THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED ON JULY 12 2016

Ok here's why I went MIA: I was stumped on where to start D:

I had an entire, half written chapter on Robb and Sylvia's misadventures in the very early years of knowing each other, but I got some serious writers block and forgot how I was gonna organize it, and then I lost inspiration and then I thought, "would they wanna read all this?"

So I decided that I shall jump ahead and get on with the story where it matters and if anyone is interested, I'll post the chapter on Robb/Sylvia's early years as a one-shot.

Sound good? (me in a high squeaky voice), Yes it sounds good, great idea! (me in different voice) You're so smart, Roweena, and you have such nice teeth (Me) Oh stop it you =D

Hold on, to me as we go
As we roll down this unfamiliar road
And although this wave (wave) is stringing us along
Just know you're not alone
Cause I'm gonna make this place your home

Home by Philip Philips

Chapter 1

Three years later

For a long time, Sylvia stared at herself in the mirror, staring at the pretty young face that frowned back at her, still soft and innocent from her girlhood, her long black hair, wet from her bath, dripping beads of water down her body. In her concentration, she hardly felt the shiver move through her, staring intently down at the small breasts budding on her chest and further down still to the curls between her legs.

It was early afternoon and she had just finished her bath, having ordered her handmaidens out of her chambers once more so that she may dress herself without them watching her. Really, how much help could they offer, after she chose not to wear a corset? This was also the only time where she could thoroughly examine the womanly body she now possessed, looking and touching herself in ways she never could with others present, or at night in the dark, under the covers.

She brushed her long wet hair back and raised her hand to touch her breast, feeling the soft mound fit easily in her palm, the nipple, hardened from the cold air, poking against her skin. She felt very grown all of a sudden, like a woman. She wasn't a child anymore, that was clear, but she wasn't yet a woman. Her body still had some of the flatness of her girlhood, and she was only just starting to grow rounder.

These changes seemed to happen overnight somehow. It felt like one night she lay down to sleep and when she awoke, these womanly features had just grown, strange and almost unanticipated.

Sour septa Maesa had even said as much. A few months ago, while she read over a book about the customs of old Valyria (she had wanted the read the book about the Summer Islands, but septa Maesa refused to let her—said it was a vulgar thing for a lady to read), the stern looking woman spoke up from her stitching, her voice loud in the all but silent room. "You're truly coming into a womanly form." The sour old woman commented from her chair, almost sounding indifferent to the budding flower her charge was growing into. But Sylvia could tell the sour septa would say more, and probably offend her, as she always did when she used that voice to speak of delicate things in a rather indelicate manner. "Have you bled yet?" she asked bluntly, as though she was simply asking if Sylvia had remembered her manners when socializing with other ladies.

A sudden flame scorched across the young girl's face, coloring her pale skin red up to the roots of her hair. Sylvia snapped her head around to stare at the woman, unsure if she had heard her right, and quickly looked away when she found the septa staring right at her, unflinchingly. To her young virgin ears, hearing such private things spoken of so carelessly was as callous as an old sailor trying to woo a noble born lady with lewd words. "I, how can you, no...Don't ask me that!" the princess screeched.

"Princess, this is a matter of great importance!" septa Maesa reminded her for the thousandth time. "You are a princess and you were born for this, child. You will marry the north and bind the crown to the Starks. You will be a lady of the north and your son will be young Robb's heir..." Sylvia sighed in annoyance, dropping her book into her lap. The old crone always reminded her of her duty; so many times Sylvia felt she could repeat her word for word.

Why was getting married and having children her duty anyway? What did it matter who fathered her children? Not that she'd ever put her future children's parentage into question, mind you—she was a good girl, and even the thought of lying with anyone else but her intended was shameful. A lady lies with her lord, no one else. But she couldn't help but wonder, who had decided that a lady's only duty was to make babies for her husband, but a man's duty was to lead, be fierce in battle, manage sums, keep the peace, and a hundred other things? A man couldn't be good at all that. Maybe his wife could help him? She was clever; Maester Luwin and Lord Eddard said so.

