THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED ON JULY 14 2016
Chapter 2: The Wedding Prt 1, The Arrival
One year later...
Sylvia stood before her mirror, admiring her image with a giddy smile that had little to do with how beautiful the image in the mirror was. Everything seemed wonderful to her today, nothing in the world could be wrong. The cold air of her chambers was crisp and refreshing, the fact that her feet already hurt from her slippers didn't bother her, and she couldn't even summon any anger when septa Maesa began to crow how proper ladies do not relish in their own beauty as she was at the moment. That wide smile never wavered from her face since she opened her eyes that morning, because today was the day her family would arrive in Winterfell.
For four long years, Sylvia had not seen her family, had not heard her mother's voice nor felt her slender fingers through her hair; she had not heard her father's boisterous laughter or his powerful voice as he recounted his war days, had not played with little Myrcella, or admired the beautiful colours of Uncle Renly's wardrobe. The fact that she would, once again, made her heart all aflutter, like a child anticipating her name-day.
A knock sounded at the door. "Lady Sylvia," it was the deep voice of her sworn shield, and oldest friend, Ser Fredrik Ravenback. "It's little Lady Sansa."
"Send her in!" she called back. Turning from the mirror, Sylvia turned towards the door to receive her friend. A moment later, the door opened and the young girl with distinctive auburn hair glided forward. "Thank you very much, Ser Fredrik." She might have asked that he join them, but she did not wish to insult him by doing so. Where would a knight find enjoyment in listening to two ladies exchange pleasantries? But she loved her shown shield, as much as Bryda, and liked to have him close, especially now that Bryda was gone. There would be no one to replace him if he ever left her. The aging hedge knight bowed to the little ladies, and retook his place standing guard outside Sylvia's door, as the two prattled on over one another's dresses.
"Oh Sansa, you look so lovely!" Sylvia gushed as she took the other girl's hands in hers. Sansa, now twelve years old, was so beautiful and graceful, she reminded Sylvia of the troop of Myrish dancers that had arrived in King's Landing when she was almost too little to remember. Sansa wore her finest gown for the occasion: pale blue cotton with silk embroidery on the sleeves, and her mother had styled her hair in a very elegant northern style.
"Do you think so? I want to look my best for the king and queen." The younger girl blushed prettily, and Sylvia knew it wasn't just her family the auburn haired girl wanted to look her best for. Southern knights would be with her family's caravan, full of gallantry, and soft, sweet words and clad in the finest armour gold could buy. Southern knights seemed to be what the bards wrote about, and what little girls like Sansa dreamed of. She hoped some knights from the Reach were coming; from what she remembered, they were the most fashionable and beautiful of knights in all the seven kingdoms. Sansa would like that.
"Yes, you look lovely. How do I look? I fear the yellow is too glaring." Sylvia asked, clenching her fingers around her skirt. The girl knew very well she looked beautiful; the gown fit the curves of her hips and breasts delightfully and the yellow suited her Baratheon colouring. Sylvia simply liked to hear those words of praise from anyone who would offer them.
"You look beautiful Sylvia; your gown is very pretty. I'm sure the king will love it." Sansa replied, gently tugging on the skirt of the princess' yellow dress in a friendly manner. Sylvia hoped Sansa was right. The princess had ordered the dress to be made the day the raven came from the Capitol, telling that the king and his royal convoy would be coming to Winterfell to celebrate her wedding to Robb. The onyx haired girl wanted to stand out from the others in Winterfell, apart from the grey, dim colours of the north, and her golden yellow dress assured that she did. She hoped her father approved of it; it was in their houses' colours after all.
"Thank you, Sansa." Sylvia smiled with pleasure, smoothing out the imagined wrinkles on her bodice. "Where's Arya? I haven't seen her since this morning." That seemed to be the one question everyone had asked at least once in a time. Arya, the little wildling, was supposed to keep to her sister all day, to stay out of trouble and to keep tidy for the day, but anyone who knew the child, should not be so surprised when she didn't do as she was told.
