chains. You know those accusations are false!" Mini stirred against her mother's shoulder.

"Calling the banners and marching on King's Landing will mean war." She said, wondering if he truly knew what this meant. Robb did know, and he was afraid, perhaps just as afraid as his wife. But he couldn't show her that.

"Your brother's already started the war, him and your grandfather. Joffrey is not going to drag my father through the mud and ask me to lick his boots." It was a wolf snarling at her, and she couldn't help but drawback, gripped by a touch of fear. He paid no mind, and turned back to Luwin. "Call the banners." He ordered again.

Sylvia trembled. "Robb, please don't do this." she thought of the Targaryen babes, butchered in their sleep by her grandfather's orders. Their only crime had been bearing the Targaryen name, but that was enough to warrant their deaths. Sylvia knew her grandfather little, but she knew the stories about him. "There has to be another way." She could not think of one, but with time, perhaps they could.

"There isn't." It was Lord Robb's voice that spoke to her, and at that moment, Sylvia knew there was nothing she could say to make him listen. "You know that, somewhere, deep in your heart. You know that."

"But you don't know Joffrey." Her words hung in the air for a long moment, until she looked away from him and rushed from the hall.

This will make things worse, this will ravish the land, his host will be a display of defiance, and Joffrey hates it when people move against him. The thoughts swirled round and round in Sylvia's mind as she walked through the corridor leading towards the Great Keep. But when she was at the bottom of the stone steps, she found she couldn't move to climb them. Her feet felt like lead.

If she went back to their rooms, her husband would find her soon enough. Sylvia couldn't stand the thought to being near him now. Even the thoughts of him touching her gently, offering her his arms and giving soft words of comfort infuriated her. She'd throw something at him, beat her hands against him, and shove him away— all before allowing him to come near her.

The shock of what Robb had done still hadn't worn off, and Sylvia could hardly believe what she'd just seen, what she'd just learned. It seemed so impossible. Lord Eddard was put in chains after some ludicrous accusation of treason, and her husband would go south, leading a host to war, so he could free his father.

Sylvia understood her husband's decision—truly she did. If it were Robert who'd been taken prisoner, she'd rally the might of the Storm Lands with her uncles and brothers to see him freed. She'd see castles pulled to the ground, farmlands salted, and ancient houses uprooted to have someone she loved returned to her. Honour and pride would be restored to her House, along with her father, by seeing his captors justly punished.

But Robert was dead, and Lord Stark's captors were her family.

Resentment bubbled in her gut to think of Joffrey, their father's crown settled amongst his golden hair. If he were here now, she'd snatch that crown off his head, and beat him with it, until the golden antlers left long bloody streaks over his face, and he cowered in defeat.

He'd always been a cruel one, but she never realized how truly stupid her brother was. Did he imagine that Robb would tremble and grovel at his feet when he put Lord Eddard in chains? Is that what he wanted—to shame her husband's House, and slide a knife between his sister's ribs? There couldn't be any truth to those accusations, she knew, and so Joffrey must have acted without thinking. He must have judged Lord Stark before the man had a chance to explain whatever it was that had so clearly offended Joffrey.

Her brother had always wanted to hurt her, even when they were apart for years, and became a stranger to her. Her little brother called her a whore, called her husband an impotent sod, and suggested that her husband was not their daughter's father. All under the Starks own roof, after drinking their wine, eating their food. Joffrey hated her, and now he was ruining everything, just as she'd feared.

Their father was turning in his grave, surely. That thought gave her a little spark of pleasure, knowing that their father would likely disown Joffrey for what he was doing now. If he were feeling generous.

Her mother, the Queen, was just as at fault, but Sylvia's heart twisted to think it. She didn't want to be this angry at her mother, it felt wrong. It felt like the sort of anger that wouldn't ever go away—the kind that festered on inside her, until all that was left was hatred.

The southern girl shook her head. No, she thought defiantly. Joffrey did this, he's king now and doubtless that crown has started to compress his stupid head. Mother would have stopped him if she could.

But still, the fury wasn't soothed, and her family was still ripping apart. Like her marriage with Lord Stark's heir meant nothing.

Once or twice in her life Sylvia had felt truly helpless, and this was fast approaching one of those times. She could do nothing to stop this conflict. Not when Robb wanted his father back. Not when battle hardened lords sought to defend their home's integrity. Not when her pleas for peace would fall on deaf ears.

Sylvia lost herself in thought and when she felt a cold breeze strike her in the face, she was surprised to find that she'd wandered outside, into the courtyard. A concerned frown creased her brows.

The southern girl felt dizzy, out of breath, and wanted to just get away from Robb, from Winterfell, from war, from her family—everything. If she were calmer, she might have been disgusted with herself for her cowardice, for her childishness, and go back to her husband with her head held high. Unbidden, another bite of shame came upon her. She was a princess; she should be stronger than this. But she wasn't, and that thought shamed her deeply.

