ahhh...I think I've been looking at this for too long.

Thank you to darkwolf76 for all her amazing help! :D

Chapter 25: Lady of Winterfell

The young lord and lady of Winterfell gave each other a wide berth in the short weeks following Robb's call for his men.

Their relationship had become one of caution, endlessly navigating the waters for hidden rocks. The delicate balance they had found could be tipped one way or the other, and neither wished to risk falling into another row. So they avoided much deep conversation, and at night, when there was nothing else to hold their attentions, they curled their bodies around each other, pressing so close that there was little room for doubt, little room for words.

Luckily, sleep often came swift on those nights, when she was too tired to dream, thank the gods above. If she dreamed, she would see the deep, black pit Joffrey had thrown good Ned Stark into. She'd see Sansa weeping, begging her betrothed for mercy, and see the new king treat a sweet and gentle girl, without kindness. She'd see Arya fighting, kicking and demanding her father. She'd see Robb, her beloved husband, charging at a horde of men flying Lannister colours.

When morning came, she went on with preparations and donning the mask of the dutiful lady, wishing it was not an army she was preparing to hail. She tried not to even think on the fact that the men she opened her home to, were hungry for her family's defeat. But of course, the northerners had good reason to want justice.

Two days after the incident, Sylvia summoned Nera, the serving girl who'd helped her slip away—the damned fool who'd brought her the wine—to her lady's solar.

She examined the young woman standing before her, taking in her dark hair, the soft, mousy features of her face. Nera looked so sweet, she wasn't much younger than Sylvia herself, but the lady was not softened. Her anger at herself, her shame and regret made it so very easy to be angry at Nera, the one who'd did as she was told and served a fool an entire flagon of wine.

"I wish not to spend any time on this matter than needs be." The southern woman said evenly. "I will simply say you will no longer be serving Winterfell as a maid. Starting immediately, you will be serving the kitchen as a scullion." It pacified Sylvia to think of the sweet looking girl scouring kitchen pans, hidden from view, those soft looking hands becoming rough and leathery.

Nera's eyes widened, her thin mouth parting in shock. After a moment, she finally said, in a soft, timid voice, "B-but my Lady, w-why?"

Sylvia's mouth tightened. "I'm your lady. I don't need a reason, do I?" there was something mocking in her voice. She couldn't tell the maid she didn't want to look at her, because every time she did, she was reminded of her shame. Of her mistakes. The lady wouldn't admit that she blamed her for the whispers circulating about the castle, and that what she truly wanted to do, was send her far away from Winterfell. She couldn't banish the girl from the castle without causing a stir, but she would most certainly confine her to the kitchens.

She sent the girl away with satisfaction at seeing the tears fall down her rosy cheeks. The girl brought her the wine Sylvia had shamed herself with; she should share in her lady's misery. It made her feel better to know she was not the only one who felt wretched after that night.

Unfortunately, life with Robb continued on much the same—actively avoiding each other during the day, while pressing close together at night. He never mentioned a word about that night, bless him. But she didn't miss the look he gave her each evening at supper, when the servants offered her wine. It stung, but he still bedded her in the night.

Sylvia didn't even think she could call their congress "love making" anymore.

The night she swore herself to Robb's march against the south, sleep could not come. She lay awake next to her husband, mind swirling with thoughts, questions that no mortal could answer—and the gods refused to answer.

With Robb marching against her family—"the Lannisters" as she'd have to refer to them now, as the Northern host would no doubt find her affections for the enemy unsavoury—gods knew how history would view them.

Robb—would he be painted the rebel, or the loyal son and wise leader who marched to rescue his family?

Joffrey—would he be the just king, punishing a duplicitous lord, or the suspicious fool who dealt an innocent man an unforgivable insult?

And what of Sylvia, who would she be to the historians? Daughter of the queen, sister of the new king, wife of the man who marched on them both. Would her part in this even matter in the end?

Sylvia soon found there was no right answer to the question of where her support ought to lie. There wasn't even a place where it would feel right. All she wanted was her mother and siblings safe. All she wanted was to live a good, happy life with Robb and their child. All she wanted was for time to turn back.

That night, she rolled over and kissed her husband like it was the last time, her hands trailing over his skin and her mouth hot on his neck by the time he woke. When he sleepily kissed her back, hands coming to grip her hips as his passion grew to match hers, Sylvia's fear and misery left her, fading into warmth and pleasure beneath his hands.

It had become a ritual, a way to forget, a way to make up for the time they distanced themselves in the day.

On the seventh night, after wearing her husband out, the southern girl lay awake on her side, the heat of Robb's body against her back keeping her warm, the arm around her waist holding her close. It felt so good to be close to him, to feel his skin against hers, to know he still wanted her, despite her blunders.

Sleep would not come, because every time she closed her eyes, the queen's accusing, disappointed green eyes stared back at her. Her cold voice asked why, asked how she could betray her family like some scheming little turn cloak. She wondered if her mother knew of Robb's plans, if his own mother knew all the way to the Eyrie.

