I cannot explain in words how difficult this was for me to write/get out/edit. Even now, posting it, I am still unsure about it, because, heh, guess what? It's only part 1! plus, I felt it dealt with some sensitive content which made it difficult to write without feeling guilty :(

ahhhhh, please please tell me if this was boring or not? I'm getting the sense that I just...ramble on about shit no one cares about so, if this was any good, tell me, and if this was...sucky, tell me..

Oh guess what!? I got a new kitty! and a computer! And a new job! Woo!

Also, I'm looking for a beta...any offers, suggestions...anything?

ALSO! Check out the Summer Game of THrones Awards on Maddie Rose's page and vote!

Chapter 9: Fly or Die

Give me hope in silence
It's easier; It's kinder
Tell me not of heartbreak
It plagues my soul, plagues my soul

The Enemy by Mumford & Sons

The feast was as grand as it had been at Robb and Sylvia Stark's wedding, the Great Hall of Winterfell awash with drunken banner men and household servants, food scattered about the tables and endless drink flowing from pitchers and into her father's cup.

He was down between the tables with the men, rather than beside his queen up on the dais, laughing and joking, grabbing and pinching at the serving wenches as they passed. She avoided looking at him, and did her best to be deaf and blind to his embarrassing mirth. The wound ached a little less this time, since it was not her wedding and she'd somewhat expected it this time, but still, she wished men had the same restrictions set upon them as women had.

A woman could never do anything close to what her father had done all her life, but a man (any man), could. But why should he be permitted to? It wasn't as though his actions were not damaging, and yet he acted as though they weren't, and because he was the king, no one said a word against him. He was her father—she'd admired him as a girl, loved him dearly and he was shaming her mother, her brothers and sister, her and in the home of her husband. It is a difficult thing to realize the one you'd always painted as flawless, in truth, has more faults than you could understand.

She was grateful mother had dismissed Tommen and Myrcella to bed so early, for they should not see father like this as she had.

She sat by Robb, his lips finding her ear often enough, making her giggle and blush at his naughty words, and forget for a moment about her father. With Tommen and Myrcella gone, there was now a large gap between her and Joffrey, one that neither of them seemed keen on closing. She had not yet had any real interaction with Joffrey yet; he'd spent the afternoon touring the grounds with her husband and father-in-law, and then preparing for the feast. All that Robb had said when he returned to her was that Joffrey had been haughty and "looked at Winterfell as though he'd smelled something foul".

That wasn't so terrible, she supposed, but the hour was early and it would not shock her greatly if her golden brother was still as nasty as he had been six years before.

Apart of her hoped that Joffrey would remain a hermit this entire visit, so he would not spread any foul rumours about her, nor blind Sansa with his glittering title; the latter of which seeming to be futile, judging by the hardly concealed looks of longing that Sansa kept shooting her little brother. She prayed for Sansa's sake that he'd grown out of being a bully.

Across from Robb was Theon, laughing and chewing a roll of bread, and to Robb's left was Bran. The little climber listened intently to every derogatory thing Theon said, trying to fit in with the older boys, although he hardly understood what it was Theon was saying. Sylvia smiled at Bran and proceeded to make conversation about what he thought about the sudden onslaught of knights in the castle.

At the end of the table were Sansa, her friend Jeyne Poole, and across from her, was Arya, deviously rolling her peas about her plate. Jon Snow, the poor boy, had been confined to the lower tables as though he were a simple castle dweller, and not Ned Stark's son; Lady Catelyn had deemed him to shameful to seat him amongst the Starks and their royal guests. He'd departed from the feast quite early, taking a full chicken with him to feed his Ghost, who was chained in the kennels with his brothers and sisters.

Her uncle Tyrion had not been seen since he'd finished his supper, while her uncle Jaime prowled about the Hall, his proud smirk dimming as he eyed the king with the rest of the drunken louts, his sister watching her husband with an old, tired kind of fury.

