HEY! So obviously, I'm back again :D

Sorry for the long wait, I've had a lot of personal stress involving school and crappy emotional stuff, but I'm glad to gift this chapter to you guys :D

Thank you to darkwolf76 and Owsla for helping me through this chapter, and they've got some great stories about GoT that you guys should check out :D

A/N I actually got drunk to write some of this...so I guess it's as genuine as I can...remember...ahmm.

Chapter 23: Like Rum on a Fire

Sylvia didn't think she'd ever had so much wine before.

The southerner rolled her eyes at her prudishness, vexed at how utterly boring she'd become. Or, perhaps she'd always been dull and hadn't noticed? Sylvia shook her head at the thought. Before they wed, she and Robb had kissed like lovers in the empty godswood. Before they wed, Robb learned the feel and measure of her breasts, and she'd clawed at the bare expanse of his back when he knelt to kiss the soft mounds. Good and proper ladies didn't do such naughty things with their intended before getting the gods blessing. It had felt good to be anything but a good and proper lady when Robb's lips were at her neck.

She wasn't a prude, she decided. No. She only played by a different set of rules. At eight-and-ten, she'd yet to get good and properly drunk. Or at least that's what Theon called it.

One or two cups at feasts were all she allowed herself, and she'd enjoyed the happy feeling that came from that. But she'd seen Robb drunk, Theon drunk—even sad, solemn Jon Snow had stumbled about after a few too many cups. At feasts, she'd seen other women of an age with her drink cup after cup of wine, ale, mead—whatever was offered to them, they took without complaint. She'd see them laughing at the stupidest jokes, sitting in the laps of men who were not likely to court them.

Sylvia was not shy to admit that she'd scorned them in private, yet was secretly jealous of their freedom.

Drunkenness was not the mark of an honourable woman, or a princess. Or her handmaids either. When one of her maids, (Pansy, who'd been with her since her childhood in the Red Keep) got drunk during a feast, and stumbled drunk into bed with the kennel master's son, Sylvia was immediately removed her from her service. She couldn't have a dishonoured woman serving her, no matter how she wept, and begged, and insisted it would never happen again. Pansy was southbound by midday, and where she was now, Sylvia did not know. She hoped she was happy, hoped she did not hate her former mistress.

The wine burned over her throat once again. Somehow she doubted Pansy thought kindly of her. After Pansy was dismissed, Sylvia's other maids tread more carefully, wary of repeating Pansy's mistake.

Even as a woman wedded and bedded, she drank carefully—memories of the dishonor her father brought on his family with the drink, always just in the back of her mind. But this was good: this feeling of freedom. All her burdens, worries, pain and fear had all been drowned and washed away.

I'm well overdue for this, she thought to herself, finally brushing away any lingering reservations she'd had. She took another gulp of wine, the taste no longer making her grimace.

Her lips felt tingly, and she couldn't stop herself from biting her bottom lip, marveling at the slightly dulled sensation of teeth sinking into flesh. She'd never felt such a feeling before, not even after two generous cups of wine.

By her fourth cup, she was thinking of songs she hadn't heard in so long. The north never had any bards, and the last time she'd heard a proper song was on her wedding day. Robb said he'd bring a bard to Winterfell for her...she'd have to ask him about that when she saw him next. After she threw something heavy at his head. Maybe a candleholder...or a chamber pot. She giggled at the thought.

"Thaaaa Dornishman's wife, was as fair as the sunnnn and her kiss was warmer than sp-sprinnngggg." She sang, trying her hardest not to slur the elegant lyrics. It had been a long time since she thought of this song, and once she'd remembered it, it seemed a very good idea to sing it. The more she sang, the more she enjoyed it, and less she thought of being quiet.

She thought her voice was quite pretty, in fact. Damn the bard. She'd sing for Winterfell.

"But the Dornishman's blade wasss made of black steel," she took a drink of wine, not flinching this time at the rotten taste or the burn. She actually enjoyed it. "And its kiss was a terr-terrible thing." she sang. "The Dornish man's wife would bathe as she sunged in a voice that was as sweet as a peach." Her mind hazy with the drink, she didn't even notice she'd muddled the lyrics.

A sound pierced through her singing, a soft sigh, and it took a long moment for Sylvia to remember the baby asleep on the bed behind her. She hunched her shoulders listening as intently as she could, afraid that when she turned, she'd see her little one awake and squirming. But when she looked, Mini had only rolled over, still sleeping peacefully.

