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Chapter 7: Winter is Coming

The queen of the Seven Kingdoms could hear the tolling of the bells outside the Red Keep's walls, a continuous chime that told the world of the death of Jon Arryn.

The Hand of the king was dead; his body stiff and rotting lay out in the throne room as the Silent Sisters prepared it for burial. A fever took him, mysterious and quick, and hopefully, it was quick enough. She had no love for Jon Arryn, scheming foul old man he was. He would have ruined everything, would have thrust the country into war if he told someone. Cersei prayed the old creature died before he could breathe a foul word. It'd be the end of all of them if he did; the end of her, her family's legacy, and most importantly, her children. Even Sylvia, who was Robert's and had married the Stark heir, was in danger. Robert hated the Targaryen babes for only belonging to the same family as Rhaegar, and he'd had them slaughtered in their sleep. What would he do to her children if he knew the truth? Cersei knew him well enough, that he would murder even Sylvia. Fury hot as wildfire rose within her. She wanted to kill him, bring Joffrey into his throne, and eliminate any threat before it happened. But that would be unwise, and all good things come to those who wait. But Robert made waiting very hard.

Her fingers clenched tight, her nail digging into her palms. Robert, she thought, her husband, her king. She'd had such hope that he would make a good king—he was strong and fierce, a conqueror. Those hopes were long dead. The king was a drunken oaf, incapable of tact or grace or discretion, hateful and furious when it was never called for.

Jon Arryn's body was hardly cold before Robert chose his next Hand: Eddard Stark. She suggested her father, but when had Robert ever done what she wanted? Robert considered Lord Stark a friend, a confidant, a brother. The fat fool trusted him, but Cersei did not. Of what she knew of Lord Eddard and from the few times she'd met him, he was the painfully honourable sort, who kissed the ground the king stepped on. Not only that, he'd turned her daughter against her, turned her into their creature. But, if he was to be Hand of the king, it would be wise to gain his loyalty. He would not be easily persuaded into keeping her faith. But she could be very persuasive.

The sound of booted footsteps caught her attention, and she just knew it was her brother, her sweet Jaime. She somehow...felt it was Jaime because her soul sung in relief when he was near. Her other half had come back to her again, and she knew it without needing to see it.

"As your brother, I feel it is my duty to inform you," he grinned as he took place beside her. "You worry too much. It's starting to show." Her fury subsided as he spoke, a dear sense of calm engulfing her.

"And you never worry about anything." She replied. She envied the liberty that came with being a man, and envied Jaime for his ability not to care, where she never could seem to stop. She slept little at night, awake and toiling with her worries, fussing over every awful possibility until she finally found sleep, but morning would always come too soon. The only time she ever truly felt at ease was when her sweet brother in inside her. "When we were seven, you jumped off the cliffs of Casterly Rock. A hundred foot drop into the water." The queen recalled. "You were never afraid."

"There was nothing to be afraid of, until you told father." Her twin countered. "'We're Lannister's and Lannister's don't act like fools.'" He quoted father mockingly.

Cersei looked back at the corpse. "What if he told someone?" she wondered aloud. She wasn't afraid of prying ears—they were the only ones in the throne room, aside from the Silent Sisters who took a vow never to speak for the sake of their order.

"But who would he tell?" Jaime asked.

"My husband." She replied, a crease between her brows.

"If he told the king, our heads would be skewered at the city gates by now. Whatever Jon Arryn knew, or didn't know died with him." The kingslayer assured steadily. "And Robert will choose a new Hand to do his job while he eats, drinks and fucks everything in sight." His heart warmed when he saw his sister's lips twitch up into a smile. "And life will go on."

"You should be Hand of the King." She thought aloud. The thought was sweet—she would get to see Jaime more, he would gain larger, more private accommodations and she could trust him. Having her sweet twin on the small council would give her (more reliable) eyes and ears on the king's doings, and would give her a voice. But alas, it was never to be. Jaime wasn't serious enough, smirking at everything, laughing at fear and regret. He was too bold, with no mind for politics. Jaime was a handsome fool, better suited to have a sword in his hand.

"That's an honour I could do without. Their days are too long, their lives are too short." Jaime muttered, casting a short look at the Hand's corpse.

"It's no matter." She sighed. "Robert's chosen Ned Stark as his new Hand. We'll be riding off again to that cold waste before long." Cersei said with an undertone of bitterness in her words. She hated the north—it was cold, it was ugly, and it had taken her daughter from her and turned her into some...northern thing. One that bred as soon as she was able to.

Cersei had grieved when she learned her daughter was with child, only just a year after wedding the Stark boy. Her poor child never had a chance. She'd tried to protect her, to teach her to guard herself from disappointment and heartbreak, but how could Cersei shield her daughter from this? Did Sylvia think her heart was safe, that Robb Stark would never betray her now that she'd bore him a child? No, Cersei thought dismissively remembering Robert and his whores. A man's love is worthless for it is often fickle. Only your family, you could put your faith in—a fact her daughter didn't know yet. The night she'd heard the news, the queen wept in her chambers, on her own, neither Robert nor Jaime at her side. "The children are coming with us this time. They're old enough to travel far. When they see Sylvia—"

"They'll say she favors her father, the way the others favour you." Jamie replied. The kingslayer did not relish in the thought of seeing his odd little niece again—but she wasn't so little anymore was she? Married and mother to Robb Stark's whelp. Like Robert, she wasted no time in breeding. Her paternity caused his sister restless nights and long cold mornings, growing his disdain for the black haired girl larger and larger. Would that she was forgotten in the frozen shit pile that was the north, or even born fair haired so that Cersei may love her without worry. Sadly, she was born from Robert, the drunken pig, and even born from Robert, Cersei loved her. For whatever daft reason.