Sansa gave a careless shrug. "I don't know. Probably getting her dress dirty again and getting sticks and mud in her hair. Mother will be wroth." There was a superior edge to the young girl's voice, but Sylvia didn't take note of it. If the little girl acted as a lady rather than a little beast, then there would be no reason for the girls of the castle to talk about Arya behind her back.
Sylvia nodded. "Well if she does get all messy, I hope she doesn't come to the greeting at all. I don't want her to ruin it." The princess said ardently. Four years since she saw her family, and if Arya ruined it with her silliness, if her family got the wrong impression of the Starks because of her, Sylvia wouldn't speak to her again until flowers bloomed in the moors of Winterfell. Any other day, Sylvia wouldn't care. But today was special.
Sansa nodded in agreement. A beat of silence and then: "Are you nervous? About seeing your family again?" Sansa asked.
Sylvia thought for just a moment, but then replied: "No not at all. They're my family; I imagine they'll be just as happy to see me as I am to see them." The princess smiled brightly at her friend and took her hand. "Come on, Sansa dear. We simply must steal a lemon cake or two before the greeting. Southerners enjoy sweet things, you know. So the lemon cakes will be the first to go from the kitchens." Sylvia pulled her soon to be good-sister through the door. As they skipped their way down the corridor, Ser Fredrik trailing behind, the princess called out, "I'm sure Ser Fredrik won't tell on us!"
The old former hedge knight huffed a quiet laugh to himself. He hadn't seen her this giddy in quite a long time.
The courtyard at Winterfell's gate was filled up with people, the smallest to the highest, all dressed in their finest garb to receive the king and his royal company. Even the boys had to shave their beards and cut their hair. The king was not so far off, the thundering beat of over a hundred horses could be felt though the ground.
Just as they had four years before, when Winterfell received the princess, the Starks stood in a neat line, with Lord Eddard that the center, his lady wife to the left with their youngest child, and the rest of their children to his right, oldest to youngest. But this time, beside Robb, stood his wife-to-be, Sylvia Baratheon. The only reason she did not stand behind the noble family with Jon and the Greyjoy lad, was because of her rank and title, and because it was her family coming to Winterfell.
Sylvia could feel the sweat on her palms as the steady beat of horse hooves grew closer; her belly began to feel all twisted and squirmy. It wasn't as though she dreaded her family's arrival; in fact she rather looked forward to it. But there was one boy she could go without seeing for a thousand years if she lived that long: Joffrey.
He would be coming with the convoy, the awful little boy. The last time she'd seen him, he was a round cheeked little boy of nine, and now he was thirteen, nearly fourteen. But in her heart, she feared him to be the same, malicious little torment he was when she'd kissed him farewell in the Throne Room. She worried what his sharp tongue and spiteful ways would do to the bit of happiness she found in the frozen north. Would he open his fat mouth and talk about what the lords and ladies of the south called her in secret? Or would he simply be miserable with the Starks as he always had been with everyone else? Would Joffrey ruin everything that she had grown for herself? The thought was horrifying.
At the corner of his eye, Robb saw his betrothed fidget under her cloak, feet shuffling nervously, blue eyes darting about. Her family's arrival had been all she could talk about the last few weeks, and she brought them up more and more as the day grew closer. She would go on about how good it would be to see her mother and father, how wonderful it would be to meet her littlest brother for the first time before she was married, and how much her little sister would adore Sansa and the glass gardens and how she would show Tommen the godswood and the hot springs. And yet she looked even more nervous than she had the day she arrived in Winterfell.
Boldly, he took her hand, warm and small, in his. Gods he loved touching her. She was so beautiful and sweet and warm as the southern sun, and even in the cold, she shined as bright as anything he knew. His Sylvia looked every bit a southerner in her golden yellow dress. The morning before, she'd modeled it to him in the privacy of a corridor, the curves and dips and swells of her body made even more delightful by the gown. Had her sworn shield not been just a few feet off, he would have pressed her against a wall, and kissed her until they were both breathless. When she saw the want in his eyes, she smiled and said her dress was not for him.
