Hello my darling darling readers :D

Again, I am very sorry for my delay! I've been...unsure about this chapter. I really hope you like it, and if you do, if you don't, if you have ideas or edits, please drop me a review!

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Chapter 13: Secrets

"I will ride to King's Landing myself."

"Mother no."

"I will. Your father must know he has delved into the snake pit."

"When, my lady?"

"Three days time, Ser Rodrik."

Like every morning for the past three days, Sylvia awoke alone, Robb's side of the bed long since cold. He woke early, and came to bed late, where she would be on the edges of sleep when she felt the bed dip and a warm, hairy leg rub against hers. Night time had always been their time, a time when the burdens of the day were set aside, when the grandeur of their titles was shed and they were simply Robb and Sylvia once more.

Perhaps things had calmed down some, now that Lady Catelyn had returned to the world from the dreary little sickroom where Bran still slept. Rickon was brighter, and clung to Robb less. There was a sense of normalcy, greatly missed these last long weeks. But for all the good Lady Catelyn's simple presence did to ease the nervousness in the castle, there was something chilly in Catelyn's presence, something secret. Unsaid and uncomfortable, at least to Sylvia anyway.

Sylvia dismissed her aloofness straight off. The woman had nearly lost her son, had seen her husband and daughters depart for the south, and had nearly been killed by some deranged monster. But she'd discussed this with Maester Luwin at length. The kindly old maester had always had the gentlest council, and when she brought to him her concerns that Lady Catelyn was still unsound of mind, he'd assured her that time was the remedy.

Still, although she knew the reason, it did not quell the sting of Catelyn's inhospitable presence. When she came to Winterfell as a girl, she'd never known she would forge such a friendship with her betrothed's mother. Sylvia assumed that Catelyn would, well, be like her own mother, only without any sort of affection to soothe the sting of propriety. But over the years, after so many kind smiles and wise words of council, Catelyn had forged herself a place in Sylvia's heart.

It had been when Mini nearly arrived too early, that made her realize how dear Catelyn was to her. While she flinched away from her husband out of shame and fear that he'd come to blame of her for the near loss of their child, it had been Catelyn who coaxed out her hidden feelings, her fears. Somehow, she hadn't feared that Catelyn would hate her for what happened or be ashamed for the pathetic and weepy mess she'd become.

From one mother, to a woman just beginning her journey as a mother, Catelyn had given her good-daughter courage to see through her fear and guilt. It gave her courage to reopen her heart to Robb, although fear had still had its talons in her. It helped see her through the next weeks until she finally held her healthy, screaming baby daughter in her arms, when the lingering fear was wiped away.

Now Catelyn shunned her invitations to share a meal, to see visit Mini or to take the air with her.

It doesn't hurt, Sylvia told herself firmly. It's only terribly confusing.

The younger Lady Stark rose from her bed, quickly making use of the chamber pot before going to the basin and washing her face. Mini lay sleeping in her cradle, the little wooden rattle her royal grandfather had given her, tucked against her side. It quickly became Mini's favorite thing to chew on. More than once, Grey Wind had tried to nibble on it as well, and every time Mini would pull it away, as though the rattle was hers and hers alone.

The princess wished her father were here. She wondered if the king's domineering presence would have shaken Robb and Catelyn out of their odd behaviour as she hadn't been able to. Father had always been able to make people do things, as he was the king and it was treason to deny him what he wanted. But alas, father was not here, and would not make everything all better for her.

As said, she'd thought Lady Catelyn's presence about the castle would make things easier, give them hope of the future being fairer, and it had, although Robb's sudden distance and Catelyn's detachment made he feel...quite...confused. And hurt. And it had come to incensed her.

Robb seemed well enough, given she saw less of him these days.

Can his duties keep him warm? Can his responsibilities and scrolls give him pleasure? Can he find comfort from his books and charts? Do they make him happy, now? Anger and frustration flooding through her, she wretched the warm rag from her face and threw it down into the basin with a wet plop. Mini snorted and Sylvia stood still as the child settled again.