"Will they? Jon Arryn found out, who's to say someone else won't? Especially with Sylvia to compare them to."

"You don't seem so pleased about seeing your daughter again." Jaime drawled mordantly. "Or meeting your grandchild."

Cersei cast him a weary look. He knew why she was hesitant to talk about her daughter's daughter. It hardly seemed real to her that her own first born had a child of her own, and so quickly. It was a little girl they called Minisa, with black hair and the cold blue eyes of the north. The baby favours her mother, her friend in the north told her, as though she truly cared for the babe's features. It came from Sylvia, which was all that mattered.

The golden haired queen held back a grimace. She felt very old when she thought of Minisa. Women twice her age were grandmothers, old ugly women with saggy teats and grey hair. Not queens as young and beautiful as she. Sylvia was little more than a child herself; she had no business playing at being a mother. But she was, the queen reminded herself. A mother and a wife...and still a child, foolish yet and naive. Joffrey is no fool, she found herself thinking. He's inherited Jaime's cleverness while Sylvia has gained Robert's foolish reliance on love. Sylvia could not be faulted; Robert shipped her away before she could teach her daughter the ways of the world.

"It's the frozen waste I despise," the queen continued, "Not Sylvia." For a moment, the queen almost enjoyed the dark look of disdain which flittered in her sweet brother's eyes. Since her conception, Jaime had not been silent in his detest for her daughter. Cersei loathed it; part of her was infuriated that Jaime could not love the child that came from her, but the other part of her knew why he hated Sylvia so. Jaime loved her with all his heart, but he hated Robert just as much. Sylvia was from Robert, and just for that, her sweet twin hated the child, even though she'd come from Cersei too. It had caused many an argument between them, but over the years, the queen had become increasingly more tolerant of her lover's abhorrence for her child.

"Let us hope the north agrees with Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella, as it does with Sylvia." Jaime said before he pushed off the stone pillar and tramped down the walkway. The queen turned back and continued to watch the Silent Sisters prepare the Hand for burial.

Sylvia remained abed for a few days after the birth to recover, and to reduce the risk of illness the pain of labour usually brought upon women. The worry for such affliction faded as she held her newborn daughter close to her, staring into her perfect little face with pure amazement and adoration. For a few days she was unbothered with her duties as 'little Lady Stark', and free to just be...Sylvia, Mini's mother. She was free to study her for hours without interruption, to feed her, and hold her close and wonder of the future. Nothing ever felt as natural as when Mini took her nipple and began to nurse.

Minisa was such a happy little thing, always smiling up at her, content to chew on her mother's fingers or lay on her or Robb's chest. One could argue a mother's bias, but those who met the babe could not muster a word to say otherwise. Hours passed her by and she had no notice of them, her focus was trained solely on the little baby she'd brought into the world.

Six moons passed them by, and Mini grew as all babies do into an infant, growing stronger everyday and learning from the world around her. The Starks watched the months go by without care or thought to what the future may bring. Things were peaceful in the north, and as the troubles in the Capitol were often so silent, there were only the ghosts of whispers to hear, there was no indication anything was amiss.

The only thing Sylvia had to worry over, was her daughter's teething, or if it would be difficult to get her back to sleep at night. Like on this night.

With a groan, Sylvia threw off the wonderfully warm blankets and furs, shivering as the cold air swept over her shift protected body. The stone floor was cold as ice, and when her feet touched it, she thought her toes were like to snap off. In the south, women of status had servants to tend to their children in the night, and nurses to feed their babies whilst they enjoyed life's pleasures. But northerners were not southerners, and Sylvia was not a southern lady. Not any longer.

Motherhood had changed Sylvia Stark. Her life had been altered forever by one tiny little babe who had the cool blue eyes of her father, and the inky black hair of her mother's family. Her decisions were now made with her daughter in mind; her worries now gravitated towards Mini, her frustrations, her attention, her time now revolved around her child, quite a marvel, but also a bother. Sometimes she truly missed having her own time.

She'd even had to set away her silver stag's antler necklace because she worried the sharp points would prick her daughter's delicate skin if she wore it. She was sad to see it shut away in a box. It was the one item of jewelry that had remained constant for her since coming from the south; it was one of the few things she still had to remind her of when she was Sylvia Baratheon. It was a symbol of her house. To remove it felt like snipping the roots which connected her to Storm's End. Robb thought it silly, saying she would always be a Baratheon by blood and did not need a necklace to remind her. But it only ignited her Baratheon fury instead when he said this.

