REVISED May 27, 2016

This chapter is M rated

Hey lovelies! I'm back! With a super long chapter! I am sorry for the delay, but as I always say, I will always update :D

I thank you all so so so so so much for you unbelievable patience and for those 13 reviews I received last chapter! :D

Also, I own nothing but my own ideas.

and there is a SPOILER ALERT, for the note at the bottom, so if you are not caught up and have no interest in being vaguely spoiled, watch out :D

Chapter 14: Hanging On

I just don't know what is wrong
with you and me
Touch me and then turn away
Cause I don't wanna be a ball and chain, nooo

Hanging On - Ellie Goulding

A few days later, daylight found Sylvia in a happier mood, at least with Mini. She could always be happy when her baby smiled up at her like she made the sun rise each morning, and hung the stars at night. So for Mini she smiled and pretended she wasn't angry.

Sitting in her chair, in the chamber which overlooked the vast godswood, Sylvia held Mini in her arms while Rickon ran up and down the length of the room. He told her he was practicing his running, so when he was faster, he could keep up with Shaggy. He was melancholy all morning and had been ever since his mother left, hardly speaking, never smiling. The poor child was missing the warmth of his mother, and the steadying presence of his father, sisters and base-born brother.

So many people had left them already, making Catelyn's desertion that much more painful. And Robb's hand in it that much worse.

Thus, if running the length of the room made Rickon happy, she was more than happy to put up with it. The room was big and long enough for it, designed for large meetings with multiple northern lords, the high ceilings opening at the top into small, narrow windows, where pale light shone in. It was long enough to demand four braziers to keep the heat, benches pushed against all four walls, with direwolf tapestries hanging from the rafters.

The princess smiled at her little girl, worming her fingers through the layers of linen and wool to fish out a tiny pink foot. She kissed it, feeling the little toes curl against her lips. Mini grinned up at her, tiny white teeth flashing, enough light to brighten the world in her beautiful blue eyes.

She kissed the foot again, blowing raspberries into the delicate skin, and making the babe giggle sweetly. Sylvia adored these small moments, the time she spent simply playing with her baby, being silly and strengthening the bond between them.

A deep part of her wondered if she was a soft womanly fool for showing such love so openly, if it made her look weak. But Mini was the stars lighting the dark night, the part of her and part of Robb combined into one, merging them together into something stronger than chains or ice, something profound and everlasting. Something so natural and deep couldn't have been weakness, could it? Oftentimes, when her thoughts wandered to this, she thought it better left unanswered.

"You have such a pretty smile," she cooed to the baby. Letting out another screeching giggle, Mini reached up and pulled on her mother's hair. Sylvia planted another kiss to the bottom of the babe's soft foot, once more feeling her tiny toes curl against her mouth. "Such pretty little toes, too." She mumbled against the toes. "Say mama. Mama. Ma-ma. Ma-ma-ma-ma." She had no care of whom saw her, because the only other person in the hall was Ser Fredrik. What did it matter if he saw her be silly? He'd seen it all a thousand times—she'd been about three when he came to her and had seen her through countless embarrassments and never once made some cutting remark to shame her.

The distinct sound of booted feet echoed off the walls and Sylvia looked up, wondering who was coming to disturb the contentment they'd found. Her smile faded at seeing who came through the threshold, his direwolf trotting at his side with its red tongue lolled out.

As she tucked Mini's little foot back into her coverings, Rickon ceased his running for the moment to say hello to his big brother. There was a smile on the child's face that he would not show to her, one that only Robb could muster from the boy.

From that, Sylvia knew the little wolf didn't blame Robb for their mother's departure. He never looked at him with anger or hate or betrayal, and if he had, it hadn't lasted long. No, Rickon's eyes still brightened to see his big brother, as though he'd done nothing devious.

Sylvia, however, was not so blinded. She could never be, had never found it in her to roll away when someone took a stab at her. She was far more inclined to stand up and stab back, and she had done. Her love for Robb made her wish she hadn't jabbed such a tender spot, though.

"Robb! Look how fast I am! I can almost catch up with Shaggy, I think." The boy huffed breathlessly.

"Fantastic," The lord of the north commented as Rickon quickly darted about the room to show him. "You'll have to run beside Shaggy Dog to know if you're as fast as him."

"I would, but Sylvie won't let him in here." The little wolf whined. Sylvia pursed her lips, her toes clenching inside her boots. Would Robb allow the creature in here? As if sensing the brewing storm, Mini reached up to her mother's face, her sharp baby nails scratching at her cheek.

"There isn't room enough in here. Try the godswood." Robb concluded with a grin at the boy. Needing no more encouragement, Rickon sped from the room, biding them farewell as an afterthought. The princess stood from her chair and made to follow him, because she did not want to remain here with Robb alone. Mini's presence would subdue him for whatever he had to say that would be sharp and barbed, and it would do the same for her. Even if he wasn't looking for a fight, she didn't wish to risk one.

She was too raw yet; never having gotten what she thought was a suitable explanation for his lies.

"Sylvia," he spoke gently. "Stay. Please."

