REVISED May 27, 2016

Hey my lovelies :D Happy 2015!

Wow, I am really on fire aren't I, if I do say so myself?

I guess all the writing block just unleashed at once into this big wave of creativity.

I own nothing but my own ideas.

Chapter 12 : Crumbling

Eight days had gone since Lord Eddard and her royal father's departure from Winterfell and since then, Sylvia felt she had been aptly educated by Catelyn about how to be Lady Stark. But her preparation did not mean that the work was any easier on her shoulders and it did not mean that she was better prepared to take care of a child who was not hers.

"Mother!" the littlest Stark child bellowed, kicking the furs and blankets off his legs. "I want mother!"

"It's late, Rickon. Mother is probably asleep, just as you should be." her voice trembled slightly, her tired eyes lighting with annoyance. Sylvia had been trying and failing to get Rickon to sleep for over an hour now, the sun long since set and beds were filled with warm, sleepy castle dwellers. She longed to be one of them, curled up beside her husband, her sleeping baby's gentle breath lulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Every time she managed to settle the boy, something would suddenly occur to him and make him forget all about sleep. First it had been a story, then a lullaby, a drink of water and that was all well and good since he was in bed and on his way to slumber. But then he remembered he needed to bid his mother goodnight, and then he wanted only her to tuck him in.

It seemed cruel to Sylvia to deny the child a chance to see his mother, but it was so late, and Lady Catelyn needed sleep desperately. The last Sylvia had seen her, Catelyn had looked halfway mad—so ragged and snappish, the southerner wondered when the woman had last slept. So she kept Rickon in his room, on the hope his mother had found sleep.

Seeing her wouldn't do much anyhow, she thought. Catelyn hardly seemed to give much notice when Rickon came to see her—her replies half-hearted and simple, and her eyes never straying from the child on the sickbed longer than a moment. It seemed, as though, in her fear that one of her children would slip away while she was not looking, she missed her other children. Rickon would leave even sadder than when he'd entered.

His mother hadn't even left Bran's side to see her husband and daughters off, and had instead said her goodbyes in that horrible chamber.

Rickon needed his mother, he didn't need Sylvia. Almost everyone he'd loved had left him, and the ones who remained were suddenly too busy for him. But never once had his mother left Bran's side, even as Rickon wept and begged and asked endlessly for her. Poor little wolf, she thought, stoking his auburn hair.

He sniffled against her, whining and whimpering, and soon his pleas turned to Shaggy Dog. By night, Shaggy and his brothers stalked the godswood, hunting the small game there, and howling up into the night. Every night, she could hear it through the closed windows, the wolves singing that sad song which made her ache in some strange way she didn't understand.

But to allow little Rickon to stumble through the godswood in the dark was foolish, and she refused to indulge the boy, although doing so would bring the child's tantrum to height. The animal would be near impossible to find in the darkness, with its black coat like a moving shadow. And if the creature did come to them, who was to say he wouldn't mistake them for a tender bit of flesh to eat?

Robb trusted those wolves like he trusted nothing else and Sylvia trusted Grey Wind enough, but she could never trust Shaggy Dog. With a little shudder, she remembered how the creature had snarled at her the other day when Rickon had snuck him into the Great Hall for dinner. She'd chastised him that Shaggy was meant to hunt rather than be fed table scraps, but the wolf had bared his teeth at her, as though he knew her words. She kept Rickon watched closer after that, so he would not bring the creature inside again.

His cries and sobs seemed louder in the small room, bouncing off the stone walls and around her head. "I want Shaggy!" he cried. Her attempts to soothe the boy seemed to fall dead each time she spoke, and soon, anger began to colour her tone. She didn't know if that made him cry louder, but it didn't matter. He kept crying. Soon it became clear that her voice was part of the problem, and so Sylvia sat silently, Rickon in her arms, rocking him like a babe until he finally shut up.

When his cries faded into whimpers, the lone sound of a wolf's howl curled trough the air, as faint and lazy as smoke. She didn't doubt that was Shaggy, and wondered if his keen ears had heard his little master's tantrum through all the thick walls of the castle. His head peeked up from her shoulder, his teary eyes brightening at hearing the wolf sing, and he began pushing at her, eager to be let down.

