REVISED May 30, 2016

Hello sweethearts! I'm back, and ZOMG, how quick did this chapter come out huh? I'm impressed with my speed, and I really really hope you guys enjoy this chapter ;D

please give me love.

Chapter 15: Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things

Her winter dress and heavy cotton petticoat did not at all suit the warm climate of King's Landing. Sweat beaded down her neck and in her hair, and it was only for the cool ocean breeze that she did not tear off the dress and ride in her shift. But of course, she would not stop to find suitable garb, because her task required the swiftness of a fox. The scarf hiding her auburn hair fluttered in the breeze and she was afraid that it would fly off and twist and tumble in the wind until it was far from reach.

It had been ten years since Catelyn last stepped foot in the Capitol—the last time being just around the Greyjoy Rebellion, when Robert Baratheon called all nobles back to the Capitol, so they may reaffirm their loyalty by bending the knee. Back then, the courtiers had known her name, but not her face. If the gods were good, it would help her pass by unnoticed.

Every trot forward brought her closer to her husband and daughters, and her heart began to ache with sweet excitement. She'd been half mad the last she'd seen them, and she longed to see them once more with cleared eyes. She missed the sweet scent of Sansa and Arya's hair, the feel of their skinny arms wound tight around her. She missed her husband's strong arms and broad chest, the chest she's wept in and leaned into for comfort more times than she could count.

But her husband needed to know of who had come to kill their sweet boy, of the killer who had tried to open his throat. This must be dealt with first before she could bask in the warmth of being with her husband and daughters again.

So Catelyn rode into King's Landing with Ser Rodrik by her side, hope and determination in her heart, the promise of justice not so far off.

It was not a secret that Tywin's youngest child was a man who enjoyed wine, women and gambling. Or, at least, that's how the people of Westeros viewed him: a vile soul to go with his vile appearance. It was partly true, at least. He enjoyed squandering his lord father's fortune, and oft times he found what he spent his gold on, well worth his father's barbs.

But as he passed through Winter Town, he did not look back at the little brothel he'd kept warm in the month previous. He resisted the urge to climb down from his horse, and to find some wine to warm his belly and a comely woman to help warm a bed for the day. He would not arrive at his niece's dwelling, only to do her dishonour by greeting a whore before he greeted her.

As his horse trotted on, the little lord flinched at another icy breeze biting at his face. Tyrion thought he might have grown used to the cold these last few weeks, especially when he had just come from the coldest place known to man. In a moment of jest, he'd told Yoren, the Night's Watchmen who accompanied him, that he was starting to worry that his cock might freeze off. "It will be a great loss to the women of the world." He'd boasted to his companion.

Although he was inclined to fine a comely northern woman to warm it for him, his niece, and grandniece must be greeted first. Surely she and Robb Stark would be interested to know how Jon Snow fared at the Wall.

Also, it was said in a raven's scroll sent to the Wall that the young Stark boy who'd fallen—Bran—was awake. If Tyrion were honest—and he usually was—he'd admit he hadn't been entirely hopeful about the boy's recovery. As far as the scroll explained, Bran was sound of mind, and apart from his broken legs, he was healthy. Yet in spite of this miracle, the boy's life would be considerably harder. But he could honestly attest to the fact that life could be sweet as honey, even as a grotesque. Or, in Bran's case, a broken thing.

When he was a boy, he'd always wanted to ride. He'd watch Jaime, tall and gleaming, and wanted to be like him. He wanted to be in a tourney, and make the nobles who laughed at him gawk in awe, and make a pretty girl blush simply by smiling at her. When he nearly killed himself trying to ride, his father ordered their saddler to craft him a special saddle, because he would not have a Lannister die by being thrown or pulled by his horse. Tyrion thought that might've pleased Tywin to die in such a manner, but the saddle had been made anyway. He still couldn't fight or joust in a tourney, but he was as tall as any knight on his horse.

He felt sorry for the Stark lad. All boys—crippled, grotesque, or otherwise broken—wanted to ride. It was a symbol of manhood, and of maturity. And he thought he heard from a love stuck Myrcella, that her Bran had said he wanted to be a member of the King's Guard. Now that would never happen, but perhaps Tyrion could do this small kindness and give the boy something from his old life to hold to.