Renly, to her disappointment, was not in attendance, having stayed behind in the Capitol to "tend to the King's affairs" whilst his elder brothers deserted the Capitol. They said Stannis had left King's Landing shortly after Jon Arryn's death. Some said he missed his wife and daughter, and others said he disliked the Capitol without the wise voice of The Hand at the council table. For whatever reason, Sylvia did not care. Uncle Stannis had never been really sweet to her, but he wasn't like Jaime. She didn't understand how they were different in their manner towards her, but they simply were. So, with that in mind, she was more concerned over the fact that Renly was not there with her, to moon over her little one as Tommen and Myrcella had. He'd love to see her, she was sure of it, but he had remained behind, but hopefully he would come to see her before Mini was a woman.

As the night wore on, the Great Halls doors opened and shut once more, a lone figure in a black cloak going unnoticed by everyone in the loud frenzied merriment of the room. Unnoticed, until he crept up next to his elder brother, and greeted him with a jape.

Benjen Stark, a renowned Ranger of the Night's Watch and Eddard Stark's brother, had come to visit his brother and his family a night or two before he traveled further south in search of new recruits. Sylvia had met him once, about three years before, when he'd traveled to Winterfell for the same purpose. He was a kind man, clever and only a little stern when it concerned his family.

Robb's eyes brightened when he'd spotted his uncle, gently lacing his fingers with his wife's and leading her to where his father and uncle spoke. Uncle Benjen smiled when Robb spoke out in greeting, accepting Robb in a hug.

"How are you lad?" asked the black brother happily.

"I'm good." Robb replied. "Still in one piece?" his uncle grinned.

"Fatherhood suits ya." Benjen quipped as he pulled back, making Robb smile a little wider. Benjen's keen icy eyes drifted to her, losing none of its warmth. "And motherhood defiantly agrees with you, lass." Sylvia grinned as Benjen leaned forward, taking one of her hands in his gloved ones, and pecking her cheek swiftly, his whiskers prickling her skin.

"It's good to see you, uncle." She replied.

"You too, dear. How is your daughter? She good? Strong, healthy?" he asked the girl standing prettily beside Robb. Donning the black and swearing vows to the Wall meant that your life before you uttered those ancient words was forfeit. You are reborn in the ice and cold, pledged to be loyal to nothing but the Watch, and no one but your brothers. For most men, it was easy. They came from squalor and had nothing to miss besides the warmth of the sun and the guiltless pleasures a woman could offer. But Benjen Stark had come from a family, a place where he was comfortable and loved. He was, and always would be, loyal to the Watch, to the realm and his vows, but he could not sever the bond he had with his brother. They were the only two of their siblings left.

"She's well. Very happy, very strong. She's also made friends with Grey Wind. She laughed for an hour the other day at him." The southern girl replied in a disapproving tone.

"The direwolf?" Benjen smiled. "Brave little Stark, she is. She'll be riding on his back before she's five." The men chuckled. Sylvia's lips twitched into a wry grin. She was still not wholly comforted with the two together so closely, as Grey Wind's teeth and claws were always forefront in her mind.

Benjen departed from them a few exchanges later, nodding fondly to his elder brother then clapping Robb on the back, before seeking out the other Stark children. Before he left, Sylvia made him promise to set time aside to meet Robb's child before he traveled a little farther south to gather more recruits.

Twice that night, father returned to the royal dais: the first time was to obtain his ale horn which held more drink than a goblet and to return the deep scowl the queen sent him. The second time was to announce that the music and dance commence.

With a sharp clap, the tables were pulled against the walls, and the bards started crowing, the lutes began strumming and the flutes and tambourines began chiming out through the sweet, smoky air. Just hearing those gorgeous melodies made Sylvia's feet tap under the table.

Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn began the dance at the behest of the king, since he was too into his cups to manage a graceful glide around the floor with his queen. Robb stood, and held his hand out to her, his lips quirked up in a little smile that did not meet his eyes. She knew he hated dancing; it was "unmanly". Ser Rodrik had taught him while women dance to the musical litany of flute and harp, men dance to the grading clash of steel against steel. Still, Sylvia loved to dance, and he would endure it for no one, besides her. Just to see her smile.

As she rose her hand to slip into her husband's calloused palm, her mother softly called from behind her, freezing her hand just inches from his.

"Sylvia," she said, sitting up with renewed interest, her stag's antler tiara gleaming in the torch light. "My sweet, why don't you dance with your brother? You have been apart for so long, and you've not spent time with him since he arrived."