"Shaggy!" He cried, joy shining in his little voice. "Shaggy's calling me! I want Shaggy!" he twisted and squirmed until she had no choice but to let his tiny feet onto the frozen floor. He dashed for the door swift as a deer, but his good-sister caught him round the middle.

"Nonono. Rickon it's the middle of the night, Shaggy is hunting." He grunted, writhing once again to escape, and Sylvia took hold of his shoulders, leveling him with the hard stare befitting a princess. Rickon stilled, his feet shuffling impatiently. "Little wolf, your wolf is hunting. You don't want him to go hungry, do you?"

"But he's not hunting!" Rickon insisted, his voice full of certainty.

"He's out there in the dark; I will not allow you out there. It's dangerous." She tried to reason.

"No it isn't. I have Shaggy!" as if to agree, a second wolf joined in his brother's song. Sylvia trembled.

"No." She said evenly. "Now get into bed."

"Sylvieee!" Rickon whined, his cheeks flushing in anger. "I need Shaggy! Shaggy!" He tried to pull himself away from her hands.

Seven Hells, you'd obey if it were Robb's voice commanding you, she thought bitterly. Being the boy's brother and lord, Rickon always minded Robb before her. If it would do any good, she would wish Robb here now, to console and settle his little brother as she hadn't been able to. Alas, her husband had left her hours ago, tending to some late night letters and scrolls.

The night before, as she rocked Mini's cradle to lull her into sleep, he'd sworn to her that he'd have words with his mother about retaking the role of mother to poor Rickon, and she dearly hoped that the lady had heard him.

In the eight days since the Royal convoy had left with Lord Eddard in tow, the littlest Stark had been trying to make sense of everything happening around him, and becoming more miserable with every day that passed. The poor child would cry and whine and be as approachable as a hurt animal—it was either his mother, Shaggy Dog or Robb he wanted, but often Sylvia was the one he had to content himself with. He didn't understand why his father and sisters had to leave, and understood even less why Jon had gone away. He was seven years old, too young to understand why his mother never smiled or why his brother was always busy.

When he could, Rickon would cling to Robb's leg and cry when he tried to detach him, so there were times when Robb attended meetings and appointments with Rickon round his legs. Sylvia knew this couldn't remain. Robb couldn't earn his men's respect with a child clinging to him. So it was Sylvia who took care of Rickon in the day, as he refused anybody else. She saw the reluctance in her husband's eyes when he brought the boy to her, who wept and begged to go with Robb.

Often, one of the only ways to soothe the poor boy—after visiting his mother proved futile—was to allow him to be near his wild wolf, who never once snarled at him as he did everybody else. Shaggy was not permitted to be inside the castle after it became apparent that the stone walls were not big enough to control his temper. He'd begun snapping at the maids when they came too close. Like Rickon, he was happier in the godswood.

"What you need, Little Wolf is to sleep. You may see Shaggy tomorrow after breakfast—"

"No! Now!" he screamed. The howls grew louder, and suddenly, that was not the only sound coming from outside. Cries of horror took up outside, muffled by the walls and closed shudders. Shouts of fire and water interrupted the continuous song of the wolves. Her brows furrowed, her heart tightening with fear. A fire? She nearly grabbed for Rickon and made for the door in search of Mini, but if there was a fire just outside the door, they would be burned to ash.

Rickon's struggles to dash out the door paused a moment too in confusion.

One hand still holding to Rickon's, Sylvia moved to the window, one hand shoving open the shudders, grace forgotten in place of urgency. At once, the arid scent of burning wood and thatch assaulted her, the bright orange flames casting light over her and Rickon's astonished faces.

"Sylvie! The library's tower is on fire!" Rickon cried in wonder.

Across the castle, in the sickroom, young Bran Stark slept peacefully—unaware that his mother had been maimed in trying to protect him from attack, and that his wolf's jaws were bloody after ripping out his would-be killer's throat.

The nameless wolf with yellow eyes blinked up at Catelyn as he settled on her son's bed, protectively at her son's side as he had been when Bran got hurt. The pain in her hands was worth seeing her son's chest move with every gentle intake of breath.

But the dead man's opened throat, lying on the floor left a dark question: why had he tried to kill her son?