She turned to him, her face a mask of perfect genialness. "What is it?"

His lips twitched into a wry smile. "I know what you're doing. Being all sweet after a hell of a row. I know you don't mean it. I know you're still angry."

Her face didn't falter in the slightest. "Yes I am still cross at you. But I'd rather not argue in front of our daughter."

"We don't have to scream at each other to work things out."

Finally, her face wavered, the mask warmth draining from her face and revealing the thunder cloud in her grey eyes. "You make it sound as if I want to fight. I don't. I hate to."

"As do I. So stay with me, talk with me a while. I miss you."

Temptation pulled from her belly, making her wish to follow the pull and settle back into his arms, and to let the world be set aright. She missed him and she dearly wanted to. She missed the way his voice would flow over her like a crisp, fresh wave, making her feel awake and alive and content and soothed all at once. She missed the way his hand would find hers sometimes, the way he'd twine their fingers. She missed the way he'd laugh with her, the way he'd feel beside her, the way he made her happy.

But her heart still gnawed on by his coldness and deceptions. He'd lied to her, and perhaps she could overlook it if he gave her an explanation as to why his mother left, and why he'd let her do. "Because she had to" was not enough for her—not when Rickon began to throw things just to see them break, or when he wailed for reasons he didn't understand.

"If I stay, will you tell me why you kept so many secrets from me?" she asked.

"I already have!" he grumbled impatiently. "I told you where my mother is gone, and I told you why I didn't tell you. Is that not enough for you?" Gods, why couldn't they let this go already? Catelyn was gone, and there was no changing it now. It made him feel all the worse to know his wife refused to have a real conversation with him, while his little brother reverted back to the tantrums he'd thrown when he was four.

"You miss my meaning." She said, an edge creeping into her voice. Mini cooed in her mother's arms, reminding her to keep her voice calm and even. "I would have liked to be included, not kept in the dark, left to hear from servants what my husband planned. Robb, your choices don't only affect you. If I'd been privy to your plans, maybe you could have seen that." Maybe if I had, Rickon wouldn't be less a mother as well as a father.

"I do see it." He replied sternly. "Every day I see it. Every choice I make—every choice my family makes—I see the power it holds."

"Do you? I was here, ready to give you council, and yet you turned from me."

"No matter what you said, it would not have changed the outcome." He countered gently. Truly, nothing she said would have changed his or his mother's mind, and so he'd saved them both the trouble of her knowing and fighting a battle that never even began.

She was quiet; her eyes leveling him with a steady gaze that made him feel like the worst sack of shit ever to stand before her. Suddenly the mask was back up and she gave him a grin.

"With your leave, my husband." She bowed her head. "My chores call to me." She said softly before she walked from the chamber, his daughter peeking over her shoulder with wide blue eyes.

He didn't call out for her again. He would give her until tonight, before he tried again. If it meant an argument, so be it. Her angry words he could take. Her silence, he could not.

Grey Wind watched her retreating back with a strange kind of longing, his tail twitching with anticipation. "Go," Robb ordered. "Go with them. Keep them safe." The direwolf went, trotting a short distance from his wife and child.

He was talking with the stonemason in the yard when Bran's nameless direwolf shot through the mud, splattering muck on their legs as it dashed by. Something pulled inside Robb. Bran's wolf was always so calm and gentle, only running through the godswood when he hunted and played with his brothers. The only other time Robb had seen him speed through the yard, was when Bran had been running ahead of him.

Why did the wolf dash through Winterfell now? Did he sense something? Did he know something Robb's dull human senses did not perceive? Was it Sylvia? Was it Mini? Was it one of the boys? Robb gave a hasty farewell to the mason before jogging after the animal.

The nameless pup ducked into the archway leading to the Great Keep with Robb coming just behind him, his boots skittering over the stone floor as he tried to keep upright. The direwolf ran up the steps, Robb following him two at a time. It was as if the pup was being led to its destination, or it knew exactly where it was headed. It never paused, or gave sniff to the air. By the time Robb followed it to the highest landing in the tower, he knew where the wolf was running.

The nameless wolf arrived at the sickroom's door, and used its small, but mighty forepaws to shove open the wooden door with a bang, while the guards posted outside the door reached for their swords on instinct. But they did nothing else but stare into the room in awe. Robb skidded to a stop at the archway, the guards watching on from behind him.

On the bed, one hand tangled in the direwolf's fur, was Bran. Only he wasn't sleeping any longer; he looked up at them with a face as calm as a spring day, his eyes blue pools of pond water. Disbelief clouded Robb's eyes, and only later would he realise it was tears.

Bran didn't seem to notice because he only said, "His name is Summer." And he pat the wolf on its head.

The joyful news spread throughout the halls and crevices of Winterfell in frenzy, excitement and relief in the chatter, ravens already being sent far and wide to tell their lord in the south that his son was awake. It was the news they'd all hoped and prayed for, finally come to reality. Servants whispered amongst themselves and wondered if the Lady of the castle would come back now that her son was awake.

