Reason this chapter took forever to submit: Author has sudden case of believing everything they write is absolute shit and didn't want to subject you to sub-par work

*puts first/head/body through a wall, rolls out to sidewalk, and jumps into a trash can, rolls away, jumps into a dumpster, and cries*

Chapter 20: Disbelief becomes my close companion

...and anger follows in its wake.

Maya Angelou, When I think about Death

It felt as though things should be suddenly shifted, darker or emptier, but it was quiet and peaceful as the hours crept by. Nothing was out of sorts, nothing around her felt altered or destroyed. That was odd. Everything in her chambers was just as it was the day before. And for the rest of Winterfell, it was like any other day—she could hear the animals in their pens, the clang of hammer on steel, the trot of cloven feet, orders shouted, jokes thrown about. With a strange sort of apathy, Sylvia realized she was the only one mourning for her father in Winterfell. Yes, they would say a prayer for him and toast his name at supper, but that was all.

Kings sitting on the Iron Throne had always been far away, and the people of the north thought more of their children's health than who ruled their country. They had more love for Lord Eddard than they ever had for Robert, and Sylvia was rather startled at how little she cared about that.

Ages ago, it had been as scathing as a personal insult against her when someone did not pay her father the appropriate respect. Now, though...she felt nothing. Sylvia flinched as memories of yesterday returned to her. The day before, she'd felt everything so sharply.

The eldest of Robert's children didn't stop crying until sleep came for her. Sylvia hardly remembered the walk to her chambers, nor did she remember Robb helping her out of her dress. But she distinctly recalled the cup of wine pressed into her hands, and the soft words from her husband that encouraged her to drink it. Through her sniffling, she managed to choke a few gulps down, and suddenly it was impossible to keep her eyes open. It was only in the waking hours that she concluded that there must have been some tonic in the wine to help her sleep.

Silently, she thanked the maester for his aid, for she doubted sleep would have been as peaceful without his potions. Now that the day was new, she remembered her actions the day before with clearer eyes not tinted grey with shock, and she quickly came to realise she'd made an utter, intolerable fool of herself.

Tears were private; they made a woman vulnerable in more ways than one, and Sylvia hated to think of herself as weak. Weakness was not for princesses, not for women with so much responsibility. But she'd cracked herself open yesterday, a flood rushing out and whatever fires of respect she'd lit were surely dampened. Warmth flicked up her neck and cheeks, red colouring her skin with shame.

But it wasn't only herself she had shamed the day before. Her husband had borne the brunt of it, standing firm against her mad laughter and angry hands. She had even cried, all for his men to see, and because he loved her, he'd let her and somehow that made her feel worse.

She remembered Robb's face when he came to the table, remembered wondering why he looked so sad. To others, he looked serious, but she could see the little crease between his brows. She remembered, so clearly, so distinctly, how she thought whatever was the matter couldn't be so bad. Together, they could sort it out and mend it, just as they had many times before. Though memory of his news made her stomach turn and her throat feel tight, Sylvia remembered every word he'd said, and she went over them, obsessively, though she didn't know why.

Suddenly, the blow of her father's death landed against her chest, just as sharp as it had the first time. Tears rose in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them. Angrily, she wiped them away. She'd cried enough for him through the years, tears he cared nothing for on the rare occasion he'd seem them. He'd spared her little thought anyway, judging by his scant letters over the years. Seven Hells! The only time his letters were frequent, were in the months after her wedding, and every single one was started with the question "Are you with child yet?"

So why did she weep for him? Why did she feel this way now if all her memories of him were terrible?

She wondered how her mother was. If she'd wept, or if she'd let a little sigh of relief into the sky. With her king gone—

Sylvia clenched her eyes shut as realization dawned on her. Now that father was gone, Joffrey would be king. King. The word sounded strange to her now. King...it meant ruler, Lord of all the land, Protector of the Realm. The one who led a country and demanded the highest level of respect from his people. That little urchin was the king now and she knew it—she knew it in the very marrow of her bones that he would be a worse king than—

Sylvia shook her head, the thought sliding off her like dew from a leaf. Even though she resented Joffrey, imagining he would be worse than Mad Aerys seemed like a issuing a challenge to the gods.

