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Chapter 16: Lady

Her uncle spent the night in a brothel with a gaggle of whores to service him. Had it been anyone else, she would have felt truly offended—would have raved to Robb about their guest preferring to sleep in a whore's flea ridden bed, between her filthy thighs rather than a clean, generously offered bed in the castle. She would have hoped them never to return to Winterfell, and if they ever dared show their face, they would be greeted with none of the generosity she'd previously hailed them with.

But the offender was her uncle, and to shame ones kin, was to shame oneself. So Sylvia held her tongue, and quelled the sting of insult in remembering that this was the way it had always been.

When she was a girl, she recalled mother speaking sharply about her dwarf brother, and though she could not recall the words she'd used, as she grew older she pieced them together based on other people's jeers and the gossip about her uncles...nightly and often daily activates. Her father was often in the same sate with the same sort of women, but because he wore a crown, the crowds and her mother were silent. Mostly.

Memories of violent sounds and angry shouts sprung up so abruptly that it jolted her, and had her clamouring to shove the unwelcome thoughts away from her, like hot coals still red from the fire.

"Safe travels, uncle." The princess advised from her place beside Robb. The baby in her arms wriggled with boredom, her little feet nudging at her mother's arm through her bindings. It vaguely reminded the princess of when she felt Mini kick inside her, delighting both her and Robb.

"Always, my dear. Come to the Capitol, sooner rather than not." Though Jaime would rather you lived and died here, never setting a toe towards the south again. His brother was a jealous man, even though their niece's only crime was having Robert Baratheon for a father. "Or better yet, the Rock." He amended.

"I haven't been there since I was a girl, uncle." All she remembered of Casterly Rock was the great waterfall rushing into the ocean, and how being in the castle's tallest tower had made her feel on top of the world.

"I recall. You brought such joy to those boring halls. Please think about it. The maids are getting lazy."

Sylvia gave him a small smile—her mother's taut smile, Tyrion realized—and gave him a polished, courteous reply that basically said "perhaps". In the small quirk of her lips, Tyrion saw he'd treaded on a delicate issue. Mayhaps her husband refused travel—a homebody as he seemed, he doubted any of the Starks ever wished to leave their cold dwelling, as though they'd all melt without the snow and the ice.

He thought that Robb Stark would keep Sylvia locked in that dreary old castle tasted sour in his mouth.

But he remembered that Casterly Rock was ruled by his own father, and decided Sylvia wished to avoid her stern, implacable grandfather. He had never seen Tywin Lannister show any sort of warmth or fondness to any of Cersei's children, not even the boy who was Robert's heir.

It seemed his father held the belief that Cersei would do a fine job of crafting Joffrey into a suitable ruler on her own. Tyrion hoped that Tywin lived to witness his sister's ill work when the repulsive monster ascended the throne.

The wedded and bedded Baratheon princess settled a soft kiss to her uncle's large head as farewell, before he looked up to meet her husband's eye. He gave Robb a stiff nod of gratitude, though, in all truth, Ros the red head whore deserved more gratitude for her hospitality than the heir of Winterfell.

"Swift travels, Lord Tyrion." Robb offered formally.

It was for Sylvia that Tyrion did not tell the boy to eat his fickle words. "Not swift enough, Stark." With that, the Imp turned and waddled away with all the pride of a Lannister. Sylvia bit back the little frown which pulled at her lips. It would be nothing short of divine intervention that her husband and wicked little uncle ever took to each other.

Mini had liked Tyrion enough, to be true, and her uncle Imp had taken a liking to her as well.

The only babes she had ever seen her little uncle hold were Joffrey and Myrcella, but only on a few, barely remembered occasions and she remembered how mother had handed her children over to Tyrion like she were handing them to a pox ridden street rat.

Tyrion only ever came in tow of his elder brother, her mother's twin, and only stayed as long as he could stand her mother's barbs. As she grew older, the words imp, grotesque and monster lost their meaning as they were always spoken when referring to her uncle. She never thought it hurt him much because he only ever answered with stunning wit to make Uncle Jaime laugh. So Sylvia had grown up calling him the same, never thinking much on her words until her beloved Fredrik had mentioned how it must surely bother the Imp to be called thus. She hesitated thereafter to call him anything but uncle, because she truly cared for him, and had no wish to hurt his feelings. If he were like Uncle Jaime, she would not have cared a whit.

