THIS WAS EDITED ON JAN 11/16

HEY! Happy Holidays! WARNING: trigger warning for a scene at the end.

I own nothing but my own characters (Sylvia, Ser Fredrik, Elane, Mini, etc.) so don't steal.

Chapter 19: Dark Wings, Dark Words

The hunt had been to get away from the incessant squabbling between Ned and Cersei, away from the whole castle and all the affairs and worms within it. When he was freshly made king, he hadn't realized how long the days would be—worrying over the most trivial of matters, the most obscure of courtiers gossiping the loudest. The whole business of ruling was so tedious, especially in recent times. He'd been sure that appointing Ned as his Hand would keep the kingdom's peace, and then Catelyn had stolen Tywin's dwarf.

He'd settled it once and for all, though he knew Cersei and her miserable father would resist, but it would be treason to deny him what he commanded. Once that was over with, he'd escaped to the trees. The rush of the hunt always cleared his mind, and drinking a skin of wine made the issues in the Capitol far away. What he hadn't counted on was the boar getting the better of him, and gorging him with a tusk.

Without even hearing it from dusty old Pycelle, Robert knew he was going to die. Seven Hells, he'd held his own guts in his hands! No one survived that, not even a king. When death comes, and there's little else to the future but an end, there is nothing else but the past, and regrets and the things that may have been. As it happened, Robert had many things he regretted, though no one actually knew it. He kept it all to himself, hardly admitting to his own heart that he'd passed many opportunities by.

He regretted getting mauled by a damned wild pig—that was for bloody sure. He hadn't thought the wine had made him so slow. The beast must have regretted gouging out his insides too because now it was being stuffed and roasted for supper.

He regretted never taking interest in Joffrey, for how feeble and strange he'd turned out. Maybe the cruelty he'd been born with could have been weeded out. But Ned would teach him. He'd raised four good sons, two good daughters, and his own child into a dutiful young woman. Who else but Ned could ensure the kingdoms were safe under Joffrey?

He regretted hardly remembering his daughter's wedding. He wished he could remember it, to have enough memory of that joyous day when Baratheon and Stark were united, but the wine and mead had blackened it. The day after, Sylvia had been standoffish. No smiles had been for him, though she gave them freely to her mother, and the air had been stiff with unease.

He wished he'd visited the north more often. It was where Lyanna was buried, where he could see his grandchild grow. He could have arranged a match for her.

Mostly, he regretted not saving Lyanna sooner, and for spending his life with Cersei beside him.

Maybe, he thought despondently, there are gods, and Lyanna will be on the other side.

The maester had only given enough milk of the poppy to dull the pain, so the king could make his final goodbyes to his family, to give his final orders and make his last requests. There wasn't much he had to say, really. Cersei kept the two younger children away, but he'd heard their wailing through the door, begging to see him, begging for answers. Robert did not call out for them. Their eyes were too young, and Tomen had cried like the world was ending whenever one of his little pets met an end. The last time they saw their father shouldn't be when half his insides were hanging out.

But as the eldest son and heir, Joffrey had come to his side, to say farewell and hear words of wisdom.

Looking at his eldest living son, Robert felt uncertain about his legacy. He'd never had much care of it before, as it had always been Jon Arryn's job to care for such things, but now he wondered of it. Joffrey, the fair haired boy who'd always clung to Cersei, would be his predecessor successor. He studied the boy, searching for something that could spark hope, but there was nothing.

When his first boy was born, Steffon...all Robert had done was hope and dream of what sort of man the babe would grow into. With Joffrey, there'd been nothing and thus it remained. It never bothered him as much as it did now.

"I should've spent more time with you. Taught you how to be a man." Robert let his hand drop from Joffrey's. "I was never meant to be a father. Ought to have sent you with your sister."

Perhaps Robert had meant that Ned would have taught the prince better, beaten out the cruelty properly, but it was not received that way. To Joffrey, it was an admission that Robert believed him equal to the girl he'd sent away—who had shame and disgrace and rumors chasing after her.

Ned arrived just then, looking shocked and fearful at once. "Go," Robert said softly to his eldest son. Joffrey looked at him, bewilderment spreading through his fine, Lannister features. How could Robert want some northern stranger at his side, more than his own son? Why did he love them more than his own family? "You'll not want to see this." Before he was even finished, Joffrey had stood, a stony look on his face. For a short moment, the two regarded each other for the last time, before the younger man turned and strode from the room.