Sylvia licked her suddenly dry lips and replied in a careful, timid voice. "It's the first dance mother. It is only proper that I dance with my husband." Cersei's golden brows pinched together. It was rare, exceedingly rare, for Sylvia to deny her, and never before had she done it in public. Had it been anyone else, the queen would have softly growled at the unfortunate fool to speak against a lioness, but it was her daughter who defied her. Knowing this ignited an ache within her, one that was not quite anger, nor quite hurt, but burning all the same.

"Yes," she continued, her sweet soft voice giving nothing away. "But Joffrey is the Crown Prince. And your brother, my sweet. You've not seen him in years, and I'm sure your husband can part with but one dance." Robb's ears burned. Although it sounded like the queen was being reasonable and logical, he couldn't help but get the sense that she was trying to shame him somehow. He put the feeling from his mind. Regardless, the woman was both the queen and his wife's mother and it would not do to think ill of her.

"Come sister," Joffrey's smooth, slick voice sounded near the end of the table. The heir of Winterfell and the princess looked back to her brother, a cold dread seating within her at noticing that familiar smirk spreading across his face. He strutted closer and held out his hand. When had he gotten taller than her? "We mustn't disappoint mother."

Sylvia turned to Robb in spite of herself, silently asking him what to do, to save her from this horrid situation. She didn't want to dance with Joffrey, she scarcely desired to even touch him, but her it was difficult for her to deny her mother what she wanted. "Go," her husband finally said. "Dance with your brother but, save for me, a precious slice of your company." She couldn't help but grin at him.

Joffrey's hand was firm and smooth around hers as he pulled her to the floor, and when he pulled her to him to begin the dance, his hand was a bit too insistent on her waist, pulling her too close. But his feet was fluid and pristine. As the music swelled, he spoke softly to her, his words drowning in the volume of the music, audible to no one but her.

"It is a great honour to dance with your prince." He spoke in a voice too calm for his nature. "You would do well to remember, since you seem to have forgotten during your time in this...place." he spat the last word as though it were a filthy curse. She looked away from him, opting to people watch over his shoulder, watching Lord and Lady Stark dance gracefully around the growing crowd. She spied her mother watching from the dais. She heard her father roar out a great belly shaking laugh, and saw Robb, laughing with Theon, as Bran grinned uncertainly beside him.

This place was her home.

The princess clenched her jaw. She had no right to be offended when she'd been just as disgusted by the north the first time she'd come there, but she'd grown to love it, and this was her home now, no matter what. A storm was rising, she could feel it through her skin, and she tried not to allow his quip bother her too much, else she'd be in tears before the end of the dance. Finally she replied. "I am surprised you didn't extend such an honour to Sansa. She is quite taken by you, I must say." Although I dearly wish she wasn't, she added silently.

"She doesn't interest me right now." He countered. He spun her suddenly, nearly causing her to fall, before she quickly righted herself. He pulled her back, a little too roughly for her liking and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "As my sister," he continued. "It is my duty to associate with you on formal occasions. It is not courteous to deny me my right."

When had he ever been interested in brotherly duty? "Yes, of course." She answered politely.

Joffrey's eyes narrowed down at her, annoyed and burning. "I was quite surprised when mother told me you were pregnant."

"Yes, it was quite a shock to us all." She replied honestly, still looking over his shoulder. She spied Sansa back at the tables, watching the dancing bodies with envy, her bright, joyful eyes finding her and Joffrey once too often to be a coincidence.

"Why?" he asked cruelly. "Does your husband not visit you?" the abruptness of the question shocked her into silence, her feet freezing in place for a moment, before starting again when he pulled on her hands. She looked at him, her eyes wide with shock, hoping to find some jape or regret in his eyes, but only seeing in those emerald orbs that same awful glee that once made her cry. "Is he flaccid? Or does he prefer whores? He certainly is treating you like one, whispering in your ear constantly, pawing at you, pressing close. Mother would be ashamed. Is the whelp even his? It doesn't look like him." He continued, each and every word punctuated by a quick move of his feet. All of a sudden she was six years old again, stunned and damaged beyond measure when her little brother, (having heard the rumours at court), mercilessly asked if she was a bastard of their father's infidelity their mother suffered with.