When she asked him about it, in the blunt way only young children could, he told her not to concern herself with such grown up things.

But here in Winterfell, her uncle held her daughter as fondly as Benjen or Eddard ever had. Her sweet girl did not see a dwarf or a whoremonger, and did not know to recoil in disgust. And Sylvia found nothing ill in allowing her uncle to hold her child. He hadn't had the chance when he first arrived in the castle with the rest of the royal family. She was not mindful of the reason, but often, Sylvia was blind to her mother's hateful, cold eyes.

While Tyrion held Minisa with a little smile of growing fondness, her other uncle—her mother's favorite brother—had scarcely looked at the child for more than a second. When asked if he would like to hold her, Jaime said he was better suited to hold swords than babes. Sylvia thought it might hurt her to know her uncle cared not a whit about her child, but oddly, she felt almost relieved.

Jaime Lannister had given her nothing to love when she was a child in King's Landing, and Minisa would be happier without wondering why her mother's uncle seemed so haughty and aloof. But if ever Jaime Lannister belittled her little girl or hurt her in any way, she did not care if he was her mother's brother—she'd hurt him back a hundredfold.

If Robb should lay abhorrence at one of her uncle's feet, she would have liked it better if he'd laid it at Jaime Lannister's shoes.

But for now, her littlest uncle gave a short wave before he turned his horse around, and moved for the open gate, his small compliment of Lannister guardsmen trotting after him. When the last of the mounted men disappeared passed the great archway and into the north, Sylvia looked to her husband.

"Thank you." She said, black tresses falling over her shoulder. There was a soft noise of iron clanging together that told of the stable boys closing and barring the gates.

"For what?" he asked, his blue eyes coming down to meet hers. She had an odd sort of look on her face, one he easily read as disappointment, though her tone hinted acceptance.

"I'm not a fool. I know you dislike him. I don't know why, and I don't think I could stand it if I knew." She was not blind to her uncle's appearance, or to his dishonourable tendencies. But with his kindness and wit and japes, it was impossible for her heart to be cold to the man who'd done no wrong to her. He was kinder to her than beautiful, golden Uncle Jaime ever had been. So she did not want to hear why Robb disliked him. "But thank you, my lord, for welcoming him." Though gods know you were happy enough that he shared a whores bed than kept in the castle, she thought.

"For you. Only for you." He replied, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her and Mini close. "For a little man, he drinks a lot of ale." He commented as his hand came up to hold Mini's tiny hand in his. His girl's tiny fingers clenched around his large one. The brewers had told him they'd gone through another barrel of the dark bitter brew in the one night the Imp had stayed for supper. He offered her this dry bit of amusement in hopes of making his wife smile. He felt he owed it to her for distrusting her uncle so, for hating the mere sight of him just for the name he bore.

It worked, and his wife laughed against his shoulder. "I heard him once or twice say that northern ale is a hundred times sweeter than northern wine." Such a tiny insult seemed more of a blow coming from a Lannister's mouth.

Little half formed monster, Robb thought bitingly.

With Lord Tyrion's departure, Winterfell received another party, this time from the south. Four guards bearing Stark banners came through the gates short days after the Imp left, a small cart towed behind them. They wore solemn looks on their faces, but travel can bring an ache to even a nomad's bones.

But when the furs and blankets were pulled back from the bed of the cart, stillness, a cold horror settled over the yard to find Lady, Sansa's direwolf, lying dead with her fur still bloody from the dirk that pierced her chest. A revolted look was on Robb's face, but there was a cold ire rising in his eyes. Beside him, Grey Wind gave a low, pained whimper, before his distressed yelp sliced through the air. His paws rested on the edge of the cart, as he sniffed at his littermate's cold body.

"Who did this?" Robb demanded of the guardsmen, sounding fierce and lordly. Sylvia moved beside the cart where Grey Wind poked his nose at Lady's leg. When her fingers touched her fur, she found the direwolf was still soft and her brows pulled together. She'd always liked Lady; she was as gentle tempered as Sansa but also playful and obedient. Now the sweet creature was stiff and cold, devoid of all that she had once been.