Lady Catelyn must know, she thought. The woman was Robb's mother, a trusted voice of council. Of course he would send a raven to her. She was owed that…

Sylvia's eyes flickered towards the vanity table. The paper was just there...the ink and quill ready for use.

Where was the harm in sending one raven's scroll? So many deaths might even be prevented; peace talks may commence sooner, negotiations made, weapons laid to rest...But Sylvia was all too aware that the Crown—for as long as they called Ned Stark a traitor and held him in chains—was an enemy to the North and her people.

To send a letter of courtesy, telling her mother of the northmen's plan to march, giving them time to prepare, time to strike first...such an act could endanger Robb and his men. She'd be deemed a traitor and that filthy title would darken her sky the rest of her days.

But the enemy was her family, and her dear mother, who she loved with all her heart, would hear word of her child's compliance on the wind. Her mother would hear from strangers that Sylvia's choice came without hesitation, without care or in anger. To hear it from anyone else would break her mother's heart, and she'd never forgive herself for that.

Robb would never permit sending a raven to the south. He would talk her out of it, and when that did not work, he'd have the bird shot from the sky. She'd have to do it now, if there was hope of the message reaching the Capitol in time. She'd have to make it short, saying nothing of the plans to march; only that she was sad it had come to this. Oh, but what of the guards?

Sylvia realized she'd already decided, and carefully slipped from Robb's grasp, taking up her discarded nightgown from the floor to cover her nakedness.

Maester Luwin, the sweet, kind—loyal—old man could not be trusted with this matter. Much as she trusted him, he was loyal, above all, to the Starks and would interfere, especially if he believed harm would come to them.

It's a harmless letter, she reasoned as she tip toed to the desk. Truly, if her husband were to let his guard down and read what she would write, he wouldn't object to it. She could wake him, she could tell him her plans, and make him understand. But Sylvia didn't look back at her sleeping lord, because in her heart she knew his pride would make it impossible for him to listen.

Cersei wouldn't understand either. The queen wouldn't be pleased her daughter chose to side with the man marching against her, and Sylvia didn't know if her mother would forgive her once this was at its end. She owed this letter to her mother. Small and meagre though it would be, perhaps it could soften the blow. Sylvia liked to think of herself as brave, so why did writing a simple letter to her mother fill her with such dread?

My dear mother, the quill scratched on the paper, the black ink half invisible in the dim firelight.

I write this with a heart heavy with the knowledge that the things to come will be full of unpleasantness and pain. My husband, Robb Stark, will come for his father and sisters, and in this reasonable campaign, I shall give him my support, wholly and without regret. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Sylvia Stark

The young woman read over the words a dozen times, wishing she could say more, to tell her mother how little she wished to do this, to beg her just to release Eddard Stark and save her from this choice. But she couldn't. Her pleas would be weakness, her doubts would be weakness, her regret would be weakness, and feebleness in any fashion would make her mother see her as meek and pathetic.

But 'I love you, I love you, I love you' would remain. Once or twice, her mother had said that to her when she was ill. The memory of the queen's fingers dancing along her forehead, kneeling at her bedside…it was faint, but she could still hear those words clear as day. The end of each phrase was punctuated with a kiss, and, oddly, those were one of Sylvia's happier memories, despite lying up in bed, feeling horrible.

Sylvia pulled her dress overhead, not bothering with any of the ties as she fastened her cloak over top. The little letter in hand, Sylvia crept silently to the door, casting a final look to her sleeping husband and daughter before stepping from the chamber and into the darkened corridor.

The southerner passed through the halls, silent as a ghost, ducking behind corners and pressing close to the walls to avoid being spotted by passing guardsmen. Her days playing in the Red Keep and hiding from her guardians were easy compared with this. The Red Keep was massive and had many places to hide, while Winterfell was smaller, and now had double the amount of guards on patrol. When she finally made it up the raven's rookery, the sky was growing lighter.

Though she shivered in the chilly morning air, wishing for her bed, she watched the raven until it disappeared into the dawn, carrying its secret message to the Queen, wondering if she'd made the right decision. She prayed her mother still loved her enough to never reveal the existence of the letter to anyone. Burn the letter, mother. If you wish me to live a happy life here, burn it and tell not even Uncle Jaime of it.

Returning to her bed seemed much easier, the guards switching shifts, and the kitchen staff only just starting to wake.

Something pulled inside her when she opened the door and laid eyes on her husband, still in the same position as he had been when she left. He was so good. All he wanted was his father and sisters back, and she'd sent a message to the people holding them, behind his back.

Before she knew what she was doing, her dress and nightgown were back on the floor and she lifted the covers. Her cold hands pressed into Robb's shoulders, and her sharp shove onto his back was enough to rouse him.

"What—?" he grumbled sleepily, his squinted eyes peering up at her. Her legs moved to straddle his hips, their bellies pressed against each other, while her hair came down to brush his face as she whispered against his mouth.

"I'm cold, and only you know how to warm me." Uncertainly prickled at the edges of Robb's mind, but still he kissed her back, and ran his hands up her back. Her lips were hard against his, desperate, but even that wasn't anything odd. The past week, lovemaking was a means to forget, to skip over aggravating topics and alleviate the tension that still lay unspoken between them. But why did she need him so suddenly when morning fast approached? But all his reservations fleeted fast the more his wife squirmed on top of him, the more her breasts rubbed against his chest, the more she whimpered and sighed into his mouth.