Sylvia yawned as she changed her daughter's clouts. No one had ever told her how hard it would be, how scary or how...wonderful raising a child would be. It was a shock to her, to have a little babe so dependent on her, needing her breast every few hours, needing a change, needing to be soothed, or admonished, but somehow, the absolute, untainted love she had for the babe, made all the toil and worry seem smaller—no less terrible, but worth it. Thinking back, Sylvia remembered a few times of Bryda telling her just how difficult motherhood was, but young as she was, she didn't comprehend the words entirely.

She hummed an old forgotten lullaby as she set her baby back down in the cradle. The small bit of carved wood rocked from side to side, like a boat sailing on the ocean. It had been Robb's when he was a baby at Riverrun, and when the war ended, Lady Catelyn had brought the cradle with her to Winterfell, in the hopes that the gods would give her occasion to use it again. It was used four more times by each of the Stark children, and for now, it was Mini's.

Mini squirmed a little, but calmed as her mother rocked the cradle, still humming that old tune she couldn't remember. Sylvia remembered watching her mother do this with Myrcella once, singing her to sleep before she took her other two children to court. Her voice had been very soft and gentle, not particularly beautiful, but so soothing she remembered almost slumping against Ser Fredrik as she and Joffrey waited for their mother. She'd been about five then, and had asked the queen if she would sing to her before she went to sleep. The queen smiled a tight smile at her eldest, and said, "You are far too old to need a song to sleep, sweetling. I sing to Myrcella, because she's but a babe. You are not a babe are you, my dove?" Sylvia settled for singing to herself at night, but it was the soft, gentle voice of her mother she'd wanted.

Sylvia's eyes were heavy as she mindlessly rocked the cradle, and just as she thought the baby was back asleep, Mini started to whimper again. The onyx haired girl groaned low in her throat and lifted the fussy baby from the furs lining her cradle. Her body swayed on the chair as she tried to calm the child, her eyes closed to steal a few moments of rest. When the baby's distress ignited into a furious cry, the man in the bed roused and blinked away the sleep from his eyes.

For a moment he thought Mini had woken again and was about to slip from the bed to tend to her so his wife could sleep, but he didn't feel her soft, warm body beside him as he should. Pushing himself up, he turned his head towards the cradle in search of her, and found her silhouetted figure sitting beside the crib, her arms curled around the whining babe. How long had she been there, he wondered. By the way her head tilted in weariness, he guessed long enough. The sight of her made Robb's heart ache with something he almost didn't understand. Admiration, probably.

Sylvia was about to bare her breast in the hopes that maybe the child was hungry, when suddenly, a heavy but tender hand came upon her arm and paused her gentle sway. Robb eyes almost glowed in the dim candle light, a soft look in the blue pools of water.

Robb was good to her these last few months, and so good to Mini it made her love him even more. During her first few weeks of life, Sylvia worried terribly for Mini, fearful that whatever nearly took her from her womb in the seventh month would come back for her again after she was born. Sylvia was on edge for a long while, fussing over Mini and watching for any sign of ailment so obsessively, that it began to intervene in her duties.

Her fears lessened after Lady Catelyn taught and helped her to make a prayer wheel to hang over the baby's crib, but still, when the cold wind blew and the summer snows fell, she would watch Mini closer and hold her tighter. Robb loved his daughter, and loved his wife—as much as a green boy his age could love a woman—so he did his best to understand the troubles of motherhood, and to perform the duties he as a father, needed to perform. For Sylvia's sake he donned a mask of complete confidence and understanding, and let his own uncertainties be known to his bastard brother or even to his father.

"Come." He murmured, gently pulling her arm to get her to stand. Sleepily, she stood without protest. Then the baby was out of her arms and over Robb's shoulder before she could voice a word. She blinked in surprise, her arms still frozen midair. "Go, sleep." He whispered. A deep sense of relief welled within her, and a warm feeling of adoration for the man before her came with it. Sylvia offered her husband a small smile and reached a soft hand up to touch his cheek.

"Thank you, my love." she murmured softly before slipping her hand away. Robb watched as she walked to the bed, pulled back the covers and crawled back beneath them.

The baby over his shoulder let out an indignant grunt. Her father rubbed at her back through her little baby's slip, and returned to the bed as well. "You must let your mother sleep, sweet girl." He told her as he moved the blankets and furs back. "It's late, it's dark, it's cold. Don't make her guess what it is you want." The baby girl only grunted again. Robb grinned and slipped back between the warm sheets, moving the babe down a bit so that she may rest against his chest. Casting a look at his wife, he found she was already asleep.

With careful movements he laid the little baby down between his legs, and began unwrapping her from the thick swaddling blankets. Sometimes she only calmed when she was not confined by layers of blankets, he remembered. The moment the last of the cotton was pulled away, his daughter stretched out in victory, her arms reaching up towards him and her feet coming to poke against his belly.

Robb Stark smiled down at his daughter, love swelling in his heart as she waved her little arms about in front of her. When she was born, she'd been the second most amazing thing he'd ever seen, coming second only to her mother, who'd gone through unimaginable pain to bring her into this world. Like his wife, he'd been in awe of the tiny baby girl, indulging in the fact all over again, that he'd helped to make her; he'd put her in Sylvia's belly, a truth he was more than proud to admit. He was her father, she was his daughter. They were a family.

But Sylvia, for carrying her through all she had to go through, bringing her into the world with pain and blood, and taking care of her every day since, was incredible in itself. Even now, asleep and exhausted, Robb was in awe of his wife. She was so...strong. Stronger than he ever thought she could be.

