Oooh HAPPY NEW YEARS GUYS! Lets hope, pray and send good vibes to the universe that this year is 100x better than that thing the devil called 2020.

Anyway, I'm so happy to be back! I hope you guys have all been good, healthy, happy, safe :D

A lot has happened last year, a lot of bad stuff, stuff that hurt, stuff that made me cry, stuff that killed my inspiration and drained my bank account.

But I also made a lot of great friends, met a cute boy, got a pretty tattoo and read a lot of great stories by amazing people

I just wanna thank you guys all so much. I love writing this story, and I am so so sorry it takes a long time to post.

Thank you to Darkwolf76, my amazing friend who never ceces to inspire me :D

Please review and lemme know what you think! :D


Chapter 36: Truth Will Out

One night, a thousand miles away, a young woman dosed a small babe with a bit of a sleeping potion. Then she wrapped her up in a sling, donning her warmest, darkest clothes, before leaving the castle for the sea.

It was morning when they found the child's cradle and the handmaid's chambers empty and cold.


There was little else Sylvia could do but trust the night to hide her movements through Riverrun. Part of her wondered why she should care to hide them at all. What had she to hide? She was Queen in the North, wife of a rebel, daughter of a king. She wasn't an ordinary woman, and if they would force that truth upon her, she would exploit every advantage it might give her.

Sylvia would have walked through the corridors with her head held high if not for Robb. After finishing his tale, he refused to allow her to see the man he claimed responsible, no matter how many times she asked.

He claims the man threw Bran from a tower, and refuses to let me look upon his face.

After he'd finished, Sylvia was only grateful that she was already sitting. Long moments passed by in silence, her own shaking breaths hardly more than a buzz in her ears. Chatter filled her mind, a hundred thoughts demanding attention, and it was a while before all but one quietened. When it was quiet, the thought pushed itself past her lips, and she was asking Robb to see Jaime.

But he had refused with a soft, gentle voice that said the matter was final. However, Sylvia had been born the daughter of a king, and did not let matters settle. She'd begged, demanded and pleaded with him to change his mind, to understand the need that had taken her, but to no avail.

A good, kind man, she thought of her husband after, but unable to understand anything but his own mind. It was a pattern she was starting to notice in Robb, the stubbornness, the notion he knew best. She was honest enough to admit that sometimes he did, but other times she wanted to rip out her own hair with frustration.

How could he not appreciate the gravity of his claim? That Jaime Lannister, her uncle and member of the King's Guard, had shoved a ten year old child from a tower?

The memory of her father comparing Bran to a lame horse rose then, and a new wave of horror gripped her heart. Her father had been so callous then. Did she truly share blood with monsters, or was the claim false? Either option was a knife through her heart.

The new queen knew as well as anyone of Jaime's greatest dishonour: murdering the man he was meant to protect. But to throw a child out a window, to be a sheltered under the Stark's battlements with that blood staining his fine white cloak…Sylvia couldn't imagine anyone doing that and being able to live with themselves.

Tightening her jaw, Sylvia sped down the steps.

It was an old trick she'd learned as a girl, to move past her guards silent and quick as a mouse. She'd used the servant's entrance at the far side of the bedchamber, unbarring the door and moving into the stairwell without a second glance behind her.

It was only when she was past the kitchens that she realized she was horribly unfamiliar with Riverrun and had no idea where Jaime could be held. Mother and father had toured the southern kingdoms when she was a babe. Their reign was fresh, and so they sought out castles from Storms End to Riverrun, toasting with their lords and settling the dust after the rebellion. Sylvia only recalled Storms End and a bright, sweet smelling castle she thought was Highgarden.

When she was a girl, mother had been too protective to let her leave the Capitol.

Clinging closely to the walls, she crept uncertainly forward. When she heard voices, she froze, hoping that her body melted into the tapestry behind her. Fortunately, they appeared to be drunk and stumbled right past her, one of them listing the many "beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous" charms of a woman named Merida. The other man said Merida was thick as a tree and splotchy and laughed even harder when his friend shoved him hard from behind.