When the sun began peeking through their window, Robb forgot about everything but Sylvia.

Sometimes, during the day when he had a few moments to himself, Robb found himself pondering over his wife's sudden support to his call to arms. He was not a fool; he suspected she only agreed out of guilt for that drunken night. He did not enjoy the idea, but it was a logical conclusion. It had taken him a few days to even allow himself to consider it.

He tried to snuff out the doubt as quickly as it formed, but he could not stop lingering on it. He knew Sylvia and knew her love and devotion to her family was fierce and unbreakable, and knew that to turn her back on her blood would be difficult for her, at best. He would not have fallen in love with her if her loyalty had been fickle as fool's gold.

The young Lord knew he ought to be elated by Sylvia's decision not to oppose him any longer, and at the start, he had been. One less worry, he'd thought. His men would not look at his wife with doubt in their hearts and accusations on their lips. Winterfell would remain under Stark rule in his absence, and when his family returned, his mother would finally understand that her sudden misgivings about his wife were unfounded.

Yet doubt proved to be rather nefarious, creeping in and taking root like a poisonous weed, whispering numerous possibilities to him.

Her support was poorly won—given out of shame, a need to please him and make amends, rather than out of genuine belief in him.

A promise made in shame could easily waver in a moons turn when shame began to fade. But Sylvia was his wife, his stubborn, wrathful, passionate wife. Born a princess in a snake pit of King's Landing, she had been born strong, and in the years since coming north, he knew she'd grown even stronger still. Be strong for me, Syl. Be strong for our family, be strong for Winterfell, be strong.

Of course, Robb wished for no more bloodshed than was necessary to gain his father and sisters back. He did not wish to put his family through war and leave the world a harsher place for his daughter to grow up in. But he would do what needed doing, and if that included battles and bloodshed, then so be it.

He could not wonder if her hatred for her brother was enough to steel her resolve in his traitorous march towards the little boy king.

Robb ignored the doubts, named them vile and discourteous to his wife, and thus they remained—stunted and unchanged, still lingering. He could only pray that with time, they would wither and die, forgotten into nothing.

The eyes of the north would be upon them soon, and how they viewed Sylvia was another matter entirely. She was the daughter of Cersei Lannister, and sister to King Joffrey, after all, and no man would forget nor forgive that. Even his own mother, who had raised Sylvia from the time she was a girl, had doubted her loyalties, based on nothing else but the blood that beat through her heart. But she would prove them false, he was sure of it. She had always taken her duties very seriously; she would honor her duty to his family, to him, to their daughter.

"My Lord," he looked from the window and met the eyes of his maester. "A raven has come. From Highgarden." The old man held out his hand, the golden wax with the seal of House Baratheon glinting in the firelight.

It was quite easy to pretend there was nothing wrong. Life in Winterfell carried on much the same, but there were more wagons of food, and barrels of ale and wine passing through the gates in preparation. Soon enough, the servants went to Sylvia with questions on how many rooms needed to be prepared, how much food had to be cooked, when the Great Hall needed to be made ready…on and on it went.

"The Hall looks excellent, my Lady." Ser Fredrik complimented, though he found nothing too spectacular about the new arrangement of the tables and benches.

Sylvia scoffed, apparently feeling the same. "It looks like the Great Hall with much more tables."

"The lords will be pleased, I'm sure, with the arrangement." He replied, casting a look up at the empty dais. The young lady was quiet for a long moment, and Fredrik had started to wonder if she'd heard him, when she spoke up again, her voice cheerful and full of mirth.

"You know, I think you'd look rather dashing if you grew your beard out more. Maybe forked it?" Sylvia wondered idly, tactfully ignoring his comment as she regarded her knight with a thoughtful look on her face. The Great Hall was empty; all the servants who had rearranged the tables had left long ago, leaving only Sylvia and her favourite knight alone.

The young lady thought nothing of the gossip that could come about by being alone with a man who was not her husband, without so much as a chaperone in attendance. But then again, Winterfell was not King's Landing, and gossip hungry creatures were not so common here. Anyway, everyone who knew Sylvia knew she saw nothing in the old hedge knight but a friend...or—though you must never say so out loud—a father.

Her knight had been at her side for as long a she could remember. He'd seen so much of her life, so many trials and moments of joy. Fredrik Ravenback was so very dear to Sylvia, she could not imagine being without him.

"The old men fork their beards, my lady. I'm not that old yet. Anyway, I doubt my lovely kitchen maid would be happy if I grew it out." The fond smile that formed on his lips when he talked of that woman annoyed Sylvia. She'd always be glad that the old knight had found companionship, but it vexed her that there might be someone else in his life he cared for more than her, someone who could push her out of Ser Fredrik's heart.

"It doesn't matter what she likes. It matters what you like." The lady said, walking around the table, brushing her fingers over the back of the chairs.

