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Chapter 17: A Man of Honour

News came swift as wind to King's Landing of the Imp's kidnapping; it spread through the streets and up into the Red Keep like sickness, and by sunset, every peddler in murky depths of King's Landing knew of Catelyn Stark's treason.

Cersei's dainty slippered feet clacked loudly against the red brick as she strode down the hall, her guards rushing to keep up behind her. The queen's long golden mane laid flat against her back, kept out of her face by two little twists at her temples, and her green lace and silk gown complimented her burning eyes.

The queen had never been so baffled in her life by another person's idiocy, but the disbelief quickly melted away to rage and indignation. By what right did they dare challenge the lion? She was the queen, mother of the heir to the throne, daughter of Tywin, wealthiest woman in all the kingdoms—and Catelyn Stark had the gall to cross her.

Lady Stark had apparently claimed that Tyrion had issued an attempt on her crippled son's life, and had then apprehended him at a tavern she was at for some stupid reason. It was only later that the queen learned that Catelyn had been in the Capitol not fortnight before—there to see her husband and plot this treason, no doubt.

Cersei burned. She liked being three steps ahead of her enemies, and now to know that a scheming little shewolf had been in her grasp not a month ago, only to be missed, filled her with ire. Her friend in the north was inept, it would seem, and it was in Cersei's mind to open the girl's throat and leave her body to rot in a ditch.

But first things first. She drew her thoughts back.

The dried up husk that was the Lady of the North, had then gone on to smuggle the Imp back to the cold waste she'd emerged from. This was folly. The Stark boy claimed he remembered nothing of the day he fell, and she and Jaime had agreed that sending someone to kill him would have only stirred the settling dust. He'd die on his own, sooner or later.

It made no matter to her if Tyrion had sought to murder the boy, for whatever monstrous reasons he had, but what troubled her most was that he'd gotten himself captured. By a fish and a handful of tavern drunkards. Father will be furious, and everyone knew Tywin Lannister's rage was far worse than anything Robert Baratheon's famous fury could conjure.

He'd show them all—the Starks, the small folk, the Realm, the gods—what it meant to cross a lion.

When Cersei climbed the last steps leading to the Hand's Tower, she shoved open the door, without care of disturbing the man inside, and paused, startled to see her fat husband filling the room. Her mouth tightened. Where else would he be, if not at Ned Stark's side when he was maimed? He loved the fool sleeping in that bed, more than he'd ever loved her.

The queen felt a fresh surge of contempt for Ned Stark rise within her heart.

Before she could speak, Robert fixed her with a dark glare. "Quiet woman. I know what you've come to say and I'll not hear it spewing from your lying mouth."

"Well perhaps you'd like to hear it from my father's." She countered with a low hiss, gliding into the solar. "And explain to him how the former Hand of the King, goes about abducting his queen's brother and then attacking the other?" her voice echoed down the steps of the tower, making her guards shift anxiously.

Jaime's brawl with Ned Stark had only fanned the flame of rage in her heart, because while she cared for her family's legacy at least half as much as her father, she loved Jaime more. To know that this dirty northerner had raised arms to her twin with the intent to maim him, made her want to tear Ned Stark apart. She'd take up a sword to defend Jaime in a heartbeat, even though he wouldn't need it.

The double slight against her house would not pass without impunity. Honour and pride would be restored, else it would be war.

Ned Stark's friendship with Robert made him too bold; he extended his power beyond proper limits, and believed himself untouchable with the king as his shield. But Robert was only as strong as her father allowed him to be. He was weak for wine and food and flesh, weak for the gold which paid for it all. And it was House Lannister who provided the gold.

Only Tywin Lannister was unbreakable and he was no friend of Lord Stark's.

"You'll always run back to your father when you want your way. What will you do when Tywin Lannister is rotting in the ground?" he asked cruelly.

Then it will be I who they all fear, Cersei thought to herself, and you shall be nothing but dust in a tomb, remembered only for your rebellion and not your pitiful rule.

"Catelyn Stark will release that little shit back to your father, and that will be the end of it!" he bellowed. Robert always liked to brush things off so he would not have to think about them for long. He liked to think his word was final, though the issue never departed entirely. He'd done the same with that wolf bitch who'd mauled her boy—he thought it was ended because Sansa's wolf was dead, but she still wanted the youngest Stark girl punished properly for setting her beast on Joff.

Slowly, Lord Stark began to stir, his bleary eyes blinked open to stare hazily at the monarchs—first the queen, and then the king.