When he was at the iron gates leading into the castle's yard, he was greeted by the whelp of Balon Greyjoy on the other side. Of course he looked more northern than Ironborn.

"Come along, Lannister. Lord Robb is waiting." The boy ordered briskly. Rolling his eyes, the dwarf climbed from his horse, and entered the castle, following the ward until they reached familiar doors and entered the Great Hall.

As the half-man traveled through the moors surrounding Winterfell, his niece resided within the castle, inside the private confines of her chambers, soaking in a deliciously hot bath. The scent of rose oil lingered in the steamy air as she ran a wet cloth over the chilled skin of her neck and shoulders.

The new Lady of Winterfell had always loved her baths, even more so since coming to live in the north. She could remember big tubs of copper, so big, she could swim in them. She could remember lavender oil, and extract of pomegranate and the smell of lilies of the valley in her hair after her maid washed it. She missed those smells, but she thought the northerners might find her scent cloying, since most of them smelled of sweat and hay and leather.

But now, she was simply happy to be totally warm, even though a niggling feeling pulled at her enjoyment and relaxation.

When Robb told her that his mother hadn't gone to the Eyrie as he'd told her—lied to her (once again)—she thought he was jesting, the silly warm haze from the pleasure of lovemaking, turning his jokes from amusing to unimaginable. But he hadn't been teasing her. He told the truth.

His daft mother had dared the precarious journey to King's Landing, with no more protection than an aged knight. And for what? To see Lord Eddard. Only to see him and her daughters, and while Sylvia thought she could understand that urge, she still thought the woman a tad touched.

From behind her, she could hear Elane setting out her dress for when the water grew cold.

"Elane, how is my little girl?" she called out softly, not wanting to wake her little one if she were still asleep.

"Still asleep, my lady. She loves her naps these days, it seems." Replied the handmaid.

"I've asked Maester Luwin about it and he says Robb did the same when he was a babe. He slept much of the time, but it was because he was growing." Thinking about her husband as a babe made something in her heart soften and her lips smile. This was further proof that Mini was more Robb's than hers. She took after the north, as she should. Sylvia didn't think that a southern babe would flourish here as a northern babe would.

"I heard a woman say that a baby that sleeps a lot will have a busy life when they are older. That they're just savouring sleep while they can." Elane commented as she walked back towards the tub, settling down on the stool by her lady's head.

The maid reached for a Sylvia's damp black locks as the high born girl began to speak. "That's a good one." She smiled, leaning forward a bit so Elane could begin to rinse her hair of the winter rose oil. "I'll need to ask Lady Catelyn about that one when she returns. If she returns." She added sourly.

Elane frowned. "'If' my lady? The Eyrie is not so far, and no doubt she'll grab the first horse she can and ride back to Winterfell when she hears about the little lord." The elder girl knew it was not her place to comment on intimate matters regarding her lady and the house which sheltered and employed her. But why would her lady think that the elder Lady Stark would not return?

Sylvia was quiet, not even a moan of pleasure coming from her as the warm water from the bowl beside the tub came spilling down her long hair and back.

When Robb told her where Catelyn had gone, her first instinct was anger. She pushed him away, feeling as though he only told her the truth after such they made love, and all tensions had melted away. She'd growled at him, low and hurt, but when her hisses became louder, he rushed forward, pressing a hand to her lips, fending off her hands when they attempted to shove him back.

Between her grumbling and pushing, he softly told her he lied because he knew knowing their mother had gone all the way to the Capitol would only upset Rickon, and later Bran, further.

And he lied to her, he said, because he didn't want her to worry, and that he did so with only her heart in his mind. Truly, knowing the truth didn't change much: Catelyn was still gone, the boys still missed her. But she'd only just chosen to forgive him for letting the woman go in the first place, and the whole thing felt like a fresh wound all over again.

His face was honest. Nothing had changed. Catelyn would come back. The thoughts swirled round in her head as she regarded her husband, trying to quell the swelling hurt with reason. What would be the point of being angry again when nothing had truly changed? But would not forget it any time soon. Especially since he only told her after he'd taken her against the heart-tree.

"Men love to talk when they're happy, don't they?" was all she'd said to him before they continued their walk back to the castle.