Robb had ordered the table on the dais to be brought down, so they might sit among the northern lords, as equals. Sylvia found that rather odd but was silent on the matter. As she had been for the last few weeks, unwilling to shake the fragile truce that had come between her and Robb. And yet, it seemed, this truce had come between her and Robb like a crevice. They were trying to live up to their roles of strong lord and supportive lady, the kind of leaders Winterfell deserved. But it felt so bloody strained, so many things left unsaid.

"Oh," the knight scoffed with a smirk. "You mean what you like, my Lady?"

Sylvia's lips twitched at his good natured voice. "Well I certainly won't say you mustn't value my opinion." Suddenly, her face fell. "Someone has to, anyway." She turned away at once to hide her face, attempting to look busy where there was no work to be done.

Fredrik frowned at her back. He knew little of what transpired between her and her husband these last few weeks, as his former charge did not speak of it. He'd heard rumours though, shocked whispers that still resonated through the castle.

They said Sylvia had gotten drunk the night Lord Robb called the banners, hidden away in the Guest House, raving at the boldness of her husband, or weeping over her cup—what transpired in the Guest House changed, depending on who you asked. The rumour told of how, when her husband found her, he had to drag her back to their bed chamber while she voiced her protests at his call for the banners.

The story had seemed more ridiculous and fantastical to him than the tales of ice demons and forest children the northerners were so fond of telling. But as perplexed amusement faded, anger took its place, to think how anyone could tell such a rotten lie about Sylvia. He'd even gone so far as to threaten the cook who brought the gossip to his attention.

"Since you like gossip so much, mayhaps your wife would like to hear a certain rumour about a cook and a wildling woman rutting away in the store room." The cook was silent after that, his eyes wide and uncertain. "But if you don't like spreading baseless tales, I won't bother your wife with them either." The cook nodded shakily in understanding.

Fredrik would have been more than happy to leave it at that, but the cook wasn't the only one who had a story to tell. He didn't believe anything the serving staff said until he saw Sylvia later in the day. Her blue eyes were dull, dark circles colouring her fair skin, her head cradled in her hands as she slowly nursed her cup of tea. The sickness that came in the day after a night of drinking was something he'd never seen on his charge, but the sour smell of wine was unmistakable.

She wouldn't meet his eyes, and sent him away not long after he came to her, sending him to watch over little Minisa.

He had wanted to ask her what had happened, if her husband had hurt her the way they said he did. He'd knock Lord Robb's block off if he had, Lord of bloody Winterfell or not. But he didn't ask, trusting she'd tell him if her husband was cruel to her.

In the days following, he heard of the maid Sylvia had dismissed to the kitchens for a far lower position as a wench, where she'd once been a maid, free to walk through the castle in a clean dress, rather than scour away at pots in a darkened corner. Everyone soon knew that the girl had been the one to serve Lady Sylvia that night. When Fredrik saw his former charge after hearing this bit of news, he saw her differently, even as she chatted pleasantly with him.

For the first time in her life, Fredrik saw a flicker of Cersei in his former charge.

But the knight said nothing, like all servants, too fearful of offending the high born and receiving either punishment, or dismissal. Perhaps Sylvia had done the right thing, for almost at once, the whispers stopped.

While the knight never once breathed word of that night, he did talk of other things—things that distracted Sylvia from the preparations surrounding Eddard Stark's imprisonment, and Robb's subsequent plan of action.

She didn't like to think of her poor good-father in a dank, black cell. When she was little, Joffrey had once thought it quite amusing to think the skeletons of long dead prisoners still lay in those cells, forgotten about and left to rot.

To think of it made her ill. To think of Sansa made her want to cry, for she was still set to marry the little twat who had done such a thing to her father. Perhaps it was cruel to hope Sansa saw Joffrey for what he was now.

So since her drunken night, they'd talked of mundane, unimportant things, and got her smiling again. Even for just a few moments.

Elane, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. The maid was becoming much too bold for Sylvia's liking, with all the questions she asked. Elane was her friend, and a good one too, so Sylvia had indulged the elder girl for as long as she could stand. A sudden call to arms would be quite exciting for most people.

"Who will arrive first, my Lady? How many men must we serve? Are they all to go south, or shall some remain here?" On and on the handmaid went, and growing increasingly more irritated, Sylvia finally ordered her companion away.

"If you're so interested in the garrison coming here, Elane, why not help prepare the feast we shall hail them with?" Sylvia was glad to be rid of the bothersome queries, but she did miss the companionship of women.

She missed sweet Myrcella. Seeing her again after so many years had only made it much harder to bid her farewell again. She missed her good-sisters, so much that even rambunctious little Arya's company would please her. She missed her mother, and wished for her embrace almost daily. If ever the longing became too great that it began to show on her face, she'd lie and say it was Lady Catelyn she missed. No one questioned it aloud.

Pretending not to have noticed her sudden turn of melancholy, the old knight brightly replied, "You've not steered me wrong all these years." But I'll not be forking my beard any day soon.

"My Lady." A voice called, drawing their attention to the stone archway leading deeper into the castle. A maid, pink faced and breathless appeared. Sylvia waited patiently as the woman approached, demure now in the presence of the new Lady of Winterfell, too bashful to shout at her from across the room. "The last of the Houses ride close. Lord Robb wishes to feast them tonight.

