HEllo! I'm back with another chatper! I hope everyone is safe and doing ok, and I hope you guys like this :D

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CHAPTER 34: King in the North

Under the circumstances, Sylvia felt a cup of wine appropriate. The dark liquid burned over her tongue, the sour taste making her grimace, but she preferred it. It tasted of grief and loneliness. The memories of the last time she'd drank still haunted her, and so after filling the cup twice, she ordered the wineskin away.

Her cheeks felt flushed in the cold air of the tent, warmed more by the wine than the fire. She felt her mind slow and her senses dull the slightest bit and yet she wished for another cup. She wanted to drink and drink until this day felt far away, until she forgot the pain of death and war, until sleep called her to bed. Perhaps that was why father was drunk half his life—the ghost of his Stark girl must have been a heavy one to live with.

Even still, she sat back in her chair, thinking of the Starks. Lord Eddard's face floated through her head most oft, his long features stern, unsmiling as ever. He looked as she remembered him, and it sent an icicle into her heart to think that he was no longer part of this world. Sylvia thought of her brother, the monster who was the cause of this pain. She hated him, and would shed no tears when Robb eventually took his head.

The gods would damn her for that, because monster or no, Joffrey would always be her brother.

Better to face the wrath of the gods when I am dead, than to live my life known only as Joffrey's sister she thought grimly.

She was far from alone in her thoughts; without her husband's loyal wolf to act as chaperone, a female attendant—the wife of a steward, an older woman named Valla—was provided to her. Robb's orders were such that she was never alone without a guard present, and so this created a need for a chaperone.

Valla had wept for a time after the news of Lord Stark's death had spread, and Sylvia had brought her chair closer to her, wrapping the woman's hands in her own. When Valla bowed her head forward, sniffling, Sylvia had not stifled the instinct to stroke her hair. When Myrcella was upset, she would run for her elder sister, and she would run her fingers through her golden locks until her tears were spent. There was familiarity and comfort in running her fingers through Valla's hair. It made her feel less hopeless and useless in this nightmare. After her brother's horrible actions, it was a small thing she could do to help, though it felt smaller than nothing in the face of her family's sins.

Oddly, she thought much on the first day she met the Warden of the North. It brought a fragile smile to her lips to remember how frightened she had been of him, father of her future husband. She thought he was a grumpy sort, ready to find fault with her and likely to be as scary as father had been when he was angry. But Ned Stark was a kind man, very different from Robert. He was more like her Ser Fredrik, and she had come to love her good-father just the same.

When Mini was born, Sylvia remembered very clearly how Ned had come to her beside once all the mess was cleared away. His lady wife was standing, smiling down at her first grandchild, beaming at her son, the one who had become a father only hours before. From her bed, Sylvia had watched the gentle hand that had rubbed over Lady Stark's elbow, before leaving her side and coming to hers.

She had been so surprised when he knelt without hesitation, his rough hand running over her onyx hair—a soft, tender action she had only seen him give his daughters. It made her heart ache to think of it now.

"You did well, child." He spoke softly to her. "So well. I know your father will be as proud as I."

When the babe was a little older, the grizzled man had knelt and reached out his arms for her when she first learned to stand, encouraging her with soft words to walk to him. And when Sylvia herself was still new to the north, Lord Stark had given her a horse, so she might ride as much through the north lands as she had in the south.

Sylvia's lip trembled. Such a man deserved an honorable end. On the battlefield, with a sword in his hand, or old in his bed, surrounded by those who loved him. It was the greatest injustice that Lord Stark had died as he had, and it made her want to crawl away and die to know that her own family had given him that end. She might not have held the sword, but the blood of his murderers flowed through her.

Perhaps she ought to be ashamed to hide behind the barrier of canvas and sheepskin like a craven, but she feared what might happen if someone saw her. Not as little Lady Stark, not as Robb Stark's wife, but as Sylvia the daughter of the queen, the sister of the new king, the one who murdered their liege.

Nothing would ever let them go back to how it was. Life had changed, the winds had shifted, and Sylvia was afraid of where she would land in the middle of it all.

There was a stirring outside the tent, and Sylvia heard the guards utter low greetings to their lord. With a soft voice, Sylvia ordered her attendants to leave, wanting privacy. Her husband had been gone since news reached them, and whatever returned with him would require fewer eyes. When her own father died, she'd hidden in her room, taking advantage of the Seven Days of Mourning to hide her face. Grief was raw and open, and for a woman who cherished her secrets, Sylvia would rather be alone in times of pain.