Anyhow, Lady Catelyn wouldn't have her in with Robb as Maester Luwin's pupil if there weren't other things she needed to learn. Sylvia could smile. She was better than Robb at history and astronomy, she remembered facts and constellations better than he did, and always corrected him when he tried to point out a set of stars to her or his younger brothers and sisters. But he was better than her at sums and geography. Slightly, she thought haughtily. She liked to think when they married, they would be as matched as they were now in their lessons—that they would be as equals, each giving the other something the other needed, besides a warm bed at night, and little children to scurry about these cold stone halls.

But Sylvia didn't smile. Her septa was still blabbering on. "...and so have you bled yet?" the dark haired princess did not answer, and made no indication she'd even heard the woman, as she so often did. "Well?" the sour woman demanded.

With great annoyance Sylvia grumbled out a short, "No," and the rest of the evening was spent in a cold silence.

Yes, Sylvia was becoming a pretty young lady, but she was still a girl. Girl...she'd never thought that word would sound like a curse to her ears.

That had been just a few short months ago, and still, no blood. She was getting rather impatient for it, to be honest. At four-and-ten, she felt like a child. What if people started talking? What if she never bled, and was never able to wed Robb, or have children?

Mother said high born girls bleed at thirteen, but her thirteenth year had come and gone without event...well other than when Arya had given Sansa a toad for her name-day, that had been quite an amusing event, but the one that was essential to her family's ambition. Sylvia was the princess, much more than a lord's daughter, expected to be nothing but grace and perfection, to run a household, raise a family, perfect and beautiful, until she died. There was no other glory or honor a girl like her can have, but for the birth of strong and healthy children. Because she would marry into one of the oldest houses in the realm—ancient, wealthy and honourable—every month that passed would be watched with great interest, and her place in the north would only be cemented when she brought forth a Stark child.

She was supposed to be perfect, and marry Robb and give him babies, but each passing month made a little more anxious. What was wrong with her? Why wasn't she a woman yet? Septa Maesa said women that flowered late, had a harder time having babies.

Suddenly, the shudders of her window rattled with the wind, and a cold shiver slid down her wet back as the wind raced through the cracks of the wood and into her room. At once she grabbed up her under shift and yanked it over her head, then sat down on her bed and wrapped herself in the shawl that had been lying on the warm fur blanket.

One thing she had never gotten used to was the cold—the south had never had cold like this, even in the winter. And with that thought, she missed the Capitol once more, although the ache had faded in the last three years into something bearable.

"My lady," a soft voice called from beyond her door. She knew the gentle, timid voice. It was Pansy, one of her handmaidens, who after being dismissed by her young mistress, found it suitable to wait outside the door until the princess called her back in again. "Y-your septa says it's time for lessons with the maester." Pansy told her.

The onyx haired princess rolled her eyes, not out of any real annoyance, but out of long established disdain for her frigid septa. Still, she stood and walked to the dressing screen at the corner of her room, and retrieved the blue dress flung over the top of it. Dressing quickly, she called for Pansy to tie the tricky laces up the back and then stalked down the cold corridors towards the Great Hall in Winterfell for lessons, Ser Fredrik quietly at her side.

"...and in considering the values, how long would it take to reach Deepwood Motte?" the old Maester's voice carried down the stone corridors and bounced off the hollow hall where Robb Stark and Sylvia Baratheon's lessons were conducted for four hours every day.

The young lord and princess sat beside each other, as they had nearly every day since the young princess first arrived in Winterfell. Maester Luwin could hardly believe how much the two had grown in such a small amount of time—he had known Robb since he was a babe at his mother's breast, and had seen Sylvia nearly every day since she became the Stark's fosterling...it warmed his heart to look at them now, so young and with so much to look forward to.

Robb didn't answer at once, as he worked the numbers around in his head, but he was still a lot faster than Sylvia who was desperately trying to conjure an answer, her fingers dancing anxiously on the table. Given time and parchment to work the answers out on, she would get it...eventually. "A month and a half, if the weather is fair." The young lordling answered.

"Well done." Maester Luwin praised softly, but no less genuinely.