It had been an unspoken agreement between the two that she keep silent about this new fact to everyone but him. He didn't want the whole of Winterfell to know that the elder lady had gone much farther from Winterfell than they believed. But where was the harm in telling Elane? She was no fool, and would keep her mouth shut if Sylvia ordered her.

Before she had more time to think of it, the princess opened her mouth. "It's a dangerous road, the King's Road. Especially traveling it for over a month." She could practically hear the perplexed look on her friend's face. "Lady Catelyn has gone much farther than the Eyrie, Elane. I fear some horror befalling her on her way to King's Landing."

"K-King's Landing?" Elane gasped. "But-but my lady, why has she gone so far?"

"To be with her husband and daughters for a time. She hasn't seen her sister in years, and the rumor is, is that the woman's become even madder since Lord Arryn died. So, why take time with a demented, estranged sister, when she could be with the man she loves, and the daughters she hardly said goodbye to?" Sylvia posed wisely, though in a bland sort of tone.

"Oh," was all Elane managed. She finished rinsing her lady's hair, when the younger girl spoke again.

"Poor Bran." She said, leaning her head back on the lip of the tub. "I wish I could do more, but I can't. I'm not his mother. So all I do when I go to see him is talk, and hope he talks back, but when he does he snaps." The reality that he would never walk again had sunk into Bran only a few days after he awoke. Knowing this was not a temporary state, one quickly and easily remedied by their sweet trusted maester, had embittered the boy. He felt cheated, thwarted in life and by life and no one could make him feel any different.

Bran had even fallen so low, as to tell Robb he wished he were dead. Sylvia flinched to think it, to think of such good, sweet boy, wish for such a thing.

There was little he would be able to do now, but when she was a girl, she'd once or twice seen a noble lord rendered immobile from gout, and had seen the wheeled chair they used to get around. But Winterfell was all cobbled stones and towers. Would Bran benefit at all from such a chair? She had mentioned it to Bran and Robb both, and said she would procure a craftsman from the south if he could produce that special chair. That had seemed to lighten Bran, but still he watched out his window with longing. Perhaps her pity was what made Bran so likely to bristle at her words?

"I don't think it is you he is angry at, my lady." Elane replied softly. "Is there anything else, my lady?"

Sylvia thought a moment. "No, Elane. You may leave."

The handmaid left the room under a guise of perfect ease, but as soon as the door behind her closed, her feet quickened and rushed towards the raven's tower. It was as though the information she'd just learned had to be put to paper at once, lest she forget, and it become muddled.

The lanky steward who fed the ravens was there, but she ignored him as she went to the table at the center of the room. The raven's tower was round, smelled of shit and rotten meat, but she'd grown used to it in her time as Sylvia Stark's maid. She'd spent many stolen moments here, although most of them have been for the benefit of her other employer.

She pulled up a strip of parchment and a pot of ink, when the lanky steward spoke. "'Nother letter to ya sweetheart, eh, Elane?" she could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. Elane reached for a quill, not turning around to look at him.

"Yes." She replied shortly. She never liked it when he tried speaking with her when she was trying to arrange her words. It distracted her and to be distracted meant making mistakes.

The queen would pay a satchel of gold for what she'd learned today, and her mother, all the way in Lannisport, would survive another few months in her little cottage. Elane had been in the queen's service for long enough to know that—beside discretion—Her Grace valued the juiciest information. But this was the north, nothing interesting ever happened here.

So Elane mollified Cersei with information about her daughter, about the pathetic woes of the girl's marriage, and the wellbeing of her grandchild. The queen must have been very happy to hear what she knew, because her mother still lived in comfort.

The light haired maid had almost been discovered, by Fredrik Ravenback, her lady's old knigt. Just two years she'd been here, and this was the first true scare she'd ever experienced. The knight was wily, suspicious in his age, and had glared at her with his blue eyes of ice, dissecting and studying her like he knew of what her letter contained. The red of his hair was tinted with white, but the old knight was as keen as ever. He was the only man she ever feared would suspect her.

But he'd believed her story about a lonely scribe who held her heart. Just like everyone, thank the gods. She scribbled a little faster, ignoring the sound coming from the lanky steward by the cages.