When their voices faded into the darkness, Sylvia's shoulders fell. For a moment, she lingered against cold stone, trying to map out the castle in her head. She hated how she could not calm the fluttering of her heart. Queens were never afraid. Cersei had always been steel, without the deadly sharpness that came with a sword. But mother bruised as easily as she had, and so queens were as fragile as any woman. So if a queen was afraid, no one could ever know it.

"Seeing your mother weep is like seeing a mountain sway in the wind," she had told Robb once. Queens were mothers to a nation.

The girl shook her head. If she lingered too long, Robb would eventually learn she was not in her chambers. She had said she wanted to look upon the kingslayers face herself but Robb had refused—never even giving her a reason. So she told him to leave her before her blood boiled over. It had taken a quarter of an hour to decide she had to see her uncle. Time was in short supply.

Swallowing her uncertainty, Sylvia tried to think. If there were drunks near by, she must have been close to the Great Hall. The Great Hall was a place of celebration on rare days, but most days it was a place where judgement was passed. The dungeons, by necessity, must be close at hand. Determined, she crept forward, following the corridors that were quietest and darkest.

The novice queen thought she was quite clever—devious, even—but then she turned a quiet corner and found herself facing two Karstark men. The white sun emblazoned on the wool tunics they wore, were dingy in the low firelight. But their allegiance was unmistakable.

"You weren't even close to the dungeons," Robb said later, when the guards left them.

"So bring me there." She replied, raising her brows in a way that said it was the obvious solution. "I defied the king deliberately. Set me beside your other prisoners and decide my fate." A bold challenge, but they had loved one another for years, and so it came with a teasing sort of lilt. Robb didn't take the attempt, too angry to ease away the tension between them.

"For what?" Robb scoffed, his hand slapping against the leg that crossed over the one set on the floor. "So you can see the look on the kingslayers face as he lies to you?"

"You think I could just sit here after what you told me? You tell me a man I've known my entire life threw a child out a window and expect me not to have questions?" She wanted to see him, to look at him and imagine him throwing Bran out of a tower, to think of him making a broken boy and still able to smile and joke when he left Winterfell. They shared blood, and she had to see him. To know Robb was wrong.

"What do you think he would tell you?" Robb's eyes were sharp when he looked back up at her. Though he sat at the table and she looked down at him, she felt that he towered above her. "Confess? Deny it all? I'll tell you what he'll do: he will sit there and smirk and tell you lies to make you doubtful. He will worm his way into your mind and take root there."

"Despite what you think, I am not a stupid girl, Robb." She spat, angry that he thought her so weak. It was a sharp truth to accept, but it was better to bear the pain than it was to be struck dumb each time he thought she was dull and pliable. Maybe one day, he would see her for what she was.

"No you are my wife and queen. And I swore before the old gods to protect you." That made her angrier, her eyes widening.

"This is how you protect me?" She bared her teeth. "This is how you treat your queen?" She shook her head, a scowl pulling at her mouth. "This is how you treat a bothersome bed-wench."

Robb scoffed, his own grimace contorting his handsome face. "If that is what you choose to believe, fine. I will not plead and beg you to understand what you do not want to." He spoke to her as he would a child, and Sylvia was caught between shame and anger. "But you will not seek the kingslayer out again. Perhaps in a few days time, I might let you see him. In the Great Hall, before you leave for Renly."

Sylvia sighed, staring at him with stern blue eyes that had made others cringe. It was a trait she'd learned early in life, watching her family. Robb was immune to it, having seen her break and fall apart and knowing how easily those eyes could fill with tears. She would have preferred a private audience, but if she got to speak to the man, even in front of a hundred eyes, she would be relieved to have had the chance. But a cold bitterness bloomed like a weed inside her. Growing up the daughter of the king, Sylvia was unused to being stopped from doing as she pleased. Of course, being a princess had it's own set of iron bars, but this felt like a smaller cage. And her gaoler was her own husband.

Suddenly, she did not want to look at him. "If that is all, my King, I would like to go to sleep." The title stuck like cotton in her mouth, something she refused to feel badly for. He was her king, why should she feel terribly for calling him by the title he so gladly accepted?

