HEYY! This chapter was meant to be longer, but with how it was shaping up, it would have been 10K + words all together, and there's a lot happening, so I thought I'd split it in two. So, good news: the chapter should be out soon :D

shout out to darkwolf76, who, without her amazing effort, and kindness, this chapter would have been out months from now :D

Oh, and how great was season 6? Fan service, like 80% of it, I'm sure. but it was fantastic! :D

Chapter 21: When You Try Your Best...

Grief was not an emotion Sylvia had experienced, at least not quite like this.

To be sure, she'd seen grief, heard the wails it garnered, the despair people could fall into in the aftermath. The wails were the worst thing. Heartbroken, helpless cries of grief that could not be soothed, no matter what anyone said, or did, or offered in comfort. Sylvia found it hard to brush off the sound, and she could still remember it, the way it echoed off the stone walls. It made her feel ill, even now.

In the days following the news of Robert's passing, Sylvia couldn't find it in her heart to leave the safety of her chambers. She didn't want to see anyone—especially not the boys, though she never said so. But by day three, the walls began to feel small, and she left Elane with her daughter so she could venture through the castle.

She went into the kitchens to see what they'd planned for supper. The shocked faces of the cooks and wenches had made her smile, and the entire visit had been most enjoyable, simply based on that. In the Glass Gardens, she plucked a winter rose from its bush and went to the little sept, laying it at the Father's alter. She prayed for him to give her father rest, wherever he was in the afterlife.

After those three short adventures, she was weary and found herself in her solar, staring into the fire, enclosed by very similar grey walls that she'd previously grown sick of. But the quiet was good; not having to worry about how others would see her in this state was welcome.

As she watched the flames flick over the logs, she remembered how Catelyn had shut herself away, alone with her sleeping son and her agony. She remembered how Rickon had cried and threw fits, missing his mother, frustrated and hurt over why she wasn't the same warm, loving woman she always had been. She remembered how she'd grown angry at her good-mother.

Shame twisted her heart. Although Sylvia knew her pain over her father's passing could not match Catelyn's pain for her child's accident, she felt she could understand better how the lady had fallen so low.

But she could not, would not let herself go into that dark place, with grief her sole companion. With the thought in mind, she set off to find Elane and Mini, planning to spend a little time with her favorite former hedge knight.

Sometimes she still longed for empty walls, and silence. Sometimes she just thought over and over again on how she just wanted everything to be normal again, and then grew very sad to know nothing was normal anymore. Catelyn was gone, and had kidnapped her Uncle Tyrion. Her cruel Uncle Jaime attacked her good-father, killed his guards, and left him with a bad leg. Her grandfather set his rabid dog loose on the riverlands in retaliation. And now her father was dead.

But it would mend now. Tyrion had been freed justly, after his champion won his freedom in combat at the Eyrie. Her grandfather would surely reign his forces back in, so that Joffrey's rule did not start with a war that had erupted due to pride and brashness. It would be difficult, there was no doubt.

And she would mend, too. She would move past this, until one day, thinking of her father no longer brought with it, a pinch of regret.

Sylvia awoke to a different sort of pinch, on the morning after her seven days of grief concluded.

"Ow," she mumbled as Mini's tiny, delicate fingers pinched her lips, forcing her awake. The baby only smiled a toothy smile, kicking her legs merrily, and clenched tighter before her mother batted her hands away. The young parents decided on a whim to put the baby between them as they slept, and though Sylvia suspected it was more for her benefit, she couldn't deny that it had been a very restful sleep.

On the other side of the bed, Robb slept on, sprawled out on his back, with one arm stretched over the infant's head and the other dangling off the edge. Sylvia felt his fingers brushing her hair, and remembered how she'd fallen asleep with his fingers stroking the dark strands. She wanted to remember him like this—all sprawled out, mouth agape, staying on the bed by some miracle.

It was one achingly long week since the news had reached them. In the Faith of the Seven, the gods granted seven idle, workless, silent days for the bereaved to grieve a loss close to heart. Although Sylvia was not a very pious woman, she undertook the tradition without a second thought. She'd been named in the Light of the Seven, taught by her sweet Septa Bryda from the Seven Pointed Star, and had not known of the Old Gods until she was nine. The Old Gods were not hers.