"My fault." He admitted gruffly as Ned took Joffrey's seat. "Too much wine, I missed my thrust. But I paid the bastard back, Ned. Drove my knife into its brain. Have it served at the funeral feast. I want everyone to have a taste of the beast who got me." A small, bloody smiled was on the king's lips, and Ned felt sick. Robert was not one to show weakness. It had only been when Lyanna had died that Ned had ever seen the king shed tears. His bravado hid his fear.

With steady hands, Ned gingerly lifted the bandage around the king's torso, having a peek at the wound. It was a mess; his grace's insides were in shreds, bile leaking from the sewn gashes on his intestines, blood pulsing from seemingly everywhere, and the stink of rot was already upon it. It was a wonder Robert had even survived the trip back to the castle.

"It's foul." The king grunted. "Don't need to be a learned man to know that. Leave, all of you!" The king ordered, his stern voice wrought with pain.

Cersei looked uneasy, afraid even. "Robert, my sweet—" she tried to reason.

"Out!" he bellowed. The queen wrung her hands and shot the Hand a fearful look, a hidden edge in her eyes. They both knew the power the northerner had in that moment, and how easily he could destroy her and all she'd planned. She'd counted on Robert dying before he reached the Keep, but the stubborn bastard had held on and risked everything.

Plans could be made again—bribes could be placed, information obtained—and Joffrey would wake tomorrow, safe and sound, and a king.

When the door shut behind the queen, Robert let out a sigh, and winced at the pain it garnered.

"You damned fool." Ned said sadly. "We're too old to be doing this."

"Paper and ink on the table." Robert nodded towards the set. "Write down what I say."

As his last orders as King of the Seven Kingdoms, Robert decreed that it would be Ned who would reign over the kingdoms until Joffrey grew into his crown and came of age. However, as the king spoke, Ned wrote that the throne would be awarded to Robert's rightful heir. He would tell the world of Cersei's three monstrosities, and Joffrey would be revealed as a bastard with no claim.

Thus, the right of succession would go to...Sylvia. A wave of dread thrummed through him to think of it.

"Sylvia," Robert suddenly called, his voice low. "I want to see her." He knew she would not come, though his mind had gone rather dull in the last few hours. He wanted to tell her of her long dead twin, wanted to tell her the life he'd wanted for the two of them when they were born, the pride he'd felt. He wanted to tell her to visit Steffon's tomb, (something he'd never done), and never let him be forgotten.

"She's safe in the north, Your Grace, with her child and husband." Eddard replied softly.

"Aye." He was thoughtful for a moment, before he said, "Make sure she's well taken care of, Ned." he looked back at his brother. "You'll have to knock that husband of hers' head off if he humiliates her."

Eddard chuckled dryly. "Sylvia is much like you; I think she can handle that herself."

"No," The king sighed. "She's nothing like me." And it was true; Sylvia had little in common with her father. She was different, something that Robert had never had any care of, but now lamented in the end. For Robert knew only the surface value of his child. Yet she was his child still, and he wanted her kept safe once he was dead. "She needs to be taken care of, Ned. Keep them safe, all of them. Watch out for them. And my son. Teach him; make him better than me."

"Aye." Ned set a hand over Robert's, mulling over his promise.

By the queen's own admission, Robert's only trueborn child was Sylvia and thus was his heir. But he thought of Robert's bastards, the ones he knew. The little girl in the Vale, Mya, the one who was likely to be a woman at least ten years older than Sylvia. He thought of Gendry, strong and wide with Robert's grin. He thought of little Barra at her mother's breast. He would make sure they were looked after, as he promised. He would make Mya a maidservant in Winterfell; ensure a good marriage for her. He would take Gendry into his household as either a guard of a smith of Winterfell, which ever he'd prefer. He would offer to foster Barra at Winterfell, to teach her and employ her in the kitchens.

The king's children would be safe, he'd make certain of that. He had little idea what to do about Sylvia though. With her place in the line of succession bumped up exponentially, he wondered what the country would look with her as their Queen. She was a good woman, proper and sweet, but propriety and sweetness did not make a ruler.

A daft idea entered his mind then, one where Sylvia decreed the allegations against her mother and siblings false and give Joffrey back his crown. But Sylvia wasn't so foolish. She was a clever woman, but not everyone held to sense where their family is concerned. The best he could consider at this point was to suggest she pass her throne up for her Uncle Stannis.