But now her husband was returning to her, raw and wounded and it was her family who had delivered the blow. Valla left with a low curtsey, and Sylvia thought idly that she would call upon her again. She and the guards left with little ceremony, bowing to Robb when he came into the tent.

She waited until they left to speak. His name was soft upon her lips, tentative and gentle, her brows pulling together in worry. Sylvia had found her feet when he strode into the space, her hands worrying together.

When the guards were gone, it was then that he spoke, his voice low. "They beheaded him." That was a voice she'd seldom heard before, but one that put her on edge nonetheless. It was long since she'd stopped expecting a warring rampage from Robb when he was angry and hurt, but painful memories lasted longest. Truly, it was a shame to her that Robb had not even been the one to put them there, but rather his namesake. "They took my father's head off on the steps of Baelor." Sharp blue eyes flashed up to hers. "That was Joffrey's mercy for my father."

Sylvia licked her lips. "I read it…I-I cannot imagine the pain—" Robert died from drunken stupidity, slow and painful. Eddard was beheaded for treason.

"He will die for this. That murderous, cowardly little worm. I am going to kill every last one of them." The pain had left him, and rage was all that was left. If only Robb had spent his wrath while with his mother, leaving her to soothe the pain left over. At least then Lady Catelyn could nod and murmur words of agreement. What could she do quell his rage, a rage that burned against her blood?

But to his wife, he promised revenge she could not wholly agree with. Joffrey must lose his head, it was what honor and justice demanded. But the queen? Displaced from her high and grand position for certain. Weeks ago, she thought only of revenge, and taking the life of any who had a part in the plot to kill her. Even then, the rage for her mother had been for the fact that she had not stopped Joffrey's plots. Punishment for her was certain, but death?

Cersei had cut her deeply, but she was still her mother, and her heart still bore love for her. She doubted that would ever change.

Myrcella and Tommen, however, owned a tiny part of her. Surely, they did not deserve to die. At least her baby brother and sister were innocent and Tyrion too. They did not deserve to pay the price for the sins of their family, no more than she did. If Robb saw them as guilty, what if one day, he thought of her in the same light?

The damage done to her body was still half healed, and so her own desire for revenge still very much burned. But in the face of Robb's, she flinched. She had never once thought of Tommen, Myrcella or Tyrion falling at the orders of the man she called her husband. The man she loved more than herself.

They were children, Catelyn had said.

They were Targaryens, she had replied.

"But—" She spoke too soon, without thinking of forming her words. Robb froze his pacing, becoming deathly still.

"'But'!" He spat the word back at her in outrage. Slowly, he turned his body towards her, the crease between his brows and the sadness in his eyes the only proof that he was still hurting. "How can you dare to defend them?" Then, at once, his eyes were only angry. "The Lannister's will pay for the blood they have spilled with their own!"

Sylvia shook her head, her hair falling loose from the braids holding her black locks in place. "I do not defend them!"

"You do. You always have, no matter what they do. You always have an excuse, a reason why I should stay my hand." He did not even yell, he had no need to. His words had enough anger in them that it deafened her. But there was a kind of hysteria to him that she would cling to in the coming months—one that she would use to assure herself that beneath it all, he had not meant it. "What have they ever done for you, to earn your unwavering loyalty? When have they ever showed you love? They shipped you North as a little girl, only a few years far from the nursery. Only a means to an end, meant to seal alliances with a bloody marriage bed, and once you were spent, they forgot about you until you birthed a living child!" Distantly, he could hear the words escaping his mouth, but he found it impossible to stop. Later, he would make room in his heart for the hate he would bear for himself, but not now. "It was my family that raised and nurtured you. The Starks of Winterfell, Ned Stark who loved you better than your own father ever did. How am I to accept that you would defend those murderers! Not only have they killed our child, but now my father!"

His chest heaved for breath by the end, his eyes wide and shining in the light of the fire. It was quiet in the wake of it. It was a silence Robb would never forget, one he would always be ashamed for.