The cold was creeping up her legs, chilling them even through her stockings, while another icy cold finger crept down her dress, freezing her to the bone. If only she'd gotten to don her cloak before the maester delivered his foul news. Alas, it was still folded up on a bench, and she was walking through the northern air, frozen, upset and alone.

A tiny, soft mewl was murmured against her neck, and it reminded her that she wasn't alone. At least you're warm, she thought dimly as she pulled Mini's swaddling blankets up around her little ears.

How had their lives become so complicated, and so quickly, too? This morning, she'd woken with a sense of excitement, a sense of purpose and hope. Of course, peace in the kingdoms was shaky, but she'd never thought all out war to be an option. How had she not minded the signs? Was she ignorant by her own stupidity or by just not wanting to see the discontent growing between the Starks and the Crown? Or the Lannisters more like. Sylvia's belly twisted.

Catelyn took Tyrion. Jaime slaughtered Lord Stark's men and crippled him in retaliation. Her grandfather was putting the riverlands—Catelyn's girlhood home—to the sword and torch. And yet she thought it could go back to normal, she thought once Tyrion was away from Catelyn, it would be done and forgotten.

She'd thought her marriage to Lord Stark's heir might be enough to keep the peace, and still, it had not.

She'd make her bed in the Guest House, tonight. Her family had resided there when the Starks hosted them, and no one would think to look there. Sylvia had taken part in the preparations for the royal family's visit, and saw that their accommodations were comfortable, warm and clean. Mini would stay with her tonight. She needed her now more than her husband did, and if Robb wanted to show her kindness, he'd leave her alone.

The northern air made her shiver, and once more she wished for her cloak, but she didn't pause in her journey towards the Guest House. If she stopped, it would be another moment spent in the icy breeze. Yet when a serving girl came towards her, concern etching into her plain face, Sylvia's feet stopped.

"M'lady!" the girl gasped, dropping her basket of freshly washed sheets. Her hands came about her Lady's shoulders in a bold fashion that would have earned her a day in the stocks had they been in the south, and if Sylvia was feeling spiteful. "You'll catch your death without a cloak." Sylvia cast a look to the hands gripping her shoulders, and up to the woman holding them, not really seeing the woman before her.

"Build me a fire in the Guest House." She commanded, not able to contain her shiver. She was so cold, and yet Mini still slept on.

The maid blinked, her hands loosening their concerned grip. "B-but wouldn't m'lady rather be—"

"Now." Sylvia said, a touch of desperation creeping into her voice. The maid nodded, appearing sheepish at her lady's harsh tone. "And bring me something to drink, as well."

The serving girl did not argue this time, bending her knees to scoop up her basket. "Wine or water, m'lady?" she asked softly.

Suddenly, there was a caw above them, and another hundred followed in reply. The gentle beats of a thousand flapping wings filled the air, and she saw the maid look to the sky, confusion pulling her brows together. Sylvia watched too, as what seemed to be every raven in the rookery flew out of sight, delivering their message of war to the lords of the north. Damn you, Luwin, she thought, tears burning her eyes. It appeared he hadn't even waited in obeying his lord's commands.

There is no one else in Winterfell to support me, no one else who doesn't want war. Never before had she felt more an outsider.

"Wine." She finally answered the maid, pulling her bleary eyes away from the sky. "Don't you dare tell Lord Robb where I am."

Mini was still sleeping when the serving girl returned with her drink, still asleep when she built the fire. Sylvia ached for her daughter to wake. If she were awake, she could melt away her mother's troubles for a few hours, just by smiling up at her. But she'd had an active day with her mother and father, and was likely to sleep the rest of the night.

Let her sleep, Sylvia thought, let her have sweet dreams where nothing evil or ugly exists.

The southerner lost herself in her thoughts, thinking over and over again on Eddard Stark and the treasons her mother and brother accused him of. It had to be false. Her father-in-law was good and loyal and honourable. He wouldn't try to usurp his dearest friend's son from his throne. He loved her father too greatly. With a mild touch of bitterness, she remembered how her father been happier to see Lord Eddard than her, long ago when she was still virginal Sylvia Baratheon.

Had it anyone else who'd taken Eddard, there would be no hesitation on Sylvia's part. She'd help the maester write the raven's scrolls herself.

But, as when Catelyn took Tyrion, she was torn. With Robb as her husband, the gods and the law expected her to side with him, but Sylvia didn't think it would be that easy. He was going to march south, to war against her flesh and blood.

She wondered if her family had legitimate reason to suspect Lord Stark of treason. The blood and love she shared with the royal family compelled her to side with them. But she knew Lord Stark...he held honour above all else, and always sided with goodness and lawfulness. He wouldn't have tried to "steal" Joffrey's throne if he hadn't had a very, very good reason. Robb was right on that, at least. These accusations were likely filthy lies.