Stannis was not Tywin, nor was he Robert. Ned was certain he would treat Cersei and the kingslayer's bastard's gently enough, sending them far beyond reach, where no one in the kingdoms would ever have to look upon them again.

No matter how Sylvia might protest that, it was still a better fate than anything other men might have offered.

Ned left Robert's chambers as the maester was giving him a draught of poppy's milk, letting him sleep through his otherwise agonizing end. He and his men made their way back to the Tower of the Hand, the king's royal command safely tucked in his hand. He'd hand off the command, and wait for Stannis to arrive, and then finally, he could return home.

The mess with Tyrion Lannister would be put aside and Catelyn would return home too. He missed his lady very much.

As he stepped through the archway leading to the base of the tower's steps, he spied an all too familiar man with black hair waiting for him. Renly Baratheon was easily recognizable, and were it not for his Baratheon features, the black doublet with a golden stag's head embroidered onto the breast would have been a giveaway.

The youngest Baratheon brother stood straight as the Hand approached. "He named you Protector of the Realm?" His question was not really a question. A small nod confirmed Renly's assumption. "She won't care. Cersei will overrule it with some quick talk and a flash of her coin. Give me an hour, and I will have a hundred men ready at your command." Lord Stark seemed appalled by this.

"And what should I do with a hundred men?" he asked sternly, shifting himself and gripping his cane tighter. His leg always ached and he doubted he'd ever walk properly again. The kingslayer knew how to cripple a man it seemed. His mind flashed to little Bran, and his fist began to shake around his cane.

The youngest Baratheon brother blinked, a bemused little smirk playing on his lips. It was strange to him how thick headed Lord Stark could be. "Strike. Now, while the castle sleeps and mourns for Robert!" he explained, as loudly as he dared. "Seize the Regency while you can! You must get Joffrey away from his mother and into our custody. By the time Robert dies, it will be too late for the both of us. Cersei will do away with anyone she thinks could be a threat."

Ned drew himself up. Renly, he realized, had no notion that Cersei's children were bastards, and Ned treaded lightly so not to tell him. If Renly knew, there'd be no stopping him from murdering every Lannister in the castle before Robert's body was cold and stiff.

"What about Stannis?" he asked evenly.

"Saving the Seven Kingdoms from Cersei and giving them to Stannis? Stannis, who has all the appeal of stinging nettles?"

"A Baratheon must be king." Ned pointed out.

"The right Baratheon." Renly countered hotly. "Stannis inspires no love or loyalty."

"And what of Sylvia?" the northerner couldn't help but ask. She was of age, and by right, the throne was hers.

Renly gave him a queer look. "Sylvia?" he laughed. He saw Lord Stark's face unchanged and sobered. "Are you mad? She's girl!"

"And she's the eldest. She's calm; she listens to the wisdom of others. She's clever as well."

Renly, to his credit, seemed to consider this for a moment. "Sylvia is still a child. She was so fanciful when she was little that nobles used to call her Aegon's second coming behind Robert's back." If his brother had ever heard them utter such a filthy thing, heads would have rolled right there at court. Careful in their mockery, courtiers kept on with their whispers, until the day Tywin Lannister's shadow darkened the Throne Room. A stone faced twat the Old Lion may be, but he'd protected his granddaughter's name the way no one else could. Even if it had been out of personal pride.

"If Joffrey even accepted his big sister as his Regent, if he ever bent the laws and allowed her to rule in his name, it would be her mother who ruled the kingdoms, truly, because Sylvia isn't strong enough to defy her." The truth tasted bitter in Renly's mouth, and he felt the oddest sort of guilt rise in his gut. A man should not feel wretched for speaking honestly, especially if it was about matters regarding the safety of his kingdoms.

But Sylvia was his favorite of his nieces and nephews, the one he viewed as more of a sister. They were rather close in age, and she was sweet and silly and she'd confided in him most anything all her life. She told him her secrets, and he even trusted her with his. When he told her of his love for Loras, her shock had made him laugh, but her acceptance and her promise of silence made him love her more. It felt like betraying her for speaking so bluntly of her.

Still, he knew Sylvia was easily cowed, especially by her mother. It was better for the Realm and for her that she remain a princess, rather than rule as Regent.

Ned was silent, his gut twisting. Renly was, by all accounts, Sylvia's best friend as a child. If he could see weakness in her, what hope was there of her being a strong, just queen?

"Then Stannis is the true answer." He concluded, talking more to himself than to Renly.