Discovery frightened her a great deal, and more than once, she'd wondered if she should just leave Winterfell all together. Maybe she could steal a jewel or two from her lady's desk and sell it, and run with her mother to the Free Cities. But she never could. She didn't know what the Starks would do to her if they caught her trading secrets with the queen, but did not wish to find out. The Bolton's and their cruelty to their enemies was famous throughout the Realm, and some people said the Starks and Bolton's shared an ancestor.

When her message was finished, she walked to the cages herself, and grabbed a raven. She secured the little scroll to its delicate, scaly leg, and brought it to the open ledge. As it flew off into the air, she thought of her mother, in her warm little cottage, the silky soft white cat which kept her company curled up in her lap.

One day, she would be done and go to her and live a life without serving.

Robb glared down at the half-man with hardly restrained contempt. He knew he ought to have more respect for his wife's uncle, but all he saw as he stared at the dwarf was Bran's mangled legs, and his mother's sliced open hands. It would have been Bran's life, had it not been for the wolf. Unthinkingly, he reached down and gave Grey Wind a scratch behind his ears.

How could the dwarf show his face here? To greet Sylvia, no doubt, but he'd rather have the Imp travel on to the next village instead of showing his ugly face around Winterfell. Hopefully this was all over with soon, and the dwarf was on his way before midday. Though he knew his wife would attempt to prolong the visit for longer than was necessary.

He'd never thought much of the dwarf before, a curiosity though he was with his stunted legs. He'd never seen a dwarf before Tyrion Lannister came to Winterfell. He remembered, once or twice, fearing that whatever cursed Tywin with a child like Tyrion would arise again when Sylvia got pregnant. "Blood always tells," Old Nan would say. But Mini was born perfect, no stunted legs, no oversized head. Perfect and beautiful and all Sylvia. Nothing like the man before him.

The Imp was a famous drunkard and whoremonger, but he was not as rowdy as Sylvia's royal father and he remembered Sylvia once or twice saying that the Imp and Renly Baratheon had been her favorite companions as a child. When they were available, anyway. He supposed he should tolerate him, for the love Sylvia bore him and for the sake of the honour of his House. But the idea of being chivalrous to a Lannister set his teeth on edge.

They were enemies, and you did not give your enemy the Guest Right.

"I must say, I received a slightly warmer greeting on my first visit." Lord Tyrion remarked as he met Robb's stern glare with his own. He was not intimidated by the boy; in fact, Robb Stark seemed more a petulant child with a lord's title hanging over him, letting power make him arrogant, and snotty. A lot like Joffrey, he thought snidely.

"Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome at Winterfell." Said the lordling, nodding to the black brother beside him. His name was Yoren, and he had accompanied Tyrion all the way from Castle Black, with the intent to be his companion all the way back to King's Landing. There, Yoren would clean out the Black Cells, and bring those new recruits back to the Wall for a life of celibacy and freezing cocks.

Yoren gave a nod back.

"But not I, eh boy?" Tyrion quipped, his face unreadable.

"I'm not your boy, Lannister. I am Lord of Winterfell while my father is away."

"Then you might learn a lord's courtesy." The Imp replied. He glanced at the empty dais, and around the empty room, his curiosity piqued. "Where is my niece? I thought at least one Lady Stark would greet me. I'd quite like to see my niece, though, if you're done hiding her away."

Tyrion remembered how Cersei used to keep her away from Court when the girl was very small. Often, the proceedings would be so tedious to the little princess, she'd take to talking to an imaginary friend, one only she could see—one only she could play with. Their lord father didn't have to tell Cersei to keep her fanciful child away from the eyes of the courtiers. Had she been older, Tyrion suspected that Tywin himself would have shamed the girl until she forgot her pretend friend and lived in loneliness. But Cersei had hidden her—in her apartments, in the gardens, away from public eye and called it "protecting" her.

That hadn't stopped gossip, and the only thing that had, was Tywin Lannister's fierce glare. He could admit this about his father: he shut the gossipers up.

Lord Robb drew in a slow breath. "My wife has private matters to attend." He said simply.

"Well whatever they are, I'm sure you won't mind me waiting for her. She is a very dear girl to me, after all. I may even start to grow on you, Lord Stark. I certainly grew on your bastard brother." Tyrion ended with a wry smile.

Robb snapped his eyes away from Tyrion. He had no doubt the dwarf would wait, and he was sorely tempted to make him. He wanted no Lannister coming near his family, and the thought of his sweet wife speaking with a potential enemy made rage coil inside his chest, no matter that the enemy was her uncle.