For three days, she slept and rose alone. For three days she'd been the quiet wife and left him be, thinking whatever troubled him would become too much, and soon he would come to her on his own. But now she grew frustrated, angry.

How could he shut her out like this? As though it were as easy as shutting the door? She was his wife, the princess of these Seven Kingdoms by birth, and she would not be ignored, not even by her husband. Especially since her husband had given her no explanation of what abhorrent thing she'd done, or what had happened to make him distant.

True, he still visited her and Mini, and they exchanged words when he did, but they were small and meaningless. It was all he gave her; his answers for more conversational topics were one-syllable and perfectly irritating. It was unlike him and she didn't know why he seemed so grim. So she'd tried to be patient, to be kind, to give him silent support.

The onyx haired woman knew he had responsibilities, and had never expected him to give her all his time, as he'd never been able to. Lord of the north was a heavy title to bear, the region so large and vast with thousands of children to father and care for. But she'd readied herself for that, and had been prepared to see him ride off for weeks at a time on a campaign, always content in the knowledge he would return, enraptured to see her as she was to see him.

But he felt leagues off under the same roof, and the time she'd once been allotted had been slashed into a fraction. Her patience was running thin. She didn't want to wait for him for very much longer, not without explanation at least.

The heavy wooden door opened then, pulling her away from her thoughts, and Elane appeared with a tray of tasty breakfast in hand. Sylvia's empty belly grumbled with lust. Somehow that added to her mounting vehemence.

"Good morn, my lady." Elane greeted pleasantly once she'd set down the tray.

"Elane." She replied tersely, turning back to the cooling basin. The handmaid took up the robe thrown over the dressing screen and brought it to her lady. Sylvia slipped on the warm cotton, her arms shoving into the sleeves, and rubbed her frozen fingers together. "Have you seen my husband?"

"Yes, my lady. He is breaking his fast with Theon and little lord Rickon in the Great Hall." Elane sounded a bit more reserved now.

Sylvia scoffed, but said nothing and reached for her cup of tea in hopes of brightening after a good breakfast.

Ser Fredrik Ravenback was not a sleuth sort of man, not one accustomed to spying and listening in on matters whispered between a select few. But that did not mean he was immune to stumbling upon things he ought not to, things he wished he hadn't. He was, after all, a close servant to the Royal Family. He knew things about them that had never come to light outside the castle, dark things and ugly things that he wished he did not know himself.

Making his way from the kitchens where he'd rustled up a filling breakfast of boiled eggs, bread topped with jam, and a hefty wedge of cheese, Ser Fredrik swiftly made his way through the castle corridors to Lady Sylvia's chambers.

Since arriving at Winterfell years before, his services to Sylvia had waned, diminished as it was apparent that his charge was quite safe within the ancient walls of Winterfell. Never once had he drawn his sword for her in defence, and only a few select times had he been needed in ensuring her safety. These events had been only childhood turbulence, the common hurts growing children face. Still, he had kept his sword at ready until Sylvia married the Stark heir, where he then took up a position as an official member of the Stark guardsmen. He and Lord Stark had agreed to wait until Sylvia was wedded to end his long service to her.

He had never strayed far from Sylvia, however; their affection for one another kept him close. Thus, when the best skilled men in service to the Starks went south to protect Lord Eddard and his daughters, Ser Fredrik Ravenback remained in Winterfell. Lord Eddard didn't question it; he knew the former hedge knight cared deeply for Sylvia and had not pressured him to leave her.

Fredrik's duties had always lain with Sylvia, and although that time seemed done, he found he could not leave her when the opportunity was presented. The south was too hot, and he'd sampled enough southern women to satisfy his lust when he was younger. He did not covet the adventures of travel as he had in youth.

Winterfell was where he stayed, the roots he'd come to lay here remaining as they were, although sometimes he'd wondered if his time with Sylvia had finished long ago. Was he a sentimental old fool for staying?