By far, sums were Sylvia's least favorite lesson. She felt the fool whenever she missed an answer or simply couldn't find it, and immensely enjoyed history and astronomy lessons, where she proved time and time again she was as clever as Robb. When sour septa Maesa learned of her charges' fondness of besting her betrothed, the woman entered into a tiring lecture on how proper, gentle ladies were supposed to be glad for their lord's accomplishments, not make it into a competition and enjoy competing with him. Ladies didn't do such things.

Sylvia huffed in annoyance, dropping the quill to the parchment. "This is so bloody stupid!" she grumbled. She turned to Robb, glaring at him with her ocean deep eyes. "Robb, can't you give me a moment to answer for once?"

"Well I could, but if I did, we'd be here till past supper and I rather like the cooks' roasted lamb." Robb countered cheekily, amusement dancing in his lake blue eyes at his friend's annoyance. Sylvia was fun to tease, she would get so worked up: stomp her foot, poke his chest, pout her pretty pink lips, and by the time she'd storm away in a huff, Robb was so amused, his glee would pass to Sylvia, effectively ending her frustration.

"Robb," the Maester chided softly.

"Oh, shut it." Sylvia hissed back at the boy. "How many times have I fallen asleep, while waiting for you to find the Warrior's Star? And the Mother's Comet? Or the Dancing Doe? Or the Dragon's Eye?"

"Sylvia," the Maester interjected again. Unlike the child's septa, the sweet old man had the princess' permission to call her by name.

"Stars look all the same! They're just little dots in the sky!" the auburn haired boy countered hotly.

"That's why you have to be especially clever to tell between them. You'd never make it to Deepwood, unless I was there to navigate." Sylvia smiled sweetly. Robb's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to counter her words, but Maester Luwin cut him off.

"Enough, from the both of you." The two children looked away from each other, and turned to the Maester, almost as if remembering he was there. "You'll have plenty of time to bicker at each other outside of this Hall. Now is the time for sum lessons." He emphasized by tapping the parchment laid out in front of him with his stick. Even when scolding them, Sylvia thought, he always managed to sound sweet and kind, not haughty or mean.

"Yes, Maester." They chorused. Maester Luwin nodded in approval, but as soon as his back was turned, Sylvia turned to Robb to smack his arm, while he made a little face at her.

So much had happened in the three years that Sylvia had lived in Winterfell. Gone was the little girl Robb had known, frightened of her new surroundings, and angry and bratty to everyone who had sent her there and everyone that had welcomed her.

For a good long time in the beginning, Robb didn't even know what Sylvia sounded like or if she even could, always quiet and shy as she was. She would look so distant sometimes, probably thinking of her family so far away in the south, and when she came back, remembering where she was, a sigh would leave her, her sadness making the air around her grow thick with discomfort, leaving Robb at a loss of what to say. He felt so awkward around her, especially these times. He was to marry her one day; shouldn't he know what to say to make her happy? Yet little black haired princess took Sansa's soft words with a gentle smile that was easily forced, and did not look to him as though she expected something from him. Robb was half grateful and half...annoyed about that. She might not expect him to do something but he knew he had to.

So Robb swallowed his fear and uncertainty, speaking to her, smiling kindly, inviting her to spend time with him and his siblings, helping her with answers in lessons—anything to put her at ease. It was the right thing to do, his noble father told him. "A little kindness you show her now," Lord Eddard had said, "will water the seed for a good marriage."

"But she isn't even trying!" Robb explained to his father, confusion and anger in his young eyes.

"She is a little girl," Lord Eddard reminded him. "The princess is very far from home, most like misses her family. You are a northman, you know our ways, our customs, our lands. She is a southerner. Winterfell is as strange to her as the south would be to you."

All his efforts seemed for naught, however, and Robb soon began to fear that what was between them—or rather what wasn't between them—would carry on until he and Sylvia were married, forced to endure the other's presence, for the sake of their honour and bloodline. The thought filled him with dismay and he came to dread every lesson, every feast and every moment of free time he and Sylvia were forced to spend together by his mother. Lessons were filled with customary greetings and farewells, answers and questions for only the old maester teaching the two. Feasts always promised sweaty palms and sore toes when they danced, but a shy attraction at seeing the other looking their best. Their free time together varied, each time was different—sometimes it would last a moment, other times an entire afternoon, now and then they'd be outside with the other children, and others they'd be alone in the castle.