Sylvia blinked, before thanking the maid and dismissing her. She wrung her hands, her fingers turning her wedding ring almost obsessively.

"They're here." She said, almost in a daze. She'd already welcomed other houses to Winterfell, said all the polite and courteous things to every icy lord who climbed from their horse, offered them rooms with warm hearths, offered their men food and drink.

One last time, and it would be done. She'd never have to suffer through another tedious greeting for a long while, because all the men would be marching south. Sylvia felt oddly numb at the thought, as though all her feelings had been sapped.

Out of need for a friendly face at the table, or to endear her to his men, Robb had invited her to the discussion, though she was all too aware she would be able to offer no input. How could she? If she did there was a fair chance her suggestions would not be kindly met, either due to her birth, or sex or both.

"Aye." The knight replied carefully.

"W-what do I do?" she rushed out, her wide blue eyes looking up at him in terror, and for a moment he was reminded of all the times she'd looked at him like that, a small girl afraid and looking for reassurance, where none had come from her distant mother, nor her drunken father. Fredrik was struck suddenly, by how young she was. Too young, he thought, though he knew such a notion was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, and yet, he could not shake the memory of the small child she once was. "They're going to talk about battles and tactics and I don't know about any of that!" she fretted hysterically, practically twisting her wedding band off her finger.

"That'll be your husband's job." He reminded her calmly. He opened his mouth to say more, but she continued on, half frantic.

"Robb invited me to the table, I don't know why. It's not like I can offer much." And even if she could, the northern lords wouldn't allow her to, not after what her brother had done to Ned Stark, while her mother stood idly by.

"Your husband requested you there because you are his Lady, and his men must always remember that." Regardless of the woman you came from, or the boy who came after. "You are not a silly girl," her eyes flashed up to Fredrik, wary as though there was a 'but' coming. "There are things you know, that those Northern lords don't, and never will because they've never lived south of the Neck."

"What? Like which noble Lady's newborn child looks suspiciously like her husband's footman?" she scoffed, turning away. Blood was blood, and hers was southern, hers was half Lannister. Northerners were a fiercely loyal stock, and they'd not soon forget Robb Stark's southern born wife.

Hatred for her little brother rose inside her once more, for how he'd managed to ruin her life here. Damn him, she thought, her futile anger making her want to cry and scream and thrash all at once.

"Northerners know force." The old knight replied sagely, thinking of all the comparisons he'd easily been able to draw after living in both southern, and northern castles. "Men, know force. Women know subtlety. Charm and grace." It made him uncomfortable to advise her so, to talk of politics with Sylvia, who had never played that poisonous, corrupting game. She'd always been a sweet and truly good girl, no hint of cruelty in her, nor greed or bitterness.

But she needed to hear these words. Though he liked it little, she had a part to play in this game, and there was no one else to help her, to show her the proper moves to make that will earn her people's loyalty. Since entering the princess' life, Fredrik had been a reluctant spectator to this game of politics and lies, but now he felt himself being drawn in.

"I don't understand." Sylvia mumbled. "Why are you saying these things?" She could almost remember her mother saying something similar, so very long ago that the memory was dim. Her mother had whispered so many things in her ear as she brushed her long black hair, but she'd been too young to understand, too young to realize that her mother had been giving her wise council.

"Like it or not, my Lady, you have things to offer your husband's cause, and there may come occasion you will need to assist him."

Sylvia's fingers clenched tightly around each other, deep in thought. She knew a little about what he meant. Alliances and the like. The messages she'd sent her uncle's had been from her, because had they been sent by Robb, they would not have been received as kindly. Her sweet old Septa Bryda had taught her that ladies could inspire armies. Her mother was proof that a woman's influence could help win a crown. After all, how could her father have won the rebellion without her grandfather's help, which had only come when his daughter wed the rebel?

She was her mother's daughter, and…perhaps that fact may do well to aid her, as much as it did hinder her. Sylvia was doubtful, but the ball of snakes in her belly began to unravel.

"I'm afraid." She confessed softly after a beat. "And I can't be." To see her husband—the one she loved, father of her child—march against her birth family was a nightmare come to life. But she couldn't let it show. "I can't stop thinking about the horrible things that can happen, all the paths offered to my Robb that will end with him," Sylvia's throat bobbed, and she paused, her wide blue eyes shifting lower. "Gone." She finally said her voice tight. Without prompting, Fredrik drew her close.

The girl accepted the comfort without hesitation, wrapping her arms high around his chest, laying her head down over his heart, thought there were far too many layers for her to hear it. Sylvia squeezed him, and the answering pressure made her feel steady, as though she truly were strong enough to withstand the coming storm.

Fredrik sighed. She'd never be accepted if her husband's people suspected any doubt in her, any weakness, any hint that she did not side with House Stark and all its endeavours. She couldn't be weak, she couldn't even be sullen. When she undertook the task of preparing the Winterfell for the northern host, she'd ghosted about the castle, a gloomy shadow of herself. He'd done his best to cheer her, but had just wanted to tell her to stop acting so miserable and defeated.