"Yes, go." He replied, his voice soft, his eyes still remaining steady on her back when she turned away.

When he was alone, Robb allowed himself to slump in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face. Honestly, he had thought Sylvia to be cleverer than this, and the disappointment in his gut made him sink lower in his seat.

No one could forget that the man in the dungeon was the queen's uncle. Sylvia had not made the Karstark men love her more when they found her sneaking about, the darkness of shadows masking her movement. Gods above, if she were obedient and silent, the men might have less doubt of her, even if her hair was golden.

Robb wondered if it would be harder to look at her if she looked like her murderous maggot of an uncle. He liked to think it would not matter, but every time he thought of her with fair hair, he thought of the queen, the woman who had taken his sisters prisoner.

He remembered the conversation he had had with her at Winterfell, after Bran's fall.

"There is nothing a mother wouldn't do for her children." She had said. The words were meaningless then, since his heart had cracked open to listen to his mother's broken sobs as she fretted over Bran's still body. He had said Sylvia had much the same sentiment, fearful and so full of love that she would do anything to protect their daughter. Their little Minisa, so far away in Winterfell…

What had that woman done to protect her children? Why had she had to?

When he thought of Sylvia's hair—black as dragon glass, shining just as brilliantly—he thought of how it smelled the first time he pressed his nose to her head. He thought of how it tickled his eyes when he first dared to trail his mouth across her cheek and down her neck. He thought of how it felt between his fingers, he thought of playing with the curled ends as she slept naked beside him. He thought of how it had been damp and stuck to her forehead and neck when she birthed their daughter.

I found my heart in an onyx haired Baratheon. Not a golden haired Lannister.


Sylvia left Riverrun's Great Hall feeling small and humiliated, imagining them laughing, imagining them smirking and taunting and wanting to devour all of them. Them, the nameless shadows that haunted her waking thoughts; them, faceless creatures who smiled at her, only plot against her in private.

She supposed her husband felt a tad guilty for their row, because when the sun rose the next morning, he brought her to the Great Hall. It had hushed silent when they walked through the grand oak doors, the men bending as they walked past, Grey Wind trailing behind.

They sat at the lord's seat, and soon enough, her uncle was kneeling before the dais they sat upon.

Even without a crown, she felt regal, proud and as beautiful as her royal mother. She'd lifted her chin and asked her questions; she'd asked them daintily and gently and thought of Elenei and Argella as she'd finished.

But then Jaime Lannister had replied, and though none dared to laugh, the Hall had rung with a silence that deafened her, dropping her belly down to her bowels. Not even Lord Umber had spoken a word to defend her, and all she wanted in that moment was to gouge out her uncle's eyes with her own thumbs. She had never thought he hated her—not once over a lifetime of cold greetings and stilted, one sided conversations—but after his little speech, there wasn't a doubt left in her. Her mother's twin despised her very existence.

Since the cradle, her mother preached of loyalty, of trust shared only with those who shared your blood.

The queen had scolded her, in the cold seclusion of her borrowed chambers at Winterfell, for causing a scene at the welcoming feast. Without even hearing the story, Cersei had set blame on her daughter—not for the conflict itself, but for the way it had made Joffrey look to be challenged in front of hundreds of strangers.

If one was weak, so were they all, in Cersei's eyes.

So, to Sylvia, it was made clear that Jaime Lannister considered himself nothing to her.

It hurt more than it should have, but somehow the sudden loss cut something off—something hopeful and soft that she had not known existed with Jaime Lannister.

If Robb decided to send him piece by bloody piece back to the Capitol, she would not shed a tear, not even for her mother. She might even ask to be the one to do the cutting.

A hollow smile tugged her lips, one that washed away quickly. "You ought not to have been kept as a knight, or as a King's Guardsmen the day Lord Eddard Stark found you sitting the Iron Throne. My father made many mistakes, it is true. But sparing you, that was his first." Jaime's smile had dimmed just a bit at that, and Sylvia clung to that. She hoped it hurt, she hoped it tore at him and made him doubt. "May you live forever, so you know that you are a man without honour and pride. So you know as well as any of us, that you are no knight."