He was glad for it now, certain that his staying had been his instincts guiding him straight. This recent business with the younger Stark boy—Bran—had left a foul feeling churning in his gut and he would not have been happy in the south for knowing his little princess could be in danger. Since the very incident of the boy falling from the tower, Ser Fredrik had retaken his place behind Sylvia and her little girl—a threatening, foreboding shadow with a sword at ready.

The morning air was crisp and biting against his skin, nipping at his newly shaved face. He regretted shaving his beard—it had always kept his chin and neck warm, but the pretty kitchen wench he'd been keeping company hadn't liked it much when it chaffed her soft, delicate skin. He felt as bare as a boy now, although he'd been rewarded for his suffering with heated kisses. Gods, a man was no man without a good bit of scruff.

His brisk pace and distracted thoughts attributed to the sudden crash that came as he turned the last corner before Sylvia's chambers.

A startled and pained feminine cry rang through the air as Fredrick's armoured body rammed into her smaller, unprotected one. In a sudden fear of falling to the hard stones, she grabbed out, a hand clenching around the leather strap of his cloak, yanking and inadvertently pulling his body down onto hers.

"Oh!" came a strangled groan from below him. "Get—off! Before you—crush me!" she wheezed. Fredrik pushed himself up onto his hands and looked down at the girl, noting the pale brown hair, and watering eyes blinking up at him and knew her at once. Elane! Sylvia's handmaid. He got to his feet hurriedly, with Elane letting out a great huff of relief.

"Apologies, young one." He offered a hand to her, which she took with a grateful huff. "I was worried to be late."

"L-lady Sylvia is still in her chambers. Her daughter has only just awoken." The maidservant provided. She rubbed her aching side, knowing she'd be sore and bruised by the time night came.

As the aged knight nodded in reply, his eyes cast to the floor, spotting a small neat square of off white among the black stones. He knelt to retrieve it, finding it to be a piece of folded parchment.

"Did you drop this?" he asked, holding up the square to her.

Elane's eyes bulged, her handmaid's instincts falling away as she reached out to snatch away the offending square. She tucked it behind her, as if the knight would reach for it again. Fredrik raised a brow and the maid rushed to give reason.

"For-forgive me, ser. But it is a letter f-for my sweetheart back in Casterly Rock. 'Tis a private thing. For his eyes only, you know." She explained hastily, her hands crunching the delicate letter in her hands.

"I didn't know you were literate." The knight remarked with narrowed eyes.

"I bought a children's book once. From the market back home. My mam taught me the letters." She explained. She still had that little book, worn and faded were its pages and pictures, but she would not part with it. It had been what her mother had used to teach her, and it was the only visible proof she had that her mother had taught her something worth knowing.

"Rare feat." He commented, the thoughtful look still creasing his brow. "I assume your sweetheart knows the words you write?"

"Y-yes ser." She wanted to tell the old man to leave her alone, that it was not his concern. But she refrained. "He's a scribe. He knows letters better than I ever could."

"Ah." He murmured. He fixed her with a stern look, one full of suspicion. It was one thing to have a literate high born, but quite another to have a literate servant. But she had a look about her of embarrassment, a pink tint to her cheeks that girls sometimes get when they are caught doing something unseemly with a lad. Lovelorn. Once or twice he'd seen the same look on Sylvia's face before she'd married the Stark heir. His brow softened. It would be foul to embarrass the girl further. "Well, girl. Better get on to the raven's tower. Don't want to keep your young man waiting."

He stepped aside for her, and Elane gave a grateful curtsey and rushed away, her secret letter clutched defensively in her hands.

Ser Fredrik brushed off the encounter, and proceeded on to Lady Sylvia's chambers where she fed—or at least tried to feed—her little girl some porridge.

"My dear Fredrik," Sylvia greeted with a small smile.

His lady mother left at the break of dawn, and he watched from the guard tower as the horses carrying her and Ser Rodrik, disappeared down the road leading south. She'd bid her two younger sons farewell as they slept, because if Rickon had woken to see her off, doubtlessly the child would scream and thrash and wail for her to stay with him. Robb himself knew that if such a thing had come to pass, his mother couldn't have continued on.