Sacred law forced him to give the Imp respect simply for the blood he shared with his wife. He'd seen his wife hurt enough times in the last short weeks, and if he could spare her any more heartache, he would. The Realm was at peace, and Sylvia knew nothing of his suspicions. To her, her uncle was good. When word did get out about what the Lannisters may have done, and it would get out, who knew when she would see her uncle again—if she would.

He thought of Bran suddenly, and his wish to be dead rather than live a life without his legs, and his hands clenched. He thought for a second of ordering the guards to seize the dwarf and overtake his men. He thought of holding him at Winterfell until they obtained answers, but he thought of father. Of Sansa and Arya. Of Sylvia. He remembered the danger that would put his father and sisters in, and how seizing Tyrion now would only bring a momentary satisfaction.

If Bran saw him, would he remember? What if he remembered a face, a shadow, a word, that had connected with what caused him to fall? Bran's presence to greet a noble lord was expected anyway, so that he may observe and learn the art of courtesy and diplomacy.

There could be some benefit to this folly of a greeting, yet.

With a nod to the guard behind him, he ordered him to fetch his wife Bran.

Sylvia wrapped her blue shawl over her shoulders, her damp hair pressing against her back as she wrapped the shawl tight around her. She glanced over at Mini, still sound asleep in her cradle and breathed a sigh of relief that she had slept through her bath. For a moment, she wondered where Elane had gone and when she would be back.

With quiet feet, the onyx haired princess moved from the bed and to the vanity where her maid had set her jewelry when she undressed for her bath. Quickly, she slipped on her wedding ring—a simple band of silver—and took up the necklace she'd taken to wearing. It was simple; a leather cord threading through an amethyst stone, made to settle just beneath the dip of her collar bone. Sansa and Arya had given it to her after Mini was born, and it had since become a habit to wear it.

A pale glint caught her eye as she pulled the necklace up around her neck. It took a moment to recognize her silver stag's antler necklace, lying in a heap in a shallow little bowl. Something—perhaps nostalgia—made her set the northern given necklace down, and take up the southern forged pendent.

As her fingers traveled the sharp points of the antler, she couldn't recall the last time she felt its cold weight around her neck or the poke of the antler tips against her skin. She'd taken it off for Mini, to prevent her delicate skin from being broken by the points of the antlers. The southerner wrapped the silver chain around her fingers (already preparing to set it aside again, because Mini could still prick herself on it), and recalled how her Uncle Renly had it made for her when she was a girl.

He'd given it to her on her tenth name day, the year before she was to be sent north for her betrothed. The words he'd spoken to her that day whispered in her ear still. You're a Baratheon. Never forget that, no matter the sot you marry.

She smiled to think of him, his easy smile and his kind eyes coming to memory. When she was small, she hadn't understood what he'd meant—she'd just been happy to receive another present for her name day, and had asked him with a curious look, "Who else would I be?"

Renly only laughed and wrapped an arm around her as he led her to the table of sweets laid out for her name day.

Sylvia looked back down at the necklace. She was still a Baratheon, no matter the necklace she wore or the name she's taken. She was still that girl who had grown up under Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister's eyes. Gods be good, she had her father's fury and mother's gentleness and grace. She was a princess still; a stag.

The silver antlers glittered once more in the soft light. But she didn't wear her Baratheon necklace anymore.

Suddenly, a knock resounded through the room, yanking her from her thoughts with a jolt. Quickly, she set the necklace down onto the table and eyed her ever sleepy daughter out of instinct.

"Come in." She called gently, flicking her damp onyx locks over her shoulders. When the door opened, Ser Fredrik appeared, tall and wide in her doorway. "Fredrik." She greeted with a smile.

Her old knight smiled back at her, and Sylvia felt some sort of relief flow through her heart. He never smiled at her differently. As he smiled at her now, he had smiled at her when she lived in the Capitol. He had the same smile when she was three and babbled incessantly about her pets and toys. Other things around her had changed, but Ser Fredrik had not—not in all the time she'd known him. She was certain her and Fredrik's friendship would never alter. All at once, she was grateful to her mother for giving him to her.

"My lady, Lord Robb requests your attendance in the Great Hall. Lord Tyrion has just arrived."