Mother daren't weep for father now that Joffrey gets his throne, she thought bitterly.

At once, the image of Joffrey wearing their father's crown came to mind, and Sylvia felt revulsion claw up her throat. If Mad Aerys had proven anything, it was that cruelty did not belong on a throne. It made her feel sick to think of paying homage to him, after all he'd ever done was torment her, but (especially after the conflict between her family and Robb's) there would be no way to resist without inflaming her brother's temper.

Sansa would now be queen, and if the gods were good, his counselors would make them wait a few more years. True, through history it was not uncommon for kings to wed maidens in a quick hurry to secure their legacy, but history had no place in the present.

It bothered her to imagine Sansa in an elegant southern gown, hair adorned with jewels and topped with a crown. Would the stink of her father's corpse still linger in the Sept of Baelor as she and Joffrey swore their vows? Would anyone find folly in this idea as she had? Would Sansa protest if her wedding feast shared with a funeral feast? It was too soon.

She drew herself back; there was hope yet that his advisors could persuade Joffrey to wait.

And beyond that, her little good-sister would be saddled with Joffrey as a husband. Yes, Sansa gave no indication when she left, or in the letters she'd sent back home, that Joffrey was anything but wonderful to her. Even when Lady was slaughtered, Sansa never voiced blame towards the prince.

Unwilling to dash the girl's dreams, Sylvia had kept silent about Joffrey's nature, ready to pounce in if Sansa showed the littlest bit of unease about him, but she never did. And so Sylvia truly began to hope that Sansa sweetened the little prick some, hoping that when they married, it would be a decent marriage and that Joffrey never showed her the ugliness he so happily showed others.

Yes, it was essential that they waited. If Sansa retained the Stark name, and learned what Joffrey could be like and decided a crown was not worth the trouble, it would be a hundred times easier to break the match. On the other side of things, it was thousand times more impossible to be free of your king once you are his queen. What then? Mother seemed fond of the Sansa, and she was certain that she'd shield Sansa from Joffrey if he ever became...irate. Just as she'd done for Sylvia when she was little.

Unbidden, a memory of one time mother hadn't been the one protecting her came forth. She hardly remembered it, really. But there were some things that never could be forgotten, the things that form the very rock we build ourselves on. Joffrey had done something that had hurt her—bitten her, perhaps?—and father had seen him. At once, he grabbed Joffrey up and tossed him from the room. He must have ordered someone to take him back to their mother's chambers, because after that, the recollection was not unhappy. Joffrey was gone, her pain avenged, and her father was there with her.

Other times his heir was cruel to her, father had been too drunk to notice.

She cast her eyes over to the empty cradle. The last time she saw her father, he'd gifted Mini a beautiful rattle, and said to save it for any other children she had. Their last goodbye, though neither of them had known it then.

Suddenly her hand shot out, and her fist connected with the thick wood of the headboard, pain bursting throughout her hand and up her arm. She welcomed the pain, her rage momentarily sated from the harsh action, the accompanying ache a welcome distraction.

Robb came to her not long after, Mini in his arms and Elane in tow with a trey of luncheon in hand.

When she woke earlier, the sun was shining on her face and the space beside her was ruffled and cold. Robb must have stayed with her the night before, but left with Mini when the day's chores called upon him. She hoped Mini had seen nothing the night before, because a child should never see their mother in such a state. It would only frighten them and burden them.

She eyed him with trepidation, her arms fidgeting under his soft gaze and she fought down the initial urge to tell him to go away. She felt nervous, and wished to turn away from him so he would not see her and remember the mad thing she'd been when he saw her last. Embarrassment coloured her cheeks anew, and uneasiness twisted in her belly like a ball of snakes. Was the tenderness in his eyes borne of pity?

There had been softness in his eyes when he told her of Robert's fate, empathy she'd denied seeing because she hadn't wanted to believe he was telling the truth. When she realized it was not a joke and stopped her cackling, anger had risen. And guilt, horrible, heavy guilt, had settled a stone over her heart and she thought, for a fleeting moment, that she'd never laugh again.