"Lord Eddard, m'lord. T'other wolf—little lady Arya's—it mauled the prince. It went missing after. The queen demanded justice, and little lady Sansa's wolf was the price."

"The prince?" Sylvia breathed, aghast. She turned to look at the men, her hand leaving Lady's fur. Tommen? That beast mauled little Tommen?

"Aye, m'lady." Replied the guard, his eyes lowering to the ground. Sylvia gasped, her brows narrowing in consternation, and her legs trembled beneath her dress. For a moment she forgot Lady, forgot Sansa and the pain she must feel and her head was filled with thoughts of Tommen. Poor little Tommen, her poor little brother who always seemed so soft and gentle minded, who had rabbits named Lady Bunbun and hated beets and loved blackberries more than anything. How had he been mangled? Where were the guards? Where was her mother, or Uncle Jaime, or her father even? Why had they not protected him?

"Is he wounded badly?" she asked evenly, coming towards them.

"No, m'lady. Prince Joffrey still has his arm, and he's still able to use it. It's just a bite." Joffrey? For a moment, she thought she'd heard wrong. Mother would not have let anything happen to Joffrey—his Hound would have struck it down first, no matter whom or what the foe was.

"Joffrey? It was Joffrey the wolf bit?" she asked in a sterner voice. She was appalled that this idea actually relieved her. Tommen had never made her cry, Tommen had never insulted her in her own home and Tommen was not horrible. Tommen deserved no such pain, but Joffrey did.

"Just a bite that cost Lady her life." Robb grumbled, his eyes casting aside to the bed of the cart.

"It bit my brother." She turned her eyes to Robb, shocked that he could even brush away what the wolf had done that cost its sister her life. As though her brother's life meant very little to him. He knew better than she did how powerful a direwolf was, even one still a pup.

"Nymeria would not have attacked unprovoked." He countered evenly.

"And if it had taken his arm off? Would you still move to defend it?" Joffrey was her brother, she couldn't say she loved him, but he was her family, part of her mother and father, part of her whether she liked it or not. He was attacked by an animal and acted as though Joffrey deserved more harm than he'd gotten. No doubt Joffrey had done something to deserve a bite, (she remembered all the times he'd pulled the tails of her kittens and puppies, yanking them about by their necks until she got her mother to stop him), but Robb could at least pretend he hadn't. Did he want the world to shame her for having a nasty little shit for a brother?

"They're too young to tear off any limbs, Syl." Robb replied with a small smile, as though she were jesting in her dismay. Sylvia didn't like it; even though she'd been miserable when first coming here, she never once doubted Robb's devotion to his sisters and brothers. She knew, because she'd been jealous that he cared more for them, than he had for her.

She was a child then, unwanting of Robb, yet she knew she needed his affections to thrive in her new home and she'd been jealous of how much he loved his siblings, and how much they loved him.

Even now, as a grown woman, she still felt a sudden pinch of envy when he lavished his siblings with affection, or when they stared up at him with complete adoration and trust. She'd only ever had that once, with Myrcella, and that had been stolen from her because of this boy, because she was to marry him.

But unlike her, he never had to leave his little brothers and sisters when it came time for them to meet—he had them right here, close to him always, while all she had were portraits, letters and dreams. Her grief for knowing this had pushed Robb away with anger and petty arguments and with him went his siblings and any potential companions for her.

Sansa had been kind and ladylike of course, but those first few months, Sylvia always sensed a kind of allusiveness to her courtesies, until Sylvia began to think all of Sansa's words were practiced and perfected just to placate her.

And all through it, Robb still had his little brothers and sisters clustered around him, and he was never lonely. But just because she was far from her siblings now—separated again for the second time—did not mean she felt no connection to them, and would never mean she was not loyal to them. She hated Joffrey, but the gods made him her brother and with such a title, came an odd feeling of shame if someone besides her tore him down, even in name behind his back.

But it was for her mother, why Sylvia truly felt any sort of fealty to Joffrey at all. Had he been born by someone else...but he was born by Cersei, as she was.