For the last year, they had been careful, never showing too much affection in public so that no one knew the things they did in private. Sylvia's maidenhead remained intact; it would be foolish and dishonourable to take it away before they were married so they had never gone too far. But he would be lying if he said they hadn't done...things.
He blushed. Robb was not ashamed of doing those things with Sylvia, especially since they had been so warm and sweet and intoxicating; but if people knew he they had gone as far that he knew what her breasts felt and looked like, and that she had more than once touched his bare back, making him shiver in her arms, Sylvia's honor would be in shreds and they would say he had none at all. Those warm moments in secret had been well worth the risk though, and since Sylvia often initiated these stolen moments, he knew she relished in them too.
Sylvia turned her head towards him and smiled. She gave his hand a squeeze. It was sweet to know he was there, but would he be as sweet while her repulsive brother was there in the castle? She did not get the chance to ponder the question as Arya ran across the yard, her septa hot on her heels, towards the Stark family line.
Well, at least she's not all filthy and messy, thought Sylvia with a bit of relief. Arya's dress and hair were intact, but by the redness of her face, and the purple of her septa's, they all knew whatever the girl had been doing was not ladylike.
Sansa almost rolled her eyes as Arya took her place between her and Bran, but she was far too gentle mannered to do that. Septa Mordane quietly took her place with the stewards, septa Maesa and Maester Luwin. The elder girl had had to put up with her sister's silliness ever since Arya ripped off her dress at two in favour of running about naked. How had they come from the same woman? They were nothing alike!
Gods, Sylvia prayed, please let that be it from her, don't let her open her mouth and speak, please don't. She didn't want her family to think all the Starks were as brazen and impudent as Arya, that they were all wild beasts with no control and that she had become one herself. It would shame her to know they thought as such.
"Oh, Arya," breathed Lady Stark. "Sansa you were supposed to keep her near." The lady hissed.
"I tried, she ran away too fast." The affronted twelve year old hissed back. She heard Theon stifle a laugh.
"Wonder where she was this time," Robb mused impishly to himself. She could practically hear Jon and Theon smirking behind them. Sylvia was too nervous to even muster a grin.
Although troublesome, the little wildling child proved to have impeccable timing, as not even a moment later, men in armour that was too grand to be northern, came riding through the gates. Sylvia squeezed Robb's hand once again.
She looked for the king, her father, but only saw guards in armour. They seemed smaller, less intimidating than they once were. For a moment, a flash of fear went through her, wondering if Robert had changed his mind about seeing her married. Had he? Was he still in the Red Keep knocking back cup after cup of wine? Had he chosen that, over his daughter's wedding?! That would be very cruel and she would never forgive her father for letting her get her hopes up and then just—
Just then another, much rounder man rode in, wearing no armour or helm, but leathers and cottons and silks, all under a warm cloak lined with black bear fur.
For a long moment, Sylvia just stared at the man. She knew him to be her father, she would know him anywhere. She could not forget that face of his, nor his blue eyes and black hair which matched hers, but by all the gods, he had changed. He had gotten fatter, was the first thing she could devise. His face was rounder and redder since she last saw it, his belly peeking out from the slit of his thick cloak. His black, wiry hair now had the odd grey amongst the inky strands and somehow he looked sterner. Father had never been a small man, but she had never seen him that...large before.
The princess only had a moment to study her father, before she felt the cold rush against her skin where Robb released her hand. At once she knelt beside him – the others around her already on their knees – one knee drawn up, the other on the ground, her head bowed in respect. Her long black hair fell around her face. Though he was her father, he was also her king, and even a king's daughter had to bow.
She could hear the wet crunch of gravel beneath the hooves of the horses, their whinnies and snorts, and the creak of the litter that carried ladies to delicate for horseback into the courtyard. Small feet struck down on the ground, pattering about urgently. She heard the bangle of the bridle and then two larger feet, belonging to a heavier man, stomp down on the rocks and mud. Sylvia stifled a bright smile when she heard those feet begin walking towards their line. Closer and closer her father came, until she was almost sure she could smell his familiar scent, wine and meat and sweat, on the wind.