His first words were apologies for not being able to rise in salute to the king. Cersei could have scoffed. Burying his deeds with flattery was a cowardly trick. Robert adored flattery. Perhaps this was why he loved his whores so dearly.

"Do you know what your wife has done?" the queen enquired. How could he not? Catelyn Stark fawned on her husband, simpering and sharing every dastardly little secret she had with him. Sylvia had told her that they were quite close, never apart for more than a month.

"She did nothing I did not command." Lord Eddard defended sternly, a little waver in his voice that was brought by pain.

"Who'd have thought she'd have it in her?" Robert said dryly. Catelyn was loyal to her husband, but neither monarch believed that Eddard had commanded her to take the Imp. Lord Stark was no fool. Surely he would have known to seize Tyrion while he was still in the Capitol would lead to this. Lady Stark was an idiot.

If that woman thought she could force them into submission because her family had Sylvia sitting pretty in the north, she could think again. This would not be true for long, she promised herself. Her daughter would not be used as a shield. She would not be made to choose between her family and justice.

"By what right dare you lay hands on my blood?" Cersei seethed, her green eyes burning as hot as wildfire.

"I am the King's Hand, charged with keeping the peace." Lord Stark countered with a raised voice.

"You were the King's Hand. And now you shall be held accountable!" she wanted justice for this offense. The dust was resettling after what happened with the Stark boy, only to have been stirred again when the wolf mauled Joff. The Starks wrought nothing but trouble to the south, with their wildness and unwelcome inquiries. But she could have scared him, seduced him, paid him more gold then he could imagine, and Lord Stark would quieten. She had no fear of Eddard Stark. She wouldn't have struck unless he tread where he should not have, and so far, all he had were the last words of a dead man, and questions without answer.

"Enough! Both of you shut your mouths!" Robert roared. They were quiet, the queen glaring at him, while Ned watched Robert. "Catelyn will release Tyrion and you will make your peace with Jaime!"

"He butchered my men." countered the injured lord.

Cersei scoffed softly. It was a small price to pay for his insult. His men—those noble, honourable, good men—were killed on whorehouse steps. How dare a man like Eddard Stark claim to be honourable when Jaime found him leaving a brothel? He had a bastard son, living under his own roof, and yet Robert still claimed he was the best man he knew. What did Robert know of great men? Robert's "great man" had attacked her brother.

"Lord Stark was returning drunk from a whorehouse when his men attacked Jaime." The queen relayed to her husband, some small blossom of hope in her chest desiring to see Robert's love for the northerner turn sour at learning this.

Alas. Robert inclined his head to her and barked, "Quiet woman!"

"J-Jaime has fled the city." Sounded the man from the bed. For a moment, Cersei was surprised he knew this. Jaime must have said something to him, she figured. She wished he had at least told her that when she saw him last. "Give me leave to bring him back to justice."

To her horror, Robert was silent, seeming to consider this absurdity. Justice would be done when Catelyn Stark was brought to the Capitol, bound and gagged with the Imp waddling behind.

"I took you for a king." She hissed, eyeing the black and grey wiry mess of his hair. Once she'd loved that hair, and had dreamed that her children would have it. Once, and no longer.

"Hold your tongue." Her husband ordered lowly.

"He's attacked one of my brothers and abducted the other. I should wear the armour and you the gown." She bit out. Even as a woman, she was a hundred times the man he would ever be. She was a better politician, a better monarch, a better parent that he could ever dream to be. But before the Starks came into the Keep, she'd known Robert was strong enough to do what needed to be done. Now he bowed to the will of some fool northerner.

Robert's slap was just as painful as it had always been, and for just a moment, her heart clenched. It had been a while since the last time, over a year in fact. It still hurt the same. But she would not be ashamed or show him tears. It was what he wanted; he wanted her to hobble away like a pathetic creature of tears and frailty. She would never give him what he desired again. This mark on her face was Robert's sin, coloured in purple and blue, and she would not turn away.

The queen collected herself, pulling her shoulders back and staring her husband in the face. "I shall wear this like a badge of honour." She said.

Robert drew in close, his stance threatening and his voice low and dangerous. "Wear it in silence, or I'll honour you again."

When she glanced back at Lord Stark, his face was hard, almost as though he grimly approved of Robert's threat. Yes, she thought coldly as the door slammed behind her. A man of honour indeed.