There were already whispers about her, doubts of her loyalty circulating through the halls. The northerners would have no sympathy for her pain, for to them, her pain and grief would be for the enemy. And that would not be tolerated.

"You are brave." He said, wholly believing the statement, and praying she'd rise to the occasion. "It will be alright."

Another moment, and then she pulled away, brushing her hair away from her face, and hardening her features so no hint of vulnerability shone through.

Sylvia nodded, sighing heavily as she brushed down her skirts. "Right," she breathed, armour donned again. It might have pained him, if he did not know he was one of the lucky few whom she trusted enough to see her weak. "Right, will you escort me to the front gates, Ser?"

Robb's arm was curled around hers as they watched the stable boys pull open the gates, her heart pounding in her breast. Her husband was already here when she arrived, and she'd slipped her arm into is without a word. She'd looked up at him, waiting for any acknowledgment at her arrival, and he'd given her a grin before setting his eyes forward again.

Although it would be more appropriate for the Lord and Lady of Winterfell not to touch when greeting visitors, Maester Luwin, in all his wisdom, advised looking united, given her "parentage", so the old man said. Never had Sylvia thought to be ashamed of her mother, a woman so regal and proud, the queen of this great land. Sylvia hoped one day she could tell her mother that Joffrey's actions had shamed their mother, that it was his stupidity that made her feel guilty for the blood Cersei had given her.

Sylvia halted those thoughts, bitterly amused at the fact that now she'd been ashamed of both parents, a king who'd won the throne from a mad tyrant, and a queen whose family had won him the Rebellion. But the people she lived amongst would only remember the bad, only remember the drunkard and the woman who'd stood by while an innocent man was accused of treason, and thrown into a cell.

With a groan and a sharp clang, the gates were opened, the steady sound of a dozen horse hooves clopping into the yard as the men of House Karstark rode in, their shields emblazoned with the white sun of Karhold.

The men began to dismount, but one man handed his reigns off to a waiting stable boy, and started towards them, his strides long and measured. He was an older man, his hairline receded back a fair bit, though his hair was still thick, and wiry. His face was marred with age, his brows downturned into a frown, which Sylvia suspected was perpetual. Lord Karstark, she realized.

"Lord Karstark," Robb greeted with a nod, as the man stopped before them.

"Lord Robb," the lord replied, bowing his head down in respect. Pride surged in Robb's heart.

Robb raised his hand, the men shook hands. "I welcome you to Winterfell, and thank you for your support in rescuing my father and sisters from the Red Keep."

"Lord Stark is a good man, and no one in the north believes any of what the Lannister queen accuses him of." Sylvia bit her tongue; feet shuffling beneath her skirts while she felt her ears and chest redden at the hateful voice the man before her used to speak of her mother.

"Aye. My father would sooner die than sully himself as a traitor." Robb replied firmly. "This is my wife, Lady Sylvia."

"Of House Baratheon?" Lord Karstark asked dubiously, his sharp eyes flicking to the girl. Already, there was something sour in his look, as though she repulsed him. It wasn't the first look of doubt she'd had to face from her husband's men, and she doubted it would be the last. But this was the first time one of them had dared call her by her maiden name.

"House Stark, now, my Lord," She replied, hoping she sounded bright and welcoming, though she raised her chin a bit more and stood taller. "For several years now," she added ended more sharply than she intended. Lord Karstark had attended their wedding, he'd watched on as she donned the Stark name, and toasted her name at the feast. His intent was to insult her, and she'd never forget that.

Lord Karstark grumbled something lowly in reply, but it didn't sound particularly scathing, so the young Lord and Lady let it be. After all, these men were here to aid them, and although sworn to House Stark, that oath demanded respect.

"I thank you for your haste, Lord Karstark. Please, allow me to show you your chambers, so you may rest before the feast."

Her attempt to charm him had no effect. Lord Karstark fixed her with such a stern look, she wondered if he blamed her for Lord Stark's imprisonment. "I've no need for rest, my Lady. The importance of this march is too great to waste on rest." he dismissed her coolly as he shifted his challenging gaze to husband.

"It would not be wise to rush at this without preparation." Robb replied evenly, but Sylvia felt his hand tighten around hers.

The harsh line of Lord Karstark's mouth softened some. "I agree."

"Did you see how he looked at me?" she asked Robb later in the privacy of their bed chamber. The feast would begin shortly, and they'd only returned to their chambers to prepare themselves for the hours to come. "He looked at me as if I were a bothersome pest." Sylvia's anger thrummed to life anew, and clenched the sash tied around her waist.

"He's had a long journey." Robb replied as he knelt by the dim hearth. "After days in the saddle, your arse is too sore to look kindly at anything." Sylvia's lips twitched at his humour.

"I suppose you're right." Sylvia conceded, her voice not holding much conviction at all. "But still, he called me Baratheon as though to hold me separate."

Robb sighed as he placed a log into the hearth, watching the flames start to lap up the wood. "You were born from the queen. It is natural for them to be wary." His wife stilled behind him.

"Are you wary?" Sylvia didn't know if she wanted to hear the answer.