She felt as though she'd been slapped, the pain shocking and infuriating, spreading all over as her heart beat faster, the urge to cry and strike back battling within her. The image of her sweet, darling Mini flashed before her eyes, and rage hotter than she'd ever felt ignited inside her.

"How dare you?" she hissed out in astonishment. Of all the awful things he could say, she'd never thought he'd have the audacity to question her daughter's paternity—in her own home, after hardly looking at the child! She wanted to hurt him, to slap him—to claw at him, to tear out his eyes— to see what he'd do. When he threw a fit, she'd tell father what he'd said and Joffrey would get what he deserved. But mother would be angry, and she knew she'd take Joffrey's side as she always had, and she could not bear to see her mother take Joffrey's side on this, when his words hurt her so. "How can you say such terrible things to me, your own sister? In my own home? About your niece?" she asked with a barely controlled tremor in her voice.

"Because I can." He answered simply. "I am the prince. And from what I've seen, they're true assumptions. I will be your king one day, remember that sister?"

"Prince, brother, king or not, you will not speak to me that way. I am your sister. Never speak about my daughter and husband in such a way again." She spat, a threat on the tip of her tongue, but it could not pass, for reasons she did not understand.

His eyes narrowed dangerously, his eyes burning emeralds, gleaming so hideously she bit back a tiny prickle of fear and stared back at him as he spoke. His hands tightened around her own, squeezing until she thought the fragile bones beneath her skin might break. "You can't talk to me like that." She tried to wretch her hands free, but to no avail. "I can say what I like!" He sounded indignant, and Sylvia remembered he was only a little boy who was unused to being fought. His eyes gleamed with malice that frightened her, but truly, he was just a bully.

"Then since you have no qualms of what you say, I will tell father, word for word." She felt a child for threatening to tell, but if it would put him in place for a while, she would take what she could. He glared at her, looking as though he wanted to strike her, but refrained. If he ever raised a hand to her, Robb would try to run a sword though him. He released her hands, slipping them from hers so quickly it was as though she'd burned him.

Without another glance at him, she strode from the floor, winding her way around swaying bodies in the midst of a song, and found her husband's side again, where she felt safe, where she felt calm. She did not hear any more horrid words from Joffrey's mouth calling after her, and she was thankful he had that much of a mind to keep their squabbles private. For now, at least.

Her fury was making her bold, and stupid. To play into Joffrey's attempts to anger her, would only shame her in the end. He was the prince, heir to the throne, while she was a lordling's wife. If a quarrel broke out between them, it was far more likely that the people believe Joffrey before her, simply because he was to be the elieve her, but he might be too "busy" to care. Still, the threat of his fury was enough to daunt Joffrey.

And he is not the king yet, she thought hotly.

Her hands found one of her husband's, and without thinking, she lifted it to press a kiss to his knuckles. Robb turned from Theon while he was in the midst of telling a jape, and looked to her, surprised at her sudden affection. His smile fell when he saw the look in her eye and the tremulous smile on her lips.

As Joffrey stormed from the Great Hall, shoving the doors open in a furious fit of aggression, Robb leaned a bit closer and asked what had happened. His wife only shook her head, long strands of onyx hair falling from the intricate northern style piled on top of her head.

The young woman could almost feel her mother's stare behind her, and she had no wish to feel it the remainder of the night when mother would just scold her come the morning. She had to be away from here, away from the disapproving eyes of her mother, from the drunken bellows of her father, and from the view of the men that should not see her fall apart. She was a princess and one day she would be their lady and she had to be strong like her mother had always been. She had to be hard, she had to be steel. The only one who should see her wounds was Robb if she could help it.

She leaned forward to Robb and whispered that she wished to depart to bed.

Later he would ask what had happened in between the short time she'd gone to dance with him to the time she returned to his side, but all she would say was that Joffrey was a beastly little shit and that he had full permission to knock the boy senseless in the practice yard.