The grin that spread across Sylvia's face warmed Fredrik's heart in a way he knew Robert Baratheon's never had.

"...give that to your saddler, and he will provide the rest." Her dear little uncle's voice carried through the corridors as Sylvia Stark arrived just outside the doors to the Great Hall. "Start with a yearling. Teach it to respond to reins and to the boy's voice." Her damp hair chilled her to the bones, and she pulled the shawl around her tighter. How sweet it would be to see her uncle again—like one last taste of her southern home before he rode off again.

"Will I really be able to ride?" Bran asked softy, sounding afraid to hear the answer. Sylvia's ears perked up and her steps halted for a short second, making Fredrik behind her stumble to a stop. Bran had hardly been out of his chambers since he woke up, and when Robb commanded Hodor, the sweet simple giant, to carry Bran about the castle, the young boy made it abundantly clear that he was not happy with his brother's orders. But now he sounded almost hopeful, and Sylvia had to see what her uncle had offered him.

"You will." Tyrion replied with a kind grin at the crippled boy, just as his niece rounded the corner.

"Is this a trick? Why do you want to help him?" Robb demanded with a frown. Did the dwarf feel responsible? Was this an attempt at repentance? Was it a sign of guilt?

"A happy thank you, would suffice, my love." Sylvia sounded joyfully as she strode further into the Hall.

"Ah! Sylvia dear." Tyrion greeted. "Radiant, as ever, sweetling."

"You're always too kind, uncle. But go ahead and repeat that to everyone in the Capitol." She smiled back as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. When she straightened herself, she looked up at Bran, whose attention was trained on the roll of paper in his hands. "What have you given him, uncle?" she asked.

"A means to ride, it seems." Robb provided from the dais, drawing his wife's eyes up to his. He hoped she could read his eyes, see his discomfort and understand that he had no wish to prolong this visit further. Sylvia's face broke out into a disbelieving, but hopeful smile, one that lit up her face in the most beautiful way. It seemed she was blind to everything but her own excitement.

"Truly?"

"Yes." Tyrion replied.

"That's marvelous. Thank you, Uncle Tyrion." She beamed. "I'll see it made at once."

"Good. Good."

"How long do you need to feed and water your horses? We are happy to provide you with food and drink for the long journey ahead." Robb's voice rose from the dais.

Sylvia's brows rose at her husband in surprise. How rude, she thought scornfully. It was with her lady's lessons that she managed to bite down the sudden admonition for him to be so rude to the man who just gave Bran a priceless gift. "S-surely there's no rush." She back at Tyrion. "The day is young still, and you've only just arrived. You haven't even seen Mini yet." She gave her uncle a hopeful smile.

Tyrion gave her an apologetic grin and took her hand in his. "Ah, my dear, I wish I could, but the longer I remain, the lonelier and poorer the whores of King's Landing get." Cersei hated him enough to berate him and chastise him for his escapades in front of her children, and so he'd taunted her with his openness of his depravity. Her children (apart from Joffrey, who shared his mother's heart) found it amusing—it didn't hurt them or embarrass them the way Robert's shamelessness did. He supposed, to them, it was amusing because he was a dwarf.

He would remain if he were welcome, if he thought Robb Stark wouldn't count down the minutes until he left. Though the long ride from the Wall had made his legs and arse very sore...

Sylvia giggled softly, hoping to hide the disappointment just enough that Tyrion felt a little guilty, but not so much that she seemed indifferent.

Robb bit the inside of his cheek subtly as he eyed his wife and then his brother, who still mulled over the roll of parchment with eager eyes. The dwarf's presence here had made the two of them happier, and what sort of man and lord didn't offer hospitality to the man who'd given his brother such a gift as hope? He didn't like it, but he knew he had to extend an offer of truce or raise suspicions.

"You've done my brother a kindness and my wife is right. You haven't seen Mini yet. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."

It was the dwarf's first instinct to decline with a quick barb towards the boy. He could almost smell the false kindness spewing from his mouth because he'd heard it enough times from other men, and other women. It angered him, and reminded him of all the times he'd ever had that belittling, forced courtesy presented to him, and he wanted more than anything to be out of this dank castle and be warm in a bed, with a wine cup in one hand, and a woman's tit in the other.