His pause, short as it was, hurt worse than any slap ever could. He glanced back at her, before returning his eyes to his task. "No. But others will be. There is no way of avoiding the initial sense of suspicion." He spoke without any weight to his words, continuing on with building the fire.

"But, I am their lady. I'm your wife." For that, they should revere her, respect her. She'd never done anything to earn their doubt.

"Northerners do not trust outsiders easily, Syl."

She would never forget those words, nor the horrible, sinking feeling they created inside her. Even as she sat at the table, surrounded by rough men and their loud chatter, the man at her side refused to allow her to forget. They were born in the north, after all, and she was born in a feather bed, attended to by dozens of midwives and fed at a queen's breast.

Sylvia had always felt an outsider here, a feeling so deep that every day the feeling went unnoticed. She'd never even mentioned it to Robb. But just like that, he'd unearthed her fear, and Sylvia wondered if this was the price of loving someone, of trusting someone with every hidden part of you.

The main part of the feast was done, the roast lamb and vegetables taken away, so all that remained on the table were wedges of cheese and cuts of bread. The stink of ale and mead burned Sylvia's nose and she wished for a cup of spiced wine to mask the putrid scent, but the water in her cup was all she allowed herself. No talk of marching plans had arisen yet, the men too busy enjoying their meals to bring up the topic, and Sylvia was glad for the delay.

Her husband, the leader of this campaign, sat at her side, while his little brother and his best friend, Theon, sat to the left of her.

Bran had come because he would be a man soon, and once Robb left for the south, Winterfell would legally be his, though it would be his sister-in-law who managed the castle and protected the north. Sylvia supposed Bran being there assured the northerners that their lands would not be governed by a southern flower while they were gone, but rather a northern wolf, young and crippled though he was.

She watched with a smile as Theon nudged a cup of ale towards Bran. When the little boy took a daring sip, and grimaced at the foul taste, Sylvia and Theon laughed, though the woman's laughter was much more subdued than the ward's. The only thing that seemed to make Sylvia smile these past few days were the children she cared for, and the brief moments of pleasure with her husband. However, those moments with Robb were starting to feel oddly empty, when before, they always left her fulfilled.

But then again, before she wasn't facing her family's upheaval on the brink of war.

"For thirty years," the great booming voice of Lord Greatjon Umber boomed through the hall, and she saw Grey Wind's ears twitch up. "I've been making corpses out of men, boy." At once, she knew he was addressing Robb, for he was the youngest man at the table who held authority. "I'm the man you want leading the vanguard."

His boldness shocked Sylvia, and the way he so flippantly called her husband a boy irritated her. She had met the Greatjon before, and found him to be a boisterous man, his voice able to be heard over an entire room of men.

"Galbert Glover will lead the van." Robb replied firmly, meeting the lord's eyes from across the table. Sylvia looked back at Lord Umber, watching as his proud face contorted in outrage.

"The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover!" He pointed a thick finger at Lord Glover, who sat closer to Robb and Sylvia was startled at Lord Glover's lack of reaction to the insult. Lord Umber sat straighter, his voice calming when he said, "I will lead the van, or I shall take my men, and march them home."

Robb's eyes flickered back up to meet the Greatjon's. There was a calm look to her husband's face, yet the dark storm in his eyes could not be hidden at the lord's brazen ultimatum.

"You are welcome to do so, Lord Umber." He nodded, sounding amenable enough. But when he stood, an icy glare set on his face, his voice was low and threatening. "And when I am done with the south, I will march back north, root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oath breaker."

A chill went through Sylvia because she knew he meant every word. Not once had she ever heard such voice from her husband, and suddenly she wondered what the extent of Robb's wrath was. A prickle of fear inched from her belly.

Lord Umber's exclamation of "Oath breaker!?" made Sylvia and Bran jump, watching with wide eyes as the man jumped to his feet, sending the remains of his meal crashing to the floor. At the harsh scrape of his chair on the floor, a few men stood as well; ready to defend Robb if necessary. "I'll not sit here and swallow insults from a boy who beds down with a Lannister girl!"

Lady Sylvia had no time to be offended at his remark, because in an instant, Lord Umber's hand reached for his sword.

Sylvia found her feet in a half a heartbeat, standing so quickly the backs of her knees knocked against the bench, making her grip the table as she hunched forward, eyes still locked on Lord Umber's hand. She didn't know why she stood. She couldn't defend Robb physically, and it would be foolish to get between him and the man's sword.

But there was no need, she realized, as Theon shot to his feet beside Bran, reaching for his own sword. Sylvia was never so relieved for Theon's presence in the castle as she was then.

But in a flash of grey, Robb's direwolf leapt up onto the table and charged the offensive Umber. The room watched silently as the young wolf took the man's fingers between his jaws, biting them off with a snap as the Greatjon screamed in agony. It was over in seconds, and Sylvia's shocked blue eyes followed Grey Wind's form as he trotted back to Robb's side, jaws still dripping red.

"My Lord father taught me it was death to bear steel against your liege lord." Robb said as the injured lord stumbled to his feet. "Doubtless, the Greatjon only meant to cut my meat for me." He said it to spare the man a traitor's death, and to ensure the loyalty of House Umber with this act of kindness.