When a yawn rose up in his throat, the auburn haired young man picked up his daughter and held her against his chest. Gods help him if his family's banner men ever saw this sight. They'd forever snigger behind his back, call him soft or womanly. As Robb settled down onto the bed, Mini curled contently against him and his wife's gentle breathing filling the air, he forgot his father's men and allowed sleep to come.

During the day, when Robb's duties pulled him away, Elane, her dear handmaiden, was a great help to Sylvia, especially when Sylvia herself was away. Elane was no nurse—she found children trying and loud and demanding and once long ago, she had vowed never to have any. But her job was whatever her lady made it, so when Lady Sylvia requested that she take care of the babe whilst she got some business done, the handmaid did so without complaint. The girl would take care of Mini when Lady Catelyn requested her assistance for household matters. As the future Lady of Winterfell, it would one day be her duty to run the household, tend to the stores, order about the servants and to entertain guests when they had them. So, in place of the lessons she took with Maester Luwin as a girl, she now learned from Lady Catelyn how to manage the affairs of the castle.

Such business took Sylvia away a few days every week, for hours at a time, and although she would have liked to be with her baby, she couldn't deny that part of herliked having a bit of a break.

A gentle cry came from the cradle beside the bed, the little infant beginning to wake—stretching and looking for her mother's arms (or rather her teat). Elane set down the dress she was mending and stood with a heavy sigh of annoyance.

Lady Sylvia had been called away by Lady Catelyn for some household matter, and had once again employed Elane to care for her child. Many times (with great disdain), Elane wished her lady would leave the babe with a nurse, so that she wouldn't suffer her handmaid to deal with a hungry, cranky baby. But her lady didn't like the idea of anyone but her feeding Minisa, so Elane did her best to console the hungry child until her mother returned to her. There was a bit of hope on the matter, however. Lord Robb had begun insisting that Sylvia allow the nurse to feed Minisa when she could not, so she may have more time in her duties and give her handmaid some peace. She was hopeful her lady would agree, for she already disliked that Minisa went hungry the times she was gone.

Elane crossed the room quietly and knelt down next to her lady's child. Even though the maid disliked children, and hated having to take care of her, she couldn't deny the way her heart warmed when she saw her. She was a dear little thing sometimes. The babe looked like her mother: black hair, same nose, same hairline, and same eye shape. The similarities had only become more prominent in the last six months of the baby's life, but, vaguely, she could see some of Lord Robb in her too: in the shape of her lips, and the colour of her eyes, the curve of her brows, the curl of her hair and even the fullness of her cheeks. She'd relayed as much to the queen, thinking that the woman would like to know what her grandchild looked like.

Little Minisa (Mini, as her mother and father called her), blinked up at the handmaiden and began whimpering a little when she saw it was not her mother who came for her. Elane picked her up anyway, the layer of cotton blankets and rabbit fur made the baby feel large in her arms, but it was cold, and the baby needed protection. A sudden gust of wind shook the shudders, and Elane shivered under her shawl. Days like these she longed for Casterly Rock and the warm climate of the south.

Not long later, just as Mini began to fuss and whine in her arms, the door creaked open and Lady Sylvia walked through the door, immediately closing it again to shut out the natural cold of the castle. At once, the girl's eyes landed on Elane by the fire, her arms filled with Minisa, and her eyes lightened at seeing her daughter. Annoyed, Elane wondered if her lady would be as happy to see her daughter if she was around when the whelp was fussy.

Sylvia grinned down at her daughter as she took her from her handmaid's arms.

"Thank you," the lady said with a courteous nod. Elane nodded back dutifully, and sat back in her place by the fire. The baby smiled and squealed happily, her arms reaching up at her mother's face, and her small fingers clenching around a long onyx strand that had fallen loose from her braids. The young mother took a small hand in hers and moved towards her bed.

"Our stores of meat, vegetables and ale have been assessed and reordered, so I am free until midday." Sylvia said happily. The handmaid could almost sigh in relief, but a maidservant does not do such things before her lady.

"I believe she's hungry, my lady." Was all Elane commented as she returned to her mending. Sylvia knew this all too well, but nodded in thanks anyway.

She sat on the edge of the bed and shifted her daughter in her arms more comfortably. As she unlaced the front of her dress, and pulled it down to expose her breast, Sylvia couldn't help but think of Robb's suggestion of employing a nurse to take care of Mini when she was needed elsewhere. Northern ladies only employed nurses when they needed to, but as Sylvia knew, her duties to Winterfell as well as her daughter were suffering, and a nurse had to be considered.

In many ways, it was a rather attractive idea: it would give her more time to learn under Lady Catelyn, it would give Elane some rest, and she wouldn't be troubled with Mini biting her any longer. The princess frowned as her daughter suckled greedily from her nipple, blinking her little eyes slowly in content. Her heart squeezed at the babe's hunger. She knew it would be better to employ a nurse, because then Mini wouldn't go hungry the times she was away. But yet she denied it, for her own reasons. Mini was hers, she was her mother no one else, and no one else should be feeding her. It seemed silly to be jealous of a wet-nurse, and even cruel to allow her babe to go hungry when she could help it...