She knew now for certain the Starks could not be trusted. Even with Lord Stark's daughters in her pocket, he still plotted as though she could and would do nothing to defend her family. But she needed all his playing pieces in her possession before she would feel safe. That included her daughter.

After the brawl, Jaime had come to her chambers, only to tell her he was leaving to meet with their father at the Rock. By the time word reached the west, Tywin Lannister will have gathered the force of the westerlands against the riverlands, and Jaime wanted to be there when they got Tyrion back.

At first, she hadn't heard him, and had only seen the blood on his fine leathers and velvets, fearing the very worst.

"Are you hurt?" she'd asked him urgently, her hands coming to her twin's arms to inspect him, not minding the blood which stained her hands.

"The Starks fight like half drunken pig farmers." Jaime said briskly.

Her hands reached for his hair, and fear made her fingers clench in the spun gold strands. "You shouldn't have, Jaime. You should have left him to me."

"They have Tyrion—"

"I don't care about Tyrion! What about Sylvia? I know you don't love her, but she's my daughter." The queen spoke in rushed voice, one full of fear and worry. It pained her to say aloud that her lover hated her daughter, but it was the truth wasn't it? No matter how Jaime loved her, he could never love Sylvia. He could hardly tolerate her. Jaime moved to reassure her, his arms tightening around her and pressing her hard against his chest.

"The Starks know that if they harm her, it will be war. No matter if they hurt Tyrion or return him, they will be decimated." A surge of love rose inside her at hearing his comforting words. He hated her little doe, and yet, for his twin, he'd kill for her. Yes, she'd thought dizzily. I'd tear their House apart from the roots, burn their stronghold to ashes and cinders, and erase the name Stark from history.

"I want her back, Jaime." She whispered against his neck. She kissed his neck once. "Please, Jaime. Please, please, please, my sweet twin. I want her back." She moved in his arms, her nose rubbing over his pulse point. "I fear for her. She isn't safe there, with them. I must keep her safe." His sister pulled away from him then, leaving the smallest bit of space between them, just enough so she could tilt her head up and look at him with wide, worried eyes. He felt her lips brush his chin. "Return her to me, Jaime. Bring her back home for me."

"Cersei—" he wanted to tell her no. It was impossible. What was he to do? March on Winterfell, slaughter its people and take Sylvia Baratheon? And why would he ever want to bring her here, where he would have to see her every day? He wanted the girl gone from memory, to forget that Cersei had ever had a child of Robert's.

"Please Jaime. Please. I can never be happy without her here, knowing she's with them." She continued. Suddenly, Jaime was fearful she was telling him the truth. She'd never been particularly happy the girl was away with the Starks, but it had been peaceful then. She'd never have another decent night's rest if Sylvia was used as a pawn. He had seen the way his sister had crumbled when her first born died—the way she screamed, cried, the way she'd seemed so hollow.

Nothing he'd said or done had eased the hurt, and Jaime would die before he allowed that to happen a second time. Even though it would mean bringing that girl back here, he would do it. For Cersei. Maybe he could convince his sweet sister that the girl would be happier in Casterly Rock, where their father could look after her. She certainly couldn't live under her mother's shadow forever.

"Alright," he whispered to Cersei. "I will bring her home." Her smile shone bright with relief and Jaime could not resist the urge to kiss her even if he wanted to.

Not an hour later, Jaime Lannister rode away from the Red Keep, off to the west where he would join with his father.

Sylvia and the rest of the castle waved Robb, Theon and Bran off at Winterfell's gates, as though they were leaving for some diplomatic mission which would keep them away from home for weeks. In truth, they were only riding for the Wolf's Wood and normally this wouldn't have brought on much pomp, but Bran in his new saddle was a sight long awaited. The entirety of Winterfell loved Bran, and to see him out again, astride his horse with a smile on his face brought joy to the very heart of Winterfell.

As they rode through the gates, Bran urging his gelding to a brisk trot, the southern woman recalled the cold, tactless words her father had spoken about lame horses and broken children. When she remembered how her mother had told her not to hope for Bran, her ears burned and anger stirred in her belly. They'd spoken without knowing how stubborn Bran really was.

He was alive. He had lived and was riding his horse like any other boy, and she longed for her family to see him and be shamed that they'd ever doubted Bran or Maester Luwin. Let them both eat their words, she thought smugly, and let Joffrey choke on them.

But, another, doubtful, part of her whispered, other boys do not need to be harnessed into their saddle.