Looking at her husband now, all she wanted to do was hide away from him until he no longer looked at her like that. Until there was no longer a need to look at her like that. But with him, before, she'd found comfort, a way to look beyond her hurt and see that she could bear it. She so wanted that now. She needed it.

The sleeves of her nightdress slid down over her elbows as she reached out for Mini, softly asking Robb to come sit with her, thought a small part of her feared he would refuse.

But instead, Robb looked to Elane, still holding her trey, and nodded to her. As the maid set the trey over her legs, Robb slid into bed beside her, settling next to his wife as quick and smooth as a fox, hardly jostling the baby in his arms. Elane took her leave then, leaving the family alone.

"Hello," she began awkwardly, a strained smile playing on her lips. The hoarseness of her own voice surprised her and she cleared her throat.

"Hello," he returned. "I'm sorry; I meant to be here when you woke, but a farmer came to the castle, claiming another farmer stole his cattle."

"It's alright. I...I needed the time to think."

"And?" he prompted.

She hesitated, her face dark as her thoughts, as she wondered what she could tell him. "And I'm hungry." She finally said, her smile not reaching her eyes.

Still in Robb's arms, Mini reached out for her mother, her little fingers opening and closing in the air, a sure sign she wanted her arms. Sylvia reached out for her, but Robb hesitated in handing her over.

"I can hold her while you eat, if you'd like?" he asked.

"I can hold her." she replied curtly. As Mini settled in her lap, her head rested against her chest, listening to her heart, while her pudgy little fingers played with Sylvia's long, unmade hair. "Did she eat?" she asked softly, casting a look to the trey filled to capacity with bread, lamb cuts, cheese, blackberries and a lemon cake.

Robb watched her, not knowing if he should say something about her grief, about her father or act as though nothing were wrong. She was sidestepping the issue, he could see it in her tight smiles, and how she tried not to look at him.

"She did." He replied. "A serving girl tried her on porridge today and only half wound up on the floor." He joked mildly. His wife gave him no smile, and popped a berry into her mouth.

It was silent a long while between them, and Sylvia knew what he was aching to ask.

"I'm fine." She said and at seeing him turn to meet her eyes, she said, "I can see questions stewing away in your head and there's no need to ask."

Robb pressed his shoulder closer to hers, his hand coming to press against the arm that curled around Mini. The heat of his hand through her thin nightgown made her realize how cold she was. "Syl, you don't have to hold it in." he spoke gently after a moment.

She took a bite of bread. "I'm not." She said after she finished chewing. "You saw..." a sigh escaped her, and she set the slice back down on the trey. "You saw what I was last night. You know I haven't..." breath left her.

"I saw you hurting." He shifted a little as though he wanted to wrap an arm around her. Robb always wanted to help, always wanted to make her heart stop hurting whenever something struck it. "I still see you hurting. This sort of hurt doesn't fade after a night." He said it as though he knew, and somehow, his sureness irritated her.

"My life does not end because my father isn't part of it anymore." She snapped, turning to him to glare at him with burning blue eyes. "And if you haven't noticed, he hasn't been a part of it for a very long time." The sharpness of her voice quietened him and after a moment he removed his hand.

The lady bit her lip. She should not have snapped; she knew that he was just trying to help. But his help just prodded an open, bleeding wound, and it was her instinct to flinch away so as to not rip it open further. Sylvia couldn't bring herself to speak again for a long while, busied herself eating the rest of her breakfast in the meanwhile.

Her anger felt righteous, but when there were only crumbs on her plate, the uncomfortable silence began to eat away at her. She wondered why he hadn't left after her scalding words.

Ever the honourable sort, my husband. Can't stand to leave a lady in a terrible state.

"Robb...don't treat me like broken glass. I am not feeble." from the corner of her eye, she saw his head turn and felt his eyes on her. She could not look at him, and poked at the fork still on her plate. "It will just..." she swallowed. The more she tried to word it, the harder it became, and she was starting to feel very exposed. "I'm sorry; I don't want to talk about it. There is nothing to say."