A heavy stone lay in his belly, a nagging feeling that was meant for men twice his age. He wanted to ride with them, wanted to march to King's Landing himself and demand answers from the king and his queen. But he also wanted to keep his mother and Ser Rodrik in the haven of the north, where he knew they could not be harmed.

He wished for his wife's arms and yet couldn't bring himself to go to her. Not just yet.

His mother had advised him to keep their suspicions of the royals from Sylvia. It was unsaid, but he knew their secret council—made up of himself, Ser Rodrik, Theon, Maester Luwin and his own lady mother—believed that if Sylvia had any inkling to their affairs, she would send the swiftest rider she could find down into King's Landing to warn the queen of their treason.

But such an act would result in the disgrace and ruin of his House, wouldn't it? Sylvia's father was king, but would he allow such heinous allegations to be made against his family without reckoning, no matter that his daughter bridged them together? To protect her family, would Sylvia risk the family she'd built? No, of course not, he concluded. Such a deceit would hurt and endanger both him and Mini. No matter the outcome, Sylvia would never allow that to happen, especially to Minisa.

That didn't make him feel any better for his deceit.

It's what is best, he thought as he descended the watchtower steps. His little brother deserved justice if there was anything traitorous in his falling. This is what he told himself when the tendrils of doubt flicked away at his resolve. It's what is best, this cannot be swept away.

He found that he couldn't return to his chambers where his wife still slept, knowing she'd ask very difficult questions if he were to break his fast with her. So he made his way to the Great Hall where the head servants had their morning meals. He would go to her soon, confide in her as much as he dared, and hope she would not be too angry.

The sun was still rising above the hills when Rickon came rushing down to the Great Hall looking for his mother and his breakfast. At finding one but not the other, he turned to his big brother at the lord's chair at the dais, his blue eyes wide and questioning.

"Where's mother?" The masters of the household were quietly arriving behind Rickon, speaking lowly among themselves as they sidestepped the little lad.

To Robb's right, Theon ate and to his left, was an empty space reserved for Rickon. When Bran awoke, he would take Rickon's place, but for now, the youngest son of Eddard Stark happily filled it. At Robb's feet was his ever faithful Grey Wind who chewed on a meaty rabbit he'd caught before dawn.

Robb kept his face calm, although Rickon could easily see something stern in his jaw.

"Mother has gone to see Aunt Lysa." The lie felt bitter in his mouth as Rickon's eyes widened in disbelief, hurt welling as he processed the words. Around him, he could hear utensils hushing as the members of his household turned to stare at their young lord. Lady Catelyn had gone? Why should she have gone so suddenly, just when her mind had returned to her and as her son lay in the sickbed? Perhaps she was not yet sound of mind as they'd hoped.

Robb paid them no mind, his attention focused on his littlest brother. The boy blinked with slow realization. Grey Wind tore off a limb from his kill with a sound of raw flesh tearing from bone. "Mother left me? Why? Why did she go to aunt?" the boy demanded. He looked like he might cry or stamp his feet. "Aunt doesn't need her!"

Robb took in a breath, his brow softening its hard lines. "Mother needs Lysa. She wished to pray in a proper sept, where it is warmer. Aunt Lysa needs mother as well." Even to his own ears, the explanation sounded cold. "She will be home soon." He said in a softer voice.

Since his mother had made plans to travel south—dagger in hand, heart full of suspicion and theories—she and Robb had compiled many things to tell the castle and the younger of her sons. By the end, Robb had told his mother to leave him to it. He would be the one to lie to Rickon, and he would uphold it. Better he find the easiest, kindest thing to say, when he would have to look upon his brother's face and speak it.

There was a pride in Rickon that had been inherited from both his parents, and Robb was glad for it as Rickon sped from the hall. Though he knew he deserved to, Robb did not wish to look upon Rickon's tear stained face. The young lord inclined his head to his best friend, the ward, Theon Greyjoy.