The queen's eyes were cold as they took Jaime from the Great Hall, setting him back in his windowless cell, to sit alone with his own thoughts. Soon after, the queen fled back to her chambers, head held high, skirts swishing along the floor.

Sylvia had been followed by rumours all her life. Some had tried to shield her from it, but she was not blind to how some less refined lords and ladies looked to her for a moment, and looked back to their companions, whispering to themselves, casting long looks in her direction. It had been Jon Arryn to first make her notice, and she hadn't stopped noticing since.

At times, there was a perverse sense of interest to hear what others said about her, to wonder if her own recollection was false or if people had a wilder imagination than she did. Sometimes, it warmed her heart how stupid some people could be, to think such outlandish things that no one with half a mind would take seriously.

But over the few days following her words with Jaime, she found that most of the whispers circulating Riverrun were not untrue. The truth struck her bitter and hollow and hurt and angry and afraid all at once.

"He said she was a stupid girl, stuck in the shadow of a greater queen. He even called her a traitor. Ha! Him, calling the queen a traitor." The voice was high and young, the voice of a girl.

"To him, she is." A softer, raspier voice replied.

"I heard he said she had always been a shame to her mother. Said he wished King Robert had the sense to lock her away, but his obsession with the Starks was greater." Remarked a third woman low with scandal.

"Gods, I've never heard a Hall filled with a hundred men so quiet." Said the raspy woman. "Just hearin' o' it, I could spit."

One of them scoffed. "Why d'you care?" It was hard to tell who had said it. "She's half Lannister too."

"I say she's half stag and half wolf." The raspy woman replied haughtily.

"Mayhaps they thought the Kingslayer's words held truth." At that, Sylvia's ears perked up with fresh interest.

"Why'd they believe a word he say?" Said the high voiced girl.

"I had kin that worked in Kings Landing years ago. Said she was an odd little babe. Soft in the head." A part of Sylvia wanted to stand from her chair by the window, to pull open the doors leading into the bedchamber and ask the maids which of her relatives made the claim. But to ask would give the words scaffolding. Anyway, some servants claimed to be descended from long-dead kings and princes who had visited the beds of wenches and serving girls. Highborns who took such claims seriously were few and far between.

Still, a splinter had stuck under her skin—annoying more than it was painful. It stuck deep enough that it was harder to dislodge.

Weak, traitor, mad woman. All the names had a tiny bit of truth to it. As her uncle said, she was a traitor to her family, weak for siding with the husband they had chosen for her, mad for thinking to stand with the side that rose against the Lannisters. Even then, it had not made the northerners regard her as one of their own.

Not even Robb, she thought. He had not trusted her enough, and he'd lied to her for months because of it.

Frustrated and hurt, Sylvia threw the sampler she'd been working on aside. As she brought her hands together, lacing them together and bringing them to her lips, her fingers trembled, her elbows digging into her knees.

Sylvia considered herself a reasonable woman, considered herself rather prudent. She tried to understand, to reason why he lied, to see how he could live beside her, look her in the eyes, share her bed…with a lie this big handing over his head. But whatever reason she came to, it all grew from the same fact: her husband did not trust her.

It was a wretched thought she wished to forget, but she couldn't shake it, no matter how many times she tried. A soft moment between she and her husband would turn cold and distant after a few moments of silence.

She loved Robb so much. He was the first one she had ever wanted to kiss, the first to make her belly swoop with a simple smile. If she were married to anyone else, she would not have hesitated to flee their keep and steal away back to King's Landing, the moment whispers of war arose. Robb was the fire that kept the winter away. To know that he did not share something so monumental with her, because of some flaw he found in her character…it burned.

Her breath huffed against her hands as the door opened to her left. Sylvia hadn't noticed how late the day had grown until the maids brought her supper, laying it out on the table as though they hadn't just been gossiping about her. Sylvia wanted to hate them, but she couldn't. She knew first hand how entertaining the lives of highborns could be. Renly had kept her well informed, and so thinking too harshly of the serving girls would make her a terrible hypocrite when she found the same enjoyment in highborn drama.