She waited until they were alone, for in private was where a woman could question or scold her husband, if she were so bold. She tried to explain to him that loyalty to her kin went beyond love, and was rooted in blood. Love was not what determined loyalty. As it came down to it, her mother's words best fit in what she tried to explain: she told him that a shame to Joffrey was a shame to her.

"What?" Robb asked, bewildered. "His shame is his to bear alone. Do not take his embarrassment as yours." He seemed so very sure, the firelight creating dancing shadows on the frown which pulled his brows down.

Why doesn't he understand, she wondered impatiently. "But it does. I...can't speak out against Joffrey in front of outside eyes. He and I came from the same place. To call him a cruel little prick is to suggest I am the same, only better at hiding it." Mother once called her a lion, who would not endure the ridicule of sheep.

He sighed, his hands coming to rest on her arms, and she was torn between shaking him off and stepping closer to curl against him. "Everyone knows you are nothing like him, Syl. Anyway, you are married to me. When we vowed to each other, you renounced your old house, and came into mine. You are a Stark. Your brother is a shame to himself and he will not pull you low. Not anymore."

But I was born a Baratheon, she thought. A stag of Storms End, daughter of King Robert and Queen Cersei of House Lannister. I was not born in the north, in the cold, in the snow and ice. I was born a princess, and a princess, I will die.

It was the defiant part of her that argued this. It was the part that tossed her harp out the window to watch the awful thing smash to pieces against the rocks below. It was the part asked to take up archery. It was the part that went to the north with feet dug into the earth. It was what had her make plans to run away back to the Capitol the first few months she was here.

And she knew all of that. She knew what happened in House Baratheon was of no concern of hers any longer, and she was happy for it. She had no interest in her Uncle Stannis' lack of a male heir, or who her little cousin Shireen would marry. She had no need to think of whom Tommen or Myrcella should wed. She didn't have to choose a side if someone created strife, nor did she have added pressure to birth a son so he would inherit Baratheon holdfasts.

"I know." She admitted gently. "But I can't just sever my ties all together—"

"You don't have to. It was done for you when we married." He countered his mouth pressing into a hard line. Why was he so stern? Did she annoy him for some daft reason?

She looked up at him, brows narrowed at his tone. "Was I not someone before we wed? Do you imagine it's as easy as snipping a threat with sheers?" He was quiet, his eyes boring down into hers and she knew he knew it was not nearly as simple as that. She sighed. "What is it exactly you expect of me?" she was almost afraid to know the answer, but she dared him to voice it. If he would order her to do something which he knew would cause her pain, then let him voice it.

"I want you to remember that you are a Stark now. You have no need to tie yourself in knots over them."

He saw her bite her lip for a second, before replying, "Are you telling me to disregard them entirely?" she studied his face intently, fearing to find truth written between the lines and curves of the face she loved so dearly.

To her shock, he didn't deny it. "What has Joffrey ever done in his life to earn your loyalty? Do you enjoy being tortured and berated?" his voice rose with his frustration. His words had been intended to maim, and it had done just that. Joffrey hated her, and never once had he given her anything to love. Robb grew up with a gaggle of siblings who love him, siblings who adored him, who would do anything to keep his name clean.

He would never understand any sort of loyalty that didn't come with love or affection. In a way, she felt richer than him for that.

She pushed his arms off her, her perfected glare nearly made him flinch back. "We have the same mother. The same father." She hissed. "It's for them, why I will defend that little prick." She felt wicked for calling Joffrey such awful names. It was thrilling.

Once, as a little girl, she'd called Joffrey a "sorry pathetic little cunt" to his face, and even though he'd shoved her down and called her names, nothing waned the satisfaction she felt at seeing his shock that she would dare talk back to him. He'd run to tell father, and no punishment came. Then he ran to tell mother, and three strikes to her palms with a wooden rod was her punishment. It was the worst punishment Cersei ever delivered on her, and Sylvia never insulted her brother to his face again.

Something sad came into Robb's eyes then. "Sylvia...you dimmed when they were here." He said.

"What?" she huffed, her arms coming to cross over her chest and her fingers clenched over the cotton covering her arms.