"Do you think it would have hurt him less if he'd known before hand?" He asked miserably, his words were illegible murmurs to the other men. It was not difficult to relay these words to Theon. Having known him for more than half his life, the Greyjoy ward had become a brother to Robb and he often sought his council.

Theon shrugged. "What good would that have done? Rickon couldn't have kept a secret, and it would have found its way to Lady Sylvia soon enough." And she would have interfered.

Robb said nothing. "I feel like a foul beast who has taken a child's mother away from him."

"Lady Stark would have gone with or without your leave." Robb did not answer. "You've done what is necessary to protect your House. Rickon will thank you one day."

"And my wife? She would never thank me for lying to her." He lamented.

For a moment, Theon said nothing, thinking on what to say before he answered. "Her family lied to yours." Theon said lowly, leaning his head closer to Robb's. "If her family is behind what happened, you would need to do a lot worse than lie to her." Theon reminded darkly. On the Iron Islands, a lying wife was weighed down with stones and thrown over the side of a ship, alive and breathing. A fit punishment, he thought. Brutal but the Iron Islands were brutal places, the sea carving and refining its people just as it does to the rock on which they survived.

Yet the punishment did not appeal to him when he thought of it applied to a living and breathing woman. It did not give him joy to think of them struggling and screaming and pleading before being tossed overboard, and thinking of watching them sink into darkness. To put Sylvia Baratheon into that role appealed even less. He did not feel strongly enough about her to say he loved her, but she was his brother's wife, mother to Robb's daughter.

But they were not on Pike, or any island under Ironborn rule. They were on the greenlands, in the north, in Winterfell, where there was no sea and no ships. The northern way prevailed here, perhaps for the better.

Theon watched as Robb's eyes flashed; warm eyes suddenly colder than ice. The Ironborn ward didn't think that Robb had the mettle to administer justice, northern or otherwise, if it came to his beloved Sylvia. She must be a wildcat in bed.

"Mind your tongue, Theon Greyjoy." Robb uttered in a dark voice. "She is my lady wife and you will not even hint at whatever you are thinking."

Sylvia had organized a perfect luncheon, if she said so herself. Meat pie, and berry tarts, fresh crusty bread and sweet jams, half a wheel of cheese and a juicy leg of lamb was spread out on the table, steamy and delicious. She'd asked the cooks to prepare it all, and had taken great care in preparing the spread.

She had not seen Lady Catelyn all day, and though she and the lady may not be on the best terms at the moment, that didn't mean they couldn't have a pleasant meal together. After all, she'd managed it when her family came to Winterfell. Mayhaps, this meal could prove a stepping stone to bridging the gap between them.

By midday, the meal was ready and Sylvia's belly churned anxiously. She hoped the lady did not spurn her invitation, especially when she'd planned it all so carefully. But she would not be hurt if she did, she wouldn't. A princess is not wounded so easily.

"Elane, go to my good-mother's chambers and ask her if she would join me for luncheon." Sylvia ordered as she settled into one chair at the table, Mini in her lap. The baby lightly slapped her little hands on the table, blowing raspberry and reaching for a pointy fork before her mother pushed it away.

Elane went.

Running her fingers through her daughter's black curls, Sylvia wondered if it would just be the two of them to finish off this tasty meal, Elane joining them when it was clear there would be plenty of leftovers. How humiliating, to be stood up by one's own mother-in-law, as though she was an mangy rat Lady Catelyn could not stand to see. She hoped that the lady accepted the invitation and gave not another excuse.

Catelyn had been lady to Winterfell for nearly twenty years, and Sylvia thought it most prudent to be on good terms with the lady so as to obtain wisdom those years of service was sure to have given.

When Elane returned she had an odd look upon her face, one which was quickly explained when she told her mistress of how Lady Catelyn's chambers were empty, and that she'd heard from two maids she'd passed, that she'd gone away, sent away by Robb or so they claimed.