For a long moment, he was quiet, drawn between pressing further and letting her be. He knew there was plenty more to say, much more she had to let out because this sort of pain could not be expressed all in one evening. But Sylvia was a private woman, hesitant to show the barest hint of vulnerability. These last few years, her walls had thinned and she showed her truest self more often—smiles, quips and even tears coming without second thought. But ever since the Imp was seized by his mother, it was if all her old defenses had risen again.

Because of this, (because he could not tell her the truth), she'd distanced herself from him—perhaps out of spite, or perhaps she didn't want to see him lying through his teeth. Every day he reminded himself of what could happen if she knew what he suspected of her family. He would not lie to himself and think all of their troubles were past now that the Imp was freed. He thought of the queen, and the traps she and her father would set for his family. He thought of his father and sisters, down in the thick of it, and his mother, far off with an aged knight for protection. He thought of Sylvia and their child and what would happen to them if they were exposed without warning, and it made it a little easier to hold his tongue.

But he wanted to show her he was still the same man she'd married, one she'd placed all her faith in. He wanted to be her comfort, the one who grounded her when everything else might feel wild and mad. He just wanted her to feel better.

So Robb wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close and noting the way she didn't relax as quickly as she once did. Slowly, she turned to him, meeting his gaze tentatively. His eyes were full of startling warmth and kindness, and she felt the burn of tears begin, and hid her face against his neck at once.

"You're not broken glass. You will be fine." He sounded determined as he rubbed her shoulder. But still, she wondered if he were assuring her or himself, if he thought she'd break into pieces like before, put together again just to fall apart, over and over. The thought stung, but with it, came a curious need to prove his doubts false.

Robert Baratheon was dead, and Seven Hells did it hurt...and all she wanted to do was crawl beneath her covers, shut out the light and cry until she was asleep again.

But she couldn't. She was Lady Stark now, and Winterfell had already had a lady shut herself away. Robb couldn't handle everything himself while she hid herself away, and the boys would wonder where she was. Enough people had left them already. Her appointments needed answering, and she'd be damned before she let the men and women of Winterfell take her for a lazy wife.

People were not kind with their words; she learned that at an early age. It didn't matter who you were, how strong you were, or how young; people would always find flaws with their betters. Her Uncle Tyrion had taught her that, and he'd also reminded her she was a princess—worthy and deserving of respect.

It was a matter of pride for Sylvia, that her heartache not give rise to whispers among her husband's people. But at her core, her misery confused her. She thought, perhaps, with Robert's death, all his past offenses against her would melt away—forgotten, if not forgiven. Instead, the awful memories remained, clear and fresh as ever. And yet, despite every foul recollection, the sorrow remained. Why? If he had hurt her so much, why did his loss tear her apart?

Because he was 'father', something whispered. And there will never be another like him.

A lump rose in her throat, and she couldn't let Robb see. So she clenched her eyes shut, and nodded her agreement against his shoulder. When the tears were shoved back, she straightened, and moved the food trey to the side with Robb's help. Sylvia held her baby close, breathing in the scent of her hair before running a hand through her black curls, watching the strands smooth and bounce back.

Minisa was everything good in the world—warmth, love, potential—and she never failed in making Sylvia's heart sing with hope.

Sensing she would talk no more of King Robert's death, Robb said, "A bard is due to come to Winterfell before the next moon. I will send for him to come to the Great Hall for you. Would you like that?"

After a moment she nodded, a tiny, pleasant smile on her lips.

She was made to rest for the remainder of the day. Rest was what they called it, Robb and Maester Luwin. Sylvia had sighed at them when they brought it up, but allowed them whatever peace of mind her 'resting' brought them. Maybe they'd stop looking at her like she would start crying at a word if she 'rested'.

But she could not remain idle, and neither could she sleep. So she requested that Mini stay with her and after a bit of convincing, Robb and the maester agreed, upon the condition that Elane remain with her, should she have need of her. Sylvia didn't hesitate to agree, but once the men were gone, she realized it would be uncomfortable being watched all day, and so ordered the maid outside with a few borrowed books to keep her occupied.