"You...you went to every dinner with them like you were going to the stocks. You never questioned your mother. They make you small."

A sudden flare of hurt struck her heart, spreading to the tips of her fingers and toes, and all she could do for a moment was look at him. Small? He thought her...small? Was she nothing but a wisp of a girl compared to her beautiful, golden siblings, under her beautiful golden mother? Did he find her lacking now that he had other southerners to compare her to? In the Capitol, others had found her lacking. Others had even thought her mad—

No, she thought at once. No. Robb loves no one else but me, he's my husband; it's only for me, why he thinks of south.

But...small?

"You don't understand what it is you're talking about, and why would you?" she hated the way her voice wavered a little. She'd win this argument—Robb could not stand her tears. But she didn't want to win out of pity. She wanted to win because she was right! "You don't know them. You don't want to know them." She clenched her jaw. "You-you don't even like Tyrion for just the fact that he's ugly. I hate Joffrey—I hate him, but I can't—"

He stopped her here, his arms once more coming to her arms and after a moment, one traveled to her hair. "Alright, Syl. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She sighed, her shoulders dropping. "What I'm saying is: you don't need to worry over Joffrey and his deeds. You're my wife. You're a Stark. Their doing can't touch you here."

She gave him a sad smile. "I could be in the Red Waste, and somehow it would reach me. Maybe on a vulture. Or a Dothraki screamer." She added dryly.

Robb grinned. "I'm sorry." He said again, pulling her close so her head came under his chin.

Sylvia hummed, still stiff against him. She always loved it when Robb apologized. It was an odd thing to love. It was something she'd never really heard as a girl. "Promise you won't insult Joffrey in public. If you do, I'll be compelled to defend him, even if you're right." she looked up at him.

"Alright. I promise." The vow left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She huffed sharply against his neck, her breath batting against his skin. "They're my family, Robb." She said evenly. "I didn't choose them anymore than you chose yours."

He did not reply. It was true, but his family did not shove little boys from towers under the trust of the Guest Right. Robb felt his arms constrict around her. The Lannisters were filth, murderous, and dangerous. He wanted to tell her again, for the thousandth time all that he knew. About Bran. About his mother. About how afraid he was. He wanted to keep her from that filth, fearful that if she stepped into it, she would never step out.

She deserved the truth, no matter how badly it would hurt her. She deserved to know what she defended so it would not burn her when they deceived her.

She had to know—he couldn't fight this fight without her.

Or, at least, he didn't want to.

Lady was buried in the crypts on Winterfell, although Sylvia had thought the godswood to be a prettier and happier place to lay the wolf to rest.

"No," said Robb with a look in his eye that seemed to age him. "She was special. She deserves the ancient crypts."

When the guards further explained what had happened on the road, it was all Sylvia could do to keep herself from shoving the contents of the nearest table down onto the floor in frustration.

They'd explained the official story, of how Sansa and the prince had been walking, when they happened upon Arya and some lowborn boy. They said nothing of how it happened, only that suddenly, Arya struck Joffrey with a branch and set her wolf on him.

Sylvia knew Arya to be wild, unladylike and rough. But she did not think that she would strike her sister's intended, and her good-sister's own brother for no reason. But what reason was there? She also knew how rotten, how cruel Joffrey could be and Arya had less restraint than she did. But gods be merciful, what was Arya thinking? Striking the prince, striking Joffrey, only meant something terrible to happen. And it had. Nymeria was gone to the wild, and Lady was dead.

To the world, she would be without opinion—she would say nothing of the matter, only of the result. But in her heart, Sylvia would hope Joffrey's wounds festered, would hope his arm forever disfigured and hope he never held a sword again. No matter what had happened, Lady hadn't deserved to pay the price of life. And, she thought, I would have liked to be the first to throttle Joffrey with a branch and knock him on his polished arse.

But it had been her mother to suggest that Lady die, and Sylvia did not know how her mother could order such a cruel thing to be done to the Stark girls—to Sansa who would wed her son. Joffrey must not love Sansa as much as he seemed to, if he did nothing to spare her wolf. Lady was good, she hadn't deserved such a painful, bloody end to satisfy a worthless little shit's temper and her mother's wroth.