More than once, she wondered if people judged her very harshly for acting as she had, and mourning in the southern fashion, but people had been very kind to her, (not that they ever were not), and no one mentioned it.

But now the Seven Days of Greif was done, and she could return to being Lady Stark. Honestly, she looked forward to it. After seven days of stewing in her bad feelings she wanted something to wash it all away, to start anew and move away from it. Besides, work could not be halted, not for her and not for Robb. And Robb had tended to the north by himself for too long.

Despite losing his wife to grief for a week, Robb never complained while she mourned. It felt good to know her husband was beside her in this, no matter how pathetic she thought she was, and not matter how strained he became.

Yet even though Robb tried to understand and offer encouragement there were times he just...didn't. His comforts would fall flat, his gestures would hurt, his words felt meaningless. She couldn't fault him though. He had two parents still, and there was nothing sinful with being fortunate.

"Silly girl," she whispered to the baby as she tickled her round belly. Mini's laughter made her mother smile. "I'm not Grey Wind. I don't enjoy your pinches." One day, after praying in the sept for her father's rest, she returned to find her little baby pulling on the dire wolf's snout and ears, as Robb read maps by his chair. Just as she'd been about to run over to the two, screaming at the animal to get away from her baby, she watched as Grey Wind gave a long suffering sigh, blinking silently at the child as she giggled.

Maybe Robb is right, she'd thought. Maybe direwolves do understand gentleness. "Your father might, though, sweetling."

Carefully, Sylvia turned the baby towards Robb, and as soon as the infant had her father's face in her sights, there was no stopping her grabby little fingers. Her husband grunted sleepily as Mini pinched his face, raising his head and finding two pairs of blue eyes shining back at him.

With a sleepy sigh, Robb dropped his head back to the pillow. "Wicked woman." He mumbled groggily, rubbing a hand over his face. Sylvia grinned, propping herself up on her elbows as Mini reached up for Robb's chin.

"It's time to wake up. Winterfell awaits, the boys await, sweet, patient, wise Maester Luwin awaits." She said in a light tone. "Oh, and breakfast waits too. Bacon, and eggs, and freshly made bread...bacon, Robb."

Robb grumbled, turning away from them, onto his side, as though sleep would come again. "That's the last time she sleeps with us." He grumbled, his voice heavy with sleep.

"It wasn't all so bad." She murmured back to him mildly, raising her hand to brush her fingers along his shoulder. She felt his shoulders tremble a little. "I got used to the kicking." She smiled merrily down at the child, leaning down to kiss her sweet brow. "And you're the one who suggested she sleep with us." She reminded.

"I didn't think she'd kick me to the edge of the bed all night." He yawned, swinging his legs over the edge. He walked towards the bowl of cool water, taking up a rag to wash his face.

Sylvia smirked at his back, her eyes flashing over his strong shoulders and the corded muscle that gave him strength to wield a sword. She wondered how he'd look swinging a sword, without a cloak, a doublet or a wool shirt to cover him up, and flushed hotly.

"Direwolf master and Lord of the North can't conquer his own bed because his infant daughter's tiny feet were kicking him." She smiled, her heart light at their easy banter.

"You'd bow down to her too if her sharp little talons were digging into your back." Robb laughed.

The Starks broke their fast in the Great Hall, and afterwards, Robb sent Rickon to his lessons with Maester Luwin, and took Bran with him to teach the boy himself. Now that Bran could never be a knight, his mind had to be sharper than the sword he would never wield, else life would be...rather limited and joyless. Sylvia hurt to imagine such a life for the sweet boy.

Bidding them farewell for now, Sylvia walked along the parapet leading from the Great Hall through to the Great Keep. From the height, she could see the blackened, half collapsed roof of the Library's tower. Her shoulders tensed to see it, to remember the night when Lady Catelyn and her son nearly died beneath a blade. At her insistence, Robb was set out to repair it swiftly, and fill it once more with books, so that when Catelyn returned, she never had to see it and remember, and fall back into despair.

Sylvia hurried along, climbed up the stairs into the Great Keep, and soon came to the familiar, pain wood door.

Inside her lady's solar, she was not very surprised to find a good pile of scrolls and letters waiting for her.