But his niece was beside him, (one of the few people in this world who had never been intentionally cruel to him), and he knew she looked happy and hopeful he would accept. And he did want to visit his grand-niece one last time while she was still a babe.

With a smile that was easily faked, Tyrion replied, "Well how can I refuse the hospitality of the great castle of Winterfell?" Like Tyrion, Robb could hear the lies on his lips, and bristled, already regretting his offer.

Varys unsheathed the blade that would have murdered her son and admired the wickedly sharp steel that appeared. "Valyrian steel..." he remarked with awe.

Catelyn almost huffed with impatience like a child. "Do you know whose dagger this is?" she asked with hardly managed patience. After Petyr used King's Landing guardsmen to summon her to his brothel of all places, she was nearing the end of her frayed rope. She could see the wisdom of such an act, yes, but the fact that she could still hear passionate moans and wet slaps of skin through the walls did not ease her annoyance much.

The Spider looked vaguely uncomfortable. "I must say I do not." He replied as he sheathed the blade. Catelyn's eyes lowered in defeat. If Varys the Spider, the spy master of King's Landing knew not who owned this ugly weapon, there was little chance anyone would.

A low chuckle broke through her disappointment, and she was surprised to see the absolute glee on Petyr's face when she turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. What in the Seven Hells is he smiling about? She wanted to hit him for a moment, to slap the inappropriate look from his moustached face, but then recalled the ugly scar Brandon Stark had given him when he and Petyr had dueled for her marriage bed.

"Well, isn't this momentous." Littlefinger said with a sly smile at the Master of Whispers. The smallest hint of a frown of irritation flittered across the foreigner's face. "Something you don't know, that I do." Catelyn raised a brow, hope renewing once more inside her. This all could have been for something after all! "There's only one dagger like this in all of the Seven Kingdoms." His delighted eyes met Catelyn's expectant ones. "It's mine." He said firmly.

"Yours?" the Lady of Winterfell asked with a raised brow of confusion.

Baelish gave a nod. "At least it was. Until the tournament on Prince Joffrey's last name day." He looked positively excited to have this information to offer Cat, where Varys had been lacking. "I bet on Ser Jaime, in the jousting, as any sane man would. When the Knight of the Flowers unseated him, I lost this dagger." His smile fell away finally at remembering the loss but his eyes remained solely on Catelyn, as though they were the only two people in the room.

"To whom?" Catelyn demanded eagerly.

"Tyrion Lannister. The Imp."

The Imp? That ugly little lecher? He...he'd sent a man to slay her child in his bed?

Ever since she'd come out of her grief, Catelyn had been steadfast in accusing the Lannisters, and any tiny doubt she had about her conviction was erased just as swiftly as it came. But to finally hear her fears confirmed gave her equal satisfaction and dread. Part of her feared that the tremendous wealth of the Lannisters and their deeply rooted hooks in the crown would bring them beyond reproach. Another part of her wondered about that girl, the southern girl who remained at Winterfell, sharing her son's bed and whispering whatever she pleased in his ear.

What of her? Would justice come for her head as well?

"You're wondering about your good-daughter." Petyr's voice broke through her ponderings. She didn't look up at him. Her eyes still burned with the salt of unshed tears. "The Imp's own niece, the queen's eldest daughter. Understandable suspicion, as she is the family of the ones responsible for your son's ill health." Catelyn glanced back up at Petyr, apprehension and a hint of fear in her eyes. She was not afraid of him; she never could be. They'd grown together at Riverrun—he'd fought for her hand, and even though she burned every letter he sent her thereafter out of respect to her betrothed (first Brandon and then her husband Ned), she'd always thought of him with fondness. He was as dear to her as her brother Edmure.

She was afraid of what he might say to confirm her fears of her own good-daughter.

After what felt like a lifetime, he said "Your fears are unfounded. She was a fanciful child, but she could not have had a part in this plot." Fanciful? Catelyn wondered what that meant, but didn't think to ask aloud.

"It's true, Lady Stark." Varys agreed from behind her. "Young Lady Sylvia hasn't the heart to plot against your family. She's a good, sweet thing, after all."

The weight of all this felt too much to bear alone. With Ned by her side, she could think clearly, they could share their knowledge and know what to do with this. She could be comforted, she could stop being strong for just a little while. "I need Ned." She said.

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