Robb kissed her cheek tenderly, and stroked Mini's hand with his finger before he mounted. There was a joy in his eyes and lightness to his movements that brought joy to her heart. Her husband had been heavy as of late, weighed down by his duties as Lord of Winterfell, and as a kind of father to Bran and Rickon, as well as Mini. She hoped this feeling lasted forever.

She wished she could go with them, letting the wind blow her hair out behind her, working through every strand and chilling her to the bone. She hated the cold, but the cold through her hair and the heat of a horse beneath her, Sylvia felt free. But...

Mini began to give soft, impatient groans as the men disappeared behind the trees.

...her daughter was getting fussy.

Adjusting her grip around the babe, Sylvia turned away. The crowd of Winterfell inhabitants parted for their young Lady as she made her way back inside the coverage of the castle. Minisa squirmed and whined in her arms, stretching so forcefully that Sylvia had to readjust her three times, and each time, Mini's whines grew closer to squawks.

By the time Sylvia reached her Lady's Solar, the child had begun to cry.

High, long drawn out howls rung in her ear and Sylvia didn't know what to do with her. There was no reason for her to cry this hard, because she'd only just eaten, she wasn't soiled, and she didn't feel too cold. She began to feel rather...useless. What sort of mother didn't know what to do with their baby?

In desperation, Sylvia unbound the babe from her cottons and furs and set her on the bear skin rug before the fire. But even that did not calm her. Mini wailed, her mouth opening to reveal her tiny white teeth, her cheeks reddening and tears gathering in her eyes. Sylvia hauled her up again; stroking her onyx curls in an attempt to sooth her child.

After a few failed attempts of rocking, hushing, offers of toys and feeding, Sylvia set off to the Maester's Tower, frustration rising like fire in her belly. There was something the matter with her girl, and she had to find out what it was.

Lady Sylvia had always been so very worried about her child, even before the girl had been born. When the girl finally did come into the world, lively and healthy, the little lady had not let the septa's touch the baby, even to clean her off. She'd snapped at them when they insisted it was not proper of her to hold a newly born child, still bloody from birth, to her breast.

In those first few moments, Sylvia became a protective lioness which would have made her mother proud to behold. She'd growled at the attending septas to give her a clean cloth so she could clear away the mess herself and she ordered them out as soon as the afterbirth had come away. As time went on, Sylvia loosened her grip on her fear, and let her daughter be as other children. But every time the babe wept for reasons natural to children—belly aches, new teeth coming through, rashes, and the like...Sylvia's fear held steady, always fearful death had returned for her daughter.

As the door closed behind her, she looked to find that her sworn shield had been dutifully standing watch outside her door. She'd thought he'd gone to attend his own business after seeing Robb and the others ride off, but now she was very glad he hadn't. Mini loved Fredrik.

The princess sagged in relief. "Oh, Fredrik." She held her daughter out to him. "Can you take her a while? She's been wailing in my ear for too long."

"Motherhood will make you deaf before long." Her old knight joked to her, easily taking the squalling baby into his arms without so much as a flinch.

Mini ceased her cries nearly at once, her little hand reaching up to rub against the bristly orange and white stubble of Fredrik's beard. Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "Now you stop," she huffed at her daughter. Minisa only smiled at her mother, her little hand clenching against the knight's chin, as though to say "look what I've found, mother!"

"She must have missed you." Over the last few days, her old knight had been preoccupied with his kitchen wench—Calla or Cara, something or other. While she was happy Fredrik was finding some happiness with a woman of his own (he'd never been married, and had no children that he talked about), she felt the oddest sense of annoyance grow within her, as he spent more time with that woman.

Fredrick Ravenback had always been her knight. No one else had mattered to him but her and he'd always protected her—from anything, even things that wouldn't draw blood. He'd been her only friend for the longest time; he'd seen her at the very worst, her very best, and all the times in between. He'd never spoken ill of her or lied to her, he'd never abandoned or misled her. He'd been hers since she was three, and she was hard pressed to...give him up.

It seemed unthinkable that he would not be there whenever she needed him. Would all his love and loyalty belong to her now, his kitchen wench? Would he show a hundred times more devotion, because Calla or Cara was the one he chose, not the one he was saddled with? She could feel herself growing upset, her belly twisting.

"She must have missed pinching me." The knight grumbled as Mini's little fingers squeezed his face again.

"You should visit her more often. I know she would adore the company."