He watched, with slowly mounting regret as her cheeks lost their colour, her brows smoothing and becoming impassive, lips tightening as she tried to appear aloof. But he knew her too well. Hurt was brimming beneath her calm surface—a shell, a mask that she could don easily, one he hated to see, coming to light once again.

His own pain and anger began to chip away as he watched her lip tremble. He was surprised that she hadn't left him alone, and truly, he wished she had. How much easier it would be if she walked away.

Robb had come to the flaps of their shared tent, and had become annoyed at the posting of guards there. It took him a heartbeat too long to realize they were for his wife—his Sylvia, who had been beaten and bloodied and who had suffered the loss of a child under violent hands.

But looking at her now hurt. He knew she had the delicate features of her Lannister mother. He looked into the face of his enemies every time he had looked at her, the woman he loved most in the world, the mother of his child. And yet, it tore another hole through his heart to see that face crumble, to see the hurt pierce through her blue eyes and linger on his own. Then, all at once, he was ashamed, and tired and so bloody sorry his words choked him.

Sylvia watched with widened eyes as Robb's face lost it's anger, falling into sadness so suddenly that for a moment, her own pain was forgotten. He looked away from her just as quickly, but she still caught a look of his contorted face.

She backed away from him when he stumbled back, his feet sluggish as they brought him to sit on her former seat. Sylvia felt like a wounded animal, wanting to limp away and lick her hurts clean. But she was rooted to the ground, unable to move. Because only a few feet away, her husband—immovable Robb who had never so much as whimpered in front of her—sniffled and hid his face in the arm resting on his knee.

For a stupidly long time, Sylvia stood motionless, her blood rushing through her ears, mouth dry, heart racing. Distantly, she felt the prideful, tender part of her cry out, demanding to be acknowledged. But the bigger part of her was wrapped up in a much more difficult emotion.

When Robert was gorged by a boar's tusk, his eldest daughter had reacted strangely. She had laughed and then she'd wept. She'd denied the truth until she couldn't. She'd found herself more angry than sad, thinking of memories that were long past. And then, she'd lamented for the future that was now impossible.

And Robb, her husband, had been witness to all of it. He'd tried his best and had been her strength through it all, taking the brunt of her anger that first time, seeing to it that she slept soundly, that she ate, and that Mini was cared for. He hadn't been perfect, but he had been there. A rock that kept her anchored until the storm had past.

Sylvia swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. She blinked away the tears that tried to well. She didn't know how to be his rock when it was her kin that had caused his pain. But she had to be. She had to protect him from the storm that threatened to sweep him away.

I am a Baratheon, and storms do not frighten me.

Her steps were slow and measured, eyes trained on his slouched, trembling shoulders. But no. He could not be weeping, could he? Robb was stronger than she was, unyielding and cold and harsh when the need called. But, she thought, he is not immune to feeling. Even a man had the heart in him to shed tears.

When her hand met his shoulder, he stiffened, his hand slipping from his eyes and clenching in a fist against his mouth. Her fingers ghosted along the back of his shoulders, cautious until she felt the hard ridge of his other shoulder. Before she could lose heart, she tugged him towards her, his head reaching her collarbone.

He gave a soft grunt, resisting her motions. But soon he slackened once more, letting her pull his head against her chest, one hand in his hair, the other curled around his shoulder. It felt strange, holding him this way. She had held her daughter this way countless times before, and had exalted in the soft, sweet weight of her, the smell of her fine curls, the grabbing hand that pulled her hair.

Robb's hair was shorter and thicker, smelling of smoke and sweat and for a long moment he did not move. Still as a statue in her arms, Sylvia held tight to him, not knowing a better way to soothe his pain. It was a sweet relief when his arms rose and curled around her middle, pressing her tight against him.

It was then that Robb wept without trying to hide it. Her arms tightened around him, hoping it held him together. She thought she might have murmured soft words of comfort, but she could not remember them in the hours that came.

They ticked by, long and dark and miserable, and soon enough she found herself settled in her husband's lap, his face still pressed into her neck. The bed was an alluring thought, but neither made to pull away. It was nearing morning by the time Sylvia spoke.