For generations, the realm had praised House Stark for their good sense, their steady hands when it came to justice and honour, their bravery. Her own royal father had said he would've been dead a hundred times in the Rebellion, were it not for Lord Eddard. Starks were not known for their ferocity, for their rage and sometimes people forgot that the north forges its men in ice, and that an icy rage could burn as deeply as wildfire.

In all her time with Robb, she'd never seen him so angry. When Bran got hurt, he'd been a wounded animal, but now, he was an enraged wolf, looking to tear someone apart, limb by limb until there was nothing recognizable left. It filled the air around him like a mist, and it made her cautious to speak to him, for once fearing he'd snap his jaws at her. He made a formidable figure, all without ever raising his voice above that dangerous growl and without lashing out blows to those who would displease him.

No. Robb Stark was calm for the moment, wrath fuming beneath the surface. For her part, Sylvia clenched her hands around her shawl, her mind racing out of control with fear for their safety and rage that someone would threaten such a helpless child. But she kept silent, for now, her years of royal decorum coming into play as she reigned in her anger so that Robb could demand answers with his.

They stood together in the foreboding shadows of the Great Hall, the moon hiding its face behind clouds as dull firelight flickered in the hearth behind them. Ser Rodrik the master-at-arms stood to Robb's right and Sylvia to his left, a little behind him to grant the men the necessary space to converse. Her belly squirmed with need to speak out, but she couldn't. She scoffed internally. Beside the old master-at-arms, stood Maester Luwin, and beside him was Varly, the newly appointed captain of the guard.

Their words were short, Robb's voice cutting through their replies as sharp as steel, demanding to know who this hired knife was, where he had hidden, and who had sent him.

No one had any answers to offer their angry lord, and soon, Robb sent them away to find them, leaving only him and his wife, still her sleeping gown, in the Great Hall.

The southern girl knew not if it was wise to approach her husband, but she had to. If he would throw off her attempts to comfort him like he had when Bran had gotten hurt, she would not push him this time. The need to know who had ordered this hideous act to be carried out burned inside her, fury hot enough to scorch the ancient stone walls of Winterfell. But there was also a cold horror, to think someone had come in so easily.

She'd held her tongue before his men, as she'd been taught to, but now that they were alone, she would and could not be silenced.

"I know all the servants in this castle. He isn't one of ours." She bit out. "He got in, somehow. Undetected. Unquestioned."

"A mistake that won't be repeated." He growled back at her, his voice gentler than the one he used on the others.

"Look at me." She demanded softly, her voice stern and undeniable. Slowly, the young lord turned and met his wife's eyes, finding that, despite her harsh voice, her blue irises were wide, full of fear and uncertainty. "How can you say with certainty that this man is not one of many? What if they come for our daughter next?!" She broke off, the words closing her throat painfully. Her toes clenched, her hands tightening around herself.

Her words squeezed his heart mercilessly. Robb drew comfort from the fact that he'd posted guards at every gate, at every entrance into the Great Keep and at the door to the sickroom, Rickon's room, his mother's chambers and the chambers he shared with Sylvia and Mini. No one entered or left without his knowledge.

His wife knew this; she'd been in the Hall when he'd made the order. But it was clear that her thoughts were going wild. His own mother, despite hearing from their trusted maester that Bran would survive, had gone mad in her time away from the world. He suddenly came to the conclusion that all mothers are a little mad where their children are concerned. It came with the love, he figured. But he would not have his wife going out of her head for fears that would never come to light. Long ago, he'd made a promise that when they married, he would help her relax. As silly a promise as it had been, it's worth still stood.

"It was Bran and my mother they were after." He reminded her. His mother kept murmuring that he'd come for Bran, before the maester gave her poppy milk to calm her

"This time." She murmured bitterly, looking away.

"No, not 'this' time. This will be the only time." Her husband snapped back. "If anyone dared come near Mini with intent to harm her, I will cut out their living heart and give it to you." The threat made her tremble, because she knew he truly meant it. Still, in all the time she'd spent with the Starks, nothing of this sort had ever happened, and it frightened her. Mini was just a fragile little baby, and although Sylvia and Robb would protect her fiercely, they could not be with her all hours of the day. Or with Rickon, or with Catelyn.