Since the feast, Joffrey had not spoken to her, although she had broken her fast with her mother and siblings the last two mornings. It was strange and familiar to eat the morning meal with her family once again, especially now that she sat with a babe in her arms. Father did not attend, and in his place, were her Uncle Tyrion and Uncle Jaime. As they had when she was little, Tyrion was happy to smile and tickle the baby, while Jaime was content in eating his breakfast, giving the baby one or two sidelong looks before resuming. It did not shock her in the slightest.

The morning after the feast mother had called for her, just as she knew she would. Sylvia felt a child again as she stood before her mother, as though all her courage had fallen from her as the queen watched her. The queen lectured her daughter on the distasteful act of embarrassing Joffrey in front of his future subjects.

"He will be the king, one day, my dove." Queen Cersei addressed gently from behind her borrowed desk. "It does not invoke respect if his people see him shamed by his sister."

He is not king yet, she had wanted to say. He will have plenty of time to earn the northerners respect as I have. He was the one who shamed me, by saying such awful things. She wanted to say all those things, to defend herself, to make her see...but mother had always taken Joffrey's side. Instead she said, "I'm sorry if he was embarrassed, but it was not my fault. He should have known what he said would upset me."

Her mother nodded, seeming pleased with that. "Next time, my dove, be mindful. To shame one of us, is to shame all of us. I will tell Joff the same." Her mother was gentle as she had always been when scolding her, but the old familiar burn singed her skin when her mother dismissed her.

She was thankful her nasty little brother left her be, but she supposed it was because he had focussed his attentions on Sansa instead. He'd taken walks with her to the godswood, chaperoned, of course, by two Stark guardsmen and Joffrey's Hound. Rumours had spread, reaching her ears by the second morning. Elane told her that she'd heard from one of the queen's handmaidens that her father wanted to double the bond between the Starks and the crown, by making Sansa Joffrey's queen. The idea was repellant, and laughable. Sylvia herself had already bound the north to the crown; there was no need to marry Joffrey to Sansa and it would only serve to offend the other houses who wished for their daughters to become queen.

She had not heard anything on the matter from her mother, her father, Lord Eddard or Lady Catelyn, and supposed it was only kitchen gossip cropping up in response to Joffrey's interest in Sansa. The young woman prayed it was so, she prayed some other girl had the honour of becoming Joffrey's queen.

"Your brother is truly a little shit." Robb huffed to her on the third day of the royal visit. The hour was late, and Robb had only just returned from a meeting with his father and her father. Mini already slept soundly in her cradle, and she'd already changed into her sheer night dress when he returned to their chambers, his curls mussed and his eyes a step slightly heavy on the floor.

She did not know what they talked of that kept him busy half the night, but Robb returned to her smelling of wine and slightly drunk. She couldn't see Robb drinking too much in front of her father intentionally—that would be dishonourable—so her father must have ordered him to drink. The picture her mind created of her father commanding his son in law to drink was amusing, because what could Robb do but agree?

"I warned you." She replied with a slight shake of her head.

"You did, and you were right about...you have gorgeous eyes, sweetling." The southern girl tried to hide her smile. Yes, the wine was defiantly affecting him.

"You're eyes are prettier, darling." She countered as she started on the laces of his doublet. "So what makes you say that my brother is a little twat?" She looked up at him, the sleeves of her dress falling to the crook of her elbows, gooseflesh forming at the sudden chill and hardening the pale brown nipples on each of her breasts.

"Little shit," he corrected, his throat bobbing when he glanced down at her breasts. "O-on top of the fact that he was too good to sit in on the meeting with father and I, he wanted live steel in the practice yard today. Bran has never used live steel, and he expected him and Prince Tommen to hack at each other like a couple of drunkards in a tavern brawl. Little shit stuck up his nose and sauntered off when Ser Rodrick refused to indulge him." Sylvia said nothing, and continued unlacing his doublet, her dark brows narrowed. Through his slightly clouded mind, Robb thought that he may have said something to upset her. "Forgive me; I know he's your brother—"

"They both are—him and Bran are both my brothers; but Joffrey is wrong. Utterly. Stupid little twit." She began to yank at his laces harder than needed, her fury growing with each word and every tug. "What was he thinking? Live steel. They're little boys! Bran can hardly lift a real sword, and Tommen is smaller than Bran! If Ser Rodrik had allowed such foolery, who knows what could have happened. I know they'll learn someday, but they're too young and small for live steel!"