It was a rare, near forgotten feeling, to spend the day with her little baby. When Mini had been born, Sylvia had spent hours with her, playing with her, feeding her, rocking her to sleep, and never once had she been bored of it. As little Minisa grew and needed her mother less and less, the southern girl's duties began to rise elsewhere—in the castle, in the maids and stewards, and eventually, in little Bran and Rickon. She saw Mini every night, greeted her every morning, but how long had it been since she spent the day with her?

Sylvia was content, the giggles and squeals and babbles of her child took her back to a time when things were simple, easier and filled with joy.

But suddenly, as she rocked the cradle gently to lull her baby to sleep, Sylvia realized that one day, she too would be gone from the world, leaving Mini alone to walk through it by herself...

...And just like that, woeful tears burned her eyes and down her cheeks, because even in her imagining—years and years into the future—Mini was still a sweet, defenceless little baby, needing her mother to protect her from the world and all its cruelties. What if she needed her one day? What would she do then? Who would help her, protect her?

Logically, Sylvia knew that Mini would one day marry, and then it would be her husband who would keep her safe, but that brought a whole new line of questions and another wave of tears. Would she live to see Mini wed? What if her husband was a brute, or a simpleton? Who would comfort and assure her on her wedding day? Who would tell her, honestly, what it would and should be like in the marriage bed? What if, what if, what if?

Always, the questions were of the same theme: What if Mini needed her one day and she was dead?

By the time Mini was asleep her mother was a red eyed mess.

In another wave of horror and fear, she realized the same idea pertained to her and Robb. Which of them would die first? What would the other do afterword? A sudden sob broke from her chest and Sylvia covered her face in her hands, taking slow sharp breaths between her fingers. She couldn't stand the thought of marrying another man—no man would ever replace or fill the part of her heart that belonged to her husband.

They—her brothers, if the Starks dismissed her from their castle—couldn't easily press her into marrying again—she'd borne Robb's child, it wasn't as though a would-be suitor could pretend she were chaste, and what man in this country wanted a spoiled wife? Her Faith would not approve either, as they could invalidate any marriage they deemed fit. But of course, exceptions could be made with the right sort of approval.

When she was little and her mother brought her to take in Court, she'd watched a noble man plea for her father to arrange a match for his daughter, as no other noble man would take her now that she was sullied with a bastard boy at her breast. "Besides," he'd said. "No septon would wed them if someone looked past her bastard." He'd spat the words and glared at her father as though he wished him dead, and Sylvia had whispered to her mother, asking why he was so cross. The queen's nails had dug into her fine chair, and she never answered, staring at the man with an expression hard as stone. Her father was quiet a moment, and then thundered out that he'd arrange the girl a match, and by the year's end, she had a husband.

It was only later that she learned that the girl's bastard was said to be Robert's.

She wondered where the bastard was now, and then wondered why she should care.

Her brothers would likely insist she marry again, if Robb left her too soon. Even amongst nobility, spinsterhood was a shameful thing. But she'd have to be dragged by her hair to a septon before she agreed, and even then, she'd refuse to say the vows, and whatever daft marriage they forced upon her would be invalid.

As for Robb...well, it is difficult to say. As a man of the Old Gods, he needed no septon's approval to remarry. As a lord, his people would expect it, but it would be his choice. Robb could not marry another woman after her, she knew it. He'd honour her, until his last day, just as he'd vowed to. But even as she thought it, she cast a look at Mini, and was once more reminded that Robb needed a son, a proper heir to rule after him. What if she could not give one to him?

Her heavy thoughts made it hard to keep from crying, and she was afraid Mini would wake. She breathed deeply, her breath coming fast as her shaking hands gripped at her arms so tight, that she thought her nails might tear through her shawl. Stop it, she thought furiously, feeling her heart start to pound through her ribs. It's accomplishes nothing to bask in fears that will never come to light. Robb is alive, I am alive. Mini will live until her black hair runs white, she will marry and know love and have children of her own.

Everyone is where they ought to be, she assured herself. But that didn't shake the fear. Father was just where he ought to have been, and yet that had gotten him killed. His guard had not raised a hand in defence of him, and they had all but helped the bloody beast along in eviscerating him.