A meal fit for two was laid out before her. Roasted duck, stuffed with apples, onions and sage, vegetables served hot and steaming with melted butter, and mashed potatoes that tasted faintly of garlic. It was a tasty spread, but Sylvia had no one to share it with. There had been no word of when Robb would return, but Sylvia had not wanted to ask.

"Is there anything else I may bring you, Your Grace?" Valla asked, her arms crossed politely behind her back. Sylvia thought the stance might make her look stern, but Valla had too many laugh lines around her mouth to ever look stern.

"Wine." She replied, her voice hard. "Bring me wine." She softened herself with a gentle smile, one which widened a bit when Valla's eyes held no flash of trepidation. At least rumours of that night had not reached beyond Winterfell.

After eating some, Sylvia sat back and gulped back her drink. It wasn't so sour as the northerner's swill. Riverrun was a rich, warm climate and their wine reflected that. It was sweet with hints of cherries. Sylvia hadn't had cherries since she left King's Landing.

She wanted Robb to smell it in the air when he came in, to know her shame was nothing now. It was a stupid challenge, a shameful one and somewhere Sylvia knew it. But she was too angry and hurt to care. Once he had scolded her, looked at her like he couldn't even recognize her, deepening the shame that already overflowed from her. How could he scold her now that she knew what he'd held back for months?

She loved him so much, and yet he had lied.

But after two cups, Sylvia still sat alone in the chamber, the candles dimming as she sat, slouching in her chair. Half-way through the third cup, she poured the rest of the carafe out the balcony window, into the black swirling water of the river below. Time had dulled the sense of mischief and retaliation. There was a light dizziness in her head, the thick honey she remembered, slowly beckoning her onward. Another drink or two, another small cup, and the honey would thicken and it would be so sweet to be numb a while, to forget herself in a tide of indifference.

A gulf was between here and there, and she feared it was too deep to cross. So she'd scrambled to toss away the drink, fearful that resolve would weaken in a moment or two.

But once it was gone, all she felt was empty. Foolish. Sad. All her intentions were futile, pathetic. And now she had nothing to soothe the ache. For a weak moment, she wept bitterly at the balcony, crouched low, like an animal huddled against the half wall. Two nails broke with how fiercely she clung to the ledge, but she didn't notice until the next day.

When she quivering stopped, she called for the maids and they helped her undress.

Valla returned, and managed a small smile at her as she carefully folded away the gown back into the queen's trunk. They shared a few brief words—pleasant talk about how fine a castle Riverrun was as she wrapped a thin bandage around her queen's bleeding fingertips. Valla never asked what had happened, and Sylvia was grateful.

And when they left, Sylvia crawled into the expansive bed, curling up beneath the heavy covers. A few moments passed, and then she began to cry.


She was set to leave in three days, and Sylvia found herself almost relieved for it. She needed time to breathe, some time to think without Robb lingering in the back of her mind. Most of all, she wanted to do something, to play her part in this wretched war and make it all end that much sooner.

Mayhaps sleep would come easier once she was on the road, away from the clamour of men at war, far from Catelyn and her sidelong looks, far from all the things she wanted to forget.

"Who disfigured Jaime Lannister's face, by the way?" Sylvia asked Robb, three days after the audience with the kingslayer occurred. When the hurt and rage had faded some, she thought of how red and swollen the man's face had been that day, the skin split over his forehead. It had been poorly tended to, the work done only to stave off infection, not to save the beauty of his face.

Now, as they broke their fast, she found the words to ask him, curious as to how her wretched uncle had been abused under Robb's care.

Robb thought for a moment. "My mother had words with him."

Ah yes, Catelyn Stark once again, milling about and dipping her fingers into matters Sylvia was driven away from. "Hmm. In private, no less." She hummed, her tone flat. Robb did not reply to the comment, nor did he attempt to tell her he had not known of the meeting until after it had happened. But Catelyn had explained that she'd struck him with a rock for his flippancy, for the way he'd smirked and promised to fuck her like an animal if she only released him from his chains. After that, Robb decided it better that Sylvia have no contact with the man.