She didn't see it, but when her father gave his approval to Lord Eddard for them all to stand, they followed without a word. It suddenly struck her how much power her father had – he could ask them to jump up and down and grovel at his feet and they would have to do it because he was the king. But he didn't do anything silly like that. Her father was a great king.
As Sylvia rose, her bright, eager eyes flashed up to her father's form, hoping he would be looking at her with approval, smiling back at her before enveloping her in a hug many years overdue. Or at least turning his head looking for her, but he wasn't. He wasn't even looking about. No his eyes stared unwaveringly at Lord Eddard. The princess frowned.
"Your Grace," Lord Eddard bowed a little. King Robert tilted his head a little, as if expecting more.
A moment of awkwardness filled the silent air. And then, "You've got fat." The gruff, and oh so serious remark from her father would have made Sylvia giggle from the ridiculousness of it, if she was not so confused that her father didn't even acknowledge her existence. They had not seen each other for four years, and she was about to be married and locked away to the north forever...shouldn't he be swarming her with attention? Giving her praise? Yes, Sylvia thought, he should be! I am his first born, and I am the one getting married, and even Lord Eddard – one of the most serious men in the world – coddles his daughters on their name-days.
Name-days happen every year. You only get married once.
To be fair, she knew, he mayhaps didn't recognise her. She had grown breasts and hips and had gotten taller, so maybe he didn't realise she was there in front of him. But who else would be wearing a Baratheon gold dress, standing next to Robb? Which of the Stark girls had black hair? Even if he didn't see her, shouldn't' he be asking for her? Wasn't that what fathers did when they saw their child for the first time after a long while, embrace them? But then again, her father had never been an affectionate man.
Lord Eddard gave a sly nod down to the king's distended belly, and both broke out into joyful laughter. As the two men embraced after seven years of being apart, Sylvia couldn't help but feel envious of Robb's father. He got the attention from Robert she craved so badly.
"Cat!" Robert exclaimed gruffly at Lady Catelyn, pulling her into a hug as well. He tussled little Rickon's hair and turned back to Lord Eddard to exchange a few words. Sylvia heard none of it. Instead she looked away, silently growing more and more frustrated as each moment passed by.
This was not the welcome she had imagined at all.
Queen Cersei stepped out of the litter last, after her ladies and handmaidens, and out into the frozen courtyard of Winterfell. She flinched. Gods, what kind of cold waste did Robert condemn their daughter to? Why couldn't he have just married her to one of Kevan's sons, or Aunt Genna's, at the least? At least then she would have lived her life in the west, where it was warm, and safe.
She hardly listened as Robert greeted the northerner, some grim looking man, with enough children to earn a hound's praise. Instead, she held back a moment and let Robert say his words. Out of instinct, she looked for her brother, her beautiful golden brother, and when she found him in the crowds, standing by his horse in his armour and white cape, just a few paces beside her husband's horse, she felt a tug of want in her belly. She wanted to be as close to him as possible, have him surround her, comfort her, bring her the peace no one else could.
She wondered if Sylvia would have felt this for Steffon had he lived. Perhaps then, she could have convinced Robert to wait to wed them off, and when he died, make it so the twins were wed to each other, as the Targaryens had done for centuries. But Steffon was gone, and Sylvia's maidenhead would be Robb Stark's to claim. There was not use in being bitter over it.
The lioness looked away from her twin. No one could ever know of their love; not even her and Jaime's children. Not ever and if anyone did find out, she would kill them. She'd lost Steffon, and she'd die before letting another of her children fall before her.
The courtyard was filled to the brim with people, and most of them were men and women of the Stark's household. Most of the royal convoy had not even made it past the gates of Winterfell. Many lords and ladies had accompanied their party, picked up along their journey north.
A handful of Storm's End lords marched with them to honor the king, and theirs was the largest group that came with them. Lord Cafferen and his young sons, Lord Errol with his fat wife and babes, Ser Cortnay Penrose who had come in the place of his sick and ailing father, and softheaded Lord Fell with his wife and daughters. Renly Baratheon had also come with them, the simple minded little girl. Cersei had never liked him. Stannis had decided to remain in the Capitol for whatever reason. Would that Renly had remained there as well.