"I know," Robb offered, but she made no indication she'd heard.

"Creating bad blood between our families, Seven Hells." she ended with a harsh yank to his doublet laces. The center line of his chest exposed, the pale skin glowing in the soft candle light. She spied the fine auburn curls of hair there, and her fingers twitched with the desire to stroke them as she had countless times before. A warm heat licked up her chest and to her neck. Robb's hands suddenly came up to cradle her neck, his fingers coming to curl around to the back of her neck, as his thumbs trailed over her cheek in a rather tender fashion. He tilted her head up so he could look at her face. She could feel his breath on her lips, and his beautiful eyes gleamed with sincerity as he looked back at her.

It didn't matter that he was a little inebriated, because in that moment, he looked so certain, so honest. The prickles of her anger began to ebb away.

"We're married... with Mini. Joffrey can never change that, no matter how stupid and careless he is. He can't tear us apart."

"I know. I know." She murmured, her hands coming up to grip his wrists, her thumb stroking the skin there absently. "But he's the idiot who will one day be king. At this rate, the realm is doomed." She pouted.

His eyes narrowed but smiled down at her wickedly. "I don't care. I have you. I love you more than anything. I'm yours and you are mine. That's all that matters to me." Her lips widened into a grin, her hands coming up to push the loosened doublet from his shoulders. Her fingernails ghosted along his arms as she pushed it away, the warmth in her belly growing as she followed her fingers with her eyes as they traveled back up his arm, finally coming to a stop at his collar bone. His hands gripped at her hips once they were freed, holding her tight to him.

"I think you're trying to seduce me, husband." She smiled wickedly, looking up at him through her lashes. He pulled her tighter against him, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Is it working?" he smirked.

"What do you think?" She wrapped her arms around him, kissing him and giggling against his lips when he mumbled something about her tasting sweet.

The next day, Sylvia bid farewell to her husband as he and the other men rode out to the Wolf's Wood to hunt. He kissed her sweetly, his mouth soft since he was now beardless and reminded her of the night before. He held Mini's small hand a moment as a farewell, before mounting his dappled grey horse.

The castle seemed so bare without the majority of the men there, and it was a little unnerving. A few months after arriving at Winterfell, Old Nan, an aged wet-nurse, and grandmother to the sweet giant Hodor, had regaled she and the Stark children about the ghosts of Winterfell. There was a bloody knight who was murdered by his lady's brother after her strangled her in a jealous rage; an old king without a leg who is forever wandering the halls in search of his lost appendage, and a woman who was always crying for reasons no one knew. The princess did not believe in ghosts, but walking along the cold corridors without a single soul in sight, left her reminding herself that there was no such thing as phantoms.

She clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her arm tensing as she held it around her daughter.

Finally she reached the private solar where sweet Myrcella and gentle Tommen waited for her. With the hunting party departed, Sylvia arranged a luncheon for herself and her two youngest siblings, something she hadn't been able to so with Joffrey lurking about. Joffrey, thank the gods, had chosen to go with the men, allowing them to visit in peace without his awful presence or mother's disproving eyes hanging over them. Mother had not been seen since she broke her fast in the Great Hall, and neither had Uncle Jaime, but that was alright. She was content with it being just the four of them now, allowing herself and her siblings to reacquaint themselves properly without the outside influence of Joffrey upon them.

"She's so little!" Myrcella marveled as she stared down at her niece. Mini blinked up at her young aunt, taking in the strange soft features she had never seen before, and then going on to study a golden lock of hair clasped tightly in her pudgy hands.

"When she first came, she was much tinier. Tiny little nose, tiny little feet, tiny little hands..." Sylvia recalled with a fond smile. Her sweet girl had grown so much in the past eight moons that she wished time would slow a little. Lady Catelyn once said, that in a blink of an eye, her children had been at breast, looking up at their mother's face with astonished blue eyes which matched her own. And now her eldest was a man grown, married with a child of his own, the first of a new generation who would carry on the Stark's legacy. "When she was still in my belly, she could kick so hard it hurt. Funny how something so little is so strong."