The men of Winterfell were not so ineffective. They protected, they guarded without fail—but abruptly, she recounted Bran, and the lowly rat who'd come to his chamber at night with intent to kill him, only to be met by his brave lady mother, and his fierce dire wolf.

Shaken, the lady stood, (almost stumbling), running a hand through her tangled hair as she paced. One, two three, turn, one two three, turn, one two three...

On and on she counted her steps, moving her feet to the racing of her heart, reciting over and over that nothing was out of place, and that her fears and anxieties were wrought from grief and were no reason to fret over.

It made her feel a little better, allowed her heart to slow and calm to settle over her.

She knew these questions were best not dwelled upon, as they were impossible to answer and were more likely to bring despair. But what mortal doesn't ask questions with impossible answers, especially when they concerned someone so close to heart?

A distraction, that's what she needed. Something to occupy her until this dark cloud moved on from her. Though her duties as a lady were denied to her, she had other things to delve into. The embroidery by the fire, neglected for too long, were a testament to that. She took up the embroidery wheel, where a kitten remained half finished, and began to work.

By nightfall, it was only Ser Fredrik who'd come to visit her all day. Bran and Rickon steered clear, either by Robb's orders or their own, she knew not. She was oddly relieved for that. It was too soon to see them.

But when Fredrik entered her chambers, a wave of relief knocked into her, startling her and nearly bringing her to tears. She'd gone and hugged him without thinking, her arms wrapped tight around him like she was afraid he'd dissolve away. It felt like King's Landing, like something she'd thought she'd lost. She hadn't even noticed she started crying until her old knight raised a hesitant hand to pat her back.

"There, there." He mumbled softly, reminded of all the times when he'd tried to stop her tears as a little girl, his affection growing for her, and making him want to shield her from the all the cruelties of the Red Keep. But she was not his charge anymore. She was not his to protect and defend. That was Robb Stark's job now. Yet here they were and he was unable to protect her from the sting of loss.

Her gasping sobs twisted his heart and he wished she'd hated her drunken father, just so his brutal end didn't grieve her. He never truly hated the king before, but he did then, and it felt as heavy and lasting as resentment a hundred years old. For years in King's Landing he'd watch as Robert stumbled through fatherhood, embarrassing, maiming and shunning his children with a few badly placed words. More than once, he'd tried to deflect Sylvia from seeing the ugliest of her father's nature. Had that been as wise as he'd thought?

When her tears were spent, she pulled away from her former protector, hastily composing herself as though she'd somehow offended him.

"I apologize." She murmured stiffly after a moment. "I'm a fool." He was quiet, and she looked up at him, no longer sheepish, but questioning. "But how can he just be—just be gone? I n-never got to s-see him again, I never got to tell him—" her voice broke off

"It's alright," he assured her. "It's alright to weep, little lady."

"I want to scream." She snapped. "He wasn't supposed to die. He was drinking, got himself into that mess. He got himself killed, and I am angry." Her fury suddenly sapped, Sylvia sagged, her face twisted in misery. He watched, rooted to the spot, as Sylvia's hand shot out, her fingers clenching around the post of her bed so tight he saw her hand tremble.

Without thinking, he moved forward and pulled her hand off. "Don't. You'll hurt yourself." He chided gently.

For a long moment, Sylvia stared at him with watery eyes, looking as though she wanted to say something more, but kept quiet. He put her hand down by her side, giving a hesitant smile. "A pillow is better suited for sudden acts of violence. Better than wood poles anyway."

There was nothing more Fredrik thought to say, and he thought of taking his leave, since it didn't seem like the lady wanted company, but before he could speak up, Sylvia wound her arms back around him, resting her head against his chest.

"I can live without him." She sounded sure and stern. "Am I wicked, for feeling this way? Am I a foul daughter?" she asked quietly after a moment.

Fredrik scoffed, patting her back gently. "No. You did your duty by your father, and you were mindful. The king was proud to have you." He said it even though he didn't know if it were true. He could not speak for a dead man, but what father wouldn't be proud of who she'd grown into? The king would have to be a blind and deaf fool not to see.