As Lady Stark, it was her duty now to keep ties between House Stark and the rest of the north strong and friendly. One day, one of these noble lords may take in her sons to foster beneath their roof. If not, other vassals may desire to send their sons (or even daughters) to Winterfell, so they might learn, and play, and become well rounded little lords and ladies.

Mini would be ripe for marriage one day, and good, strong connections with northern nobles could produce a good match for her girl. Even though a good match to a prominent heir would need the king's approval, Sylvia hoped a northern house won her hand. At least then her daughter wouldn't be half a world away, with people she did not know.

But beyond fostering, and betrothals, these houses were sworn to the Starks. Sworn to answer the call to arms, to protect and follow the Stark who sat at Winterfell. Sworn die, if needed, for their lord. She owed it to them to know them, to hear their complaints, and share in their joys and their grief. She would aid and defend the houses who asked it of her, send supplies and men if required. They were Robb's people, and so they were her people too.

As time went on, the maids came and went, coming in with a pitcher of water and leaving with instructions to deliver her messages of reply to Maester Luwin. One maid, Nera, remained behind, standing before her lady's desk and looking rather shy. When asked, she said a few kitchen wenches needed new dresses. She gave the girl her assurance that they will have the materials to make replacements, and sent her on her way.

Midway through morning, the castle's new steward, Andren Lorry arrived to inform her that the new batch of ale, beer, and wine would arrive later in the day. She found it a little amusing. New steward for the new Lady Stark, even though she wasn't really Lady Stark.

"Very good. I trust you'll make sure everything is in order when it arrives." He nodded. "While you're about it, send someone down to count how much cured meat we have in our stores. I want an exact number if Winterfell is not to flounder when winter does come." That was one of the first tings Catelyn taught her: always, always have more than you need in the stores. Winter, sieges, and famine can come suddenly—before anyone can properly prepare—and it was her duty to ensure her people do not starve.

Each scroll sent back and each order she made, was like...climbing a step in a tower. It was a small victory, but it filled her with a feeling of purpose and hope, and a drive to reach the top.

Hours ticked by, and soon the pile was diminished quite a bit. Her fingers ached and it wasn't long later that she entered the godswood, far from her responsibilities and worries...just for a while. Although her small victories filled her with a sort of warmth, she needed a rest.

She thought of taking her horse out into the moors, riding freely with the icy wind in her hair. That was the only time she didn't mind the northern cold, because astride her horse, galloping through fields with nothing in her way, Sylvia was free. Free of everything that had ever troubled her, or menaced her.

Oh, and it did sound so sweet, but it would take too long to get the horses saddled and her guards prepared. And there could be other wildlings out there in the woods, she added as an afterthought. She didn't really think there were any others out there, but she hadn't thought an assassin could breach Winterfell undetected, either.

The sunlight shone through the thick canopy of leaves above her head, and those little patches warmed her face for a brief second as she walked through them. There was peace in the godswood, one that even Sylvia could feel as soon as she stepped into the thicket, for not a single stone held foul memories. She'd become a Stark in this wood. Robb had announced their daughter's name in this wood. She'd played here as a girl, swam in the hot springs with her good-sisters...made love to her husband here.

True, she did not worship the Old Gods, but that didn't mean she found no peace in their sacred wood. But it was not a place of prayer and enlightenment to Sylvia. She went for the quiet.

Sylvia intended to sit at the base of the heart-tree, (turned away from the bloody eyes of the weirwood), but as she drew closer to the ancient heart-tree, the gentle sounds of wildlife morphed into the common tongue—a soft child's voice, and the husky voice of a woman. A voice she did not know.

Sylvia ran towards them, any sense of ease quickly forgotten.

She could see the heart-tree from here, the blood red leaves cutting through the greenery of the forest. But it was another moment before Bran and the wildling came into view, Sylvia stopping in her tracks to see them seated together before the weirwood. Talking unabashedly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As a girl, Sylvia heard Old Nan's stories about the people beyond the Wall, and she had to admit, she was curious of the wildling at Winterfell. Robb had never even met a wildling before her.