Neither child noticed with the shyness their betrothal brought, but over the weeks and weeks of seeing each other every day, Lord and Lady Stark's hope came true: they became familiar with each other, getting used to the other's simple presence. This familiarity eased the children's tension, now knowing what to expect from the other, and brought a little warmth to their time together little by little.

It happened gradually, but brick by brick, the walls came down, the armour came off, neither noticing the new vulnerability, only happy to feel warmth in their otherwise icy relationship.

Sylvia started it first, giggling at something witty Robb said in the middle of their history lesson. The hurt of leaving home was still there in her heart, but it had begun to dull, as all pain does with time. Then Robb asked her if she would like to play with him and his siblings in the godswood, without a hint of reluctance in his voice...and everything took flight. They began enjoying each other's company, finding that when they spoke, they liked the things that came from the other's mouth.

There were times when they hated each other, particularly when Robb refused to let Sylvia play with him, Jon and Theon. Robb hated that she always tried to intrude on their rough games and turn them into girly ones, and Sylvia hated that he always refused her. But children's anger is petty, so it didn't last very long.

King Robert smiled a little when the stewards brought him a letter from Ned, informing him that Sylvia had taken to riding with young Robb in their free time. Robert sat back in his chair, still clutching the small scroll. He and his Lyanna had enjoyed riding together to the Wolfs Wood and back, they had been so happy...he found himself almost resenting the fact that Sylvia would know the happiness he never would again. Lifting his cup to his mouth, Robert Baratheon forgot his troubles in the deep red drink sloshing about in his goblet.

The queen received the same letters, heard the same news, but received them much differently than her husband: Cersei didn't believe them and certainly didn't find them bittersweet reminders of young love. Sylvia was her daughter, and her children were made of stronger stuff; they were Lannister's after all. But then again...Sylvia was half Roberts as well, half a stag, and Robert was weak—pining away for a woman long dead, drowning himself with wine and food and women, growing fatter and stupider each year. Joffrey was all hers and Jaime's, all Lannister. The two were so different, night and day, lion and stag...Sylvia had to be softer than Joffrey; her father was a drunken fool after all, where as Joffrey was her beautiful brother's, strong and fierce. But Sylvia had to be smarter than to trust that Stark boy with her heart. She simply had to.

Of course neither Sylvia nor Robb knew these little facts, but it didn't matter. Life was uncomplicated now, and all they knew how to do was to enjoy it until the inevitable day when they would swear their vows before the heart-tree.

It happened one afternoon as she embroidered a kitten pattern on a stretch of silk for little Tommen. Tommen was about to turn three and Sylvia had heard from Myrcella that he adored kittens, so she decided to make him a pillow with kittens on it, and send it all the way down to the Capitol for the little brother she had never met.

Mother had lied. Sylvia never got the chance to visit her home, she would not see her family again until she was married it seemed, and she had hoped that would be very, very soon. If she had flowered when she was supposed to at thirteen, she would be married by now, and her mother and father and siblings would be there in Winterfell with her. She could see how Myrcella had grown without her there, ask her if Joffrey had been cruel to her or Tommen without the fear of someone hearing and telling mother. She could finally meet Tommen, let him know he had an elder sister from far away and give him a lot of hugs and kisses so he wouldn't forget her again when he went back south. She could see mother and father and uncle Tyrion and uncle Renly again... she wouldn't be the lone southerner in Winterfell any longer.

But none of that had happened, and it wouldn't until she was ripe and ready to bear babies. She wasn't entirely eager about that prospect, but she supposed it was a price she'd have to pay to see her mother and father again. Sylvia would go without her family until then, like some cruel punishment.

The Stark's were kind enough, she liked the other Stark children but they weren't her siblings (although she was very thankful they weren't Joffrey). She liked the lord and lady but they weren't her mother and father. Winterfell wasn't the Red Keep and the north certainly wasn't the south. This strange, cold place was lovely enough, but her heart still longed for the warmth of King's Landing.