"She's getting, erm, heavy. Can you take her again?" the golden haired princess asked.

"And heavy," Her elder sister smirked. She took the babe in her arms again and settled back against the chair. Tommen didn't want to hold her as he was too afraid he might hurt her, and settled for nibbling a lemon cake.

It was marvelous to have her siblings so close to her, to hear their voices and see their smiles. It was different from the time she spent with Robb's siblings, not any better, or any worse, only different.

Finally seeing her sister again, and at last meeting her littlest brother had been a joy that she would always hold in her heart, carefully embedded into the very core of her, to remember for always when they were gone again. Tommen was nothing like Joffrey, thank the gods. Sweet and timid and gentle in nature as a little fawn, not at all the arrogant, mean little lion cub Joffrey had always been. Myrcella was just as she remembered, but in addition to the sweet girl she'd played with, there was also a princess: proper, courteous and composed.

Thus far, their visit had been a happy one. As the sun moved behind the clouds the three revisited memories and shared new ones with each other, laughing and enjoying what bit of affection grew and flourished between them in the last three days since the royal arrival.

"And th-then Lady Bunbun hopped across Uncle Renly's boot, and he didn't see her at first but when he did, he screamed like a girl! He jumped higher than Lady Bunbun ever has!" Sweet Tommen recounted with the bright, unblemished mirth of a child. His elder sisters giggled, the one with golden hair delicately covering her mouth with her dainty fingers, as the eldest with onyx hair laughed uninhibited. The young prince smiled proudly. There wasn't much he was good at, Joffy always pointed that out. But he was better at this, than his older brother could ever be: making his sisters happy. Joffrey could never do that; he'd never wanted to do that.

Sylvia licked her dry lips, still smiling when she said, "Oh, poor Uncle Renly. But I'd wager it was your poor little rabbit that was far more frightened." Mini babbled in her arms, and reached up a pudgy little hand to grip her mother's ear lobe.

"Oh, yes, I remember." Exclaimed Myrcella. "Lady Bunbun wouldn't stop shaking, and Tommen took her to dinner with him, and tried to feed her a fruit tart."

Tommen's ears colored red, and he looked down embarrassed. "I thought she would feel better if she had a sweet." The girls giggled again, but as Sylvia opened her mouth to ask if it had calmed the rabbit, the loud, foreign sound of bells rang loudly throughout Winterfell.

Clangclangclag!

Her smile faded, snapping her head around to peer out the window beside her, her long black hair falling over her shoulder. Vaguely, through the blurry glass, the princess could see the small bodies of people rushing back and forth in the yard below, their movements rushed and clumsy as though in terror.

The deep resounding knell of the bells suddenly made sense, and her fear rose with the volume of the bells. A quick flash of black caught her eye, and as she looked up towards the pale sky, she watched a moment as the ravens and crows took to the air.

"Bells? Why are they ringing? Is father back, Sylvie?" asked Tommen. Sylvia did not answer, the sound of those horrid bells filling her fast with dread. Bells only meant one of two things here in Winterfell: the birth of a Stark child, or peril.

The last time they had been heard was the day Mini had come into the world.

She held the babe tighter. Her mind went wild with images of tall, hairy wildlings storming Winterfell, sharp malformed teeth grinning wickedly as they slaughtered the innocent. Or was it a fire overtaking the ancient walls, licking up the sides of the black stones and threatening to burn them from within? Or had someone been hurt?Had her father been hurt on the hunt? Had Robb?!

Just as she was about to race from the room and find someone to tell her what was happening, loud urgent raps landed on the door. The children yelped, Tommen clinging to Myrcella and Mini let out a frightened whimper against her mother's neck.

"My Lady! My Lady Sylvia! Please, bid me come!" came an unfamiliar voice from beyond the barrier of wood. His accent was that of a northerner which calmed her some. With steady hands she passed Mini over to Myrcella, the baby whining in protest. She strode to the door quickly, opening it but only allowing a small slit to view through. It was a guardsman with the Stark's sigil stitched to his chest, his sword still sheathed to his side, his eyes wide with dismay dancing in the dark depths.

"Are we under attack?" she demanded in a quick huff, mindful of the two younger children behind her listening with eager ears.