"We're the same." She whispered against his forehead, lips brushing over his hair. "We've the same desire for justice and revenge. But I know you, Robb. Tearing through innocents would never give you peace. You'd never sleep soundly again, and you would not have me beside you those nights." Finally he looked up at her, his eyes weary. She rested her forehead against his, assuring him without words that she was there with him now. Her husband was not a monster, he was not Joffrey nor Lord Tywin. He was hurt and he was angry, and could not tell enemy from ally. But one day this would pass and he would be left to suffer with what he had done. "My dearest love. Do not doubt that I will be beside you in this. Your desire is mine. Your battles are mine. Your enemies are mine."

Again, her mind flashed with bloody tales of children murdered within the Red Keep, a girl slaughtered after hiding beneath her bed, a baby's head splattered against the wall. She could not let her sister become that slaughtered girl and her baby brother that broken boy. Myrcella would be a woman in a handful of years, and Tommen was a little boy. But still, they were children.

She thought of all she wanted to say, but saying anything more would break the soft calm of the air. Instead, she simply said, "Joffrey, you can have. But not the other two." His beard rasped against her fingers as she slid them over his cheek.

He nodded, one soft jerk against her forehead and in return, he pressed her mouth against his. It was a deep kiss, but lacking fire and passion. A promise, Sylvia thought as she pulled him closer. This was a promise a wife had never before made, nor had a husband responded with, she was sure. A brother he would murder, but the right one.

Somewhere inside, she was repulsed. It was a little, childish part of her that held to bonds of blood, over love and law. Why should she put value in his life, when he put none on hers? Why plead for a boy who hated her, a boy who had murdered a man dear to her, and possibly her own child?

She'd bargained away one brother's life to save two others.

It was a monstrous proposal. It was one she made easily.

Word spread of Ned Stark's death like ink in water.

Osha, the wildling captive who had become a companion of sorts to the little Stark lordlings, was there when the maester broke the news to Bran. The little boy had no companions of an age with him, apart from his baby brother. But at only ten years old, Bran Stark was now Lord of Winterfell, and time to play was no more.

But a little boy was a little boy still, even if he was lord of a castle, and protector of the north while his brother was away. Wanting the company of his family, Bran had ordered his brother and niece brought to his father's solar, along with Maester Luwin, Ser Ravenback and Osha. Even Elane, his niece's caretaker was there. She had been taking care of the baby for a long while, and Bran counted her as more than a servant.

It was almost like having his family there. Almost.

"I dreamed father was in the crypts," Bran said, holding his baby niece. "He was sad." That horrible, frightening dream now held an even more foul taste to it. He swallowed hard, holding back tears. He'd cried earlier, much to his shame. But only Maester Luwin and Summer had witnessed it, and the old maester had laid a soft hand on his shoulder, quiet and nearly as grieved as the boy was. But now, as Lord of Winterfell, he had no more time for tears.

Osha had said it was natural to see someone you missed in your dreams. He missed Robb and mother and even Sylvia, but he didn't see or speak with them when he was asleep. He dreamed of Summer and the godswood, once or twice of hunting rabbits. His dream of father had been the first of it's kind and Bran hoped it was the last. What if he dreamed of Robb and he died next? He'd lost his legs and then his father. He didn't want to lose a brother too.

Little else was said, apart from the maester gently reminding the young lord that plans and missives were to be sent out, and that a stonemason would be needed to make a statue in Lord Stark's likeness. Such was the way House Stark honoured their dead lords.

Elane watched the others carefully, studying their faces. Luwin was older than sin, his face deeply lined with age and wisdom. He was a very kind man, she knew, and he was the least threatening. He could hardly raise a hand to a fly, much less raise it to harm her.

Rickon was a wild wolf, left behind early in life so his wild nature was left untamed and unchecked. He sat quietly now, a thoughtful frown on his face. He seemed more confounded by the news than grieved, though Elane attributed that to his short years. She dreaded the next few weeks, for she was sure his shock and confusion would bleed into rage. When she was small, she'd raged too. Except, she had had a mother to reign her in and soothe her, while this little boy had a wolf at his side, ready to tear and bite and maul at command. Perhaps by the years end, all he would have left of his companion would be a black wolf pelt.

The knight was next. He wore a stern expression on his face, almost angry looking. But she wasn't bothered. Fredrik Ravenback was too old to be of much concern. He might have once been a strong warrior, quite possibly a threat to her plans, but age had made him soft and slow of mind, accepting things at face value with a healthy bit of suspicion. He was too old and tired to investigate beyond his initial misgivings.