At once, the maester was fetched to the sickroom, and began an assessment of the child as his elder brother waited anxiously outside. Robb had been ordered out by Maester Luwin, in case there was anything the matter with Bran, he didn't need interference. Robb was not bothered much; unrestrained joy glowed from his chest, and he could not keep the smile from his face. He wanted to burst into the room, pull his brother up and shout and laugh just for the fact that Bran had opened his eyes at last.

The last month's fear and wonders of "what-if's" mattered no longer. So elated was the young lordling, that he momentarily forgot what had put his brother in that bed. He forgot for just a moment that his wife's family may have been responsible; he forgot Bran had been pushed. He forgot his suspicion and his fears in the face of overwhelming relief and joy.

But when the moment was over, he remembered duty and honour, and knew, (at least a little), that he would have to ask Bran some very...difficult questions soon enough. Questions whose answers could brew more conflict, and put this long time of peace into peril.

He stood alone outside Bran's chambers, after having sent the guards away to fetch his wife and youngest brother. Rickon, however, was running through the godswood with Shaggy, so it would be a while before someone caught up to him. He had just begun to pace when he heard delicate booted footsteps echo down the corridor.

He heard her speak before he turned to greet her, his insides flopping excitedly when he saw her rushing towards him, a wide smile on her lips and glee bright in her eyes. All he felt in seeing her was happiness, as though all the worries of life had lifted from his shoulders.

Sylvia practically skipped down the corridor, a laugh rolling out of her throat, her white mink fur cloak alluding to the fact she'd been outside when the guards came for her.

"Is it true? Bran's awake?" she asked excitedly as she drew closer.

Instead of answering her, he strode towards her, and engulfed her in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground as he spun her around, holding her tight against him. He heard her laugh again, and felt her hands clutch his shoulders.

As he held his wife against him, her flowery smelling hair filling his nose, it suddenly struck him how much he'd actually missed her these past few days. She was right here and he'd missed her, as daft as it sounded. But it had been impossible to be close to her, since his mother left, because she was "cross" with him as she'd put it.

"He's awake." He mumbled into her shoulder. He heard her gasp breathlessly and clutch at his shoulders tighter.

When he set her down again, she beamed up at him, little wells of joy in her blue eyes. "He's awake." She laughed tearfully. He smiled back at her, when her hands suddenly left his shoulders, and settled in his hair, her fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp as she pulled his face down to hers. Their lips met with a similar kind of urgency, their days of fighting and the unexpected surprise of Bran waking up, making the kiss all the sweeter.

When she pulled away, she was breathless, but smiled softly at him while her fingers played with the ends of his hair. Then she gave him a curious look.

"What are we doing out here, then?" she asked, sidestepping him and making to pull him with her into the sickroom. He stopped her with a firm but gentle hand.

"Maester Luwin is assessing him. He needs the room with Bran." He explained, happiness still painted across his face with that boyish grin. It dimmed a little when he looked back down at their joined hands. "When he finishes, I will speak to him. Alone." She frowned at him, question in her ocean blue eyes. "I want to ask him what happened on the tower." He said solemnly.

"And you think I am too delicate to hear?" she asked incredulously, a brow raised.

"No. It's him I don't want to frighten. With just him and me, he could give me clearer answers." Her eyes softened. "And I can tell him about our parents myself." He added a little ruefully, and then her eyes turned down, her gaze resting on their joined hands, too ashamed to look at him.

"I am sorry I said that. It was cruel." His wife apologized, recalling the way he'd stormed away from her when she spat that he be the one to tell the boys of their mother's sudden abandonment. Robb was silent, because it was hurtful, and he wouldn't say it wasn't. "I know you aren't pleased that Catelyn left and I know you hate what it's done to Rickon."

He'd deceived her in the first place, so were they even now? Robb didn't want to keep a tally, and in light of all the good things happening now, he thought they could let it go.

"Forgive me, please." She whispered.

Instead of speaking, he rested his forehead against hers, their breaths merging together as the small gesture sealed their forgiveness. His hand reached up to stroke through her hair, fingers catching in the braids woven into the dark locks.

Sylvia gave a shaky sigh, her hands once more coming to rest on his cheeks, her palms itching from his growing beard. "He's awake. Gods, I prayed for this; nearly every day." She'd even forgone the sept once, and joined him and Rickon in the godswood. They'd sat before the heart-tree and were quiet, listening for hidden messages from the Old Gods in the rustle of the trees in the wind, the trickle of water, and in the movement of animals far off. They sought peace, and comfort, and for Robb and Rickon, they had found it. Sylvia, who scarcely understood the Old Gods, had been quiet and respectful, but hadn't returned to the godswood for prayer since.

"I as well." He replied softly.

And despite what every instinct said to the contrary, all their prayers had been answered. Sylvia's father had been wrong. Her mother had been wrong. Horrible, cruel, wretched Joffrey had been wrong.

Bran was alive.

Soon enough, the creak of the door opening pulled their attention to the maester emerging from the sickroom, a spark of joy in his always serene face. He closed the door gently and turned to the couple with a soft, relieved smile.