She took a celebratory sip, and thought of other southern songs she hadn't thought of in years.

By the time night began to fall in the castle, Robb had been brooding by the hearth for hours, staring into the fire and feeling its heat. Bran and Rickon were likely asleep by now. How they fared after Bran's clash with Sylvia, he did not know, and he could not find it within himself to really consider it much. There was much else on his mind.

Once his bannermen arrived, he would greet them with food and drink in the Great Hall. Their banners would decorate the walls, and he'd sit with them down at the tables—just as his father would've, were he the one calling for these men to follow him into war. Then, as they licked their fingers clean of the meal he'd provide, they would talk about the march, about his plans to rescue his father and sisters from the Lannisters.

Robb leaned forward, the chair creaking softly, while his eyes remained set on the flames, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his hand into a fist. He tried not to feel afraid, but he felt more like a boy charging a foe with a wooden sword and a pony.

Father wouldn't last long as the Lannister's prisoner. They might see the wisdom in keeping Eddard alive, but that didn't mean he wouldn't suffer. One couldn't put much stock in a Lannister. His father never cared much for them, especially after Jaime Lannister shoved a sword through his king's back, while his father ordered the murder of innocent babes in their beds. Robb, admittedly, tried to avoid Sylvia's mother as much as possible, finding her calm, yet stern features a tad unsettling. The queen's voice was always so soft, so controlled, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking or what she might be planning. Surely there was something darker beneath her reserved exterior.

But he never would have thought the queen or her Lannister brothers could be so evil as to shove a little boy from a tower, and then turn around and spit further insult into their faces by tossing his father into their black cells, naming him traitor.

Stark and Lannister ought to be allies—his and Sylvia's marriage was meant to ensure that—to bury the past once and for all and bring forth a new age of peace. Sansa's marriage to Joffrey was an ill given kindness, unnecessary and insulting.

Robb's jaw tensed. He never enjoyed the idea of Sansa wedding his wife's little worm of a brother, and enjoyed it even less when the prince proved what a little shit he truly was. The arrogance with which he regarded Winterfell still grated on Robb's nerves. His trust in his father had been the only thing that kept him silent on the arrangement. Perhaps his betrothal to Sansa would keep the boy king from inflicting much pain on her father? Or, perhaps, the dead king's love of his Hand would give him kinder treatment?

Arya and Sansa were another matter entirely. As Joffrey's intended, as well as a lady of gentle birth, Sansa should be treated kindly. She was well enough to write out the queen's demands, and it would earn the Lannister's no support were they to harm a girl of three-and-ten, and one so innocent as Sansa. But in the hours after the ravens took flight, he realized that the scroll had no mention of his littlest sister, whom was no one's betrothed, and who hadn't curried any affection from the lions. Robb's eyes clenched shut to stop any tears from forming.

The Lord of Winterfell remembered that day on the Trident, when Arya had supposedly leased her wolf on the prince, and how Sansa's direwolf, Lady, had paid the blood price. Had Lady's life and Nymeria's disappearance not been enough for the prince, now crowned King? Could that be why Arya wasn't mentioned once in Sansa's message? Thoughts of his sister's pain filled cries, pleas for help, and the sounds of flesh being struck made him sick. If they had harmed one hair on either of his sisters' heads, he'd beat Joffrey's face in until it was a bloody mess, until his nose caved in, and there was nothing left but broken bones, blood and brains in his hands.

The ferocity of his thoughts frightened him, but what frightened him more was the honesty in them.

The young lord rubbed his eyes wearily, wishing for sleep. But sleep never came easy to him when Sylvia was gone from his bed. When he refused to march on the Eyrie and make his mother release Tyrion Lannister, his wife slept apart from him for three days. In those three days, he'd often found himself staring up into the darkness, arm slung over the cold spot beside him. Half of him howled to have his wife back beside him, while the other, more stubborn part, strived for sleep without her.

But rest was the farthest thing from his mind now, even as he wished for it. Anger still flickered in his heart to think of how she'd looked at him when he called the banners. How could she be so furious when he was trying to liberate his family? How could she be afraid when he had the entire north to protect her? How could she be horrified when this had been brewing for months? But his anger didn't keep him from missing her arms around him.

In his heart, he knew his wife had reason to feel angry and oppose him. The Lannisters were Sylvia's family, and she loved them. As his mother had said, Sylvia's love made her blind to her family's flaws. To make the whole matter worse, he'd kept so much knowledge from her, and though his reasons were, in his mind, rational, it's didn't change the fact that Sylvia didn't know. She thought Bran had slipped and fell from the Broken Tower. She thought the man who'd come to slit his throat was a deranged peasant, and she thought his mother took the Imp in a mad fit.