"He's not a king." Renly reminded him impatiently. "And neither is Sylvia a queen. But I am." A cold shock spread through Ned then at seeing the look on Renly's face. Defiance and pride and determination were a dangerous and turbulent mix. "None of my brother's children are fit to sit the throne, and Stannis would be usurped before the year is over." He explained.

"Stannis is battle hardened and has a good mind for politics."

"He's a soldier. And so was Robert. Do you still really think good soldiers make good kings? Or even little girls who have no mind of anything?"

Ned had nothing to say to that, because truthfully, he didn't. Robert was a poor king, but if Sylvia passed up her claim to the throne, the right fell to Stannis. For Renly to suggest this treason to him, to try to convince him to go along with it, was as insulting to him as it was to his dying brother.

"I will not dishonour Robert's last wish by shedding blood in his halls," he spat at Renly. "And dragging frightened children from their beds." Sidestepping the Baratheon, Ned made the long journey back up to the steps, not knowing that would be the last time he saw Renly Baratheon.

Robert Baratheon died before the sun set, and when morning came, his queen rose a widow, and her children woke without a father. Cersei and her brood donned black in mourning, but among the royal family, there was little grief.

The queen, of course, had no love for her husband, and his death even came as a relief to her, though she gave no outward sign of being pleased. Those who knew of her husband's many humiliations may have sympathized with her, but of course, they too wore black.

The heir to the throne, still burned by the last time he'd seen Robert alive, had no tears to shed for the man. Robert was dead now, and so Joffrey was to be king, and his first order as king would be to send Ned Stark back to the cold north in disgrace, for Joffrey felt it was the northerner who had spoiled the last moments he had with his father. But, truly, he knew what Robert thought of him, and that hurt worst of all.

Myrcella and Tommen wept for their father, wails that quietened into soft sobbing by the sun's first light. Joffrey had told them how gruesome the wound had been, how foul it had smelled, and while Myrcella hadn't wanted to believe him, Tommen believed Joffrey readily. They'd tried to go see him, to see if Joffrey's horrible words had truth to them, but the guard wouldn't let them through the door.

In the morning, Myrcella held herself up with courage and dignity as a princess should, her tears held back as she held her little brother's had, though her heart was heavy. Good and gentle little Tommen wept for his father, as there was nothing else in his life that could have prepared him for the suddenness of his father's death.

Leagues away, Robb Stark moved through the halls of his father's castle slowly, reluctant and dreading to reach his destination.

Dark wings, dark words, he recalled the old saying. A truer statement than most, he thought sadly. Every new raven that arrived since father had gone had brought only words of pain and despair and worry. Now it brought the gravest of messages, one that would hurt his wife more than anything else.

When he arrived in the Main Hall, he spied her at the head table, talking with the builders about small repairs needing to be made to the castle. She was at ease, open and confident as she listened to plans, light for the first time in weeks. She wore a gown of purple, a Baratheon gold sash tied about her waist, and her inky black hair fell loose over her shoulders. Sylvia looked every bit the southern girl she was, she looked like she'd be more comfortable in the sun, with the warm summer breeze in her hair. Part of him wondered about the day she found unhappiness for this fact. Or if she had already.

Looking up, she caught his eye, smiling at him over the rolls of parchment laid out before her.

Robb looked away, not able to match her smile.

Things had been calmer between them in the last while—almost normal, though the south was never far behind. She did not tense when he put his arm around her, and neither did he silently dread her company. The true tension had released when another raven from Catelyn came, this time explaining the trial by combat that had granted Tyrion his freedom. Sylvia let a sigh of relief leave her then, and asked Robb if this meant peace between their families. Robb said nothing, but pulled her close to him, hiding his uncertainty within her black locks.

He loathed to have to bring this to her attention, wishing to keep it to himself for just a while, to let her linger in blissful ignorance a while longer. But it would only hurt her worse if he told her later.

He went to the dais, greeting his lady and the builders mildly, and at once, Sylvia saw something was wrong. When he ordered them away, she asked him what the matter was.

"What is it? Has something happened to the children?" she asked urgently, coming closer to him so she could speak lowly.

"No," he replied softly, brushing a lock of hair back behind her ear.

"Is it your father? Catelyn? Has my grandfather hurt them?" she sounded calmer then, as though she doubted this was the source of the trouble. Tyrion was free; what more turmoil could come from that?