"He is whole, as far as I can tell. He knows his name, knows his family, knows where he is, knows his sums." He chuckled briefly. "He is...asking for his mother and father though. I haven't told him." Maester Luwin relayed. Robb nodded, his face frozen with relief and happiness and dread.

Robb made to move to the door, but Maester Luwin's gentle voice stopped him. "My lord," he looked up at Robb, a grave look overtaking the relief in his face. "There is something else. He...he cannot feel below his waist. I believe the fall has taken his ability to walk."

Bran loved to run, and climb, and ride and...he couldn't feel below his waist? Seven hells, oh Bran. Poor, innocent, sweet little Bran.

They'd been told that the fall had broken his legs—that he may never be the same if he were to wake. But his legs had healed while he was asleep, and they all thought that was that. They'd been so afraid he wouldn't even wake up that they'd forgotten what it might mean if he lived. That he might be different.

Bran, who had been so lively and active—the boy who lived to climb—would never do so again. He'd never walk, never climb, never ride a horse, never...achieve his dreams and become a member of the King's Guard. He'd never know the pleasure of being with a woman, and would never father children of his own. It was gone from him—a whole life was gone from him.

Her father had spoken of lame horses; about how badly hurt children should get the same "mercy" as a lame horse. His words seemed even crueler now, and shame for her father swelled inside her, as anger at her mother for agreeing with him began to squeeze at her insides. They'd had no hope for Bran, no kind words of comfort to say to their eldest daughter, and had all but condemned the child dead in their private quarters.

But Sylvia had lied for them in public. They hadn't asked her to, but she would not walk through Winterfell, telling everyone of the king and queen's pitiless words if she were asked. In some strange way, it was expected of her. A princess upholds her family's honour. So instead, the southern princess told tales of courteous empathy from her father and prayers for health from her mother. That was what the kingdoms believed their king and queen to be—courteous and hopeful. And it disturbed her to know them differently.

The lie was prettier than the truth.

"Will he ever regain feeling?" Robb asked evenly. He was too shocked to manage anything but a steady sentence.

"It...it has been heard of. But I will not advise you to hope." The maester said mournfully.

How would Bran live now? Would he live happily? Fully? This felt very much too big, and once more, Robb wished for his father to come, to show him what to do, to say the right thing. But father was leagues away, and here, Robb was a man and people looked to him for strength.

Bran was alive; praise all the gods for that miracle and the rest could come later.

He looked to Sylvia, whose watery eyes were still fixed on the maester with a hand touched to her lips to hold back whatever threatened to come out. "He's alive," he reminded softly. "That's all that matters." It took a moment for his words to reach her, when her eyes left the maester to settle on the floor, nodding a little to show that she'd heard him. He felt her tremble and gave her hand a steady squeeze, before stepping forward, past Maester Luwin and his wife, and into the room.

First seeing Bran lying there in his bed, it was almost like nothing was different. Of course he knew everything had changed, and that life would never really be as it was, but he could remember a hundred other times when he'd come to see Bran and found him in the same position he was in now. It was familiar and it squeezed his heart in a vice when he remembered how their world had changed the moment Bran decided to climb the Broken Tower.

Bran wept when he learned of their parents' departure.

He cried to know that his father, sisters and half-brother had gone just after he was hurt, and now resided half a world away. He cried to know his mother had left only days ago, and that no one knew when she would be back from her sister's dwelling.

It cut him deep to see Bran like this, but he would not let it show. Bran had a right to weep, but Robb did not. He'd helped his mother leave and perhaps if she were here, it would ease the pain yet to come when Bran learned the whole truth about his legs. But in the midst of confused, teary questions about where their family was, he found he could not bear to tell his brother about the damage the fall had done to his body.

Not now anyway, he'd thought.

But Bran was clever, and after the tears had faded, he punched his thigh in anger. "I can't feel it." he said, rather calmly. Robb didn't say anything, and so he did it again and again, harder and harder, until Robb held his arm back.

Even then, the boy had fought. Bran grunted and struck out, and pushed his elder brother, until the fight had gone out of him, until he fell against Robb's chest and clung to him. Robb was the eldest of his father's children, and was the one person Bran trusted most in this moment. There were no more questions, no more fighting, no more tears for a long while, and Robb forgot that Rickon was probably waiting outside, going out of his head with anticipation.

"When will mother be back?" Bran asked against his brother's shoulder a while later.

Robb paused. "I do not know." On the bed, Bran's wolf—Summer—gave a low whine, and affectionately bumped his head against Bran's arm, as though attempting to give comfort. The child ran his hand over the direwolf's neck, his fingers scratching at his fur.

"Bran," Robb eventually asked as he pulled away. He looked down at his brother, his face gentle, but his eyes hardened with a silent plea for answers in the blue eyes their mother gave them.

Slowly, Robb asked the boy about that day on the tower, what he remembered, what had caused him to fall, but Bran said he didn't remember. He remembered the climb, as he made it a hundred times before. He remembered the view; he remembered his wolf watching him from the base. Then he remembered nothing else.

"What happened?" the boy asked softly.

"We found you at the base. We thought you fell." Robb replied carefully.