Of course she was afraid. Of course she was hurt. In her mind, this call to war came from nowhere. He could forgive her for her ignorance, and her mistrust of his choices, but he would have to tell her the truth of her family's deeds, to confide in her the way he'd always wanted to.

But would she believe him? Would she support him? Robb was not so arrogant to think that their bond in marriage could leave the bond of blood hollowed and meaningless. The accusations he would bring against the Lannisters were revolting, and Sylvia wouldn't believe them easily, for the blood that flowed through her heart was both Baratheon and Lannister, a fact that had never troubled Robb before now.

He remembered that moment in the godswood, when she told him she believed he could keep Bran safe from harm. She had been his Sylvia—every name melted away, until only his wife, had remained. Sylvia and all she stood for, and loved and believed in. A flicker of doubt prodded the edge of his mind and Robb shook his head. Just as he was hers, she was his. Sylvia might disapprove of his actions, but she'd never turn against him. He could only hope she wouldn't hate him for years after this.

Suddenly Robb was at his feet, determination setting a fire in his belly, the ache to see his wife intensifying until he could not deny the urge to find her.

The first place he looked was her private solar, where she reviewed the books, wrote out letters, consulted with the steward, and took her appointments with the various heads of staff.

The place even smelled of her, the soft scent of her bath oils and the lavender tea she liked so fondly still lingered in the air. Yet she was not there. Robb sighed and looked around the room, frowning in dismay when his gaze settled on her desk once more. His wife was so very meticulous when it came to her books. She never finished her work without putting them back in their proper place, yet here they were, strewn about as though she'd only stepped away a few moments before.

He realized she hadn't returned to the solar since the afternoon, when she took a break from her work in favor of a turn in the godswood. Her little bit of respite had led to an entire afternoon with him and Mini. How far away that seemed now.

He checked in Bran's room, and Rickon's. Both boys were sleeping; both boys were alone. He rushed down to the sept, fear starting to creep into his mind. He hoped, perhaps, that his wife had gone to her gods for comfort. It would be cold for her, but the solace of the gods might be worth the chill. But upon finding the sept empty, Robb began to worry.

As he ran from the little sept, Nera watched from a shadowed nook in the corridor. Seeing the fear in her lord's movements, she knew that he must be looking for his wife. Like most other northerners, he kept faith in the Old Gods, and had no business in the sept. She could partly imagine what her lord must be feeling, to not know where a loved one was. She had oft felt such fear as a child, when she wandered away from her father, and found herself lost. But to feel such panic as a man grown, when you're meant to know everything, must be quite horrible.

Lady Sylvia had ordered her not to tell Lord Robb where she'd hidden away, but should Lord Robb find out that she knew where his wife and child were, and that she'd let him worry for nothing...the best outcome would be her being dismissed from the Stark household. Nera's heart ached at the thought. Winterfell was her home, she loved it here, and to leave it would kill her.

Nera sent a silent prayer to the gods, that Lady Sylvia would not dismiss her herself for disobedience.

Robb rushed back to their chambers, thinking—hoping, really—Sylvia had just slipped by him, and was currently settled in their bed, still seething, still hurt, but there. Alas, when he flung open the door, it was as empty as it had been when he left it.

The young lord felt a rise of panic in his belly, so strong he fell back against the doorframe. His wife could be anywhere, and she'd hidden herself well. Where could she be? Where was his wife? Where was his child? Had Sylvia left him? At once, the image of her astride her horse, Mini bound to her chest, riding hard down the freezing road came to his mind. Had she left him to warn her family of what he planned?

No, he told himself firmly. She would never betray him like that. Never. Sylvia loved him, loved his family. They were her family too, and Sylvia would sooner kiss a tavern whore's feet than harm her family.

Anyway, she knew very well that if she ran back to her birth family so soon after he called his bannermen, she'd not only disgrace him and his, she'd cast doubt upon the strength of their marriage. She was shrewd, and did not take foolhardy risks without serious thought.

Perhaps he'd find Grey Wind in the godswood and tell him to smell her out. For a small instant, Robb wished he had his wolf's keen senses, so he could find her himself.

Soft footsteps broke through his racing thoughts, too light and somehow timid to be Sylvia's. It struck Robb as strange that he could identify his wife's footsteps, but the thought passed quickly when he looked up, and saw a maid advancing on him.