If he caught her meaning, he did not show it. "You ought to give her some brothers." Ser Fredrik gave Mini a rare smile, adjusting her a little. "Those will keep her busy until the day she weds."

Sylvia was quiet, feeling embarrassment crawl over her skin, leaving its red mark on her neck and cheeks. She and Robb hadn't discussed more children, but he almost always pulled out just before his end and finished on her belly. That suited her just fine—in fact she even enjoyed it, as deplorable and vulgar as it was. But she knew, at some point in the future, the north would look to her for Robb's heir, a boy of ice and steel who would inherit Winterfell when Robb was gone.

Oh she would give Robb ten sons, and gladly too, but she was wary. It had taken her over a year to conceive Mini, and then she'd nearly lost her child in the seventh month. After that, she'd been all but shackled to her bed for the remainder of her pregnancy, only permitted to get up to make use to the chamber pots. Of course, she'd eventually gotten so bored and so sore that she'd disobeyed and stood to walk about the room. That fear and that complete and utter boredom had been a hell she had no wish to endure again.

And why would she need brothers so soon when she had Fredrik and Grey Wind to play with?

The princess gave her shield a tight grin. "When will little Ravenback boys run through the halls?" she asked, hoping to make him as uncomfortable as he'd made her.

Instead, to her surprise, he laughed. "Not for a long while yet, my lady." She asked him once if he had children and he'd brushed her off, saying Ravenback boys caused more trouble than they were worth. "I'd rather not have a slew of bastards run under your dainty little feet."

Her toes clenched inside her toes. She'd taken to this habit as a child, because as a girl she was berated whenever she flinched or fidgeted. It was not proper of a princess...

Did this woman he seemed so fond of, change his mind on children of his own? A heart could not be changed on a moon's turn. This kitchen wench would surely lure him away and stick him with a boring life he would likely come to regret. Fredrik was not a craven, and he'd never leave any children he'd sired, so he'd be trapped with her and her brood. She would have to meet her soon, this woman of his, to know if she were the right sort of woman who deserved Fredrik's adoration. What could a damned kitchen wench offer him? Skills beneath the sheets? Fredrik deserved more.

"Best watch yourself with that woman, ser." She advised gently. "You know how serving wenches can be." Fredrik's smile faded, a sternness coming into his eyes as he regarded his charge.

"Not every serving wench would lay down for a flash of coin, Sylvia." He replied boldly.

"They did for my father." She replied with rising fervour. They all had. Even the ones she'd trusted would dishonour her mother by night and serve her in the day. She'd learned quite a while ago not to expect much from serving wenches and to distrust them almost inherently.

"Your father is the king. There are few women brave enough to deny the king what he wants." Countered the knight.

Sylvia looked away, unable to deny this. But her father would not have forced a woman, she knew.

"Carry her to the Maester's Tower." She ordered stiffly. Fredrik nodded. When Sylvia was upset with him she hardened herself to him, treating him as she would any other servant. It stung him more than it should have.

By midday, the three who'd set off for the Wolf's Wood had returned to the castle, only now there was a fourth, a wildling woman, slung over Bran's horse. She was a woman; she'd yielded, so he'd spared her. He'd offered the others the same, fair chance, and they'd attacked.

Bran had ridden too far off—his excitement drawing him away from the path and away from his brother and foster brother, deeper into the woods where a Night's Watch deserter and three wildlings prowled. They'd tried to strip the boy of his horse and all the finery he possessed, and when Robb had shown himself, they bared their teeth, as though that would daunt him.

When they were dead, the last man standing had drawn a knife under Bran's neck, and Robb could do nothing but drop his sword, hoping that once the traitor got what he wanted, he would release him. He'd seen Bran nearly die too many times. His little brother's life was too precious to gamble.

It was Theon who'd put an end to the standoff, Theon who sent an arrow through the deserter. An odd sense of indignation swept through Robb to remember it, almost like embarrassment. Robb was the one meant to protect Bran, and he'd all but failed again. Sylvia had given him assurances and expressed her faith in his ability to protect their family, and now he felt as though her trust had been misplaced. But Theon could have missed—his arrow could have been too low, or the deserter's arm could have jerked and sliced Bran open.

He'd berated the ward for his carelessness, but it didn't fade the feeling of failure.

The anger swirling in Robb's gut, burned down to a simmer as they rode on, but part of him still wanted to set fire to Theon's finely crafted oak wood bow and all its arrows. He'd rather Theon take up a womanly craft than see him with a damned bow again.