"It's probably true." The boy murmured dejectedly. Although he wanted to ask more, the young Lord of Winterfell felt this was not the time, and let the matter end. Bran had endured enough for today.

So he opened the door to the sickroom, and let Rickon and Shaggy Dog on him, and hoped silently that the pair would get Bran to smile. Shaggy jumped up on the bed, quickly followed by Rickon, though he struggled with his short legs to climb up. Shaggy laid down over Bran's deadened legs, and gave Summer a gentle nip to his flank in greeting. The normally wild and undomesticated wolf was behaving rather tamely, which pleased Robb greatly.

"Bran! Bran!" Rickon squealed in delight. This should have been the greeting Bran awoke to: one full of happiness and relief and he hated more than anything that it had to be this way. More than anything he wished he could change it, fix it somehow. But he couldn't. He was only man. So he could only stand by and hope Rickon could lift his spirits before they soared too low.

When Rickon finally scrambled onto the bed, and then engulfed his elder brother in his skinny arms, Bran returned the embrace, his face screwing up against Rickon's shoulder. "I knew you'd wake up! I just knew!"

Slowly, Sylvia walked through the door a soft smile on her face when she spied Bran. She had never been as close to Bran as she'd been to dear sweet Sansa, but she'd cared for him as much as she did for Sansa. And now here he was, awake, talking and moving after she'd started to believe her parents' grim assessments.

The rest of their visit was rather short. They spoke softly to Bran—besides Rickon, who jabbered excitedly about everything he'd missed the past few weeks. It wasn't long until Bran began yawning and his eyes began drooping and so they'd decided to leave him to rest, but not before sipping a little bit of warm broth to quell the ache of hunger.

Robb ordered Maester Luwin to remain with him through the night, along with Rickon who had refused to leave his brother's side. Rickon had said he was afraid that if he left his brother, Bran would suddenly go away again, and not come back again.

Robb's worry matched his younger brothers', for Maester Luwin remained due to the fear that if Bran slept again, he would not wake. The maester agreed, but also told Robb that the possibility of that happening was as likely as a direwolf being found in Dorne.

Winterfell was home, but the godswood was a guaranteed solace.

To Robb, the castle felt like a cage; everywhere he looked, he was reminded that his brother was broken, and that his wife's family may have caused it. Every corner held memory, every stone step held meaning, every tapestry had laughter and whispers. So he looked to the godswood for freedom, his wolf running through the trees somewhere far off.

He stopped at the heart-tree, regarding its carved face, the eyes weeping bloody tears of red sap. It was here he and his siblings played and laughed, where he first kissed Sylvia, where he said his vows to her, where they brought Minisa to grace her with her name before the eyes of gods and men.

This place was rife with memories; none of them bad. The gods watched through the bloody eyes, and so this was where northerners went to for peace and left with cleared minds.

He stopped before the black hot spring, ignoring the upturned log, because he was too tense to sit.

The young lord's mind swirled round and round with unanswered questions and frustration. He'd hoped the mess of Bran's fall would be settled when Bran woke up. He'd heard that the boy's mind might have been destroyed upon impact with the hard ground, but he'd never truly considered the possibility of that happening. Bran was alive, after one and possibly two failed assassinations, but he could offer nothing to explain why someone wanted him dead.

Just as Bran was drifting off to sleep, the maester, Robb and Sylvia had met outside the door to discuss all they had discerned. All Robb could say was "He doesn't remember." Maester Luwin had said he could remember in the coming days, so he would ask in three days time.

After the visit, he climbed the raven's tower and sent birds farther north and far south, carrying the news of Bran's awakening to Jon, and his father and sisters. It would be long before the bird's message reached them, but he hoped the news reached his father before his mother did. He knew his mother was no fool, but she had gone to the Capitol looking for justice, and he feared what or who she would step on to obtain it.

Behind him, a twig snapped underfoot, and he turned to see his wife walking towards him, the setting sun casting her body in shadow.

"Still stealthy." He grinned at her.

"Stealthier than you." She shot back, though she knew it probably wasn't true. Sword fighting requires stealth, though, to be fair, so does dance.

She stopped a little ways away, her gloved hands folding together under her breasts. She had no wish to disturb him when he sought solace with the gods, but she wanted to be near him. All the children were settled down to sleep, with Elane watching her little girl as Maester Luwin watched the boys. She wanted to feel him next to her after so many days of coldness between them. She would lay down her anger if he forgave her for grabbing and twisting where he was weak. Part of her feared he would reject her offer, but she could not care for that now.

Tonight they could be happy that Bran was alive.

"Praying?" she asked, nodding to the eerie face carved into the tree. She had always found the weeping face to be a little strange—even a little frightening when she'd been a girl. Once or twice when she was new to the north, she'd snickered at the tree gods in secret, finding the idea of them so daft and strange. She stilled her tongue as she grew, because this was the north, and the Old Gods reigned here and would for a thousand more years.

He sighed softly, casting a look back at the weirwood. "No. Thinking."

"And?" she inquired as she stepped forward, her arms eager to wrap around his body and hold him close.