"Yes?" he was a startled by how gravelly his voice sounded, and cleared his throat.

Nera thought once more of her lady's orders, and very nearly lost her resolve. But when she saw the look in Lord Robb's she found she could not lie to him.

"M-m'ord, I know where Lady Sylvia sleeps."

Sylvia was happy. Well perhaps not happy, but...lighter. Robb and the coming war, the very fact that he had no care of the wretched insult he pissed on her family...well it didn't seem so horrible anymore. It felt as though all of it was happening in a far away land. She knew it was happening, but it couldn't touch her—she couldn't be bothered to think of the consequences.

The lady grunted, and shook herself a little, imaging the ill thoughts tumbling from her like water off a wet cat. She wanted nothing more than to enjoy the warmth the wine had provided, and gods knew she deserved it for all Robb and Catelyn had put her through. Once more, she downed the last gulp of wine, and let her arm fall limply on the rest, fingers clinging precariously to the lip of the cup.

Her spirits lifted once again, she waded through her dulled thoughts for more songs, and soon enough, she settled on one. With a grin on her lips, she began, low and soft.

"I loooved a maid as white as winter with moon glow in 'er 'air..." Why hadn't she thought of this one sooner? She and Myrcella had all but screamed the lyrics when the mood struck, and because they loved it so, it was quite often.

In her haze, she did not hear Mini snort awake, nor did she hear her soft grunts, growing louder with impatience and distress. Sylvia was too far away, lost in a daze of wine, one that would make her feel even worse than before she began.

Robb didn't know quite what to feel as he hurried down the steps of the Great Keep, shoving the wood doors open and stepping into the frozen night air. Certainly, he was angry at Sylvia for snatching their daughter and hiding away like this, letting him linger in what was probably well deserved torment. But there was also a great amount of relief pulsing through him. A fact which he was a bit ashamed of.

Relief that she hadn't fled the Keep. Relief that she had no intention of telling his secrets to his enemies. Even though he had determined that it was impossible for her to betray him, he could not help but be soothed by Nera's words.

Robb sighed miserably as he finally reached the Guest House, carefully pushing open the doors and setting up the stairs at once.

Sylvia had stayed so wasn't that enough? He was here to beg her forgiveness, wasn't that enough? They could try to find somewhere in the middle, some commonplace. He did not want this war to end with he and his wife living separate lives within the same castle. It alarmed him how close that seemed already, with the banners only just been called. Surely she'd understand, at least accept if he explained it calmly to her. He'd tell her everything, from Bran's fall to the Imp's kidnapping, and make her understand that rallying an army was necessary.

They could fix this, they would. Robb wouldn't imagine failure, not in this.

At the top of the long spiral steps, there was a long stretch of hallway, two rooms on either side, each as grand and spacious as the next. It was the second door on the left where he saw light peek through the edges of the door. Clever woman, he thought. That room faced away from the Great Keep, and so there was little chance of him seeing light in the windows.

Despite his best efforts to remain composed, he all but sprinted down the corridor, eager to see his wife and child. Yet as he drew closer, a sweet, familiar voice carried through the air, accompanied by the cries of a child. He thought his wife was just singing their little girl to sleep, as she had done many times before. He heard the slightly off-key tone of her voice. While Sylvia's voice rung lovely and pure, the voice he heard now sounded hoarse, and groggy, and it was not a lullaby he recognised. Confusion mounted for a second, before he realized she might have been signing through tears. Shame coursed through him.

But as he slowly pushed the door open, and the stench of wine hit in full on, he realized with slow horror what was truly happening.

"...a maid as reeeeed as autumn, with—hic—s-sunset in her hairrrrr..." she sang,

"Sylvia?"

"Robb!" she greeted with a sloppy smile, straightening in her chair. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks red, and the front of her gown hung open. By the shine of her forehead, he figured she was too warm. On her bust, he could see the dark stains of wine where she'd spilled her drink. It only took him half a second to realize the reason for her odd state.

Never had he seen Sylvia so drunk, and as soon as he realized her state, his eyes darted over to the squalling child lying on the bed, arms raised for someone to take her up and comfort her. The young lord rushed towards the bed, and was beside his daughter before Sylvia could say another word. He assessed her, found her without damage, and picked her up, feeling her tiny, delicate little body curl into his.