Robb was quiet a long while. "Your father..." he began. She seemed not to hear as he explained what had happened to her father, her face unchanged until the end, where he said, "May the gods give him rest." He kept his hand on her arm, ready to engulf her in a hug or catch her in case she fainted.

Instead, his lady's eyes drifted from him to the space beside him, as though in a daze.

To Sylvia, the news hardly felt real. Like a dream. This morning she had woken up the daughter of a king. This morning her father had been alive and safe, enjoying what he love best: hunting. Now he was just...gone? It couldn't be true, could it? No, it couldn't be. It was all too fast, too sudden. It couldn't be true. But her husband was not cruel and he did not delight in morbid jokes such as this. He wouldn't trick her like this.

"A...boar?" she whispered out. From the corner of her eye, she saw Robb nod and head his soft reply of Yes. Suddenly a laugh broke out from her lips, high and mad. "No," she laughed. "No, no, no. My father is a battle commander, he killed Prince Rhaegar. He wouldn't have died from a b-boar." she looked up at her husband, an odd look on his face, like he worried for her sanity, as though she was the absurd one. She giggled.

"Sylvia, stop it." Robb commanded gently. He'd heard tales of women who went mad after losing someone they held dear, and he worried the same had happened to his wife. Had she been pulled too thin, and suddenly snapped? He feared her mind was gone for the grief and that she was lost to him forever. He responded quickly, hoping blunt honesty would bring her back to herself. "Your father is dead. A boar did kill him. He'd had too much wine and it made him slow."

Her giggling stopped, but the tremulous smile was still there. He saw denial, as well as tears in her eyes. "No," she said again, shoving his hand off her arm. "My father is not dead." She determined decisively. "No one would have let the king die from a p-pig." Another smaller giggle escaped her again.

"It happened, Syl. It happened." Robb looked so grim, so solemn...it was a trick, it had to be... But even as she assured herself, she felt her resolve start to chip away, faster and faster until the truth became clearer.

"It's true, Sylvia." The young lord watched as Sylvia's smile faded, feeling as though he were watching a knife slip between her rips, unable to stop it.

"No..." she whispered out, the last of her denial crumbling to dust. Robb raised his hand to pull her close, but she wretched away like he'd burned her and slapped his outstretched hand down like it offended her. Fury spread through her face then, tears gathered in her eyes. "No!" she screamed.

A pig...a damned pig?! Her father—the king—killed by a pig? The King's Guard were meant to protect the king, to keep him from dying. Why had they failed? Which fool had let a damned sow get past them? It was their job to protect people, the king first and foremost and they'd failed. Robb made no mention of them, or why they failed...he had mentioned wine, though.

A sudden, horrible wave of rage washed over her then, not at any member of the King's Guard, but at her father—at the wine he'd been drinking. It was his fault wasn't it? Why must he always drink? It only caused pain and trouble and embarrassment—but he was her father, and he was dead. How could she think such awful things?

But it was his drinking that had always caused her pain, his drinking that always got him into trouble, and now the worst imaginable outcome had come to pass. It had taken him away, stolen countless moments they could have shared together, moments filled with pride or happiness. He would never see Mini grow now...

Her rage came out suddenly, her hands striking out and shoving her husband back against the table. As though she hadn't seen what she'd done, she shoved him again and again, hitting his chest, trying to be rid of this guilt infested rage. The guards at the entrance to the hall shifted, ready to intervene if their young lord gave the command, but Robb did not move.

"The King's Guard...they were supposed to...it was their only job! Grand Maester Pycelle is supposed to be the greatest maester in all the world!" she screamed, her voice breaking and her fists losing their force.

"I know, sweetling," he whispered to her.

"My father is the king..." she croaked. "He isn't supposed to..." her tears fell, the first soft cry coming from her throat as her hands stilled over Robb's chest. After the first one, there was no stopping it—the sudden wave of pain and grief rising from the ashes of rage—and she began weeping. Sylvia hardly noticed when Robb pulled her close, moving so they both sat on the bench at the table. She hardly felt him hushing her, or stoking her hair or moving them in tandem back and forth. "Damn them, damn them," she sniffled against her husband's chest. She didn't know who exactly she cursed—the pig, the King's Guard, Pycelle or even her father himself. "It's not...it can't be..."

But it was.

Fucking ouch.

It made me sad to write the end, the grief and pain and guilt and anger. I apologize if this brought up any bad memories, and I by no means, want to offend anyone.

Please leave me some reviews! Please please please! I need them to fuel my brain! :D