Then guilt crept in and he'd allowed her to have a public audience with the kingslayer, and even now, days later, all he wanted was to march to Jaime Lannister's cell and hack off his hand for what he'd said to his wife.

Alas, a hurt for Jaime would buy a hundred hurts for Sansa and Arya.

"How long are you going to be angry at me?" He asked instead. Sylvia was silent, not expecting such a blunt question. But truly, she did not know the answer—the anger had left her and now all that remained was hurt. Not that she would tell him that he'd managed to hurt her so deeply.

Her silence was all the answer he needed. "Sylvia, I am sorry that I lied to you." The sincerity of his voice made her draw back, surprised. Men never apologized, a right they seemed to think only allotted to their own sex. "I did it to protect us. To save you the pain if the speculation proved false."

She scoffed then, angry and astounded all at once. "Instead you let me be fearful and doubtful and at odds with you, let me be ignorant to the true severity of the situation. You were protecting me when you swore on holy ground that you would never lie to me? And extended your protective hand by sitting by and letting the kingslayer humiliate me for all of Riverrun to see?" She knew that she had been the one to push for the meeting. But Robb had only sat there throughout, silent and unmoving, leaving her alone to defend herself. Jaime Lannister's hate filled barbs were small compared to her husband's silence.

His silence now was stony, barely held back, whereas before, it was a reserved kind of silence. "Your reasons—any of them—will not soothe over mangled skin. Only time and patience can do that." Sylvia reached across the table for the platter of porridge, and quickly gulped down a spoonful of the sweet, sticky goop.

She wanted to say more, but she couldn't find the words. Words were small, and so often they fell short or were misunderstood. If she told him she felt betrayed, he would think all her blame rested with him, when in fact it was scattered in pieces, too many to count. If she told him she was angry, he'd think it could be forgiven with a promise, but really, he was only one of ten people her blood ran hot for, and words were wind anyway. And if she told him she was sad…well, he'd want to mend her, but she feared the what would happen when he found that she was not fixable.

Robb had tried in the past to piece her back together when she fell apart, but this was different. They were different now.

Instead, she looked away, out the balcony and far off into the distance. She wondered if she looked towards Winterfell or the Red Keep. "You promised me, in the godswood, that you would not lie to me. And, now I have come to see that that very promise was tainted before it was even made."

Somewhere, far off, a loon called, filling the silence that had overcome them. She'd stopped expecting him to reply, but when resigned herself to that fact, and sat forward to eat a rasher of bacon, he spoke. "I never wanted to hurt you, Syl." He spoke lowly, honestly. "That is the last thing I ever want to do. But I had to protect our family."

Ours, or yours, she wanted to ask him. But there was such a big part of her that wanted to believe him, to have the same faith in him she'd had months ago when they were home in Winterfell, when everything was perfectly splendid. So, setting aside the hurt and the doubt, she let herself. But, once it was set aside, new feeling crept up inside her. Guilt.

Ours or yours, she asked herself, visions of golden hair and green eyes filling her head.

She wanted to confess, the words "I wrote to my mother before we left Winterfell," right there, on the tip of her tongue.

But Robb was offering her peace, and she was too weak to deny it. Hypocrisy. It settled like a stone in her belly.

Her family was Robb's family. Minisa was their family, beyond all the Starks and even Jon Snow—she was who mattered most. If the whole family of House Stark were parts of the body, Minisa was the heart in her mother's view. One can live without a hand or their eyes, though it may be hard, but not the heart.

Our family, she told herself, tension easing out her body as she thought of it. He did it for our family. It did not heal the wound, but rather, gave a cooling balm that made it bearable. She ignored the thoughts that whispered at her that she'd done it for the family of her birth, thoughts that demanded attention with increasing volume.

"What is it you suggest I say to Renly when I see him?" she asked at last, letting the argument die.


In between the time they had arrived at Riverrun and the three days before Sylvia stole away into the night for her meeting with Renly, Robb had spent much of his time in the massive lord's solar that served as his war room.

As a boy, he'd sat in on his father's meetings with lords and servants alike, household guards and scouts and men of all walks of life. His father had prepared him for leadership since he was a boy just learning to walk, and yet, when his father's men—his men, now—crowned him a king, Robb felt…stricken. Pulled ten different ways. Uncertain, even, though he'd dare not admit it.