Mini snorted and whimpered against her father's neck, and he kept her close. Her eyes were so innocent, so little. He wanted to keep her that way as long as he could. Some horrible, heavy feeling sank into Robb's gut, and it was not difficult to recognize the first emotion. Anger grew quick and hot in his gut, at whomever had provided her with the wine, and at his wife for being reckless enough to drink it all. He would question Nera later, should the desire arise.

Yet the second emotion was harder to name, for he'd never felt it before. It was shame. Shame for the woman he loved, for the woman he took to wife and who ruled at his side. Sylvia had always had the Baratheon look, but for the first time in all the years he had known her, Sylvia truly resembled her father in the worst way possible.

"Oi, where—oh, there you are." He heard her mumble, her chair creaking as she turned to see him. "You're here; I'm soooo happy you're here. Even though you woke the baby..." she admonished with a little smile. Robb felt sick at his stomach to hear her slurred words.

"I didn't wake her, Sylvia." He hissed, watching her smile fall at his harsh tone. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing? Your shouting is what bloody woke her!" Mini squealed against his neck, frightened by the noise.

"I wasn't shouting, I—I was singing. I was singing that song about the Dornishman's wife. I like that one, b-but then I remembered that I have such love for that song...y-you know the one. 'Seasons of My Love'. Oh! Gods, how I love that one. M-Myrcella and me used to dance to it. Here, have a listen to the words Robb," suddenly, she gasped, straightening from her chair and looked very gleeful. She pointed the hand holding her cup at him, one finger sticking out at him. "You're my maid red as autumn! I c-I could be your maid as black as...as night? That's not very pretty..." she trailed off, a little wrinkle of distaste on her nose.

"You're drunk." He stated, his voice as cold as ice.

"No, 'm not." She protested, not even sober enough to be duly offended by the accusation.

"Yes, you are," He argued frankly, "You can't even remember the lyrics to your favorite bloody song." It was only for Mini's sake that he was not shouting at the woman before him, though that was quickly becoming a difficult task with every clueless quip she made. Does she not care? The dark thought was shoved away quickly. She loves Mini more than life itself...she only...forgot she was there.

Even as he silently tried to excuse her actions, he still wanted to shout sense into her.

"There is no maid as black as night in 'Seasons of My Love', silly. S'not the lyrics, so ha!" She laughed triumphantly, as though she'd outwitted him. "And m'not drunk! How could I be drunk when I barely touched—" she burped, and she found it a little strange she didn't feel the littlest bit embarrassed. "I barely touched the pitcher."

"You didn't even hear Mini screaming!" He finally shouted, astounded at her careless behavior.

Sylvia frowned confusedly. "What?" she asked, a spark of realization igniting in her eyes. "W-I did, but she jus falls back t' sleep..."

"Does it sound like she's sleeping?" He continued angrily.

"What...she..." Mini was sleeping, what was he getting angry at her for? It wasn't like they'd never had a drink or two together in the privacy of their chambers while the baby was asleep. It was a long moment before she realized her baby was awake, wiggling against his chest. And she was crying. "She's was sleeping, I..."

A spike of worry rose inside the drunken woman, fearing that the baby was hurt, and wracked her foggy mind for answers. How long had she been crying? Yes, she'd heard her, but it wasn't anything more than a whimper...

Horror was slowly creeping up inside Sylvia's belly, and she felt ill all of a sudden. Her eyes began to burn and she looked away from Robb's furious face, feeling the scorch of her tears streaming from her eyes. What kind of mother was she? Sylvia had always imagined herself a good mother, but all at once, those opinions shattered, leaving her in the painful mess she'd created.

"What if she'd fallen off the bed?" Robb continued in a rush. "What if the rushes had caught fire and the bedding burned? Or if the fire went out after you passed out, and Mini froze? Did you not think of any of that before you got drunk?" He heard her sniffle and then sob, and as the red haze started to clear, he saw how she'd seemed to shrink. Sylvia's shoulders were slouched, her long dark hair hiding her face from him. A hand rose up to her face, and he heard her sniffle.

Robb exhaled with a huff. She was drunk and now she was crying. What use was it to argue now? There would be no reaching her, not tonight. She'd likely not remember any of this.

The young lord shook his head and started for the door, his long, angry strides taking him past his wife in a flash.

Sylvia's heart stuttered. "N-no, wait, Robb—" she pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion, the chair creaking as she sat straighter. Her husband did not answer and brushed past her, holding their little girl tight to his chest. She felt her fingers brush the material of his jerkin, but they were too slow to cling to him.