The lordling paused a moment. "He doesn't remember." He murmured.

Oh. That again.

When he revealed the boy had no memory of the fall earlier, she hadn't been very much upset. Bran had fallen—his hand slipped or his foot stumbled, and he'd fallen. What good was it if he couldn't remember? In fact, maybe it was better he didn't. If he didn't remember the fall, he wouldn't remember the terror of that moment, or the pain that followed. But for whatever reason, this upset her husband. She had a thought that he was afraid Bran wouldn't remember other things in the coming days; that he would lose himself.

"He remembers the climb, but nothing else."

"It could come back to him in a few days." She offered. Finally, her arms slipped around him from behind, her gloved hands settling under his cloak against his abdomen. Ah, he was warm and deliciously solid. She'd missed being so close to him, missed feeling his strength and gentleness.

"Aye."

"And it could be that he only slipped. Maybe a bird flew out at him, and startled him." her hands reached for his.

"I don't know." Truly, he was more inclined to believe that the fall from the tower hadn't been an accident. But to tell Sylvia that would mean he'd have to explain their suspicions. His hand curled around her smaller one. "Someone tried to kill him at least once. There's no cause to want a sleeping child dead." He replied, an edge of anger creeping into his voice. Gods he wished he'd had a chance to question that murderous shit himself. He would have his answers, and not wonder what he should and should not say to his own wife. He would know whose head he should look for. Would know if the attack was one of many to come.

"You still think someone threw him from that tower?" she asked softly.

Robb bit down the sudden fear that he'd given himself away. But he remembered that in the days after the fall, before there was any suspicion of treachery, he'd confided in Sylvia is strong fear that someone had pushed him.

"He never falls." He replied firmly. "But if he doesn't remember, what can I do? We'll never know what actually happened if Bran can't tell us."

"It would be ill to force him." His wife countered knowingly. "The last thing he remembers is waving off you and Eddard for the King's hunt. Now he's woken, his mother, father, sisters and half brother are gone. He...he can't walk. So much has changed for him."

"I know." But what could he do now without answers from the victim himself? He couldn't stand the thought of those people getting away with hurting his brother. But Bran...he was too fragile to be asked over and over again about that terrible day. What if he had only fallen, and remembering only brought pain and shame? "I don't know where to go from here, Syl." He confessed to his beloved.

He felt her move away a little, and for a small second, he was afraid she would leave him. But she moved around his body, never putting more than a foot of space between them, until she stood before him, her blue eyes gazing up into his. She cradled his hand in both of hers, softness in her eyes.

"They failed." She said firmly. "Each time death has come for him, he has survived. They failed—whoever and whatever it was. And as long as you are breathing, I know no one would dare touch him."

The weight over Robb's shoulders seemed to lighten a little. It felt good to know she had such faith in him, when he felt himself flounder. He felt himself coming closer to her, his doubts for her family were pushed aside for the moment and she was no longer 'Sylvia, his wife and daughter of the enemy,' but simply, his Sylvia. She was the one who helped make him a man, the one who mothered his child, and spoke sense when he could not see it. She was it.

I won't let anything happen to the boys, or Mini, or you so long as I have life in me, he thought ardently.

His hand moved from hers to beneath her cloak and to the dip on her back. He pulled her close, inhaling the sweet flowery scent of her long black tresses. He missed her scent, missed breathing her in because she was so close. The last few days, he'd only gotten brief hints of her hair as she brushed past him.

"From here, we just...try our best." Well that was a little stupid sounding, she thought with a little frown. "Protect the children; help them when they need it. But always remember, when you feel guilty or afraid, that Bran is alive. After everything, Bran is alive." She murmured emphatically.

"I know." He whispered to her after a few moments of quiet.

He wanted to ask what sort of life awaited Bran now. Because he didn't know. He wanted to tell her that someone had tried to kill his brother, and that he couldn't just forget that fact, because he didn't want to. He wanted to ask her about her family, if they were the sort of people to send killers to open a little boy's throat as he slept. But he couldn't. So instead of dwelling on what he could not say to her, he chose to listen to what she could say to him.

Bran was alive, he was alive, alive.

His mouth was on hers before he could stop himself, insistent and heated; he kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered, like she was the only thing he needed. He missed her, needed her, and he...he wanted things to be simple again.

She gave a small noise of surprise against his mouth, before she kissed him back with equal passion. He felt her fingers crawl up to his shoulders, one hand going round his neck to pull him closer as the other dug into the soft fur lining his cloak.

Sylvia felt his hand reach for her throat, a gentle, yet possessive move that sent a thrill of heat through her. Her pulse raced beneath his thumb, and he grinned smugly against her lips when she made a soft noise of pleasure when his tongue reached out to stroke her lips.

A silly squeal broke through the air when Robb reached lower, both his hands falling low on her hips to draw her tight against him, her feet dangling off the ground. She felt the soft breeze caressing the bare skin of her cheek, signaling that Robb was moving them somewhere, but his lips were still hot against hers and she couldn't break away from them, even if she wanted to.