Suddenly, something soft was settled over her shoulders, making her jump. The serving girl blushed, stepping back and looking away sheepishly. "Forgive me, m'lady. I thought you'd be cold." Sylvia looked at her shoulder and saw that the maid, (Nera, she remembered), had wrapped her in a shawl. Sylvia's heart warmed at the girl's unexpected kindness.

"Thank you, Nera." She said softly. The girl left with a swift curtsey, and Sylvia was alone again.

As much as the notion repulsed her, Joffrey was king. Robert had died and now his first born son was king. That was how progression worked. Even though Joffrey would likely blunder his way through ruling, even if he offended his lords and ladies, even if he turned out to be the worst, most idiotic king that ever lived, he would be king.

Just as Robb would inherit Winterfell and the entire north upon his father's death, so did Joffrey inherit the Red Keep and the Seven Kingdoms with Robert's death.

Her head began to ache. If Joffrey was wrong, and Lord Stark was innocent, she should support her husband. And yet, she still felt like a traitor, at the idea of supporting Robb. Her two families were going to war with each other, no matter who was right and who was wrong.

She didn't want to choose.

There was no version of this, where Sylvia believed she could come out unscathed or happy. She was losing her family, one way, or the other. She knew where this could end, where it was likely to end with her grandfather commanding the western forces.

Tywin Lannister was strong and formidable, a seasoned commander and warrior. He was her grandfather, and yet he'd never been warm, or kind, or sweet. He'd frightened her as a girl. There was never a time that she could recall where he'd smiled, or laughed or spoke in a soft voice. But the most terrible thing about him, were that tales whispered through the Red Keep of what he'd done to put her father and mother on the throne.

The contrast was horribly blatant when she thought of Robb. Her husband was young and naive and green. He'd never fought a real battle, much less commanded men to fight and die for him. Robb was green, even though she'd never say so aloud. He was a splendid fighter, but this would be his first war. Gods be good, he'd only killed his first man when that wildling woman came to them!

Since her girlhood, she'd heard whispers throughout the Keep that Tywin had ordered the deaths of Elia and her children. One of her maids told her stories about them, and even said she slept in the bed that Princess Rhaeys had hidden under when the Lannister men stormed the castle. Sylvia had told her mother, and she never saw the maid again.

When Nera left her, Sylvia stood and walked to the bed. She watched over her slumbering baby, watching her little fingers twitch, listening to her soft breath. The fire Nera had made for her warmed the chamber nicely, so Mini slept on without a blanket to keep away the chill.

Sylvia ran a finger over one of the pillows that surrounded her daughter, (placed there so she wouldn't roll off) and lifted it. She pressed her nose to it, and breathed deeply, the musty smell of old air filling her lungs. She wondered if her mother's scent still lingered on at least one of the pillows in the Guest House, and for a moment, she was half tempted to search for it. But she did not know if breathing in her mother's scent would bring her the comfort she needed, or weigh down her heart with despair.

Already, Sylvia's heart twisted to think of her mother, to wonder what she would think when she learned the north was marching on the south.

Sylvia cast a look at the untouched pitcher of wine Nera had left on the table. Her father loved wine, but wine did not love her father. It made him sloppy; it would stain his fine silks and velvets. Wine dulled his eyes, and slurred his words in the oddest way. When she was very small, she'd thought it was funny, that her father was just making silly voices. But sometimes, it had made his words harsh, as well.

But she'd had a drink before. It made her feel warm...relaxed. And she wasn't her father.

She reached for her cup, and poured herself just a small amount of wine. Just a mouthful, really. She took the pitcher with her, setting it down on the little table beside her comfy chair. A grimace contorted her face when she drained the cup in one gulp, the burn racing across her tongue and down her throat.

Calling the banners will just make Joffrey angry, and Joffrey likes to hurt people when he's angry, she thought to herself. It had always been his first instinct, ever since he was a little boy. When she angered him, he threw her toys against the wall or out the window just to make her hurt. He kicked her puppies and held up her kittens by their tails when she refused to indulge him.

She poured a little more wine into her cup, and downed that too.

Sylvia had always imagined that the start of wars were a lot bloodier. As it turns out, there was much more talking, and still, she found herself terrified all the same.

Sylvia reached for the pitcher, watching as the red drink sloshed into her cup, much more than just a mouthful this time. She remembered the wine Robb gave her the day he told her Robert was dead. The wine had taken away all the pain, it made her sleep, let her calm down. She needed...

The wine was bitter, but it warmed her belly and drove away the cold. The more she drank, the warmer she felt, and the warmer she felt, the more her head swam. She felt as though her joints were made of string, as though her mind was dipped in the most wonderful honey. Everything starting to feel slow and peaceful and good. She sat in her chair, watching the flames of the fire dance and blur together, her cup cradled to her chin.

Before long, she was reaching for the pitcher once again, watching dimly as the wine filled her cup.

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