Desperation overtook her, and suddenly she was standing and trying to rush after him. Sylvia didn't know why. Even in her drunken state, she knew trying to talk with him now would end badly. It would end with more tears, more hurt, more anger. But, somehow, she thought him leaving her now was more frightening than any insult he could ever hurl at her. Robb leaving now felt like a bitter end, a loss for them both, and a cold new chapter of their marriage, and that scared her more than anything.

He couldn't leave her. Not like this. She couldn't let him.

When she stood, her weak legs became tangled in her skirts. She stumbled and her forgotten cup flew from her hand and shattered somewhere on the floor. At the harsh noise, she struggled to regain balance, and tumbled to the floor, not even noticing the sound of her dress tearing from hem to hip. It was her hand that kept her from falling on her face, but if her nose was spared any damage, it was her wrist that suffered in turn. It throbbed painfully as it made contact with floor and with amazed horror she watched it contort at an odd angle.

As she slowly straightened and pressure eased off her wrist, she stared down at it, feeling it throb sharply, and slowly becoming aware of her disgusting state. Tears blurred her vision.

It hurt. It hurt, and she couldn't stop it. She couldn't do anything. She couldn't stop anything. All she could do was sit in her mess, with her bodice hanging open lewdly, her skirt torn, red faced and drunk. Hurting. What was she doing? Who was she turning into? She heard her father's bawdy laugh, and remembered his horn overflowing with ale, a fat kitchen whore cackling in his lap. Father was a drunk, will I be no different?

She could feel a lump in her throat; hear the choking sound of her breath as she tried to hold in her anguish. But then, all at once, a loud cry tore from her throat, startling her. For a fleeting moment, she felt ashamed and wanted to stop bawling like Mini did when she was hungry, but the thought went as quickly as it came. Her world was spiraling into destruction; the people she loved were at odds with each other, and she had put herself above her child, something she'd vowed never to do. How many times had her father chosen wine over her? Sylvia cried harder.

The young woman's sobs carried throughout the Guest House. The broken sound made Robb pause just outside the room, and as he stood there, more aware than ever of his fussy daughter against his chest, an unwanted ache began to grow inside him. It was a feeling he did not wish to acknowledge, for Sylvia's actions deserved no pity or comfort. Yet it would not fade, no matter how much he tried to hold to his anger. His wife was hurting, she was crying. He hated to see her in pain, even now. He loved her, how could he not?

Time was lost to Sylvia as she sat curled on the cold stone floor. She could feel the rushes beneath her legs, could feel the ache in her thighs and in her hand. She felt dizzy, and she wanted to sleep, but how could she now? Maybe she could find Robb, make him forgive her, impossible though it seemed. She wanted her baby most of all. She needed Mini in her arms, needed to beg the tiny babe for forgiveness she did not deserve.

The young woman did not look up when she heard footsteps approaching. Instead, she covered her wet face with her hands, weeping into them, afraid of who she might see when she set her hands down. She hunched forward until her elbows set on her thighs, wanting to become as small as possible, to disappear.

It was only when fingers came to her wrists to gently pry her own hands away from her face, did she realize it was her husband who had returned, his arms free of their child. Later she would learn that he had left to deposit Mini on Elane, much to the maid's annoyance. Later, she would realize that she'd been crying alone for a while, and that Robb's brief time away from her had allowed his mind to calm. But in her haze, she had no real measure of time.

Her eyes blurred by tears and wine, she could not read her husband's face. Perhaps that was better.

"How could you do this, Syl?" Robb asked, not truly expecting her to answer. He only needed to voice the question, to get his own racing thoughts out of the tight confines of his head before he snapped.

His wife gasped in a shuddering breath, raising a hand to wipe her tears on the sleeve of her dress. The childish act twisted his gut.

"I-I'm so sorry, Robb. I'm sorry." She wept, her wet, red eyes flashing up to his. "Mini..." she sniffled. "I just wan-wanted everything to—" Sylvia broke off; looking away again as shame once more consumed her.

"Never pegged you for a drinker." He uttered sadly, thinking once more of Robert Baratheon, who had been drunk at their wedding. Before this, the drunkest he'd ever seen her, had been at his name day feast the year before. And he'd been drunker than her.

"Y-you," she sniffed. "You don't know Joffrey. Th-this won't end well for any of us." She choked out.