Sylvia rubbed her thumb over the baby's round cheek, watching Mini as she watched her.

...But she didn't relish in the idea of another woman sharing this with her baby.

"Elane, would you feed the fire, please?" Sylvia asked. Nodding, the elder girl began to feed another log into the fire, warming the cold room little by little. "When did she wake?" the princess turned to look at her friend, hardly noticing that Mini was now yanking at the lock of hair she clenched in her small fist.

"Perhaps, a half an hour before you came back, my lady." Replied the handmaid. Sylvia hummed and looked back down at the suckling babe.

When the babe had gotten her fill and her mother had re-laced her dress, Sylvia laid her down on the bed, unwrapping her from her swaddling blankets and letting her wriggle about on the bed freely. She's grown so much, Sylvia thought as she slid down to lie on her side. Her skirts hiked up to expose her stocking clad calves, but she hardly cared; there was no one around to make a scandal of the princess' exposed legs. Mini was just over six months old: her hair had grown a bit thicker and curls had appeared at the onyx coloured ends, her two bottom teeth had finally cut through and she'd just learned how to roll over, much to her and Robb's amazement.

As Mini lay on her belly, and pushed herself up and down with her chubby arms, Sylvia watched her intently as she always did. The young mother could spend hours just looking at her, smiling at every little expression on her tiny face, at every babble, committing her tiny hands and feet to memory. She wondered if this was how her mother felt when she was born. She wondered if it became more of a marvel after the first baby, or if he mother had mooned over her as she had over Joffrey and Myrcella.

Minisa rolled over again, pulling her out of her thoughts and back to the present. The baby cooed and prattled on the bed, grabbing her toes and babbling away at her mother in nonsensical sounds.

Another cold gust swept through the room from the outside, and the two southern girls' soft skin turned to gooseflesh in the cold northern air. But not Mini's. She was a northerner, at home in the cold and ice and snow. She's like Robb—she looks like me, but she's his daughter, Sylvia thought. The young mother smiled down at the babe, reaching down to hold a tiny foot in her hand.

"Would you like to go see father, my sweet girl?" she cooed down at the infant. Mini smiled toothlessly up at her mother, reaching her hands up eagerly at her. "Yes? Well, I should like to go see him too." Changing her clouts, and then rewrapping her in the blankets, Sylvia ventured out of her chambers, Minisa in her arms, off to the training yard to see Robb.

Thwak! The tip of the arrow embedded itself into the side of a barrel, well away from the target. Bran groaned and kicked at the pebbles at his feet in frustration.

Up above in the perch, Lord Stark and his lady wife watched their children fondly, quietly recalling when it had been Robb, Jon and Theon being instructed by Lord Eddard. Those days were far off, yet the memories were still fresh.

The soft clack of a woman's shoes drew Lord Eddard's attention away from his sons and to his left, where he saw his son's wife coming towards them, the white mink fur collaring her cloak making her easily identifiable. No one else had mink fur lining their cloak. The Lord of Winterfell grinned at her as his eyes fell on the bundle in her arms. His grandchild—his only grandchild—Minisa.

"Hello Sylvia," Lord Stark greeted, a smile crossing his time, and worry lined face. Ever since Minisa was born, Lord Eddard had been warmer to her. He'd never shunned her, but neither had he been particularly chatty with her before Mini's birth. Starks were very honourable men, she knew, and she supposed her husband's lord father didn't want to become fond of her if she failed her duty as Robb's wife. If she had failed to give Robb a child, the north would spurn her, princess or not. It may not be a vocal thing, but whispers and rumours could be as loud and damaging as any shout.

Lesser born girls had even been sent back to their fathers, ashamed and disgraced for not providing her husband with sons. But as the daughter of the king, it was unspeakable if she returned to the Capitol with a besmirched name. So if she had never gotten pregnant, she would be made to suffer under the northerners' cold, judging eyes, and endure their cruel whispers for years and years, as her and Robb's marriage turned cold and dead and his visits to her chamber grew fewer and fewer.

Gods be good she had done her duty to his son. He didn't want his son to be unhappy, and Sylvia made him very happy. Sylvia gave him a child, a sweet little girl they named after Catelyn's mother, and Robb loved her with all his heart. It was not the male heir every man dreamt of, but all children were blessings, and Lord Stark didn't mind so terribly having a healthy granddaughter, instead of a grandson. She was happy, she was healthy, and she was Robb's...that was all anyone could ask for.

"My lord, my lady," she replied with a brief curtsy. Down in the yard, Robb's eyes turned upwards, away from his little brother's practice, and to where he'd heard his Sylvia's voice. He smiled softly at her and at the familiar bundle in her arms. He turned back to his brothers just as Bran loosed another arrow.

"Lady Sylvia," she heard from Theon Greyjoy, who was standing just behind the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, looking down at the yard where servants bustled around like bees in a hive.

"Hello, my dear." Lady Catelyn greeted before turning back to watch her sons.

"How is the girl today?" Lord Eddard asked, nodding down at his granddaughter.

"She is well, my lord. Very happy. Would my lord like to hold her?" Sylvia asked graciously.