"No, my Lady, but..." he paused, fear and shock shining in his eyes.

"Well?" she asked impatiently.

"It-it is Bran, my Lady. He's fallen from the Broken Tower." He answered.

Everything stopped a moment, freezing with her heart in horror that quickly grew to disbelief.

"How can you tell such a horrid, wretched lie?" she hissed at the guardsman. Her breath was unsteady, tears sprouting in her blue eyes at the absolute horror at such a terrible thought the guardsman had dared to pose to her. "You," she drew in a sharp breath. "You tell me now what is going on? Bran never falls. Ever. He's-he's climbed the tower a hundred times. He wouldn't—" his eyes grew sympathetic, and somewhere, deep inside, she knew what he said was true.

"I wish I were wrong, my Lady. But I saw the boy myself. He's fallen, his legs..." he broke off.

A quick huff of breath left her, and she could not seem to get enough after it escaped her lips. She felt cold. Her hands fell limp at her sides; her heart beating wildly as the only question left to her was formed on her trembling lips. "I-is he alive?" she rasped. She didn't see how; the Broken Tower was one of the highest points in Winterfell, so high you could see moorland for miles from the highest windows. One time, Bran had climbed all the way up to the top just to prove to her that he could.

Bran. Sweet Bran. The little boy who she had just talked to this morn about whether or not he'd been permitted to go on the hunt with the older men, the boy who loved riding and archery and dreamed all his life about being a knight in the King's Guard. Her heart ached as though being squeezed at the thought of poor Bran, who had always been so lively and carefree, an innocent child, guiltless in this world, lying limp and broken at the base of that tower.

It wasn't right,she thought with agony. He was too young; he was just a little boy...

"Yes." A tiny fragile spark of hope ignited in her chest, one she clung to with all her being, unmindful that it could break her in the end.

"Lady Stark is aware, I trust?" he nodded. "Take me to her then." Wherever Lady Catelyn was, Bran would be and she needed to go to her good-mother. "And when you are done, you will find Elane and tell her to stay with Tommen, Myrcella and my own daughter until the queen comes to retrieve my brother and sister." He nodded again. She dearly wanted her Mini with her then, but she feared upsetting Lady Catelyn.

Sylvia blinked, her tears spilled, and a sob built in her chest, barely repressed by her tightly shut lips. If her brother and sister were not behind her, she would weep openly, even before the eyes of this stranger guardsman. But she did not want to frighten her siblings, and gasped for breath in an attempt to gain some semblance of composure. She couldn't stop picturing Bran, the last time she'd seen him at breakfast, so happy and bright, his little nameless direwolf trailing after him and nipping at his heels as he ran. Oh gods, please don't let that be the last time!

When her tears were cleaned from her cheeks, the princess turned back to the bemused and frightened children and her fresh tears gleamed in her eyes when she realized both Tommen and Myrcella were close in age with the boy near death. She could not...imagine Mini in Bran's position, she did not want to because it made her feel ill. What must poor Catelyn be enduring?

"Wait here. I must go. Someone will come to you soon, I promise. Do not fret; we are not in any danger. But I must go. Take care of Mini until Elane comes."

"B-but I don't know how!" Myrcella exclaimed with sudden fear. Minisa squirmed in her aunt's arms, and Myrcella struggled to hold onto her.

"Ju-just," Sylvia sighed heavily. "Just lay her on the bed and let her crawl around on it. Keep her from the edges and make sure she doesn't fall off. A woman named Elane will be here soon and she will take care of her." Sylvia turned to leave.

"W-what's happened?" Myrcella asked.

Her elder sister paused and turned as she reached the door. "Just take care of Mini a little while." Without another word, Sylvia left, slamming the door shut and lifting her skirts up to her knees so she could run behind the guard, the bells still ringing their mournful chime throughout the halls.

In all honesty I was going to keep going but if I kept it, you guys wouldn't have a chapter for like another week and the chapter you got would top at about 10,000 words...yeah, I think I do ramble a little...still tryin to decide if it's a good thing or not...

So, review, my loves, cuz guess what? I have the next chap 1/2 done ;D

Once more I'm looking for a beta...just putting that out there..

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