Robb would be lying if he said the ominous words didn't give him pause. Her family was rich, obscenely so; her family ruled over the entire Realm and had the blood right to support their claim to the throne. They held his father in a dungeon, held his sisters hostage, and could easily use them to force him to submit. He knew all this, but the only way to get his family back was to make that stupid boy king see what the Crown stood to face if they withheld their Stark captives any longer. The north was mighty, and her people were loyal. When the Lannisters saw an army at their gates, they'd have to release his father and sisters.

Sylvia sniffled again. "I'm afraid, Robb." Robb's jaw clenched at the admission.

She's drunk, he thought. All her feelings are emboldened by the wine. What had his father said to his mother when she had been afraid?

"You must have courage." He said, hoping he sounded sure. "Be strong, for Mini and me. If our enemies sense the slightest fracture between us, they'll tear us apart."

"E-enemy? They're my family, Robb." she wept. "My family. How can-how can you ask me t' stand and smile when you want to hurt them?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone." He vowed. "I only want to see my father and sisters freed." I want the Lannister who pushed Bran out a window to lose their head. I want the Lannister who paid a man to kill him to lose their head, he thought darkly. Whether it was the queen, her king slaying brother, the dwarf, or even Joffrey himself, he wanted their head mounted at Winterfell's gates. And I want them to stop coming between me and my wife.

Sylvia's sniffles slowed and once more she wiped her face on her sleeve. Quietly, Robb began to retie her dress, his clumsy fingers tying them just well enough to preserve her modesty. "Get up." He murmured as he gripped her beneath her underarms and tugged her to her unsteady feet.

She shook her head slowly, trying to get the room to stop spinning. "Joff—ahem—Joffy won't sur-surrender." She hadn't called her brother 'Joffy' since they were children, and dismissed it at once as a drunken slip of the tongue.

"He will when he sees an army amassed at his gates." Robb countered, his arms trying to guide her forward. Sylvia frowned and dug her heels into the floor.

"'M his sister. I know 'im better than you ever can."

Instead of answering, Robb nudged her forward once more, his arms holding her steady so she wouldn't stumble. The stairs were a challenge; each step took effort to ensure his wife didn't fall forward and bring them both tumbling to the bottom. Sylvia seemed to realize he did not intend for them to remain in the Guest House.

"Robb what about tha savants?" she asked, her voice in a low whisper as though a servant was within earshot.

"It's the middle of the night, Sylvia." He replied, growing impatient. His wife made a face, and grumbled something he couldn't understand.

Supporting most of her weight, Robb half dragged, half walked Sylvia back towards the Great Keep, keeping his head low, winding around big carts left in the yard, behind the well, and towards the Great Keep's doors. He tried his best to avoid being seen by night-time wanderers, knowing his wife would never live down the shame of being seen drunk by their people. They'd whisper about her, just as they once did of her dead father.

Though he'd never told her, wanting to spare her from any further shame, her reaction to her father's death was a popular topic in the days after the incident. Robb had let it be, thinking that if he spoke of it, he'd only fan the flames of gossip. But when he overheard a few washerwomen clucking that they'd heard their lady had refused to leave her room and had even forgone bathing in her madness, he'd had enough.

In the privacy of his borrowed solar, he informed the heads of staff that his wife had taken to grieving in the southern way, and pointedly emphasised that gossip about the bereaved was in poor taste. The gossip was silenced after that. But if Sylvia were seen like this, it would light a fire beneath her reputation, and he would not allow her to suffer through that.

"S'not so cold. It's always bloody freezing." she mumbled, pressing her fingers against her face. Her eyes widened and she pressed harder, squishing her damp cheek up to her eye. "I can't feel muh face." She exclaimed with alarm.

"That tends to happen when you drink a flagon of wine." He replied humourlessly. Honestly, he'd marveled at it as well the first time he got good and drunk.

Sylvia glared into the darkness, letting her husband guide her towards the Great Keep. She was starting to feel very angry, and it was only matched by her shame. He was acting like he was an innocent little lamb.

"On-only 'cause you wanna kill my fam'ly." She groused back. Robb pushed open the doors leading into the Keep. Unfortunately the guardsmen were not between shifts as he'd hoped, and so were witness to their drunken lady. He held his wife a little tighter, and walked past them with a nod, hoping they didn't notice the smell of wine on her breath, the tear in her skirt or her swollen wrist.

When they reached the steps leading up into the castle, he did not wish to wait for her to slowly ascend the steps, so without warning, he took her up in his arms. His wife yelped and dug her hands into the leather of his jerkin, clinging for dear life. After a moment, Sylvia finally began to relax, and Robb hoped she'd pass out before they reached their chambers. He narrowly missed an elbow to the eye when Sylvia wound her arm around his neck, linking her hands together and resting her head against him.