The Lord of Winterfell turned and moved his arms out to accept the child. "Yes, give her over." Carefully, Sylvia handed her daughter over to Lord Stark, smiling as he took her in his arms. It warmed her heart to see this sight. She loved Lord Eddard—he was a good man, strong and fair and stern, but he did have a heart and loved his family with every bit of it.

The little lady Stark turned back to the practice yard, grimacing a little when she saw Bran's arrow fly over the target and into the trees of the godswood. Bran hung his head low in shame as his brothers laughed. Even little Rickon, down on the fence, was giggling even though the closest he'd ever gotten to holding a weapon was the wooden sword he held.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Lord Eddard called out to them, Mini emitting a startled whine the loud words. The brothers glanced up to their father (and Robb and Bran's mother) jovial smiles still on their lips. "Keep practicing Bran." The gentle encouragement calmed the boy a little, but he still gave a short nod at his father. "Go on."

Robb didn't turn back when his brothers did, but instead locked eyes with his wife, grinning at her, and only turning back when she gave him a sweet smile of her own. Catelyn raised a delicate brow. They were still children in many ways, she thought. She was sad it would not always last. They loved each other yes, she'd known that since Robb was fifteen and Sylvia was fourteen. But someday, something would happen, and make it not so easy for them to love each other. It would be hard to tell if they survived it or not. She prayed they never knew such hardship.

Jon leaned in close and murmured some words to Bran that Sylvia couldn't hear clearly, but she knew they must be heartening. She watched as the boy drew back the arrow. "Relax your bow arm." Robb said, eyeing his shaking arm. Bran steadied himself, his arm shaking only slightly, and then—

Thwak! The arrow struck the center of the target. But Bran's arrow remained aimed at the target.

Arya Stark curtsied like a proper little lady when her brothers turned to look upon her in awe, the bow still in her hand as if mocking Bran's failure. Sylvia laughed when Bran threw his own bow aside and darted towards her, leaping over the rails of the pen and chasing her across the yard.

"Run Arya!" she called out to her little good-sister.

"Quick Bran!" called Jon.

"Faster!" called Robb.

"Lord Stark!" another voice called out. Behind them Ser Rodrik Cassel, the Master-at-Arms, marched close, his face grave as he clutched the pommel of his sword. "M'lady, Lady Sylvia." The portly man greeted them. "A guardsman just rode in from the hills. They've captured a deserter from the Night's Watch." At once, Lord Eddard's face lost all of its amusement, and became as cold and hard as steel.

Sylvia knew the penalty for desertion, she'd learned that the second year she lived in the north, when another man from the Nights Watch deserted the Wall. It was brutal, if you asked her: killing a man for simply leaving his post. Was there no room for mercy, or pardon? When Robb came back that day, and she said as much, he told her the man had been a traitor; he swore an oath and went against it. He asked if in the south, men cared more about gold and gain, than honor and law. Sylvia had stared back at him with narrowed eyes, truly offended and angry. This was one of the few times she never said a word back. It hadn't been her Robb she was speaking to, but rather Lord Robb, the man he would grow to be and this Lord Robb could not be argued with. They never spoke of the matter again. Although he knew her opinion well enough, there was no use in arguing the law, because the law could not be changed.

What was even worse about the punishment was that the Starks did not have an executioner. The man who passed the sentence, swung the sword, for that was the old way of the north. One day, Robb would be Lord Stark, and he would have to bear the weight of passing judgement himself.

Lord Stark turned back to his good-daughter and handed the child back to her, prompting a disgruntled grunt from Mini. "Get the lads to saddle their horses." He commanded his ward when he turned back. With a nod, Theon Greyjoy marched down the walkway.

"Do you have to?" Lady Catelyn asked, her eyes wide and soft as the southern blue skies. Like Sylvia, she found the price of desertion too much, too costly, but it wasn't her place to question or attempt to change the northerners long standing customs.

"He swore an oath, Cat. Law is law." Her husband turned back to Ser Rodrik. "Tell Bran he's coming too." At once Lady Catelyn snapped her eyes back up at her husband, defiance and something like anger burning in her eyes. Catelyn accepted the punishment begrudgingly, but when he brought young Bran into it, she was prepared to argue, as all mothers are when it comes to their children's innocent eyes. Sylvia readjusted Mini in her arms, quiet and respectful like proper lady should be when there was toil in front of her, but also brave and unflinching in the face of it. Courage, septa Bryda told her. A princess must have unyielding courage.

"Ned." The Lady of Winterfell spoke in the stern voice of a mother. "Ten is too young to see such things."

"He's not going to be a boy forever." He said stiffly, his eyes masked with the coldness of duty and honour. "And winter is coming." Was all Lord Stark replied before he turned away from the women, off to fetch Ice and saddle his horse for the ride. Lady Catelyn sighed and turned her head away so Sylvia could not see what was written on her face. The girl didn't mind and chose to turn back and observe her husband and his brothers a little more, before Theon or Rodrik came to tell them the news.

Robb and Rickon were gathering all the arrows which had missed the target as Jon placed them back in the quiver. She felt her lady of Winterfell turn beside her to look upon her sons and her husband's bastard as well. When Jon looked up, his eyes briefly gazed upon his good-sister before landing on the older woman beside her. Even without looking to see, Sylvia knew Lady Stark's eyes were cold and disapproving looking down at the bastard boy. She'd seen it the first day she arrived here in Winterfell and had seen it a thousand times since.