Bran rode with him, and his face was hidden when Robb peered to look at him. The crippled boy had seen the entire thing—every bloody slash, every stab, and he'd been quiet. He must be more terrified than he let on. How could he not be? But Robb wished he would say something. Anything.

Coming through Winterfell's gates, Robb felt at ease again and loosened the grip on his reigns. Within the walls of ancient stone fortress, Robb was home. There were few things sweeter in life than returning home when you are afraid. It is a feeling of comfort, of release, that could not be replicated. It was not simply a holdfast to Robb—it was much more.

Guiding his gelding towards the stables, his eyes caught the brightness of a white mink fur and he found Sylvia, standing before the entrance to the castle, just beyond the stable yard. Her hands were clasped under her breasts, her gloved fingers wringing together, and he figured she'd probably been worried all the time they'd been gone. Robb hated to come back to her and tell her that her fears had been right.

Despite the foul truths he would relay to her soon, something inside him lightened to see her. If these stones fell away and the walls crumbled around him, he believed he would still be standing, so long as Sylvia was there with him. He could rebuild Winterfell, but there would never be anyone after Sylvia. Home was his wife and child. Home was his family.

Yet as he rode closer, the hard look on her face didn't break into a warm smile. When he was close enough to see the rigidness of her stance, she gave Bran a stiff greeting, her lips twitching up and then falling just as quickly.

She seemed not to notice the bloodied cloth wrapped around Bran's thigh, nor did she ask why Bran was riding with him and not in his new saddle. Robb frowned.

"There is a very urgent matter at hand that requires your attention." His wife told him softly, her eyes alive with some secret meaning he was not privy to. After a brief pause, his hands tightening once again around the reigns, Robb called for Hodor. The stable boy had been told to be close at hand for when they returned, so a smaller man with a weaker back wouldn't suffer under Bran's weight. Without hesitation, the great lumbering giant hurried over to Robb's horse, and took the younger Stark boy into his arms.

"Take Bran up to Maester Luwin's tower." He ordered.

"Hodor." Said Hodor, and then he hurried off.

As Hodor stomped away, Sylvia looked up at him, concern breaking through the ice of her eyes. "Why does Bran need Maester Luwin?"

"We had some trouble in the Wolf's Wood." He replied, climbing down from his horse and handing the reigns off to Hallen, the Master of Horse.

"Trouble? What sort of trouble?" she asked.

Robb paused. "The worst kind. Wildling attack. One was spared; she begged mercy."

Her lips tightened, and she swallowed. Some people didn't deserve mercy, she thought. They would have opened Robb's insides to the freezing air, letting animals and other scavengers come pick him apart until there was nothing left of her love. Gods knew what they would have done with poor, fragile, defenceless Bran.

The thought, in its naked, brutal honesty, startled her, and all at once, she felt happy that those wildlings were dead. But something pulled inside her to know there was one right here, under her nose. She surrendered though, she reminded herself hurriedly. It was lowly to kill a foe who'd given up the fight, one who had no means of defense. They were better than the savage creatures beyond the Wall, who were said to kill needlessly, without honour or grace.

Still though, she'd rather the woman elsewhere if not dead. Anywhere outside their safe, study, unbreakable walls.

"Bran rode off." Robb explained further. "I and Theon were talking and I didn't see him stray." He spoke softly, as though ashamed, and she knew he must hate himself for losing sight of his brother. She moved to assure him, placing her hand on his arm, squeezing gently so he could feel her through his warm clothes.

"Are you hurt at all?"

"No. The blood is theirs." The southern girl sighed with relief.

The deaths of the wildlings did not grieve her, but it had been her husband who killed them and that made it different. Robb had never killed anyone before.

The girl eyed the dried blood on his gloves, dark and dull against the leather. Sylvia wanted to touch it, to slide her fingers against the repulsive droplets and see if they would stain her hands as well. Those little marks on his gloves both disgusted her and fascinated her; so instead, she looked up at her husband, prepared to relay the necessary words she knew would bring him comfort. But at finding the cloud of emotion in his eyes—dark and intense—she found nothing could pass her lips.

There was no sudden shift from boy to man, any evil glee or fear, only Robb. Her Robb was still there. Good and wise and merciful Robb.

She lowered her eyes and tugged on his arm. "Come. This won't wait." she pulled him behind her, her little fingers holding tight to his.