But then, the fierce motherly part of her reasoned, had it been Mini who'd been mauled, Sylvia might have held the knife herself. She did not feel as wretched for thinking that, because she knew most mothers would do the same. Even Lady Catelyn herself.

Weeks passed them by without another incident, and Sylvia was happy for the quiet.

A raven had come with the new moon's turn, the crimson seal of House Lannister sealing the paper closed. Eagerly, she opened it, wondering who from her mother's house was calling on her. Perhaps it was her cousins, distant strangers though they were. But when she tore open the wax seal, she found that it was from her own mother, inviting her once more to visit her in King's Landing, to present Minisa to the court, and show her husband the glamour of court life.

Although touched by the generous offer of royal hospitality, and the promise of private apartments to reside in for however long they wished, court life was not something she relished in visiting. She loved her home in the south, but had her mother forgotten what life was like for her at court? Robb's eyes looked south and recoiled. But Mini would love the Capitol. She'd love the warmth because it would mean she could crawl around as she wished without her mother worrying that she was getting too cold. She'd love the flowers, and the pretty birds and the seashells that could be found in the merchant's stalls.

But it was impossible to go now. She and Robb's duties had truly solidified when Lady Catelyn rode off, and Bran was not fit for travel. Neither she, nor Robb would leave the boy at Winterfell alone while they flounced away on an adventure, leaving him alone and vulnerable.

The letter she wrote back to her mother was filled with sweet thanks and polished courtesies, but the quill felt heavy in her hand. It had been so long since she was home, and she thought often of the life she'd once had in the Red Keep. Her life was here now, but too often her thoughts traveled to the Red Keep, wondering of its red brick halls, and grand towers, the shimmering blue waters with boats and skiffs gliding across it, and all the jewels and finery available from one request.

One morning, a fortnight after her mother's letter arrived, she awoke to the morning light streaming through the cracks in the shutters. Foggy remnants of her dreams faded off into obscurity, and she slowly became aware of the fact that her leg had wormed itself between her husband's, and when she tried stretching, her hand bumped into his back.

Her fingers flattened against the warm, smooth skin of her husband's back, feeling him breathe, feeling his heartbeat. He almost never wore a nightshirt to bed, unless the summer snows were falling and a chill swept through the castle. Those nights he would leave the fire burning through the night, and have extra blankets brought to her because he knew she'd freeze otherwise and in return for his thoughtfulness, Sylvia would commission the cooks to prepare Robb's favorite meal—mutton stew and a loaf of brown bread with butter—to thank him.

It was a small gesture, but their life together was built on small gestures, all starting from when he'd saved her from embarrassment during her first lesson with him and Maester Luwin.

He's a good husband, she thought sleepily. When Mini came, the summer snows lost their magic and appeal, and for a few mad weeks, all she saw when she looked at them was a terrible freezing death come for her fragile child.

Robb had let her bring the babe into bed with them, placing Mini between them so she'd be warm and safe and protected from the cold. But soon after, Mini began to whine and whimper and cry, stretching and fidgeting and working herself into a tantrum, and she'd only calm when her wrappings were pulled away and the cool air batted over her too warm skin. After a couple stressful weeks of nearly sleepless nights, they realized that Mini enjoyed a touch of cold. Anything too warm would bring on fussing.

Knowing this made Sylvia wonder if she'd have anything in common with her own daughter besides the likeness of the Baratheons. Would she be a southerner to even Mini? Maybe in the south things would be different. Her daughter was still half of her; there was a chance she would do well in the warm climate of the south.

A deep garbled breath from the man beside her made her eyes flutter open, her brows pulling down in the soft light of day. She thanked the gods that she was a heavier sleeper than her husband, which spared her from hearing him snore. He usually woke before her, some deeply engrained habit from his boyhood making him rise, while her girlhood of sleeping late fashioned her into a late riser.

If she were more aware, she might have wondered what made him sleep so late, but instead she just snuggled deeper into the warm respite she'd fashioned.

For a time, Sylvia let herself linger between wakefulness and sleep, her thoughts wandering about without purpose or reason. Outside, she could hear the castle waking with the sun, horses in their stables, blowing and nickering at the stable hands for feed.