Mace Tyrell, his crippled son Willas and his fair faced son Ser Loras had come too, with a few Redwyne and Hightower squires trailing along behind them. Of course a few Frey weasels would come, old Walder Frey had enough children that they were almost everywhere in the kingdoms, attending every event in the hopes of making friends with the right people. Edmure Tully, brother of Catelyn Stark, hadn't come, their father was sick and so Blackfish Tully had come, representing both the Arryn's and Tully's, along with men and boys from houses Mallister, Blackwood and Piper.
None of the Martell's had come to attend the wedding, claiming one of their family members had come down with some fever and none would travel whilst they were on death's doorstep. Everyone knew it was a lie, but Cersei was glad they were not there. They called themselves suns but really, they were snakes hiding in the grass.
Finally, her uncle Kevan Lannister, and his sons Lancel and Willem rode with them, as well as her cousin Tyrek and her grotesque little brother, the Imp. Gods knew he was probably whoring somewhere and disgracing their name further. Lords, ladies and lesser knights from houses Brax, Swyft and Westerling came with her family's party.
All together, over three hundred southerners had come to attend Princess Sylvia and young Lord Robb's wedding. It would be the grandest wedding Winterfell had hosted in recent memory, so she was told.
Cersei looked across the crowd for her daughter, hoping that despite the years apart, she would know what she looked like. In King's Landing, she'd wondered often about her eldest daughter. How had Sylvia grown? Was she clever or still as strange as she was when she left her? Was she beautiful or gangly, graceful or clumsy? Was she gentle and proper as Myrcella, or as timid and sweet as Tommen? She knew she wouldn't be like Joff, the girl was too meek for that. Sylvia followed orders, but never made them...or did she give orders now? Cersei knew none of it, not a thing, not a scrap...not anymore. All she had left of her child was an unbreakable bond with her, and the memory of the love that once engulfed her whole, before the pain of loss scarred and distanced it forever.
The queen despised her royal husband for giving their daughter to some cold strangers in the snow, kin to his beloved rotted corpse, Lyanna. Robert had sold Sylvia to the Starks just to spite her, she was sure of it. This betrothal was a means to hurt her further, by marrying her child to the family of one of the ghosts who haunted her marriage. And it worked. It hurt her, not that she'd ever let him know it. Her lecherous, drunken husband had seen too many of her tears already, she wouldn't let him see anymore.
Stranger's faces with bleak, ugly clothing greeted her when she emerged from her litter. But yet, Syliva knew these faces better than her own family's by now. That stung. What the queen feared more than anything, was finding out that she had lost her firstborn daughter to these people, much like she had lost Robert, if it could be said she ever had him at all.
Sylvia was hers; she had carried her in her belly, felt her and her brother kick and move. She brought her forth with blood and pain, and nursed her from her breast for however brief a time. She was due more love and trust than the Starks from Sylvia. Cersei had lost Steffon, her sweet boy, very long ago to a cause which she could not control. She would couldn't loose Sylvia, not when she could keep her, at least even at arm's length.
Cersei stepped forward a second later, eyes still searching the crowd, almost thinking Sylvia would still be the tiny little eleven year old she was when she left her, not a woman grown and about to be wed.
At once bright yellow caught her eye, and Cersei saw her. Robert was not looking at her, not even after all these years, the bastard, but as the queen glided forward with perfect grace, Sylvia came into view from behind one of the kingsguard's horses. For a moment, the queen could not think. All she could do was take in the detail of her face, the same, yet so different.
Her hair had gotten longer; so long that she could tell when it was perfectly down the tips would kiss the tops of her hips. It was the same deep, night black Robert's had been when she first wed him. Cersei felt her gut clench. She should have been born with golden hair. Her little black haired doe had gotten taller, her figure much more rounded than it was as a child (thank the gods); her features had matured in her time away, as well, cheekbones more defined, nose longer, cheeks a little less full and round...she had grown so much. She wasn't a little girl anymore.