When they crossed the threshold into the warmer interior of the castle, Robb voiced his curiosity. "Syl what is it? Is it Mini?" he asked. He knew it was likely not his daughter, as Sylvia would never have left the child's side if she had taken ill. But still, he needed to ask.

His wife shook her head, long black tresses waving alluringly over the white mink fur. "No, she is well. Only teething as Maester Luwin tells me." She looked back at him, her blue eyes hard and serious. "But there is something more that you should know."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you here. Where it is open." Had Maester Luwin not advised her otherwise, she would have yelled it across the stable yard, not caring if anyone had heard.

"If it's so terrible, where's the harm in telling me now?" he grumbled, a hint of impatience seeping into his words. What could be more horrible than Bran nearly dying at a wildling's hands? Alas, his wife did not indulge him and pressed on through the corridors and soon enough, he realized they were going to her Lady's Solar.

The door shut with a creak and thud and she leaned on it a long moment. She seemed to be thinking, because when she looked to him, there was a deep, thoughtful look about her.

"I was headed to see Maester Luwin today, after you left. Mini kept crying, and I worried there was something the matter with her, so I went to him." She pushed off the door. "It turns out he was looking for me too and he gave me this." she presented a half rolled up scroll, holding it out to him. Before he could even start to read, she began speaking. "Your mother, in a fit of mad grief," she began sharply. "Has taken my uncle hostage, and is traveling to the Eyrie, where he is to answer for unexplained crimes."

The silence of the room was endless, and it felt inexplicably colder somehow. Robb's fingers crumbled around the parchment, crushing the paper as though he could destroy the memory of it and what it told of. His wife watched him, wary, and careful, as though she were looking for something incriminating. There were subtle changes that were brought by shock, and there was a trace of contempt and disbelief, but little else she could distinguish.

"The Imp?" he finally asked, still holding the crumbled ball in his hand.

"Yes, the Imp," she said impatiently. "It's all there in her message: from her seizing him with a merry band of tavern drunks, to her arrival at the Eyrie. What isn't there is why she thought it wise to make off with Tyrion."

"Wisdom had little to do with it." He muttered.

"My uncle has done nothing to her. He has even given her son the ability to ride, and yet she does my family offense. The last time someone abducted a member of House Lannister, my grandfather decimated two Houses. And the ones taken were not his sons."

"I know what happened, Sylvia. I took the same history lessons as you." He replied hotly, throwing the crumbled scroll behind him, hearing it crackle as it entered the fire.

"No, this is more than history lessons." Her eyes were wide and impassioned. "My grandfather made sure my brother and I knew that story by heart, and I fear it was for precisely this moment. Your mother may have just started a war in some fit of hysteria."

"Don't call my mother mad, Sylvia. I will not tell you again." He spoke lowly, his voice dark and threatening and it brought Sylvia back to herself, remembering her position here in the north.

The southern girl paused, indignant, but yielding. Then she brought her hands up to her chest and began to twist. She loved Lady Catelyn dearly, but when Sylvia thought of her, her anger only grew. "The longer my uncle is in chains, the more resentment will build between the Lannisters and Starks."
She bit out. "I do not wish for that. I only want peace between our families."

There was a long silence. "It may not be as such for a long while yet, Syl." His heart nearly broke to see her face fall, her brows knitting together as the idea swept through her. She loved her mother and siblings more than words could say, and if strife ignited between them and her husband's family, she would be honour and duty bound to shun them out of respect for her husband.

Custom would keep her from sending so much as a letter to her own mother. Family feuds had been known to last generations. Sylvia shivered.

"This may yet be absolved if action is taken quickly." She said surely.

Robb's eyes brightened. "Right." He shifted, a hand coming up to scratch his bearded cheek. "There is a chance, a small chance that no one in Kings Landing knows of this yet. We can gather a defense. Strike them and weaken them before they come at us full force."

"What?" she hardly contemplated the word passing her lips. Defence? Strike? He was talking of open war, as happily and excitedly as he would talk of sword play. War could bring glory, it was true, but for all its glamour, it was not worth her family quarreling like bitter strangers. She shook her head, outrage colouring her cheeks red. "Catelyn took my uncle! We ought to be marching on the Eyrie ourselves and snatching Tyrion from her hands! What defense can there be?"

Suddenly Robb remembered that Sylvia knew nothing of her family's abominable deeds and fought down the urge to shove all that he knew of them into her hands. For her to know about the Lannister's perceived crimes—from Jon Arryn, to the attack on Bran—would bring about misery, and he wanted to delay that as long as he could. But was it any better than her not knowing?