A ride, she thought dimly, when was the last time I rode? At once, she remembered riding a month after Mini came, mostly because she was still uncomfortable with sitting on the hard saddle after the lower half of her brought forth a child with blood and pain. But that couldn't be the last time; it was so long ago. Riding was always so relaxing, though the pain of the saddle was quite wretched. Someone should really create a comfier saddle.

Somewhere in the middle of her blurry thoughts, Robb's breathing had changed, becoming more regular and shorter. She felt his legs shift over hers, slowly disentangling himself so he could shift, and roll onto his back. He was still a long time, his breathing steady and soft, and she knew he was awake, knew he was watching her, wondering if he should wake her and pull her close or let her sleep. She wasn't moved one way or the other, and continued to dance with sleep, awaiting his choice, until, finally, she heard him sigh and move to get up.

He was half way to the desk when he heard her speak. "Where are you going?" she murmured sleepily.

"Just to get some water." He replied softly, watching her prop up on her elbows, her single black braid hanging messily over her shoulder, tussled and fuzzy from sleep. She looked beautiful.

She gave a small nod before yawning and falling back on the bed. He turned back to the desk, filled his cup with water and when he drank, the icy liquid chilled down his throat, jarring him and pulling him farther from sleep.

He'd dreamed of Grey Wind again. He'd dreamed he was Grey Wind and when he woke up, he could still taste blood in his mouth from his kill. It was equal parts fascinating and unnerving to him, and he'd laid awake a long time just looking at his wife, because she was what was real, she was there.

Since his wolf had gotten too big and too restless to remain in the castle at night, Robb had leased him and his two brothers out into the godswood. And though Mini missed her companion sleeping protectively by her side, the direwolf was happier in the expanse of the godswood.

But since that first night, over a month ago, he'd had the same dream almost every night. He could feel the dirt beneath him, feel the chill of the night air on his nose, smell the trees, and smell the murky water nearby, smell the musk of prey on the breeze. And beside him, there was Shaggy and Summer, prowling low to the ground, nipping at his heels playfully, or lunging for their next meal ahead of them.

They were not bad dreams, but their vividness startled him, and often he awoke with some lingering feeling from his dreams. Either it was a racing heart from a run, the taste of blood in his mouth, or the smell of the thicket in his nose, which remained to him when he woke up in his dark chambers.

When he returned to bed, he pulled Sylvia close. They were only dreams. As a boy, he'd wanted to be a wolf (much like Rickon, though he'd only ever told Jon), and now that he had one, those old fantasies had re-emerged. His arm reached up so he could twist his fingers into the loose strands coming from his wife's braid. He'd never told Sylvia—they were only dreams after all. But the need to tell her had been growing since the first night, and he felt it had finally reached its height.

"I had a strange dream." He blurted.

She sighed against him sleepily, her breath puffing against his neck. "What was it?"

"I...dreamed I was a wolf."

"A wolf?"

"Yes. Paws and all." He joked. Syl smiled.

"Rickon would love to be a wolf. I caught him the other day howling with Shaggy."

"I know." She'd told him already, and they'd shared a laugh over a cup of wine.

She was quiet for a beat. "What were you doing as a wolf?"

He paused. "Hunting." He managed.

She grimaced. "How awful. I dreamed once I was a rabbit. All I did was eat cake."

He gave a short laugh. "Must have been a good dream." He wished in his dreams all he ate was cake.

"It was." Then they were quiet a long time, Robb's fingers continuing the same lulling motions in her hair.

He almost thought she were back asleep, when she suddenly lurched up, the top of her head knocking against his jaw and clacking his teeth together in a painful mash. She didn't seem jarred as he did, and only exclaimed, "Bran's saddle will be ready today!" and looked back at her husband who still cradled his aching jaw, a bright smile still spread over her lips.

HEYY!

Really not sure about this chapter and I hope you can forgive me for it's lameness :( I just wanted to portray a kind of "calm before the storm" sort of thing.

Thank you again to all the support, and all the reviews and favorites and alerts :D You guys make it all worth it :D::D

please leave me love and let me know you're still invested please please please :)