Sylvia sighed, lowering her needlework to her lap. These thoughts were making her sad. It wasn't as though mother and father didn't want her to visit; there must be some reason behind it. Perhaps they thought if she visited the Capitol, she'd refuse to leave again, or maybe it was because the kingsroad was dangerous in the summer years, bandits and savages ready to steal and raid...yes there must be a reason. Mother and father wouldn't leave her here without a reason.

The princess sighed and lifted up her work once again, stitching the dainty paw on the last kitten into the silk fabric.

She hoped Tommen liked it; she wanted this stranger brother of hers to love her. Maybe if she was especially kind to him, he wouldn't be mean to her like Joffrey was. Sylvia only knew of Tommen through what little her sister could describe of him in her letters. She knew he was golden haired and emerald eyed, like Myrcella and Joffrey, that he was chubby as all babies were; that he liked kittens and sweets, and ran around after hit pet rabbit as fast as his baby legs could take him. Words only went so far, and she couldn't wait to meet her little brother.

Smiling a little at the kittens playing on the stretch of silk, Sylvia stood, intending on taking a break from her work and take in the Glass Gardens for a while, perhaps with Sansa or Robb or maybe she would just walk with Ser Fredrick. But when she stood, she felt a wet, gooey gush between her legs and something warm running down the inside of her thigh.

She froze, frowning at the strange sensation, dropped her work onto the floor, and then lifted up the skirt of her dress in a very unladylike manor that would have made her septa keel over dead at the sight. Sylvia pulled the layers of skirts up past her knees, to the tops of her thighs until her legs were only covered by her knee high stockings. Reaching one hand between her legs, she felt there a moment over her small clothes, and pulled back her hand.

The tips of her fingers were coloured a bright red. She looked down to her thighs then, and whimpered at the amount of blood stained there, fear and horror gripping her heart at the messy sight of it. A whirlwind of emotions swarmed thorough her then, like the rough winds in the winter, yanking and shaking flecks of snow through the air, traveling a hundred different directions because of one factor.

"S-septa!" Sylvia called out, her voice soft with a quiet kind of urgency.

The girl remained there in her room for the next few days, hardly seeing anyone. Somehow she had managed to convince her septa that she should not be out and about, that her newfound "condition" caused her unbearable belly pains and horrible headaches. Over exaggerated lies, Sylvia was simply too shy to see anyone, now that they all knew something so...personal...was happening to her, something so ugly, and messy and so indelicate. For all her titles and the prestige her name was held in, Sylvia was still a girl, not half as strong to bear the weight of the duty her father's name pressed down on her, and certainly not able to face the world as this disgusting thing continued on.

For the most part, Sylvia simply lay stiff on her bed, too cautious to move in case any blood dripped down onto the sheets. The princess would try to read her book, or be social with Ser Fredrik, but mostly, she was just lost in her own head. Sylvia knew she ought to be pleased. This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? Now she'd get to see her family again, when they came for her wedding in a years time.

But soon she realized what the blood on her small clothes meant. She'd be Sylvia Stark, a woman grown, wedded and bedded, and one day, she'd be Lady Stark. With this new status, she was now faced with many more duties; some she did not know how to handle or if she even could.

Her upcoming marriage was most prominent in her mind. For a very long time, she had only thought of what that day would bring: her family—she had never really thought of the gravity of it. Married, she would be married, a wife...Robb's wife...the concept was so strange, so utterly foreign she wanted to cry and scream at the same time. She didn't know if she knew how to be a wife, how to make Robb happy or offer him good advice or simply comfort him. Wives had to do all that and more for their husbands, and her septa said if she was a good wife to Robb, he would love her and their marriage would be happy. And Robb was very kind to her, but...Sylvia didn't think he liked her the way a boy should like his betrothed.

Sylvia grunted as she turned over trying to get comfortable, not caring for just a second that she could feel that messy goop between her legs. That last thought made her very sad. Robb had never even kissed her, and now she was going to have to marry him and...touch him and...share his bed. The princess' face flushed a deep red at the thought. Of course there wouldn't be anything improper about it, Robb would be her husband, she would be his wife...but it was so embarrassing, the idea of being so open, laid bare in front of someone for the first time, someone you've never even kissed before that day.