As the sun descended in the sky, candles and torches replaced its radiant beams, and men set down their work for the day to return to their families.

In the silence of her chambers, Sylvia sat on her bed with her child between her legs, Mini's back to her belly with a great tome balanced on the lady's thighs. It was a tome she'd gotten as a gift from her Uncle Renly, just before she'd been sent off.

It was a thick book, bound in leather and iron, a rearing stag etched into the leather of the cover, and the words History of Storms End carved into the iron lining the spine. The thick yellowed pages held all the great stories of the rulers of Storms End, beautiful illustrations strewn through the tome with some taking up whole pages, while others took up small corners. The first few pages were dedicated to Durran Godsgrief, who was the first Storm King. She loved that story best. Durran had dared to challenge the gods of the sea, building castle after castle, suffering loss after loss, all for love. He'd taken the sea god's daughter, Elenei, to wife, rebuilt every castle they destroyed with their storms, and at last erected the only castle capable of withstanding the rage of the gods and sea. His strength made her proud, and the ferocity with which he loved his queen was endlessly astounding, and somehow beautiful.

She read out the histories to her daughter, pointing out the pictures and explaining them. "One day," she murmured softly to Mini. "This will belong to you. So you never forget that half of you is Baratheon, and that we are stronger than any storm."

Nearing the end of the book, they came across the story of the Last Storm Queen, Argella Durrandon. Not thinking much of it, Sylvia began to read.

"After the fall of Argilac the Arrogant, his daughter, his only surviving heir, barred shut the gates to the castle that was now hers to defend. Word carried by the wind said it was Orys Baratheon, the bastard who wished to marry Argella and bring Storms End to heel, who killed Argilac in combat. By nightfall, she crowned herself the Strom Queen, and vowed that Storms End would not yield to the dragons. Fierce and brave though she was, her cowardly men betrayed her when one of the Conqueror's sister-wives landed with her dragon. They bound Argella, naked and gagged and threw her at Orys Baratheon's feet. But he was gentle to her; he wrapped her in his own cloak and fed her, and commended her father's bravery and skill at combat." Once she thought this had been a very romantic tale since love grew from something so dark, but the more she read, the more her disgust grew. "He wed her, and took her sigil and words as his own. But there are rumors that it was years before Argella even came to be content with him. It's rumored she tried to kill him on their wedding night." She'd never believed that before, because it seemed so dishonourable and snakelike.

But now she could see it, for nothing Orys ever did could atone for the life he took from Argella. How cruel could Aegon have been to condemn her poor ancestor to marry her father's murderer? Argella must have tried to kill her husband more than once.

The door creaked open and Robb appeared from the darkness, the candlelight making the stands of red in his hair shine like copper.

"Hello." She greeted.

"Hello. What are you reading?" He asked, loosening the ties on his doublet as he pointed to the tome.

"The story of Argella."

"Is that the one about the Targaryen prince who broke his betrothal with Lord Baratheon's daughter?" his nose scrunched up as he tried to remember his lessons.

"No." She said. "Argella Durrandon. The last Storm Queen who was made to marry her father's murderer." Her voice was low and calm and Robb sensed something was simmering beneath.

He came to kneel beside her, his hand reaching for hers. "Why are you reading such sad things?"

She met his eyes, her hand flipping so she could wrap her fingers around his. Mini, still fascinated with the book, beat her tiny hands against it with excitement and beamed at her father before returning to her book. "It wasn't always sad." She blinked away any trace of doubt or despair, replacing it with certainty. "It's the history of my family. Mini should know it."

"Getting her started early on history lessons, are you?" he smiled.

"If she's anything like you, she will need them." She smiled back. It wasn't hard to tease him or to smile, surprisingly enough. But her heart was not in her smile or her words. It was too heavy for such things still.

After a moment, his face darkened, his expression becoming sombre and serious. "We need to talk about what we will do when we are called upon by Joffrey to swear fealty to him. When you feel well enough to travel."