Poor boy, Salvia thought. But Jon was a bastard born from dishonour, his father was even so ashamed of his mother that he never spoke of her, not even her name. She didn't think he deserved the treatment he got, he was so kind and smart, and he was Robb's brother, his best friend. It was sad his father's dishonour brought him such struggle. Her heart squeezed for the bastard boy when he looked away, brief flashes of hurt in his eyes.

Mini began to whine in her arms, growing restless at being all bundled up as she was. The princess turned her eyes away from her good-brother and to her child.

"Be thankful the gods blessed you with a daughter, Sylvia." Lady Catelyn finally murmured as Sylvia began swaying her body from side to side in an attempt to soothe the babe. Catelyn's eyes turned back to her good-daughter and granddaughter, at the same moment Sylvia looked from her daughter's face and back at her. "Come to my solar after you've seen Robb off. We've work to attend." With that, Lady Catelyn turned away, her cloak trailing behind her.

After a moment, Sylvia turned back to look down at her family. Rickon gave the last small cluster of arrows to Robb, an eager smile lighting up his face. He practically beamed when Robb patted his shoulder and thanked him. The little wolf was so darling when he wasn't cranky.

Her ocean coloured eyes moved up to her husband, and watched as he set the arrows back into their quiver. How this day had turned. Not moments ago there had only been juvenile ease in the air, and now this ugly business had manifested. Thousands of strangers met their end everyday without her realizing, but knowing Lord Stark himself was doing such a deed made it real. It was a hard thing to know that her husband would one day be forced to pass judgement and carry out the king's justice. It was impossible to ignore, so the best that could be done, was to accept it.

"Robb!" called Theon as he walked through the yard and towards Robb and his natural brother.

Sylvia must have read the ravens scroll a dozen times before she started to believe the words.

The loyal Hand...dead...fever...King and his royal and noble court...to Winterfell...

After seeing Robb off by the gates, she'd returned Mini to their chambers with Elane, leaving behind instructions to let the infant free of her bundles and to let her roam about the bed or to lay her in cradle and rock her. As instructed, she returned to Lady Catelyn's private solar immediately after. They'd been reviewing newest letters to arrive, the raven's scrolls to come in and were in the process of writing out replies, when Maester Luwin came in from the rookery, a scroll in his hand with those grim words.

Could it be true? Was it a lie? It must be correct; there was her father's signature at the bottom of the slip of paper. What did this mean now? Who would be her father's new Hand? In her heart, she already knew the answer. Her father loved Lord Eddard. When he traveled north for her wedding, he gave the Lord of Winterfell more attention and affection than his eldest daughter. Why else would her royal father travel so far, if not to give his best friend the title as Hand? Knowing Lord Stark's rigid sense of honour, he'd most like say yes when her father asked.

Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and...Hand of the king? It would be splendidly profitable for the Starks—new income, higher status, more power and a few pages in the history books. But the title would take some of the family away to the Capitol. Not even two years ago, she and Robb had quarrelled about visiting the south. She doubted the time had softened him towards the idea, and now they had a child to consider. If her mother or her father requested she return south with them, what in the seven hells would they say? She almost cursed Jon Arryn aloud, before she stopped herself hastily. The man was dead, it does not do well to speak ill of a dead man.

Jon Arryn—father's Hand, Catelyn's brother by law...dead? It seemed impossible somehow. Jon Arryn had always been—he had been a constant fixture in the Red Keep, a faceless presence who helped to rule the kingdoms beside her royal father. She thought of Jon Arryn, but all that came to her mind was how he'd hurt her feelings once or twice as a child. Sylvia hardly remembered what it had been over, but she remembered the hurt and embarrassment and anger she felt at the old man, sharp and hot as a freshly forged blade. She was ashamed of that now as she realized that old man had now gone to meet the gods.

Sylvia looked down at the scroll once more, a smile coming to her face without realising. The royal court. It meant her mother, her brothers, her sister and even her uncles. Myrcella was the first in her mind—still four years old, with golden curls and emerald eyes, and a love of dolls and dresses. She remembered almost every tea party they'd ever had, every time she braided her hair, and the way her sister never made fun of her for talking to S...she stopped herself there.

She imagined the picture of Tommen she'd created in her head over the years: short and chubby, with mother's hair and eyes, sweet and gentle and with the same love of animals she'd had as a little girl. She prayed that Joffrey never tainted his good heart or Myrcella's for that matter. She prayed he left them be.

Then Joffrey came to her thoughts, seeping into her memory like a black ink. If he had ever been kind to her at some point in their life, Sylvia could not recall it. He was so awful to her and she'd hated him for it. What had she done to make him hate her so? What was the great and terrible thing she'd done to earn her little brother's hatred, and her mother's disapproval? Perhaps he only liked to be terrible, she thought to herself.

As she remembered, Joffrey was everything Myrcella and Tommen were not. Yet there was a part of her that still maintained a bond of kinship with him, however weak the tether was. He was her brother, her blood, and until Myrcella was born he'd really been the only companion she had. Did that mean nothing? She hoped the years had changed her little brother from the terror she remembered and into less of a monster. Despite this, she was still not eager to see him again after six years. He'd hurt her too much as a child for her to feel anything else but dread at his imminent arrival.