Sometimes she wondered if Robb even noticed that she was growing into a woman. She'd certainly noticed he was becoming a man. Sylvia sighed. It didn't seem like he noticed and if he had, he didn't show any interest. Robb's eyes didn't follow her longer than usual, he spoke to her about normal, common things rather than sweet soft things like a lover does, and he had never kissed her. She tried not to feel sad for this, but how could she not? Robb was going to be her husband soon enough and what wife wanted a husband that didn't think she was beautiful, that didn't want her?

If he didn't like her as a man likes a woman, it would be embarrassing; people would think she wasn't good, they would think she wasn't doing her duty as his wife. They would talk, everyone in the north would talk, think her barren, perhaps even say s he wasn't a maid when she went to Robb's bed, and be the shame of the entire north. She didn't understand why.

A gentle breeze softly lifted a strand of the princess' silky black hair, but she hardly felt the tickle on her neck, too lost in her thoughts. The bark of the heart-tree behind her was rough even through the thickness of her dress and cloak, but the moss she sat on was comfortable and the way her knees were drawn up helped to keep the cold away.

Her courses had ended two days before, and this was the first time she'd been outside the castle since it had started. She hadn't seen Robb yet, nor Jon or that smiley squid boy. Apparently Lord Stark and the boys had left a few days ago to settle a dispute at Torrhen's Square; some slave traders were caught trying to ship away captured common folk or something like that. Lady Catelyn said Robb would be home very soon, as though Sylvia missed him more than anything, now that she was ready to be his wife.

Sylvia groaned, dropping her hand from her cheek. Lady Catelyn had been quite happy to see Sylvia the day her red flower began to bloom. The princess wondered if every mother was happy to know their son's betrothed was ready to bear him children, or if Lady Catelyn was just strange. She supposed it didn't matter; the lady still took her hands in hers and smiled so kindly at her when she said she was now a woman and would be Robb's wife just after her fifteenth name-day. Sylvia smiled politely to hide her fears, and Lady Catelyn kept her company the entire afternoon talking about many things – wedding plans, what to expect now that she was a woman, what to expect when having a child, and how it was natural to be afraid, that Robb would be there to hold her hand through it all, just as Lord Stark had done for her.

The lady seemed to think that love had just burst in Sylvia's heart for Robb because of some blood. But that wasn't true. Nothing had really changed besides the fact that she was now ready to have babies. She did miss Robb's company because he was away, she missed his wit and sweetness and she missed the happy gleam he emitted, but it was something she could live through, it didn't hurt at all. Was it supposed to? Was being without him meant to hurt her? Was that love? Hurt?

Lady Catelyn liked to be around Lord Stark, the two always smiled together and touched, and the admiration in their eyes made it clear that they must love each other...and when the man was away, Lady Stark was a bit more somber, quieter, and more than once, Sylvia had seen a far off look in her eyes, probably thinking about her lord. Then when Lord Stark returned, she was happy again.

Mother and father were entirely different. They never smiled together, touched each other, or even said much to each other, even in private. It was a rare occasion when father visited her mother's apartments and didn't simply send for her or his children. Mother never complained when father left on hunting trips, in fact she seemed happier when he was gone. The young princess shifted, growing uncomfortable with these thoughts, but unable or unwilling to think of anything else.

At night sometimes when father visited her mother's chambers, Sylvia would awaken to shouts and the sounds of clattering silverware and bodies hitting furniture. She didn't remember what they would say, but it didn't matter, they were angry words, violent sounds, that made it impossible to go back to sleep. She was always too afraid to venture outside her room to see what was happening, but the next day, (and many days after), mother would be too angry to see her, leaving her with her Bryda and Fredrik. When mother's anger had waned, and she did see her children, the girl would see an ugly purple mark somewhere on Cersei's ivory skin.

Those times were few, but they'd burned into the young princess like a brand, a memory that stood out more than she'd wished.