That was her daughter, her first, daughter. Cersei wanted to rush up to her and hold her to her breast, and never let go again, but at the same time, she wanted to turn around and retreat back to King's Landing to be with her other children. Our children will be safer when she is gone and married. Jaime's words from long ago still held that heavy truth.
But how would Steffon look, she wondered absently as she took in her daughter's fine face, ink black hair and blue eyes. Would they have the same face with only the tiny differences of a man and woman? Would they have been like her and Jaime? Would things be just the same as they are now? Would Robert love her? Endless, painful questions she would never know the answer to, reemerged forefront in her mind, long after she'd put them at rest. All from seeing Sylvia again. Gods give her strength.
As she approached closer, and tore her eyes away from Sylvia, it was only then she realized the distressed look on her child's face.
Sylvia's hard blue eyes snapped back up to her father as he turned to Robb. He looked even more different than he had far afar. Robert was so close now, she could smell the sour smell of wine on him, and see the lines on his face. Her heart beat hard in her breast, the excitement of seeing her father once again was still fresh, even though she was a bit put off by his aloofness. The smile returned to her face, bright and eager and wanting to please, but still his eyes never strayed to her. Robb stared back at her father, jaw set, back straight, looking every bit the proud lord he would one day be. Her heart fluttered with pride for her betrothed.
"You must be Robb." Father grunted out, tightly clutching Robb's hand in what she assumed was to be an intimidating manner. Robb didn't even flinch. "How old are you, boy?"
"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked with badly hidden discreetness.
"Would you shut up?" Sansa hissed at her, saving Sylvia the trouble.
"Six-and-ten, your Grace," Robb replied. He hated that, being called boy. Sylvia knew he did. That utterance – made in either jest or as a statement, simple and true– made Robb's ears burn with annoyance as though he had been called a foul name. It sparked a need to prove everyone he wasn't a boy, but a man. But Robb was green, he was a boy; anyone with age worn eyes could see he was, young and foolish and filled with the need to be respected and loved. He was just a boy who only played a being a man.
The king grunted. "I remember being that age; is my daughter still honest, boy?" Now Sylvia wished with everything she had, that she hadn't been acknowledged at all, at least not by her overbold father, who asked such questions. She heard people, lords and their sons, knights and squires, laugh across the vast yard.
"Oh, there's Jaime Lannister, the queen's twin! He's the greatest swordsman in the kingdoms, you know? And he's Sylvia's uncle." Arya chripped again, not even noticing her brother's distress.
"Would you please, shut up?" Sansa hissed at her again.
Robb faltered. His eyes widened at the implication, and for a moment, he was terrified one of the servants had found out about the intimate things he and Sylvia did, and had somehow gotten word to her father. Robert stared at him, his stern face suddenly making Robb uncomfortable. He stifled the urge to look at Sylvia, knowing her face would be as red his, but he couldn't take comfort from her in front of her father. A man has to stand on his own, at least by day. Robb opened his mouth to reply, but his lord father beat him to it.
"Stop torturing the poor boy. He's to be your goodson in just a few days." Sylvia loved Lord Eddard dearly then. "To question my son and your daughter's honour so publically is demeaning."
Her father broke into laughter, deep and jovial. He clapped Robb on the shoulder. "Peace, Ned." Robert tittered though his mirth. He turned to Robb again, delight still shining in his eyes. "Just remember, I can still swing a hammer, boy." Robb smiled back at the king's good-natured threat, giving not the barest hint that there was any discomfort behind it.
Then Robert turned to Sylvia. Her father's eyes narrowed slightly and lost some of their amusement, but she knew he was only studying her. His stare was so intense she wanted to shrink under it. Sylvia didn't know what she should do, or if there was anything to do. Father was a difficult man to read: sometimes he would be pleased by what she did or said, but other times, when she said or did things she thought would please him, he would respond negatively, hurting her feelings and keeping her cautious around him until the next time he was happy with her. But a princess never stumbles in front of her people, septa Bryda had taught her, they take whatever surprise they are given with grace and dignity.