Sylvia thought she couldn't be faulted for a little curiosity. She'd like to know where the strange woman had come from—if she'd ever seen a giant, or a flesh eater, if there were any castles north of the Wall, or if they truly did live in dug out huts. But her curiosity was tempered by the fact that this woman had tried to steal from sweet little Bran, and attacked her husband with a club.

Since the wild woman had surrendered, Robb spared her life and took her as prisoner, and set her to work in the kitchens. Sylvia had only seen her once—the day she was captured—and hadn't had any other desire to look upon her again. But she knew it was her the moment she set her eyes on the tangled rats nest that was her hair, and heard the soft clank of chains when she turned to see who'd come upon them.

"Bran!" the southern princess gasped, hurrying towards where they sat on the overturned log. She hiked her skirts up to her knees in her haste, not wanting to trip over them.

"Sylvie?" Bran voiced in shock, innocent blue eyes wide with surprise.

"What are you doing here?! You're supposed to be at your lessons!" Why wasn't he with Robb, or Maester Luwin? What was he doing talking with the thing that would have killed him, not a month before?! Sylvia wished she'd brought Fredrik with her. A big man with a big sword would have scared the wildling back where she belonged.

The boy blinked, stunned, and a touch frightened of his good-sister's sudden, loud appearance. She'd been so cheery this morning, but now she was yelling at him for not being at his lessons. He was only doing as Robb said—well maybe not exactly as he said. Robb had said to go and play, but he couldn't play the games Rickon wanted to play. While he wanted his brother to play with him, he didn't want Rickon sad either. So Rickon and Hodor went to play by themselves, and Bran thought he'd wait for them to come back. It was very boring, but then Osha came.

But Bran couldn't understand what had his brother's wife so upset. He hoped it wasn't him, and hoped she didn't make him go back to his lessons.

"Robb let us out for the day," he explained softly. "He told us to have some fun for a change."

Sylvia didn't look at him, and instead kept her eyes on the wildling. The wild woman's head turned down, not meeting Sylvia's eye. Sylvia felt her pride surge, believing the woman averted her eyes in respect, not knowing that it was anything but.

But Osha still saw her, from the corner of her eye. She'd heard from the cooks and kitchen maids, their queen—"m'lady", they called her, but they still served her like a queen—Sylvia, was a king's daughter, from far south.

When Osha had been captured, she'd been slung across the little lord's horse, and never saw Sylvia. Thus, this was the first time the wildling ever saw her new mistress, and honestly...she wasn't really impressed. M'lady Sylvia was a delicate thing, bundled up in a cloak of fine white fur, and pink face, either from cold or anger. She wouldn't last an hour north of the Wall. If the cold didn't take her, a man looking for a woman would, and when a fragile thing like her failed to give him strong sons, he'd have no use for her and do away with her.

And she was young, probably just had her blood a few years before, and the cooks said she had a babe at her breast too. Osha didn't understand why southerners followed who they followed, when who they followed seemed so frail.

"'Us'?! Rickon is here too?" She came to a stop beside the boy, her hands coming down to his shoulders as though ready to yank the boy away at the first sign of trouble. For a fleeting moment, she was surprised that a foul stench didn't pervert the air around the wildling, and then remembered the maids had treated her to a bath, and fresh clothes. Finally, she pulled her eyes from other woman and darted around in search of her other charge. "Where is he?"

"He's hiding." He felt Sylvia tense behind him. He looked up at her. "He and Hodor are playing hide-and-seek."

The southern girl relaxed some, but her eyes were still hard when she looked back at Osha. Bran didn't like it at all. Osha hadn't done anything wrong.

"You, wildling. Get back to the kitchens where you belong. Don't let me catch you out here again." Osha rose, looking up at the younger woman through her matted hair with a cool expression that Sylvia didn't know what to make of.

Without a curtsy, the woman uttered a simple, "Yes, m'lady." And was on her way, her chains clanging together as she walked. A constant reminder of who and what she was within the castle.

Bran pushed Sylvia's hands from his shoulders, twisting around as best he could to glare up at her. "Why would you do that?" Bran snapped as Osha's rattling chains faded with distance.