Gods be good, she had missed this. They hadn't made love in so long, (not since Bran's accident), and gods know her for a wanton, but she missed the feel of his bare skin against hers, his breath hot against her skin, or in her mouth, missed the taste of him, the needy groans he made when she rode him slow, the feel of him inside her. She craved it—no, she craved him because maybe it was only good because it was with him.

It wasn't until she were this close to him did she realise how much she'd missed him.

They had gone through the last few days, barely speaking, minds clouded with anger or annoyance, and this had made the simplest conversations difficult to get through without a veiled barb or awkwardness filling the air and destroying any hope of friendliness or intimacy. Her anger felt righteous, and it made her steadfast and unyielding, and while it had cooled in the last few days, the fire had never been put out completely and her pride provided kindling.

Her thoughts crumbled away when she was suddenly pressed against a hard, uneven surface. The sudden foreign touch pulled her out of the warm haze his lips created, and when she looked up, she found the red leaves of the heart-tree above them. She gave a low, breathy moan as her husband's tongue ran over the column of her throat, knowing where this kiss was leading.

"I don't think this is very appropriate." She whispered breathlessly as he tasted her skin. Even as she said it, one of her legs kicked her woolen skirts out of the way, so it could curl around Robb's calf. Any more words she could say were morphed into a pleased whimper when he sucked on the delicate skin below her ear.

"Doesn't feel inappropriate to me." He whispered back to her. The hand over her waist rubbed back and forth gently, slowly moving lower and lower until he held her thigh through her dress.

His need for her reached down into the very marrow of him, and for the life of him, he couldn't recall why he'd been so angry at her the last few days. The young lord took up the leg already curled around his, and pulled it higher, her skirt rising up above her knee and exposing her stockings to the cold northern air. He hooked it round his hip and felt her tighten, pulling his hips as close to her as the barriers between them would allow.

"We've been here before, remember?" he asked as his hand reached down to support her leg, while his other hand returned to grip her neck in a soft hold.

A shuddering breath left her, and she pressed her cheek against his.

Of course she remembered. How on earth could she ever forget it? The first time they'd ever made love outside of the castle had been in the godswood, and it had been so unexpected and passionate that she hadn't been able to enter the godswood without blushing for a long time after. One moment they'd been walking and the next, her husband was lying her down in the middle of the godswood, his lips hot against her breasts while her hands reached for the ties of his breeches. Remembering still made her belly quiver, and Robb knew that.

"I..." she wondered what to say. Did their fight suddenly lose all merit to him? It hadn't to her. She was still burned by his lies, and wanted him to know that. Wanted him to be actually sorry for that. But the way he was kissing her jaw, stealing her breath from her lungs, his hand on her neck in that soft, but dominate way she liked...it was all very distracting. His body called to hers, and she was hard-pressed to ignore the plea which matched hers. "How did it go again?"

He laughed against her neck. "It started with a kiss..."

Then his lips were back against hers, and her arms were pulling him closer, heat licking up her breasts and neck from deep within her belly. She felt too warm all over, which would have been a marvel at any other time; she was always cold in the north, her southern blood doing nothing to keep her warm.

Although she was wrapped around him, and his lips had captured hers in a long, lingering kiss, it didn't feel near enough. Her heart fluttered and a wonderfully warm throb began between her legs, one she wanted more than anything to continue.

Gloved hands curled around his neck, and she hurriedly wretched them off so her bare hands could return to his face. She felt the chill of the northern air as his hand hurriedly pushed her skirt higher, shoving her stockings down below her knee so he could hold her thigh without barriers. When his hand left her neck, he reached for her other leg, drawing it up around his hip. She reached down to help him by yanking up her dress so it pooled loosely around her waist. He groaned into her mouth when he pressed deeper between her welcoming legs, his manhood poking into the softness of her thigh.

She might have been afraid of being discovered if it were anyone but Robb holding her. Never once in all their time together, had he openly compromised her honour and dignity. He loved her and honored her, and would never be so careless as to bring her shame. Of course, embarrassments were not uncommon, but they were not incidences which branded her a disgrace or provoked whispers that she was a whore and a wanton.

Being with Robb as a wife is with her husband did not shame her, but she could never forget that being found this way would mean mockery. But, for Robb, she would risk it. With him, she was safe.

It was her who pulled her lips away this time, and she began a scorching trail of licks down his neck until she met the barrier of the clasp of his cloak, undershirt and doublet. She wanted him naked, wanted to put her hands on his belly, feel his muscles corded and tense, feel his coarse hair beneath her fingers...but it would come later. The need had climbed too high to care about much else than having him inside her.

"Then it was a touch..." he murmured to her. His clever fingers dragged up her thigh, long smooth pulls, inching closer and closer to where she needed him most. Sylvia held up the heavy fabric of her gown to help him. When he moved aside her small clothes to touch her most delicate area, her head fell to his shoulder, a soft moan rising from her throat.

She wanted to touch him too, wanted him to feel as good as she did, but she was done with teasing touches and light caresses. The southern woman wormed her hand down between them and felt him through his breeches, hard and straining against the strings. Robb gave a low groan in her ear. Her forehead rested against his shoulder as she looked down between them as she set to work, undoing the tires with hurried movements.