But out of all of them, it was the wildling woman that set her on edge.

Osha, as she was called, had long since had her chains struck off after it was determined she had proven her loyalty. Yet shackles remained around her ankles. Elane would happily see her wrapped in chains the rest of her life.

The woman (though she had the likeness of a man far more than the most homely woman), with her wild hair and piercing eyes had been a source of discomfort for some time, ever since Lord Robb and his little wife had left the castle. The wildling captive watched with eyes that knew everything and nothing all at once. It was impossible to tell, the woman was tight lipped and when she did speak, she was elusive.

Elane had come to second guess herself at every turn, fearful she had been found out, that one of her messages had been caught, that she had muddled up one of her stories. One wrong word, step, or turn might reveal all her plans to those eyes—those sharp, dangerous blue eyes— and then the wildling's tongue would wag and tell them to the others, unraveling all her hopes and dreams. Mother, her fluffy white cat, her cottage…all thrown into the sea.

She is only wild, Elane reassured with a roll of her eyes. A sneaky little savage who lied her way to becoming Bran Stark's friend. Even still, she found herself hesitating before climbing the steps to the raven's tower, and burning her scrolls when she was too afraid to send a message.

When Osha had moved to take the fussing baby from the boy's arms, Elane reacted before knowing what she was doing.

"Don't you ever touch her." She heard herself hiss, knocking the woman aside with her shoulder. Little Minisa snorted and reached up with her hands towards the handmaid. She could not let the wild woman anywhere near her tiny prize, let her poison one piece of her.

"The girl meant no harm." Ser Ravenback grumbled from behind her. Although Elane wanted to bite back with reminders of how very little Lady Sylvia liked and trusted the captive, she knew it was not her place to speak for her absent lady. Instead, she stepped away with the baby.

"Be nice to Osha," The broken boy commanded from his seat. "She's our guest."

Elane bit her cheek. "Yes, my lord." She mumbled. "With your leave, I would like to settle the child down into bed." When Bran waved her away, she left the room with a flash of her pale blue skirts. She would ensure the baby was never touched by the woman again, little lord be damned.

"Lie down and sleep, little thing." She murmured to the babe. She hadn't cared for the child much at first, and even less so when Lady Sylvia had abandoned the child to march south with her husband. But the child had grown on Elane, her affection growing as she came to realize Minisa was the key to freedom. Freedom from servitude, fear and abuse from their betters and for that, Elane would protect her to her last breath.

Too many times had her mother been sneered at, too many times had a man of better birth grabbed at her mother and demanded pleasure from her. The lady she'd worked under had tried to shield her, but it was improper enough to have a fallen woman tend to a noble lady. Most oft, her poor mother was left alone to fend them off.

All because she had birthed a bastard daughter and nobles thought it meant open legs for any who came sniffing. Her mother never placed blame on her, but Elane had shed many tears, wishing she hadn't been born.

Sylvia Baratheon, in all her foolish naivety had her thanks as well. A nursemaid would have meddled with her plans, and Elane was thankful the girl was so trusting of her, and too jealous of a woman who could feed her daughter as well as she could.

When it came time to travel, Elane hoped to have a sleeping draught in hand so that when they left, it would be as silent as a shadow, the babe quiet and sleeping. She planned carefully, slowly collecting all the things she would need for the journey ahead. In the next few days, she would go to the maester and tell him she was having trouble sleeping, and ask for a mild dose of sweet-sleep.

When the time to leave came closer, she would visit Nera and ask for a few strips of dried beef, bread and cheese. Nera was a sweet girl, always eager to please, especially after Lady Sylvia lowered her to a scullery maid. Elane knew the girl was trying to earn back favor, since she was the offended lady's handmaid.

It had started when the raven's scroll told of a brawl in the streets outside a whorehouse, between a lord and a king's guard knight. The next morning, a necklace had gone missing from Lady Sylvia's table, though no one entered the chamber enough to notice. In the chest at the foot of her bed, she tucked away a warm cloak, and a bundle of furs for the journey ahead. No one would think to go looking, since Lady Sylvia had trusted her to care for her child.

Trust was a beautiful thing, one without comparison.

It had been months since she was directed to take the Stark pup to the Rock. Sometimes she would wonder what the queen had in mind for the baby, but would brush the thought away quickly. It was not her concern. The queen was the child's grandmother, so surely it was a marriage she desired for her.