Father wasn't any better, always drinking too much, never caring if his wife could see him with his whores and once or twice, Sylvia saw him publically yell at her mother, (the queen!), when she spat venom back at him. When Sylvia was with her father in his chambers, visiting him, hearing his war stories, he never said anything nice about mother. Not a word, a hint or a whisper that there was anything but bitterness and hatred between them.

Sylvia felt tears stinging her eyes, and tried desperately to blink them back, but it was no good, the tears came anyway. It shouldn't have been as nasty a blow as it was, because she had grown up in it, seen it since she could remember, and never knew anything different...until the Starks. This northern family had shown her what a man and woman were supposed to feel for each other. Between her parent's marriage, and Lord and Lady Stark's marriage, the latter seemed a more pleasant one, the kind she wanted for herself, a happy union without fear. But that was not what caused her distress; knowing you came from a place where the two people you loved more than anything hated each other, would make any child quite a bit upset.

A terrible, painful thought came to her then: what if her parents hated her? She came from hate so how wrong would it be to assume they resented her, even just a little? Sylvia sniffled, wiping her face on the sleeve of her dress.

A twig suddenly snapped, quickly drawing her attention.

A look of surprise and concern came across Robb's face as he saw Sylvia, her face wet with tears, eyes holding nothing but hurt then shock and then shame when she saw it was him.

Robb, his father, his brother and his father's ward had just come back from Torrhen's Square, and after greeting his mother, sisters and little brothers, he set off to find Sylvia. It didn't surprise him that she didn't know he had arrived back in Winterfell; the Starks didn't come and go on ordinary journeys with a lot of spectacle.

Sylvia quickly stood, embarrassed that he, of all people, had found her like this, blubbering like a baby. Her face coloured red, and she wanted to run and hide from his look of alarm, bury her face in the snow until he went away. Without thinking, she lifted her arm and wiped her face again, trying to get rid of the evidence of her tears and after a moment more, she turned and walked away, hoping he would just leave her be. Sadly, Robb Stark didn't leave her be. He was his father's son, and wouldn't leave a lady crying, letting whatever was troubling her bother her any longer.

"Wait!" He called, jogging to catch up to her. Sylvia didn't stop but she wasn't running, so he caught up to her easily. He caught her arm, bringing her to a halt, but she didn't look at him. "Sylvia, what's wrong? Please tell me."

The princess didn't look at him. Instead she sniffled once again, and wiped her face on her soiled dress sleeve. She didn't want to tell him. Mother said tears made you weak, and bad people would use them against you. But Robb wasn't bad at all, he would never hurt her. So she quietly raised her head, and turned toward him.

"I...L-lady Catelyn says I'm ready to be your wife." It was the quietest, most timid statement Sylvia had ever uttered in her life. It took Robb a very long moment to process her words, but when he did, he dropped her hand as though she'd burned him. A painful volt went through Sylvia's tummy, wondering if this was the beginning long years of bitterness for them.

Robb was dumbfounded; it was the last thing he'd ever expect to hear her say. Of course he knew what it meant: she'd bled, and now they would be married. Father told him that love grows in time, and he believed it would be very easy to love Sylvia. He didn't love her – she was his friend and when he saw her, he always saw that shy, skinny little girl that invaded his castle three years before, the one that hadn't wanted anything to do with him for a good six moons.

"Is that why you're crying? You don't want to be my wife?" Robb asked.

Sylvia's wide eyes snapped back up to his. "No! No! I-it's not that, I promise."

"Then what is it?" He asked.

She shifted again, in an awkward manor. This was almost as bad as telling him she had flowered. "I...I don't know...I don't know how to be married." Gods that sounded stupid! "I don't know...if I'll m-make you happy like Lady Catelyn makes Lord S-stark, or i-if...you'll ha-hate me l-like, like..." She couldn't say it, not out loud, not yet. Sylvia hated the fresh trail of tears that made its way down her cheeks, hated her weakness, and hated her parents for causing this hurt. Sylvia sniffled and wrapped her arms around her middle, turning her head away so Robb wouldn't see her tears. Gods, why didn't she let Ser Fredrick accompany her!? She could've ordered him to pick her up and run.