"Someone was fool enough to make an attempt on Bran—" she protested hotly.

"And his wolf ripped out his throat." He counted decisively. He stepped closer to her, watching as she shifted uncertainly. Boldly, she looked up to him, mouth set in a stern line, fully expecting icy rage to linger in his face. There was rage, but also softness, a fear and worry that matched her own. "They are safe, Sylvia. Efforts must be put to finding the monster who hired him."

"The man is dead; he cannot say who sent him. Who could want your mother and brother dead? They're innocent." Sylvia pondered a loud, her voice losing its sharp edge as rage was replaced with dismay.

"Whoever it is, I will find them and make them answer for their crimes." He longed for it, she could see it plainly written in his eyes, the thirst for revenge and justice. She hoped to be there when he took it. Her husband's eyes flicked over her face, the coldness in the icy depths thawing the slightest bit as he took her in.

"Go and rest. Mini will be crying for her mother before long." Robb said. Already, the blackness of the sky was fading into a dark blue, the night being taken up in these horrid affairs. They'd all been up all night, dousing the fire, and tending to his wounded mother before scouring the castle for other killers and answers. They'd found none, and his wife was weary and frightened. Never mind the fury bubbling inside her which sapped her already depleted energy.

His eyes softened more as he looked at her, gathering up her skirts as she prepared to leave. She would leave angry, without comfort or a warm hand. Robb did not wish that. She stepped away, but was stopped by a firm hand to her shoulder.

"We will find the monster that ordered this, and bring him to justice." His hand ghosted up her shoulder, coming to rest on her cheek, his thumb running gently over the bone. "I vow to you." Her eyes regarded him, trusting but also questioning. "Rest. For both of us."

She sighed, a hand reaching up to hold lay against his. "I can't sleep now. I need to be with my baby, and...and make sure Rickon attends his lessons." It was a lame thing to say and she knew it, but Rickon had to keep up with his education. Not only that, but it would keep him distracted too. She didn't want to frighten him with knowledge of the grizzly affairs which very nearly took both his brother and his mother from his grasp.

"Rickon can miss one day, and spend it with his wolf. They'll both be happier; they'll both take the distraction without question." She opened her mouth to protest, but Robb shook his head. "It's alright, Syl. Go, be with Mini. Keep an ear for Rickon."

"Always." She promised quietly.

He kissed her softly, his lips lingering on hers before he drew back. "Guard!" he called, and suddenly, two armoured Stark men entered the Hall from the archway leading into the corridor. "Escort my wife back to the chambers. Stay with her all throughout the night, and through her duties."

"Yes, my lord." They murmured in reply. Sylvia smiled a gentle smile at them, hoping to hide whatever ugly emotion was written on her face from the two. She would not have the northerners think her feeble.

"Come." She ordered softly, a gentle smile offered to the two. With a look to her husband and a swish of her warm cotton nightdress, Sylvia left the Great Hall.

Four more days passed them by, and still there were no answers.

No one recognized the eviscerated corpse who'd come to murder Bran as he slept, no one knew where he'd come from or for how long he'd been hiding. Although they found his hiding spot in the empty stable stalls, and found forty silver pieces in a little satchel buried beneath the hay, no one had seen him before.

Robb speculated to his wife that mayhaps he'd come in with the royal convoy, but Sylvia briskly dismissed the idea. There was no chance a killer had come in with her family, for who in the south would want a woman and child they'd never met, dead? Robb had seemed to agree with her reasoning.

They discussed wildlings, and jealous lords and deranged peasants, but nothing stood firm. Wildlings never ventured down very far before being caught and killed by the men of the Watch, if they even made it past the Wall. Robb trusted his lords beyond all measure, and when she'd suggested such a thing, he dismissed her at once. They'd come for Bran's birth, cheered his name when his father named him, and what would have been the point, besides? On top of all else, a deranged peasant wouldn't have such funds at his disposal, and the people of Winterfell would have heard of a madman within the walls.

Someone had paid the dead man, and they didn't know who.

Another attack never came, but there would never be another time when a Stark was left unguarded.