Yes, that had to be it. Until Lady Sylvia gave Robb Stark a boy, Minisa had the chance, however small, to become Lady of Winterfell in her own right one day. But if the Lannisters made her a marriage that benefitted them, who would really own the North by right of inheritance?

Elane did not enjoy such thoughts, because for Minisa to rule, all her male relatives on her father's line would have to die—including her little uncles.

She shook away the thoughts. It was not up to her what the queen planned on doing. She could not control the actions of another woman. All she had was her own mind, her own desires and plans. And the reward for bending to the will of the queen was too great to refuse.

The game of lords and kings was not hers to play. She would play her part, receive her due reward, and then take her mother beyond the reach of all of them. Perhaps in the end, they would find a new home across the sea, where it was warm and a bright. She imagined the air smelled of fruit. Far from queens and little boy lords, and babies with too much on their tiny shoulders. A little farther, and she would be free. A little farther…

Despite the fact that Riverrun was close, the news of Lord Stark's execution had brought with it a sense of urgency among the northern lords. With Renly having claimed Robert's crown for himself, news of Lord Stark's death hastened the need for allies.

When the sun started to peek above the mountains, Robb gently pushed her from his lap and stood straight and tall. A steward brought him a fresh basin to wash in, and Sylvia herself helped him dress in fresh clothes. By the time she was done, her husband stood clean and tall before her, his face perfectly stern, the new Lord of Winterfell.

There was a deep sadness in his eyes, that had her cupping his cheek and pressing her forehead against his once more. Sylvia was half afraid that he would grimace and push her away, not knowing if this was what wives could do for their husbands. But Robb breathed deep and pulled away a moment later.

He did not speak when he took her hand in his, holding it tight as they walked through the throngs of sad faced northerners. She felt stronger with Robb at her side, a little less like an outsider.

Stewards were quickly dispatched to set up an area big enough for the lords to gather. They made short work of it, and by midday, Sylvia was seated among the northern lords in the broken, forgotten remains of what was once a small keep. Catelyn sat beside her, and to Robb's right sat Theon. Sylvia was happy to see the Iron Islander, a familiar face in a sea of strangers.

Once the correct condolences were offered, the arguing began. One lord would call for an alliance with Renly, the other would call it mad. One might say Stannis and another would recite all the flaws with Stannis' position on Dragonstone.

It went on until after the sun had set, when torches were lit and fires brought closer to keep them warm. Robb sat through all of it, listening to each lord with quiet contemplation. Never once had her interrupted, though his wife sat and barely contained her need to interject.

Sylvia had never been witness to the council of men, and found it all so redundant. When one lord counted Stannis' merits, another would refute and count Renly's. When suggested one plan of action, another would call it mad. Around and round it went, until the only consistent theme Sylvia could see was their desire for Lannister dead.

All of them agreed that vengeance was the only clear path. One man had found his voice and tried to sue for peace. He had just lost his two sons in the Whispering Wood, and now having felt the burn of war the first time, wanted to return home to grieve. His suggestion was met with vitriol, a few calling him soft and others calling him cowardly. It was Catelyn who spoke in his defence, saying she would rather go home and weep for her husband, than to wage war.

But no peace would ever come, so long as Lord Eddard's murderers drew breath. But none could agree on how to take revenge.

"The proper course is clear!" Lord Bracken bellowed. "Pledge fealty to Renly and move south to join our forces with his! He has the mightier of the two armies, the Stormlands and the Reach support him."

"Renly is not the king!" Robb called out and at once, a hundred men turned to look. He had been quiet throughout, and to speak at this particular moment, meant he had come to his decision.

"You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, my lord." Galbert Glover said, his eyes flashing towards the other man's wife. "He put your father to death."

"Yet it does not make him a king. Renly is Robert's youngest brother. Even with Stannis, Robert has a second son who would take up the throne before him. As Bran cannot take lordship of Winterfell from my daughter, Renly cannot be king before Stannis."*

"What of Stannis? You mean to declare us for him?" cried out Lady Mormont. In Sylvia's opinion, she was a rather impressive woman—with a large bosom and a wider smile, unafraid to speak out to the men who thought themselves above her.