He nearly blurted the whole bloody thing out, but fate would have it that Maester Luwin knocked hurriedly on the chamber door, speaking through the wood, and bring their eyes towards his muffled voice.

"Forgive me, my Lord and Lady, but there was a raven from King's Landing."

Sylvia wretched open the door and ushered the old man into the room without grace or gentleness.

"How is Bran?" Robb asked. He didn't know how long he and Sylvia had been talking, but it must have been long enough for the maester to stitch him up and go up to the rookery and retrieve this scroll.

"Fine as can be, my lord. I sent him off with Hodor to the kitchens for a treat." His aged hand pulled the scroll from his great sleeve, and presented it to the young lord.

"Good." Robb nodded as he took the scroll. The maester stood silently by the door and Sylvia paced impatiently before the fire as Robb read through the scroll. It was Maester Luwin who saw the first traces of ire spread through his face. He turned to his wife, as though she were the one who were to blame.

The girl kept up her pacing, not noticing until her husband spoke. "My father has been attacked." Sylvia's eyes widened. "By Jaime Lannister."

Oh it's already starting, she thought with dread. "You make her release Tyrion and it will be as it was. Our families will make peace, and that will be that!" it would go back aright; her father would make it so. He would never allow this to go on. He would fix it. But first Tyrion had to get out of Catelyn's clutches.

But strangely, Robb looked angry. At her. "They butchered my father's men! Men you knew, and yet you stand there and defend your uncle's savage actions." He was almost shouting, and he looked as though he wanted to shake her until she saw sense. But he was much too honourable for that. She wondered, for just a second, what it would take for him to lose that restraint.

"I defend nothing! But he will face father's punishment and—"

"How? The kingslayer fled the Capitol like a damned coward." Her husband spat. He turned from her, stomping over to the window.

Uncle Jaime is many things, but a coward is not one of them. The princess squared her jaw and spoke evenly. "The only way this can be remedied is if Catelyn releases Tyrion. Let me go to the Eyrie. I'll talk sense into her." or I'll slap her until she sees it, she thought. In fact, it did not matter if Catelyn saw reason. She would take Tyrion back if need arose. Anything to keep this from going on.

Her husband did not turn from the window, the outside light illuminating his face, brightening his eyes into blue pools and shining his hair like polished copper.

"I'll not let you ride the lands yourself." He said in a gentler tone. "They know what my mother has done, and they attacked my father in broad daylight for it. Imagine what they'll do to you if they had their hands on you." He was enraged by just the thought of someone touching her, his hand tightening into a fist by his side.

No one would ever lay a hand on her, he'd cut down an army if that's what it took.

"They're my family Robb. They would never hurt me."

"It's not your family I'm worried about. Common folk are easily riled." He met her gaze. "Anyway, my mother will have gotten word of what happened in King's Landing. It could bring her to release Tyrion." He tried to sound sure, but underneath, they both thought the same thing: or it could incense her to slit his throat.

"And if not? What then?" Robb could not answer, for she knew the answer as well as he, and to reply anything else would be insulting. "What will we do?" Robb was about to answer, but his wife spoke first. "You're a man of honour, Robb." She spoke softly, watching him from across the room. "You always have been, and you can't be anything else. So tell me: what is the honourable thing to do?"

Robb was quiet and thoughtful, and for a moment she was hopeful he would truly heed her advice. To Sylvia, the choice was simple, there was no other way. Returning Tyrion would be the simplest thing in the world, and she didn't understand why her husband resisted. Was he so prideful that it overrode his sense?

"Maester Luwin," he turned to the old man. "Write out a message for each of my father's bannermen. Tell them to gather their men and march to Winterfell in the name of my lord father. Do not send out the ravens yet, but keep them close." The old maester bowed his head in affirmation. Sylvia's eyes burned into him, mystified and accusing, but held her stare. "They attacked my father and slaughtered his men like animals. Whatever has started, it can't be stopped now."

"So you won't move to stop her?" the girl exclaimed, bewilderedly.

"No."

Wow. I rewrote the Winterfell scene like 4X.

Seriously, half way through, I began to see similarities between Robert and Sylvia that I didn't even plan on lol. As much as Sylvia wants/tries to be like her mother, I guess she's always doomed to be her father ;D

Please review!

. I adore hearing from you guys, you keep me motivated :D