Robb backed away a little. Crying girls was not something he was familiar with, especially one he had never seen cry before. Whenever Sansa or Arya cried, they ran off, Sansa to mother and Arya to father or her room. But in her three years at Winterfell, Robb had never seen Sylvia cry, even when she cut her leg on an overturned log last year. He didn't know what to do. He just wanted her to stop, to go back to being the smiley girl he saw all the time.

He bit his lip, stepping forward a little, raising his arms to hug her.

When his stronger arms enveloped her smaller form, Sylvia turned her head back to him, and suddenly his lips were on hers, warm and soft and clumsy. She jerked back a bit, eyes wide with shock, but his lips stayed against hers, not moving, but sweet all the same.

Robb hadn't meant for it to happen, it just did. One second he was just hugging her, the next he was kissing her. He was dimly aware that her tears were wetting his cheeks as well, and that her eyes were watching him with quickly fading shock and sadness, but all he could really focus on was how soft and warm her lips were, and how good it felt to hold her. The little voice in his head, calling him a fool for just rushing into this like a dog running at a hare, grew silent as the kiss went on and Sylvia's eyes closed.

It wasn't entirely unpleasant, not for Sylvia at least. It was a nice distraction from her thoughts, and it felt very good to be so close to him. Later, in her chambers, a sudden rush of elation would strike and she'd jump with giddiness, because Robb had kissed her. Finally. But for now all she could think as how good he smelled (like leather and smoke and ice and winter), and how she rather enjoyed how this felt.

When they pulled away, both took cautionary steps back, in case the other hadn't liked it at all. Their lips still tingled from that brief moment, cheeks flushed with the shyness and elation that came after first kisses.

They awkwardly parted at the gate into Winterfell castle, both stuttering out promises to see each other the next day, and left the other blushing madly, smiling like they were on top of the world so fair.

The next day...

"Did you kiss me out of pity?" was Sylvia's first question the next day after lessons. Maester Luwin had just left the two in the Great Hall, both Robb and Sylvia remaining behind to steal a quiet moment together. Robb was about to take her hand in his and ask if it would be alright to kiss her again, but she spoke first, and killed the mood.

Things seemed relatively normal between them, but entirely different. It had just been a day, and Robb already felt as though he was always smiling at her, always blushing around her, always wanting to kiss her and hold her as he had the day before. He had seen Sylvia smile and blush as well, but they hadn't yet had the chance to speak about what had happened the day before. The welcome home feast held in Lord Stark and his sons' honour had quickly become too fast and rambunctious to get a quiet moment with Sylvia.

Lord and Lady Stark retired early, and Sylvia went off to bed not long after, after only two cups of wine. Robb remained in the Hall with his base born brother, Theon and a few other lads, drinking and making merry until half the night was gone. The lordling's head ached in the morning, but Maester Luwin was merciless and set him and Sylvia to work as soon as they'd finished breaking their fast. Much to Robb's annoyance, the old man gave them no chance to say more than a word of greeting, before beginning their lessons.

Now they were finally alone, and she had to go and ask a question like that? Good gods, Sylvia over thought almost everything! When they were married, he'd make it a silent mission to get her to relax.

"What?" Robb asked.

"Did you only kiss me because I was – well, you know." And she had too much pride to even admit she had been crying. Robb smiled at that, but then it disappeared as he thought for an answer.

It had been for pity when she was crying, but it had awoken something in him. He saw her differently. Not as a little girl, some girly, annoying creature that had always wanted to join in their rough games and make them girly, but as a young lady, with a pretty smile, and a rounding figure and soft skin and sweet lips. For the first time in knowing her, Robb finally believed he saw who she was, rather than what she was.

But instead of saying all that, Robb only moved forward, took her small, soft hand in his, and leaned his head down. Sylvia closed her eyes again as Robb kissed her again. It was even better than last time. This time, they were in the warm castle, she wasn't blubbering, and his mouth didn't feel clumsy like it had last time. And this time their lips moved.

She liked this very much, and now that he kissed her again, she knew Robb did as well. Maybe this was love, maybe not, but either way, Sylvia would greatly enjoy figuring it all out.

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