"You base this on half heard gossip?" the lady asked her maid.

"I...no, Lady."

"Did you actually look into the room?"

"No, my lady. I didn't think it proper."

There was no conceivable way the handmaid could be right. Lady Catelyn could not have gone—she was not cold enough to leave her younger sons when they so obviously needed her! Rickon especially! And to leave Winterfell, her home, where people still looked to her and not Sylvia as their liege lady—no she would not have gone. It was not possible. Someone was mistaken, and she would see to this mistake herself.

Mini in her arms, Sylvia left her chambers for answers, Ser Fredrik in tow. When the elder lady's chamber door came to view, Sylvia lightly knocked and called out the woman's name, but was met with silence. How rude Catelyn could be, she thought with growing unease.

Feeling a fool for remaining outside an empty chamber, Sylvia went, her legs kicking up her skirts with their brisk movements. She didn't know where she was going, but she would not return to her chambers where the evidence of her foolhardy endeavour sat uneaten.

The elder lady must be praying in the little sept, she thought hopefully. It would not be unusual to find her there, praying to Father and Mother both to spare her still ailing son and to protect her husband and children in the south. Yes, that was far more likely than the latter option.

"Gods be good, I wonder if any of the fools even bothered to look before they declared their lady missing." She murmured lowly so only her good knight would hear her. Such witless gossip servants amused themselves with, although she hardly saw the humour in this particular jape.

"In any case, no one's putting up a fuss over it." Ser Fredrik commented lightly.

The sept was empty, Septon Chayle telling her he hadn't seen Lady Catelyn since before Lord Eddard left. She checked Bran's room, the lady's solar and then Maester Luwin's laboratory before she ended her search. She felt a fool, running around chasing a shadow; she was a princess, not a pageboy. Ugh, her horrid brother would mock her if he'd seen this. Hells, everyone in the Capitol would laugh if they'd seen.

The pair of them walked quietly side-by-side, Ser Fredrik's arms full of Sylvia's daughter as his lady's arms had gotten tired under the babe's weight. The babe was familiar enough with him that she did not mind being held by the old knight, a very sociable baby she was. For Sylvia, she clutched her hands around each other, a sure sign she was thinking intent, vigorous thoughts. The child in his arms babbled quietly, blissfully unaware of her mother's troubles.

The princess walked in silence, a tumult of emotion bubbling inside her, once or twice threatening to boil over as the cold realization came: Lady Catelyn had gone, her husband having kept the news from her. There was no conceivable way Lady Catelyn could have made the arrangements for travel without alerting Robb. If the lady had even sneaked off, Robb would not have hesitated to ride out and bring her back to the safety of Winterfell, therefore causing great panic and fuss.

There was an anger which moved her feet faster and narrowed her vision. How on heaven and earth could she have left, now of all times? She'd condemned her husband for doing so, and had turned and done the exact same. And Robb! He had let her go?! He kept such vital reports from her, and for what reason? To exercise his right as her husband and lord to do so? To keep her inquiries silent?

She intended to find out, and did not wish her daughter to witness such a scene. Never would a child of hers see such awfulness between her parents. She ordered Fredrik to the kitchens, where one of the serving women would ensure Mini was fed and entertained, while her dear old knight kept watch. If she saw Elane before she reached her destination, she would order her to tend to Mini.

When she burst through Robb's new solar doors, she felt a delicious sense of satisfaction when Robb jumped. But it did nothing to recede the wroth bubbling forth. The door shut harshly behind her, and all of a sudden, words came forth without much thought, as though her rage had planned it all out without her calm and conscious thought being aware.

"I must hear that our liege lady has fled the castle from a handmaid!?"

He stood and set the book he was reviewing down, eyeing her evenly. "I had hoped you to hear it from me."

She continued as she had not heard him. "And then go searching for answers all throughout the castle like a bloody simpleton?!"

Her husband's brows twitched. "I did not force you. Had you wanted straight answers, you should have come to me."