"My lords!" Lord Umber shouted, drawing the attention of the crowd. "My lords!" The chatter quietened. "Here is what I say to these southern kings!" He spat loudly at the ground, earning a hearty laugh from the lords and a tight grin from Sylvia. "Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat on the south?!" He demanded. "What do those southern kings know of the north or the Wall and the wolfswood?" There were a few scattered cheers at that. "Even their gods are wrong!" the man bellowed. Laughter filled the air, and even Lady Sylvia smiled.

But his next words struck the smile from her lips, and would for days to come. "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to, and all the dragons are dead!" The Greatjon's sword slid from his sheath with a harsh scraping sound. At once, Sylvia sat straighter, and beside her, Theon Greyjoy did as well. They both still had memory of the last time Lord Umber made to take out his sword for Robb. But this time, his intentions were different. "There, sits the only king I mean to bend my knee to! The king in the north!" He bent his knee, laying his sword at Robb's feet.

For a heartbeat, Sylvia watched her husband with bated breath, wondering how he would refuse without humiliating Lord Umber. Instead of refusing, he stood up. Her heart stuttered in her chest. No, she thought, what could he possibly be thinking.

It all happened so fast. In the next moment, Lord Glover responded with his own words of agreement. Then Lord Karstark, and Lady Mormont, and Lord's Tallhart and Blackwood and Mallister, until half a hundred swords laid at Robb's feet, and the north's greatest warriors knelt before him. They all wanted a Stark for their king, and now there was now no hope of turning back

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!" They cried, lifting their swords into the dark belly of the sky. Robb's heart thundered in his ears, his mouth feeling dry as his men named him king. "THE KING IN THE NORTH!" he looked back, meeting first the eyes of his mother and then they eyes of his wife. He saw the reserved look on Catelyn's face, her mouth a hard line until she offered him a small, fragile smile. The woman had only just lost her husband, and could not stand to lose her firstborn as well. A crown was sweet, but with it came liars and cheats and killers. "THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

Sylvia's face was ashen, her carefully controlled expression melted away until unabashed uncertainty was all he could see. Please forgive me, Syl, he thought pleadingly, though he could not say it aloud. Please understand. He had no other choice. The north had been at the south's mercy for longer than either of them had lived. Ever since Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna. His people had fought and suffered many times for southern whims. They'd killed his father, and held his sisters hostage.

He would never yield to Joffrey, nor to any southerner who sat the Iron Throne. When they went home, they would not live in fear of the next time the south called.

His wife stood after a moment, the cries of 'king' halting as the southerner approached him. If there had been any sliver of hope that her family would opt for peace, it was gone now. Robb would forever be an enemy of the family of her birth, an unruly dog they'd want to be rid of. They'd name her a traitor as well, and give her an end right next to him, and take her daughter and use her as they liked.

She thought of the little girl she birthed, her daughter, Minisa. She thought of the child she'd lost. Sylvia had failed to protect one child, but she would never make that mistake again. She would protect Minisa with her life, defend her by any means and she knew Robb would too. There was a thousand leagues between Joffrey and Minisa, and thousands more northmen ready to defend House Stark.

It had never rested well on Sylvia's heart that she and those she loved would have to bow to and serve a king like Joffrey, someday. She used to hope that time and distance might soften the feeling between them, but it had only been made worse. He had already proven himself to be a nightmare, throwing his kingdoms into a war before the month had passed. Joffrey was her brother, and she hated him and the thought of having to bend the knee to him.

She cast her gaze to the lords who were still on their knees before Robb. They'd chosen him, they loved him and they had followed him south when he called them. So had she, long ago when they first left Winterfell.

She had composed her features so that she did not look so frightened, and had replaced it with a look of calm acceptance, her mouth set in a hard line, the space between her brows smooth.

When Sylvia bent her knee to him, Robb's heart lurched.

"I cannot offer you a sword, my husband. Only my life. And so it is yours, in victory and defeat. From this day, until my last."

Whoooooy that was a doozy. And just like that, we're finally finished season 1! Yay!

Also, just wanted to say that Sylvia was kinda put on the spot with the king thing, soooo...it wasn't like she could've jumped up and protested

Anyway, please review thank you love youuuu :D

*As of April 24th, one sentence was cleared up after helped me out :D
THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR REVIEWS AND TAKING ANY KINDA INTEREST IN THIS STORY :D