His good-sister moved around him, taking Osha's seat to meet his eyes. Her face was kinder now, and her voice was softer and sweeter. It only annoyed Bran further. He knew Osha was a wildling, and that her friend held a knife to his throat, but she'd yielded and was their guest at Witnerfell. Robb said so. His lord father said so. And Osha was one of the only people who didn't treat him differently. Perhaps it was because she hadn't known him as a boy with working legs, or maybe it was that she didn't want to ask him about it. But whatever the reason, she didn't walk on eggshells around him, nor did she make him feel incapable.

He was growing to really like her, and it angered him that Sylvia was ruining it.

"I don't want you near that woman. She's dangerous." Sylvia explained simply, hoping not to confuse him.

"No she isn't! I was talking with her for half an hour before you came. She didn't raise a hand to me once." He countered. "She was telling me about beyond the Wall and about the packs of direwolves that live there."

"I don't care, Bran." The anger was seeping back into her voice. It baffled Sylvia how he couldn't see that the woman was dangerous, how he didn't have better sense to protect himself, especially now when he couldn't run if he were cornered. "She was going to hurt you, and would have killed you if she had the chance. If Robb hadn't come along—" she stopped herself there, not wanting to frighten the boy by telling him the horrors that might have come to him.

Robb told her about that day. The still healing cut on Bran's leg was proof enough that they would have hurt him more if Robb had not come.

"You don't know; you weren't there!"

"I didn't have to be. That woman is a wildling, Bran." Her eyes bored into his, and Bran felt hurt and unease and cold fear in his belly, tangling and twisting like a ball of snakes. He didn't like that Sylvia was looking at him like that—it frightened him. Her hand found his and gave a firm squeeze. "She isn't like us. Wildlings are bad, they aren't honourable or merciful. She isn't a curiosity to marvel at—she's our prisoner. She could kill you and not think twice on it. I forbid you to speak with her."

Sylvia watched as Bran's face reddened, tears of anger welling in his blue eyes. She hadn't intended to make him cry, and suddenly wished she'd been softer to him. But he had to know, and she wouldn't apologize for telling him truths.

The boy wretched his hands from her, so suddenly the sting of his rejection stunned her to silence.

"You're not my mother!" he screamed suddenly. Sylvia felt herself flinch back, her eyes widening at the boy's words. "My mother is Catelyn Stark, you're not her. You can't forbid me to do anything!"

Bran tried to wretch away from her, as though he would stand if he could and run far away from her. But his legs could not move, and never would again, and so he remained on the log. Sylvia stared at him a long moment and the child stared back. Finally, she gathered herself, and sternly said, "I will. You're right; I am not your mother, but she would not approve of you becoming friendly with a wildling."

"You don't speak for her!"

"Bran, I am trying to protect you." She snapped.

"By being cruel to Osha just because you can? My mother would never do that."

Sylvia knew children threw tantrums. They got angry and yelled and kicked and begged and cried. But there was never a time, (other than when she was a child herself), that a child's words actually hurt her. She wasn't being cruel, was she? She was protecting Bran from a woman who could have hurt him. He's a child, she thought. He doesn't see the danger in befriending her. But still, Bran's eyes were filled with fire, and the pinch in her heart didn't dissipate.

The breaking of frozen leaves and twigs drew their attention to the left, breaking the stunned silence they'd fallen into.

"Hodor." The simple giant said when he stepped from the trees. The two looked to the smiling stable boy, little Rickon settled on his back, blinking at them curiously from his perch. Sylvia knew the little wolf had likely heard some of their argument, and was afraid to speak to them. At the boy's dangling feet, a pair of green eyes blinked from the foliage. Shaggy Dog, she realized with a start. Her eyes darted to Rickon's other foot, and sure enough, a silver and smoky grey direwolf stepped into the clearing.

Was Bran ever really in danger with Summer and Shaggy prowling the wood? Summer had already killed a fully grown man to protect his master. Heat flooded her cheeks. They should have been at lessons, she thought sourly. Then none of this would have happened. Why had Robb chosen today of all days to give them a free day?

Sylvia stood, brushing down her gown softly, nothing letting on that she was itching to leave the godswood. "Hodor, stay with Bran and Rickon. Don't let either of them out of your sight." Her hands clasped together, the leather of her gloves creaking softly under her tightly clenched hands.

"Hodor." Hodor nodded.

"And if you see that wildling girl, keep away. Don't let her near the boys."