Her ears reddened. She hadn't thought of that, but damned if she admitted that. "And hear what? Fragmented answers and excuses?" distressed, she crossed the room, walking around her husband so her back was to the brazier, and his was towards the door.

"The truth." He replied shortly.

"'Truth'?" she huffed. "Rickon and Bran need her! Although Bran surely cannot notice her, Rickon certainly can! That is the truth." Sylvia was afraid of being forced into mothering two boys who had one already, one who should be doing the job.

"Rickon is seven, on his way to manhood quickly; other boys his age are fostered miles from home for years."

"Just becomes other boys deal with worse separation, does not mean he is affected the same way. He has never been fostered. He doesn't understand separation like this from both his mother and father at once, and he did not expect this. It is cruel of both of you to throw this at him when he'd just gotten his mother back!" she seethed. By the end, her voice had risen from steady sureness to yelling. She didn't like screaming matches, having heard them far too often as a child, but something inside her couldn't be stopped. For the briefest moment, she was appalled with herself, tiny pricks of fear sliding like icicles into her veins.

Its affect was immediate, for Robb's stern face hardened further, his own ire rising in his eyes.

"Sylvia!" she shut her mouth, some deeply engrained lesson telling her to shut up. "Mind yourself. It is cruel to demean my mother so—she's had her fair bit of hurt." Sylvia looked away, regret swelling in her belly. The woman had been bereaved, and to be reminded of how she had been not long ago stalled her wrath but did nothing to quell it entirely.

Suddenly, it was overwhelmingly obvious that there was nothing to be done about the lady's leaving, and her shoulders slumped. Robb did not seem inclined for her to come back, and if he could have been persuaded to retrieve the woman, where could they look? There were many back roads she could have taken, and twice as many travelers along them.

He saw her defeat, and gentled his voice a little. "My mother has gone to be with her sister, my aunt Lysa. Rickon knows this." Robb continued.

"And you think knowing where she is will console him? Or Bran, when he wakes up?" she asked dejectedly. Sylvia pitied poor Rickon. When she was separated from her own family, she'd been older, had expected and prepared herself for it for months. Rickon had probably had no warning, and he was just a boy. She crossed her arms. "This was horribly abrupt, Robb."

"It could not be helped." Was all he said.

"Sure it could have." She replied, turning her sharp eyes to him. "You could have told me. I could have helped somehow."

He scoffed. "You would have done everything you could to keep her here, I know it."

"And why would that have been so terrible?" she asked. "Rickon is only seven and as I understand it, you gave him no warning just as you did to me." He sighed and looked away, seeming ashamed. "Gods, Robb, give me your reasoning behind this!"

"I can't."

"You wouldn't have done this without just cause! Why have you allowed her to leave?" she demanded.

"Because she needed to." He answered with a withering glare. "What else do you want me to say, Sylvia? I'm sorry." the harshness of his voice didn't make him sound sorry. "I'm sorry. I know it's devastating to Rickon and Bran both—do you think I am so heartless not to see that?!" she blinked at his sudden anger, stepping back out of instinct. "Do you think it was easy for me to see her ride away? Gods." he sighed harshly, his hands coming to rest on the back of the chair he'd been sitting on. His knuckles whitened with their grip and he looked away from her.

"And yet you let her." An older anger surfaced, one that had been put away long ago. "You wouldn't even consider traveling south to visit my family!"

"This isn't about us, Sylvia!" he whirled back to face her, his hand slashing through the air, but not towards her. He would never strike her.

"It never is. You kept me out of it and shunned me like a child you'd rather not explain things to."

"Now I remember why." He muttered darkly. Sylvia's nostrils flared, the only outward sign his words had hit their mark.

"I never imagined you cruel." She spat. "You be the one to explain this to Bran," when the boy's name was uttered, Robb turned away in disgust. There was a perverse sense of satisfaction in knowing her claws had sunk in where it would hurt most. "I pray you find courage to face the boys!" she called out as he made for the door. The woman flinched as the loud bang resounded through the chamber as her husband stormed out.