As dawn broke on the morning of the fifth day, Lady Catelyn awoke. The cuts to her hands had been deep, and healing of the body, as well as the mind would have to be done whilst asleep. The maester gave her poppy's milk, and she slept without waking for four days.

Lady Catelyn opened her eyes with a newfound clarity when she woke to the early morning sun. The noise inside her head stopped, quietened with ease knowing her boy was safe. She'd seen the wolf kill the man who would have killed her son. Robb was no fool; he didn't and would not take Bran's life idly, especially after what had happened. She knew in her heart that Bran was safe, guards and wolves protecting him where she could not. She longed to see him, to take in his sweet little face and hold his hand in her own, but did not want to go to his side looking the deranged woman she had been.

Soon, a serving girl came through the door, squealing and dropping the fresh linens to the rushes at seeing the lady sitting up in bed. The guards outside the door burst through, hands on the swords at their hips, and ready to slash and carve into whatever gave the girl a fright. After a scant moment of shock, they averted their eyes at seeing the lady in her bed, clad only in her night clothes, hair rumpled from sleep. Catelyn made no acknowledgement of their bumbling apologies.

"Fetch Maester Luwin and my son to me." She said, voice clear as a bell.

They came, and the Maester changed the dressings on her wounds as Robb told her all of what had happened while she was asleep.

"Mother, when we found you, you kept saying the killer—"

"Attempted killer." She reminded him sharply.

"Attempted killer kept muttering something." It had been Robb who found her, she remembered. Still knelt down on the floor, stunned into silence, hands gushing blood, her eldest boy found her. He had rushed to her side, made her to sit, and called for the maester. Through all of that, her eyes darted between her child and the wolf beside him, who'd killed so readily for his little master.

She'd been mad, she knew this and was ashamed for this, but she had seen the hired knife lunge for her son. She'd heard him mutter something.

"Yes." Her eyes were far away as she remembered that night, the memories clear as water. She remembered clearly the prayer wheel she'd been crafting, trying to distract herself. She remembered her hands shaking with fatigue and anguish, unable to concentrate on her task. She remembered Robb, before the fire, trying to talk sense into her, his words about Rickon needing her tearing into her like knives.

She wouldn't hear it, and had even spoken out against Sylvia. At that, Lady Catelyn grimaced in shame and looked down in her lap. She knew Sylvia had taken command as Lady of Winterfell in her absence, and one of those duties was to ease the Lord of Winterfell's burdens, to give him peace with soft words and understanding at the end of the day. Speaking out of defence, she'd saddled Robb's troubles up to an unhelpful little lady wife, because it was simply easier and less painful than admitting the horrible truth: she was mad, and a foul mother to her other children as she took care of Bran.

"He kept muttering on about how I wasn't meant to be there." She looked up at her son. "He lunged for Bran, Robb. He meant to kill him."

His eyes closed briefly, hiding the flash of pain there. "I know. We've searched the castle, the grounds, and the land just outside the walls. The only thing we've found is his hiding place: the stables. In a pile of hay we found a satchel in forty silver stags."

Catelyn scoffed. Her baby's life was worth forty bits of silver to some evil.

"We questioned every servant, my lady." Maester Luwin added. "No one knew him. No one even knew he was there."

"I would have every bloody stable hand thrashed!" the lady hissed out between clenched teeth. How in the name of all the gods, could they not have noticed a full grown man sleeping in the stable stalls?!

"Most of the stalls are empty, my lady. Most of the horses have gone south with Lord Stark." The maester reminded his voice gentle and wise.

She drew in a deep breath and reigned in some of her anger. The stable hands were the least of their worries. They were not the ones who sent someone to kill her son. "You said no one recognised him?" Robb nodded. "He must have come in with the royal party. Hundreds of strangers all milling about like flies, it would be easy for someone to come in undetected."

Robb shook his head. "I've already spoken with Sylvia. She doesn't believe anyone from the south would have reason to want Bran dead."

"Of course she doesn't." Catelyn countered ruefully. "They're her family. She sees them with eyes different than our own."

"I trust my wife, mother." Her son defended, his jaw set and his eyes hard.

"You shouldn't trust her family. Her family is not ours." She advised. "When the royals first came, I received a letter from your Aunt Lysa. She told me that she believed the Lannisters were involved in some way in Jon Arryn's death."