She looked away, a little piqued that he brought it up now. It also shamed her to know her grief was now classified as a sort of illness. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

Tomorrow, two days from now, or even a month from now, it made no difference to him. He'd only kneel to Joffrey because the Realm would brand him a traitor if he didn't. He only brought it up now because he didn't know if she wanted to travel right away, or if she wanted to wait. "Aye." He didn't expect her to suddenly tug her hand from his, but hoped she did not see his disappointment. She moved her hand over the surface of the book and then turned the page on the story of Argella.

The young lord stood and sat on the edge of the bed, returning to unlacing the front strings of his doublet, until it hung loose off his body, revealing the rough spun tunic beneath. "Perhaps I should start Mini on sums lessons. Because if she's anything like you, I'm already behind." He mocked.

Her leg knocked into his back, a smile returning to her lips.

Their supper came and went, and as Sylvia sat by her vanity, finally deciding to brush the tangles from her hair, she heard the few words that snapped the dam inside her heart.

Mini had begun fussing, loud angry grunts filling the air, and Robb knew at once what she wanted. "Come here, my girl. It's alright. You'll see Grey Wind again tomorrow."

My girl...she tried not to linger on the way the two simple words made her heart tug, but they kept swirling round and round in her head, memories pulling from the farthest corners of her mind.

Father used to call me that, she thought. It had been something that made her feel special to Robert because there was no one else he called by that name.

One memory led to another, and that led to another one, and before she knew it, her mind was reeling with memories of her father. The day she left the Capitol, he'd kissed her forehead, patted her back and told her to be good for Ned. He'd sent a letter to her after she fell from a tree and cut herself on a log, and did not ask about her health like mother had, nor did he chide her as Lord and Lady Stark had. Instead he'd only said that every scar is a reminder something tried to kill you and failed. She remembered her wedding day, the ceremony when he'd walked her to her husband, when he'd told her she looked good in her dress. The wedding feast, when he'd drunk so much, he felt up a serving girl's thighs as though he were in a whore house.

She remembered the things not said—things she'd kept quiet about because at the time, she hadn't known what to say, or knew it wasn't her place to voice her thoughts. She remembered saying the wrong things, mentioning the Targaryens or being bratty, which had invoked Robert's irritation. She remembered the bruises he'd given her mother, the arguments they'd had, and the noise that had echoed though their apartments on the rare event he visited the queen.

She remembered his rare smiles, his pats on the back. The times, almost too faint to remember, when he'd lifted her up into the air, and never once feared falling.

It came upon her suddenly—like a blow from a hammer—the realization that she would never make another new memory with Robert. What was, was all there ever shall be, good and bad. All opportunity was lost and that hurt more than anything.

The brush felt heavy and it slipped from her hand and clattered on to the floor. She knew it probably startled Robb, but he felt a hundred miles away. Sylvia felt the tears burning her eyes and the wetness of them on her face, but she could only hear a rush in her ears. But even with blurred eyes, she recognised her husband as he knelt before her and heard his voice break through the buzz.

"Syl, Sylvia. Look at me. What is it? What can I do?"

"Robb, I..." She whimpered out before she hid her face in her hands. She felt his hands on her knees, felt his need to comfort and assure and his distress at not knowing how. More tears flooded down her face and a pathetic noise of pain broke from her lips. From her cradle, Mini watched them with wide blue eyes, confused as to why her mother made such frightened sounds, and wanting to go to her. Mini had never seen her mother cry. Sylvia had never allowed her to, because she said "When your mother cries, it's as though seeing the mountain sway in the storm".

"I don't know what to say," he confessed. "But I'm here. Here with you, beside you always. Share yourself with me, unburden yourself with me."

His admission slowly brought her hands away, revealing her face to him.

I'd like to thank darkwolf76 for helping me with writing this chapter, for without her, I'd surely still be stressing over how to write this chapter

A/N

I've said that some chapters were hard to write before, but I don't think anything has topped this. This. Was. Hard. It was like a punch to the jaw every time I opened the damn document, and I dreaded it and tried to reconstruct this or avoid writing it, but by then I'd ether gone too far or thought this was all necessary.

That being said, a review would be a very nice thing to get.

Now excuse me, my dear ones, while I go curl up in my bed