Why any man would want to be king was entirely lost on him. In fact, Robb found himself with new found understanding of his late father in law, and why he fell in love with the drink.

All day long, he met with men twice his age and discussed the best way to march out again, the most deceptive methods to mislead the enemies they faced. Of course, smaller but just as important matters arose as well. Food, was one of the more common topics that came up and Robb went to sleep thinking about it.

They had to ensure they had enough to go around to feed the men who marched. "A starving army will soon be a dead army at best. Could be worse if they turn tail and retreat homeward." But more than that, Robb feared that by the wars end, if he was not prudent and prepared, he would sit at home in Winterfell, haunted by the ghosts of starved women and children.

Steel was another. Steel for swords, spears, arrowheads, armour and horse shoes. Masons to work the metal, and the tools and forges to form their craft.

And gold, most of all. Gold, gold, gold.

By the time the sun dipped low and the torches were lit, Robb was still treating with a riverlord, Lord Hook whose Keep was small, who expressed concerns about the harvest his people expected to bear bountiful fruit for the coming winter. Robb had decreed that he would utilize some of each riverlord's harvest to feed the soldiers, leaving some for each holdfast and having a small portion be held at Riverrun if there was need to flee to the castle.

Shortly, the lord's chief complaint was that Robb was taking too much.

"Once more, my lord, I assure you, you and yours shall have enough provisions to last out the winter when it does come. Until the time comes when the first snows fall, focus all your worries on harvesting the best you can."

The other man scoffed. "Forgive me, your grace, but after suffering starvation for the better part of a year during the Rebellion, I have many concerns. My children are too small to survive such—"

"I've a daughter myself and I understand the need to see your children safe from all harm," Robb said, his tone softening at the thought of his girl. She'd always been small; born delicate, the size of his hand. Even now, nearing her name day, she was still small though she'd grown faster than he could keep track of. Men longed for sons, but Robb's Minisa was his pride and joy. He loved best of all to hold her close and smell the scent of her hair and now he was forced to learn how to live without it. "You will keep enough grain to keep your people fed through the winter, but if your stores become lean, travel northward and I will see you sheltered." He knew the decree was not likely to be met with fondness, but the new king would not have this man's people starve when he swore his swords to him.

Loyalty and trust, paid in loyalty and trust.

He thought of his child, sweet little Mini, starved and cold in place of this man's children. If roles were switched, he would do anything to ensure his daughter survived, to keep her warm.

A moment passed, in which Lord Hook seemed to ponder his words, gauge the measure of his promise. At the end, he found Robb reliable and nodded slowly. "Your Grace." He bowed, before leaving the room at his own nod.

When he was gone, Robb sat back in his chair, running a hand down his face.

"It was a nice touch, adding in the part about Minisa." A sly voice came from behind his chair. Theon stepped forward, grinning down at Robb. "Had me all misty eyed too."

Robb scoffed, lips pulling into a grin of his own. "If you ever have a daughter of your own, you shall have no sympathy from me."

Theon only laughed and took a seat on the fine oak chair sat across from Robb. Settling back lazily, he rested one leg over his thigh. "Speaking of children, how is your wife?" Robb fixed his friend with a stern glare, but Theon's grin never wavered.

"She's fine." She wasn't. She was the farthest thing from fine, but he couldn't admit it to Theon. Only a handful knew of what Sylvia had lost when she'd been attacked, and then all this with Jaime Lannister and Bran hadn't done much good. "Still wants the kingslayer's teeth for a necklace."

"Remind me never to make her angry." Theon even smiled as he cringed. "With any luck, she'll drive your Frey good-son away before any marriage can take place. Can you imagine her as a good-mother?"

"No more than I could imagine Mini being wed." It was nice to talk about something so mundane and relatively harmless. He would one day have to give his babe to a man, entrusting him to take care of her the way he always had, and he had no doubt it would be hard to let go. But marriages were the stuff of life, while war only tasted of blood and pain.