Robb scoffed derisively. "A distant relation's word next to the word of the daughter of the people you accuse? Accusing the Queen's family, at that? This is treason, mother!"

Catelyn gave her son a withering glare. "You must think of these things now, Robb. As Lord of Winterfell. You cannot believe whatever words your people hand you."

"Sylvia is not my subject. She is my wife. Remember that. And why would someone in the south try to kill Bran?" Robb demanded edgily.

"I don't know." She admitted unflinchingly. "But for some reason, someone wanted to kill him twice."

Maester Luwin frowned at this new information, whilst Robb's angry expression twitched into surprise. "Tw-twice?" sounded Robb.

"The tower. I hadn't thought of it then, but I believe it now. Someone pushed Bran, I know it!"

"And you think it's the Lannisters?" Robb asked, more puzzled now than defensive. He didn't want to believe it. Sylvia's judgement on the character of her family had always been enough for him and it felt wrong to question it. Of course he'd never been overly fond of her father, and he tried to avoid her severe looking mother as much as he could, but he respected them for his wife. Because she loved them. To question her family, to accuse them of these horrible crimes would hurt her.

"Possibly. I believe they hold some kind of involvement." His mother replied.

"But why, my lady?" Maester Luwin asked.

Catelyn shook her head and looked back up at her son. He glared at something down at the floor, his face thinking. The boy he was peeked through his eyes—those tired, angry, blue eyes—and a burst of pity for her eldest boy came into her heart. He loved this woman, the daughter of the people who may have hurt her child.

And Catelyn loved her too; she made Robb happy, lit up his world and kept it bright for him. She'd given him a daughter, healthy and beautiful and nothing could ever change that. She understood his reluctance to believe her theory, but it was the only theory which fit. He couldn't flinch away from the truth or the promise of justice for his little brother because of Sylvia.

"Robb," he looked up at her. "We can't turn away from this. You know that." Her son sighed, turning away towards the fire, looking deep into its flames. "I love her too." she added gently. "If it was her family who did this to your brother," she paused, letting the idea linger a moment. "Then we cannot let them free for Sylvia's sake."

"And if they had no hand?" Robb spat. "Then my wife is gutted."

"Which is why we must speak of this to no one. Better not have her upset for no reason, if there is no reason to be." She provided. It was a half truth, really. If Sylvia knew of their suspicions, who knew what mad thing she would do. "I will see the Broken Tower and search there for answers." Robb sighed. He would not deny his mother the opportunity, because truly, he was curious now too. He had no love for the Lannisters, it was true, but it was for Sylvia why he was unsettled with this accusation. It felt that to accuse the Lannisters was to accuse his wife, and that idea unsettled him even more, although he knew she would have never had a hand in Bran's fall.

"Do it then, when you're feeling able." Robb sent her a look, his blue eyes filled with displeasure. She nodded to her son, her liege lord. Grimly, she stared back down at her bandaged hands as he took his leave.

Seeing the Broken Tower had proved to further confirm what she already knew. Between the cracks in the floor on the highest window, where the debris was cleared away for some odd reason, she found a long, blonde hair. For a moment she'd mistaken it for thread.

No one in the north had such pale hair, and no one with such hair visited Winterfell in quite a long time. Save for the queen. The queen herself pushed her boy from the window. She'd seen his face, frightened and innocent, and still she'd shoved him out into the cold rushing air and had probably listened when he met the earth. What kind of monster was she?

If she felt any twinge of pity for the woman for having a callous drunkard to call her husband, and a child in the grave, it burned away now. The woman had offered to pray for her son's recovery; she'd looked into her face, and had lied, had offered sympathy. She'd come into Bran's room, looked upon her crime, and had not looked a whit guilty. Catelyn felt sick suddenly, her belly tight with horror and fear and hate all at once.

To steady herself, the elder lady Stark sat on an old fallen roof beam, breathing deep to quell the rising madness.

To think something, and to know something were two separate things, it seemed. Knowing the truth only gave her the smallest comfort of knowing justice would be done, for her boy, and for her sister's husband, but at once, it gave her a crushing ache, a sinking, sick feeling of dread and fear.

This would change and shape the kingdom, for better or worse, she knew not. She feared to know.