"Hello father," she curtsied, making sure to be as straight and go as deeply as she could. When she rose, Robert was watching her differently – less contemplative, and more warmly. His face was still not as kind as it had been when he greeted Lord Stark, though.
"Sylvia," the king grinned as he lifted a large meaty hand and rested it on her shoulder. She smiled brightly back at her father. "You've grown, child." Yes, finally he would give her notice, and affection. He would speak of how much she had grown and how proud he was of her, and how she would make a good wife and lady of the north and—
"We'll have words later." Her father lifted his big warm hand. He turned to Lord Eddard, his face hardening. "Ned, take me to your crypts, I want to pay my respects." Sylvia made to hide her surprise, but it was impossible after so sudden a dismissal.
"We've been riding for a month, my love," the queen said tightly. Sylvia looked up at her mother, joy coming once again at seeing her. "Surely the dead can wait." It wasn't so surprising that he would leave her alone to visit that corpses' tomb, but even after years of disappointment, cruel words and even crueler actions, it was still as sharp an embarrassment as it was the first time.
The king ignored his queen, and called once again, "Ned!" before turning away and stalking towards the entrance to the black crypts under Winterfell's castle. Lord Eddard followed a brief moment later.
The princess looked up at her mother, and smiled when the queen looked back at her. The tight line of Cersei's lips twitched a little. The queen turned and strode to her estranged daughter, her face the perfect mask of deception. She had been fooling people for years, played the blushing bride, the doting wife, the kind, stupid queen...now she played the mother, happily meeting her child once again. It was one of the easier fronts to put up, because there was some truth to the lie.
"Sylvia, my darling." Cersei greeted, her smooth voice making Sylvia smile brighter. At least her mother was very happy to see her. As the queen and her daughter studied one another, Lady Catelyn said hello to her uncle Blackfish, and his party, ushering stewards forward to show them their chambers.
"Mother," once again Sylvia curtsied. When she rose, Cersei stepped closer and took her daughter's gloved hands in her own. This was very strange. It was never this hard with her other children, with Joff. Queen Cersei loved all her children – fiercely, unendingly, without question and gods strike down any man who questioned that– but all in different ways. Loving Sylvia was entirely different from loving Joff because loving him didn't hurt, it didn't feel like betraying Jaime for her bastard husband. But she loved Sylvia anyway.
"You have grown, my sweet." Cersei commented. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against her daughter's brow quickly. "What a lovely dress – Baratheon gold...you did not think to add a bit of crimson?" Sylvia's smile faded.
"N-no, mother." she replied slowly. Truly she hadn't. Baratheon was her sigil, not a lion. Why would she wear her mother's colours?
Cersei noted it for later. "It is gorgeous, Sylvia, such beautiful fabric. A fine choice for today." Sylvia's smile returned. "Come, we have much to discuss. Show me to my quarters, and we'll talk."
Sylvia nodded and turned to show her mother to her rooms, lifting her skirts a little as she walked through the Stark's household, the crowd of them parting to make way for the two royals. After they passed the arch leading into the Guest House, she asked, "Mother, where is Myrcella and Tommen? I would very much like to see them."
Cersei paused only a moment before replying, her tone gentle and kind, but with a hint of something else beneath it. "Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen remained in the Capitol. I didn't want them to travel the roads. It's too dangerous for children, and it's too long a journey for Tommen. He's just a babe."
Sylvia's heart sunk down to her belly. Then as the reality of her mother's words really struck her, her heart sunk down past her knees and onto the floor. But she hid it in pleasant smiles and sweet words.
Sweet gods, to me this chapter seems...bleh...and I feel SO bad for it :'( But I also feel, stuff must be laid down first, foundation for the future as it is...please tell me what you thought about this chapter - Good, bad, ugly, what have you. Tell me where I could improve, tell me where I am doing alright...:D
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I'm soo close to finishing the next chapter...please leave a comment ;D