"Hodor." He said again, smiling and bowing slightly to the lady.

With a nod, the new Lady of Winterfell turned from the three, not seeing Bran turn his eyes down, a flash of guilt in his eyes.

She wanted to see Robb. She wanted to know why he'd let the boys out into the godswood without proper guards to keep them safe. Wanted to know why the wildling woman was permitted out of the kitchens and why he thought it a good idea to suddenly veer off the day's plans. Without even telling her about it, so she'd had no idea what the boys were doing.

The trees passed her by like a green blur, until she was greeted by the stink of the kennels. She heard the hounds barking and whimpering in their stalls, and grinned stiffly at them as she walked by, their wide little eyes watching her curiously, noses twitching.

When she was a girl, her mother gave her a puppy, who she'd named Spots. He was a good pup, followed her everywhere. But when Joffrey butchered some poor kitchen cat, she begged Fredrik to take her pup away. Sylvia was so afraid that Joffrey would come for her furry companion next. Her knight told her Spots went to a good family, safe and far from Joffrey. Even now, as a grown woman, she didn't want to believe anything less.

Direwolves were not dogs; they didn't need much protecting. They could tear a dozen men apart, could carry children on their backs, and she had no doubt that Bran and Rickon were safe with their wolves. They were the only reason she didn't order Hodor to pick up both Stark boys and carry them back inside the castle.

But she felt on edge to know that they were out there in the first place. Anything could have happened out there, and without providing proper eyes to watch them, of course a threat had found them. No matter what Bran thought, it wasn't right for that wildling to approach him.

Sylvia clenched her teeth to think of the boy, her pride aching sharply. She could still see how his eyes had burned, blue eyes filled with fire that she'd never thought a child capable of. She couldn't understand why he was so angry. She was only trying to protect him. Did he truly think she was taking his mother's place? Sylvia had thought she was doing what any sane woman would do—what Robb or Catelyn would have done—but he obviously didn't think so.

In his anger, he'd called her cruel. Cruel was not a word anyone had ever used to describe her, not even in her worst, most wicked moments. Joffrey was the cruel one, never Sylvia. But Bran thought she was, and even if he would regret it later, in that moment he'd meant it. That fact ate away at her more than she'd like to admit.

She walked beneath the shadow of the library's tower, smelling the lingering stench of burnt stone and wood. The fire had done so much damage, and there was hardly a book that survived that was not scorched. Septon Chayle was toiling away in repairing them, just as the builders were in mending the tower. But for now...the tower was gone, and in its place was a blackened memory of the man who'd nearly killed two Starks.

"Good morn, m'lady." Greeted the handful of builders at the tower's base, nodding respectfully at her. Sylvia nodded in reply, plastering a smile on her face that no one would think was false, and hurried on.

The courtyard of Winterfell always bustled with activity, and today was no exception. Servants did their chores, blacksmiths forged their iron, butchers minded the animals, and in the middle of it all, stood Lorry, the steward. He shouted orders at a group of men as they unloaded barrels from a waiting cart. Doubtless, it was the kegs of ale, beer and wine he told her would be ready today.

"Lorry," she greeted as she approached him.

"Oh," he greeted, turning quickly bowing, seeming startled she'd appeared. "My Lady Sylvia, I am surprised you're here, you see, I've only just—"

"Where is my husband?" she cut him off swiftly, not wanting to waste time in pleasantries.

His always impassive face, slackened at her briskness, and he looked suddenly very clueless. Pathetically so, almost like a child who was trying to avoid getting in trouble. "He, er, he passed through not long ago, my lady. He said he was going to show little Lady Minisa the Glass Gardens."

Without another word, Sylvia turned from the befuddled steward and continued on through the yard, shoulders tense and face reddened. Servants made way for her as she passed them, wary of their lady and her temper, but also half wondering if this was a resurgence of her grief.

Once again, as I was writing, I started noticing that Osha and Sylvia contrast sharply, especially when they think of weakness and fragility. Osha thinks Sylvia is fragile, while Sylvia thinks Bran is, and Bran is connecting more with Osha because of it.

PLEASE REVIEW, I WORKED HARD, AND I WOULD LIKE A BIT OF FEEDBACK :D