Sylvia had come into her home when she was little more than a girl, only starting to become a woman, and since that day nearly six years ago, she and the southern girl had formed a kind of bond that was borne out of similar circumstances.

She'd taught her about the monthlies, about ladyhood, about what the northerners expected of her. She'd helped prepare her for her wedding and watched on as she and Robb swore themselves to one another. She'd held her hand when the girl had nearly lost her child in the seventh month, and had helped her to fashion her own prayer wheel for the baby when she was born. Catelyn held her hand as she grunted through the pains of labor and brought her own child into the world.

So much trust had grown between them, so much affection. Was all that burned away now, knowing what her wretched mother had done? Should it be burned away? On the beam, she clenched her eyes shut, leaning her head back against the old stone which made the tower.

Catelyn hated Jon Snow, she admitted, for less. Hated him for simply being the reminder of her husband's transgression—she might have overlooked him, but Ned had brought him into their home, to be a constant reminder of the woman he'd betrayed her with. But when Catelyn thought of her good-daughter, she saw only Robb and Mini, only good. The time she'd had with the girl, coming to care for her, could not be set aside.

But she was the daughter of the woman who'd come under her roof, and attempted to slay her son, not only once, but twice!

In a sudden fury she stood and began to pace. Her heart thundered in her ears, her eyes intense but unseeing as her thoughts ran wild. Were her eldest boy and her precious grandchild forever bound to the wretched woman now, through Sylvia? She wanted her family to have no part in the poison of the Lannisters, but it was impossible now. Sylvia bound them together, she thought bitterly.

What did Sylvia know of her family's plots and wrongs? Had she any knowledge of why Bran had fallen in the first place? She remembered how the girl had consoled her as she wept, as Bran was treated by Maester Luwin, just before her husband came back from the hunt. Looking back now, Catelyn wanted to throw the girl's arms off her, to shake her until she had her answers.

Did she know? Oh there it was—the horrible thought. Had Sylvia known? Had Catelyn nurtured a snake under her roof? Tending what she thought was a bud which would one day burst into bloom, had Sylvia turned out to be a poison, come to tear her family apart? The girl was not proficient at schemes and tricks. She hadn't lied before and it was plain she loved Robb, and was loyal to him. But should the axe fall when justice came, on which side would Sylvia stand?

It was an impossible question to pose, with the only foreseeable answers meaning betrayal to one of her families. But in her heart, Catelyn felt she already knew the answer. Sylvia looked up to her mother as very young children do, seeking affection and praise, blind to flaws and devout to the point of madness. As much as it tore into her to think it, the elder Lady of Winterfell felt Sylvia was already lost to believing her mother over her husband.

The girl would likely betray Robb. Her poor son.

Her pacing stopped, a new kind of hurt welling inside her and she brought a trembling hand up to her mouth. This was madness. She was getting ahead of herself—she still had to bring this to her husband's attention and only then could justice be administered. And her findings would be laughed upon, be deemed the disillusioned paranoia of a mother looking for someone to blame for her child's accident. There was no way to tell for sure, without a doubt who had tried to kill her son. The only man who truly knew had no throat. A hair could travel on the wind, and somehow find itself buried between two dusty stretches of wood.

A tiny part of her almost prayed she was wrong. If she were right, if this matter was brought to public eye, who knew the effect it would have on her son's marriage. She did not wish to cause her boy pain, although she longed for justice for her youngest. Her son could find another wife, but the one who hurt Bran would never change.

Robb loved Sylvia, they'd built a life together, and this could tear it all down. Sylvia was the mother of her grandchild! She was not an enemy, the sentimental part of her reasoned. She is my son's wife, my good-daughter, dear and close to her heart. And yet, it hurt a hundred times worse when she recalled this, to think she was tainted with murderous Lannister blood, when she was so loved in the north.

Sylvia was shamed in Catelyn's eyes, simply because of who bore her. Nothing, not even Sylvia's support of justice, would change this.

Outside the window, a crow called, looking on as the woman left the tower to gather her son, the ward, the maester and the arms master.

Gahd, that was a mother to get out!

I hope you all enjoyed this, and I hope I got Catelyn's complicated emotions right

Please review, and I shall write :D