"I can, but all it looks like is Sylvia standing next to a scrawny, pimply faced boy and you and Sylvia glaring so hard at him his hair turns white." Robb laughed aloud at that. "Jokes aside, I do hope that our new princess isn't truly going to wed something that came from Walder Frey's pendulous sack."

The king's eyes flashed up, a mirthless tug coming to the corner of his mouth. An oath was an oath and he would not break it when Lord Frey had honoured his end, even if it left him bitter. "If it is not little Olyver Frey, Lord Walder has many more grandsons to offer."

"I hate to think how a man like that has a seed so potent he has more than a dozen bastards underfoot." Robb hated to think of it even more, hating that his daughter would be linked to a man like Walder Frey. Even a marriage to a Lannister had not given his House any status or honour. Rumour had it, Genna Lannister had made her husband a cuckhold. "If he treats little Minisa so, have no fear, a riding accident can happen to anyone." At that, Robb did laugh, more for the fact that Theon was so loyal to his babe. It was a long laugh, one far too inappropriate for such a foolish joke. But once he stared to laugh, Robb couldn't stop.

"Finally!" Theon called. "I was sure your damn face was going to crack." When his moment of mirth began to fade, Theon continued. "Methinks time apart from your little queen will soften her vice grip on your balls. Already you seem lighter."

Robb chuckled, a smile lingering on his lips. Jokes aside, it was Theon who knew how much he loved his wife. There had always been a layer of awkwardness to speak of her with Jon, his status as a bastard the culprit. It had never felt right to speak to his baseborn brother about how he felt about Sylvia. At first, he had regarded his betrothed as a stranger, an invader to his homeland. She had been little else to him, and so he could talk about her to Jon. It was only when she became more to Robb that he had trouble talking about it to Jon.

Theon was the only friend he had who could make a jape about Sylvia and survive.

A beat passed, the laughter gone. "I don't know how…she will forgive me. I don't know if I even feel guilty for keeping all this from her." He admitted. What good had it done to tell her that Jaime Lannister had pushed Bran from the tower window? Months ago, he'd wanted to, believing she was owed the truth. He had abhorred the thought of her being so close to such filth and wanted to tell her so she would not be poisoned by them. But when they marched out, it just became easier to keep the truth from her.

In the end, he had avoided telling her until he couldn't a day longer.

Theon was quiet for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth. "You did what was necessary for your House. If she knew any sooner, she'd have written to the Lannisters. Wife or not, you did the right thing."

Robb shook his head sharply. "She told me once she enjoyed it when I apologized to her. Something about not hearing it when she was a girl. I imagine she's starting to hate the sound."

The young king was silent, thoughtful. Little else was said about the subject before Theon took his leave and Robb knew it was time for him to retreat to his own bed. But he remained sat in his chair a while longer, his mind blank as a kind of dread filled him. He hated to see his wife angry or sad, and hated it even more when her blue eyes looked to him with such dark emotion.

Robb had just stood when he heard it, the commotion outside his door, a man shouting that he had to see the king at once. Armour clangs and Robb flings the doors open before he can hear a scrape of steel leaving it's sheath.

Beyond the doorway, stood the three guardsmen assigned to Robb's war room, and a forth man. He was a young man, dark hair and wide brown eyes filled with frenzy. He was filthy, mud splattered over his boots and breeches, his hair tangled and unwashed. He looked as though he had been riding hard for days.

"Lord Robb!" the lad shouted upon seeing him, struggling harder.

"He's a king now, boy." One of the guardsmen grunted, shoving the younger man back.

"Lord Robb! Please, I beg you, I bring urgent news from Winterfell!"

Fear gripped Robb's heart, strangling any apprehension about the boy's sudden and clamorous appearance. From the boy's frantic pleas, Robb knew right away that this news would break his heart. He stepped forward, raising a hand and ordering the men to cease. Slowly with trepidation, the guardsmen relented and released the young man's arms. For the first time, Robb saw a touch of fear come into the young man. "Please m'lord, I-I must 'ave killed my horse riding 'im so hard."

"What. News." he asked, his voice a low growl.


oop.

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Until next time!