"Why are you smilin' Sylvie?" Rickon piped up from the floor, his small hands clutching his little toy knight possessively. "Mother said someone died?" His mother had gone from the solar after she handed Sylvia the scroll. Off to find a record of the accounts, she said, we must review everything once more. While Mini would interfere with her and Lady Catelyn's work, Rickon often found himself here with his mother and Sylvia when he was not in lessons with Bran. He was quiet enough, happy to play with his toys on the floor and listen to his mother and good-sister's voices as they dealt with the affairs of the castle.

"I'm smiling because my family is coming to visit, little wolf." She replied, setting down the slip of paper.

"But we're your family." The six year old said matter-of-factly as he began to play with his toys again.

"Yes, I know. But my mother and father, and brothers and sister are coming so that makes me happy."

"Oh. Is it because that man died?" Sylvia paused, crossing and re-crossing her legs under her gown. Gods forgive her, but the death of the old man seemed less important when in the same scroll, there was news of the king coming to visit.

"Yes. His name was Jon Arryn." She said. "He was very dear to your father and mother. He was your aunt's husband, Lady Lysa." She spoke as if she was teaching the boy his lessons, calm, and factual.

"When will they come?" the fire behind him snapped as he asked, the light illuminating his auburn hair into orange flames as he played with his little wooden knights and horses.

"Hm, probably in two months time. It takes a while to prepare for such a long ride, and we need to prepare for a royal visit."

"Will it be boring like last time?" he demanded, a bit of excitement rising in his voice.

"Boring? Last time they were here, it was my and Robb's wedding. I don't think it was boring." She countered with a sly smile. Of course he thought it was boring, he was in bed before any of the real entertainment began.

"Yes it was." Rickon deadpanned. Sylvia smiled and opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly the door burst open. Robb stood there, looking too large for the door frame and Rickon jumped. Sylvia jumped to her feet, the instinct to defend the small child shooting up in her chest, and then falling in relief when she saw it was just her husband, the familiar grin of Theon Greyjoy just behind him.

"Robb what are you—?" a small squeal from a pup cut her off. In the sudden flurry of his arrival, she'd overlooked the two balls of fur in his arms, nuzzling at his chest in search for milk where there was none. The one in his right hand was grey with yellow eyes, while the other was black with shining green eyes.

"Puppies!" Rickon cried in delight, jumping up from his place on the floor and rushing at Robb.

"Hurry it up then!" Theon Greyjoy spoke up behind Robb. Peering around her husband, she saw the smiley squid boy holding two more pups. Robb moved into the solar, Theon just behind him.

"Where did you get puppies?" She asked in amazement. It was a great shock that he left her so solemn and serious and came back with an enthusiastic smile, and four pups. Wherever did he get them? Why did he take them up into the castle instead of leaving them in the kennels? Did he mean for them to remain as pets? A bubble of excitement rose in her chest. Oh it had been so long since she'd had a pet. Ever since the awfulness with Joffrey and the kitchen cat she'd refused another pet, afraid it would meet the same horrible end. Sylvia had always loved animals, and it had been a long time since she'd had a furry companion.

"We found a surprise on the road." He replied with a boyish grin. "Jon and Bran have one as well. There were six pups—one for each other Stark children."

But Jon is not a Stark, she thought.

"Give me one!" Rickon demanded excitedly, holding his arms up at his brother. Robb relented and handed Rickon the black pup and at once Rickon clutched the squirming black ball to his chest, looking so happy, Sylvia thought he might cry. Robb held the grey one close to his own chest, unbothered as it continued to nuzzle and whine at him. Poor little thing was probably hungry.

"Where's their mother?" she asked holding her arms out for the puppy in Robb's arms. Robb seemed reluctant to part from the tiny thing, but before the princess could ask what the matter was, he pressed the puppy into her hands. It squirmed in the air, an annoyed yip striking through the air before Sylvia gripped it's small body. The grey fur was the softest thing she'd ever felt as the puppy settled against her, and he was quite warm. She cradled it tenderly, stroking her fingers over the soft fur, wondering why she'd never bothered with another pet.

"Dead. A stag gorged it's antler in her throat. We found them next to the bitch trying to nurse." Robb's voice had darkened as he relayed the grim tale. It was an omen, a bad one, he knew it, and he almost wished he was fool enough to miss it. What was coming, he did not know, but it was likely not good.

"A stag ran a dog through? Why? That doesn't make sense." His little wife asked as she continued to pet and stroke the pup's fur, as though he was a simple hound to be coddled. But looking at the grey pup she held, the one Robb had claimed as his own, something deep and dark and hidden inside him whispered that these particular pups were anything but ordinary. He'd felt something looking into that pup's yellow eyes, something familiar that said he was meant to have him.

Just as Robb was about to correct her, Theon beat him to it. "These are no pups, my lady. These are direwolves."

Ta-da! please please please please please please give me reviews! I must know how I did!

So yes, as I've said in my other story "Vows" I'm going off to college, in (well will you look at that?) in a week. So as I've never been to college before, and have no idea what I'm in for, I don't know when I'll get to update next :(

Please review!