When her hand finally brought him out, and encircled him with a firm grip, her husband's eyes clenched shut, and a soft groan of pleasure reverberated against her neck. Quickly she returned her lips to his, her free hand reaching up to tangle in his hair.

A shudder wracked through her body when her husband gently pulled her hand from his cock, to press it against the tree just above her head. Their fingers curled around each others, his body hard against her.

For a few moments, they only kissed. Then suddenly, he pulled away, and put the smallest possible space between their lips, his nose still brushing against hers as they panted for breath.

"And then..." she coaxed with a soft sigh, her hips rolling forward so her wet heat brushed his length.

"Then..." he panted back. She felt him squeeze her thigh, and then she felt him against her womanhood, hard and hot and needy. He pulled a breathless moan from her as her legs tightened around him insistently. He could have grinned with pride at her need for him, but as he began to press inside her warmth, it fell away, and was replaced with a low groan of relief, which was echoed by the woman in his arms.

Before very long they were caught up in a hurried rhythm, their heavy breaths sending small puffs of hot steam up into the frigid evening air, their hair becoming mussed from gripping hands. Her back chaffed against the fabric of her shift and dress as Robb moved her against the tree, but she didn't care. The ache for satisfaction rang higher and higher, causing the hand clenched at her hip to squeeze tighter, and the hand around hers to tighten almost painfully. She was half sure her own fingers would come away with a gob of auburn curls, for how tightly she pulled his hair.

"S-Sylvia..." her husband groaned. She felt a thrill leap inside her, bringing a soft whimper from her throat.

In a moment fueled by pure desire, she managed to pry her eyes open to look down at him, wanting to see him when they fell off into that moment of incomparable bliss. Her body flushed hotly, the coil of pleasure between her thighs unstoppable as she began to spiral down that boundless chasm of passion filled moans and breathless gasps. He was so beautiful while he found his own pleasure, his mouth open in a soundless shout, his sweet face contorted in bliss as his hair fell into his eyes.

With the gorgeous sight of her one and only love leaping off the precipice of ecstasy because of her, her body writhed, her legs tightening to bring him closer, the feel of his body against her was nowhere near close enough. She hardly heard her own sobs of delight, or the gasps of his name that spilled from her lips, because her husband's voice was in her ear as he buried his nose in her neck, his groans vibrating through her neck.

She felt him lay soft kisses against her neck as they tried to regain their breath. In the daze that followed, she ran her fingers through his curls, her legs slackening around his hips while he gently stroked her thigh to soothe the trembling. Slowly, he eased out of her, and let her feet return to the ground, her dress falling around her in a perfectly innocent way that revealed nothing of what just transpired. He tucked himself away and they shared a secretive smile.

He pulled her close to him suddenly, kissing her happily, slowly pulling away and starting back towards the castle. There were no words needed to explain or discuss, what had just happened. They were contented in the aftermath. Sylvia couldn't wait to get back to their chamber to do it again. And again.

He pressed a kiss to her temple as they walked, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder, when she looked up at him.

"I need you to promise me something." She said softly. He looked back at her, finding a small crease between her brows.

"Anything." He replied. They stopped and stood among the rushes and fallen leaves. The torches of the archway leading into the yard of the castle were not far off, and the gentle flickers of orange flame could be seen easily through the trees. The sun just dipped below the hills, casting all of Winterfell in shadow, the dark blue sky was beginning to dot with thousands of stars.

"Never lie to me again." She didn't want the words to get away from her before she had said them—even if he refused to comply, as was a man's right, at least she would have laid herself bare for him to see her thoughts, her vulnerability—at least he would know. He pulled back to meet her eyes, a frown on his brow. No other word or combination of words seemed to fit, so she only uttered a simple, "Please."

The crease between his brows deepened, and he looked away, seeming thoughtful. She willed him to agree, to give her reason to trust him. After what felt like an age, he gave a short nod. The breath left her lungs in relief, as her hands found his bearded face. She wanted to kiss him, but then his hands were around her wrists, stopping her from pulling him closer.

"My mother didn't go to the Eyrie." He said, his suddenly serious eyes never leaving hers.

"What?" the words he'd just spoken seemed mad. Nonsensical, even. Not in the Eyrie? Wherever would Catelyn be, if not with her sister? How did Robb know this? Her hands pulled from his face, but Robb quickly took hold of her hands so she could not slap him if she thought to.

"She went to King's Landing. To see my father." He explained.

sooooo my darlings, how was that?! It's been a little while since I've written sexy scenes. I hope you enjoyed all of this chapter, and leave a REVIEW, and if not, tell me what I could improve on :D

SLIGHTSPOILER FOR SEASON 5 EPISODE 6 OF GAME OF THRONES.

NOTE: for the sake of Sansa who we love, and for the sake of your sanity, please don't watch season 5 episode 6. If you do watch it don't watch the very end. Please. Just get out of there, and carry on. It will emotionally destroy you to watch that fucking episode.