A while later, (and feeling a bit calmer), Sylvia went to Rickon. It was the right thing to do, to offer comfort to the lad, but the black shadow that was Shaggy Dog was guarding the door. The wolf's growls halted her movements, and she dared not test the mongrel's restraint by attempting to pass him. So she backed away, and left them alone.

Her heart beat slowly in wake of the argument, her thoughts coming slower as she thought it over, analysing every cutting remark exchanged, torn between renewing her wrath and weeping. She bit both feelings back and continued on, to retrieve her baby girl.

The urge to cry grew stronger as she inhaled Mini's sweet baby scent, felt her tiny hands gripping at the fabric of her dress and pulling her hair without restraint. But Mini wouldn't see her cry, ever. She didn't want to retreat to her chambers just yet, not wanting to encounter Robb there when they were both so raw yet. With trepidation, she made her way to the sickroom.

The guards greeted her cordially, and she returned the greeting with a stiff nod. Inside, sitting by the bed with her own child in her lap, Sylvia watched Bran breathe, each slow breath raising his chest. She could not think about what would happen when he awoke—he would awaken, of that she was certain. She pitied the poor child, for what child deserved this?

It wasn't long before she ached to leave. The silence was endless, each moment filling her with dread and sadness. She could understand how a woman could be driven to the brink sitting alone in here, hour after hour. Looking at Bran, even doubtful thoughts prodded. Before, once or twice while visiting him when Catelyn had continued her vigil, she'd wondered if her father's idea about lame horses had some tiny particle of truth to it. But Bran was a little boy, and he must really want to live if he'd survived the fall.

She retreated from the sickroom soon after.

Thankfully, Robb was not there when she and Mini arrived back to their chambers and he did not come for the rest of the night as well. When she crawled into bed alone later that night, she found that sleep eluded her, and she remained awake, staring at the dimly lit wall in front of her, listening to the tiny cracks of the low fire, and her daughter's sleeping breath.

How could their mother leave them? she wondered heavily. Bran who had been near death and Rickon who is but a babe. How could Robb have let her leave?

Now that it was quiet, with Mini sleeping, Elane gone, and the work of the day put aside for now, she could think and sort out this mess as best she could.

They'd said awful things to each other, her and Robb. She'd said awful things. Had she been wrong in that? He'd been hurt, leaving before she could spit more at him. She'd hurt her love, she thought dully. The knowledge weakened her hold on her anger, because she'd never wanted to hurt Robb.

But she was hurt! Robb, with his lies and sneaking, had hurt her. He hadn't trusted her to tell her what he'd planned, he had been able to look her in the face and not show the slightest hint of deceit. He'd been distant, but hadn't let on why. She had the creeping realization that he had been so vague the last few days was because he'd been planning for Catelyn's departure.

And in return, she'd used his brothers' poor feelings to hurt him and remind him of the consequences of what he'd helped do. It was a big bloody mess she didn't understand.

The stone wall blurred as her eyes burned with tears. She let them fall, alone in the dark with no one to see her.

A few more salty droplets fell when the door softly squeaked open, light from the corridor streaking across the room in orange beams. She closed her eyes, and listened as Robb undressed for bed. Although she knew her husband well enough to know he wouldn't pick a fight now, her body refused to unclench.

The bed dipped when he crawled under the blankets, and her heart, although wounded, found a sense of contentment to know he was beside her. A little part of her wanted to turn towards him, to look at him and see if there was any anger left in his face or if there as anything remorseful. But she feared there wouldn't be anything apologetic in his expression, or worse, that he'd still have lingering animosity in his eyes.

Eventually sleep found her, and her worries fell away as her dreams surfaced, familiar and old and new and strange, dancing before her eyes.

Please give me a REVIEW and tell me if this was alright? pretty please?

Ok my beautifuls, until next time ;D

Also, just to let you guys know, that no matter how long it takes, I will not abandon this story. :D