Halfway up the stone steps, his muscles began to ache, and his breath became heavier. His patience was already wearing thin when Sylvia decided to continue their discussion. "If you don' wanna hurt anyone, Robb, can you jus' not go to war?" He could smell the stench of wine on her breath more than before.

She said it like it was the easiest thing in the entire world. He did not answer, praying to any god that would listen that she would just pass out and let the matter rest. But the gods were likely laughing at him now, and she lifted her head to look at him.

"Can you jus' send all your banner men home? I don wan you fighting again' my family." she slurred.

Robb sighed as he climbed the last step. "Syl, I've got to get father and the girls back."

Sylvia was even more stubborn when she was drunk than she was sober. "Bu-bu', can't ya just ask—"

His wariness getting the best of him, Robb's already tenuous control on his temper slipped. "No Sylvia, I can't just ask."

"Bu' if ya don' try—"

"What, Sylvia, do you think if I just ask your mother and brother nicely, they'll let my father and sisters come home unharmed?" He growled, stalking down the corridor so fast it made her head spin. His steps became quicker and he looked away from his wife, eager to get her to bed and then get some bloody time alone so he could actually think. "Sylvia, I will not allow my father and sisters to come to harm, not from your family or anyone. And not for charges that even you denounce as false."

"'M your wife, and I say no, you can't go t'war with-with them."

Robb laughed, but it was hollow, devoid of mirth. "Yes, you're my wife. My wife, who took the Stark name when she wed me." He turned the corner and started towards their chamber door. "You stopped being one of them a long time ago, sweetheart. Yet you'd rather my family sit as hostages, rather than support me in freeing them." He didn't know where this came from and regretted that final statement the moment it passed his lips. That wasn't true. She wasn't a cruel woman. But perhaps, deep down, she would prefer his father and sisters to sit and smile while the boy-king dealt them insult after insult. It would be easier. The conflict less thunderous.

"How dare you!?" she cried, wiggling in his arms in a weak attempt to get away.

Finally they reached the door, and Robb kicked it open with his boot.

"I need you by my side, Syl." He told her, his voice softening the slightest bit. He paused, standing in the doorway, waiting for her answer.

His wife's glare didn't falter, but she stopped wiggling. "I love my fam'ly. I love your fam'ly." She told him carefully, trying to sound as serious as she could. "You ask-asking me t' choose is cruel."

It was not the answer he'd wanted, but it was expected. He sighed and set her down on her feet, one arm around her waist to keep her from falling.

"Y'know," she said suddenly, "none of this would've 'appened if C-Catelyn hadn't been so stupid! So reckless—!"

"That's enough, Sylvia." He snapped in frustration as he pulled her towards the bed. "Go to sleep." He commanded, holding her shoulders and pushing her to sit.

"Wha? You know s'true!" she cried. "She took my dwarf uncle n' now we all 'ave to suffer cause've her stupid, moronic, vile actions." With that, she fell back onto the bed, arms flung out comfortably. Robb tried to remind himself she was drunk, that the things she was grumbling about were not truly what she thought. But he felt his ears reddening, anger rising quickly to the surface as she complained about his mother. He bit his tongue, wanting nothing more than to tell her what her family did to prompt his mother to take the Imp.

"You're not in any position to be calling someone else's' actions stupid." He reminded her lowly. Even so, he knelt down and reached for her foot, quickly unlacing the knots and pulling it off her foot. He'd tied her boots for her when she was pregnant, before she began her lie-in. Her belly was too big for her to bend down and do it herself.

"But-but myyyy," she sat up on her elbows to meet his eyes. She pointed to her chest. "My stupidity didn't start a war." She reminded, sounding almost a little smug.

Robb clenched his jaw and quickly did away with the other boot before standing. "I won't argue with you when you're drunk, Syl." He grabbed her legs and swung them up onto the bed. "Go to sleep." He ordered once more.

Instead of arguing, Sylvia rolled over, her legs curling up close to her chest. Just when he thought she was finally starting to pass out, he heard a sleepy grumble, "Y'know m' righ..."

The part about this chapter that I liked to write, apart fromt the awful neglect stuff, was that even though he's majorly pissed off at her, he's still taking care of her

A/N: if you like to read my other story, Vows, I am so sorry for the lack of updates lately, but my muse is kinda MIA on that one. I'm going to try to get back into it ASAP.

Please REVIEW! ;D