"Your meat!" the Greatjon boomed, kicking away his chair. His eyes swept through the men at the table, his eyes lingering on Sylvia for a second longer, before settling back on Robb. A smile broke out over his lips, and the southern girl frowned. "Is bloody tough." He chortled, holding his hand high, showing the other lords his two missing fingers.

Lord Umber laughed harder, and Sylvia wondered if he was delirious from blood loss. But then Robb started to laugh, and before long, the entire room was merry, and light with mirth. And somehow, Sylvia found herself laughing too, and felt, for a moment, that she belonged amongst the cold, hard men of the north.

Sylvia settled into her chair with a sigh, closing her eyes as she let the silence engulf her. The feast had run long into the night, and as Bran's eyes grew heavy with sleep, Sylvia took the opportunity to retire as well, the two of them leaving her husband and his men in the Great Hall. None protested, and Sylvia thought the northerners might be pleased to see her go.

The soft whisper of the rushes on the floor sounded behind her, the gentle clack of her maid's shoes prompting Sylvia to open her eyes. In the mirror, she looked at Elane as she approached.

"How was she tonight?" she asked the maid, referring to the sleeping baby, tucked up in her cradle.

"Good." She cried after you when you left. "Happy." It took her ages to fall asleep. It gave Elane no pleasure to lie to her lady about the child, in fact she burned to tell the girl how miserable the infant was when her mother left her. But caring for the child got her closer to Sylvia, and the closer she was to Sylvia...

The lady hummed. "Start on my hair. I'm tired." The maid had done a wonderful job of weaving her long black tresses into a half-up northern style, but now all Sylvia wanted was for her hair to be down, for this night to be put to rest and behind her.

Elane reached out and started searching through the twist of braids for the end that tied it off. "A long night, my lady?"

"Very." After Lord Umber's hand was wrapped, talks of the march continued, thankfully without another bout of violence. It seemed Robb had proven to his lords that he was not a meek, foolish boy running at this delicate situation like a charging bull.

For some odd reason, that made her think of Robert, dead on a hunt after a boar's tusks sliced open his belly. The lady's head twitched to the side, flinching away from the horrible thought. Her poor father had suffered a horrible end, one too undignified for a king. The death of the king had brought so much strife, before his body was even in the ground.

And even before his death, Lady Catelyn had taken Tyrion to the Eyire as her prisoner, her uncle harmed Lord Stark and his men, while her grandfather slashed and burned through the riverlands. Now her husband was going to leave their home to march on the south.

Sylvia belly dropped at the sudden realization that Robb would march off. Soon.

The fact that Robb would leave her and their child hadn't truly occurred to her; she'd been too concerned with the actual march, and preparing the castle for the lords and their men. Robb would leave her, and there was no way to know when he'd return. Sylvia's heart ached, and her belly felt hollow. So many things can happen on a campaign, he could come back entirely different from the man she wed at fifteen. Even good, honourable Ned Stark had returned home from the war with his bastard boy in his arms…

Stop it, you idiot, she told herself, clenching her hand into a fist, her nails digging into her palm. You knew this would happen, he can't just sit on his pretty arse and watch other men get his father and sisters back. Stop it, don't cry.

The girl shut her eyes and breathed in deep, urging herself to calm the swelling wave of fear and panic.

"I heard Maester Luwin had to sew up Lord Umber's hand, because Lord Robb's wolf tried to rip it off."

"He bit off the man's fingers is all." Sylvia replied tightly, begging the woman's words to carry her from the sudden bout of panic.

"Lord Umber must have angered the wolf greatly."

Sylvia hummed, enjoying the feeling of her maid's fingers brushing through her hair thinking of her mother when she said, "It was Robb he angered."

"Oh?" Elane's voice was high and soft. "Why is that, my Lady?"

The chamber door opened, revealing Robb Stark, his blue eyes sweeping through the room, before meeting the eyes of his wife in the mirrors.

"Leave us, Elane," he commanded her maid quietly, mindful of the sleeping child in the room.

"Yes, my lord," Elane murmured with a curtsey. "My lady," she nodded to Sylvia, before quietly slipping out, hands clenching into fists at her sides.

Sylvia turned in her seat slightly to frown at her husband. "Why did you do that? She was just starting to undo my hair," she murmured in displeasure as she began to stand up.

But Robb extended a hand and shook his head. "Don't get up," said in the same soft voice. "I'll take care of it." He pointed towards her braid. Sylvia would have laughed at the idea of her husband handling her hair before, but there was something in his eyes that kept her silent, something soft and apprehensive. Feeling uncertain, she sat back down and waited.

She watched as he took up the long braid Elane had set down, his fingers running down the long plait to find where the twine secured the end. His fingers deftly undid the knot, letting it fall to the floor as his fingers unwound her hair. He'd never done this for her before, even in the early days of their marriage when they'd played and explored. The unexpected and intimate gesture stole her words. She almost worried to know why he undertook this task.

"You did well, tonight." He said at length, his fingers working gently to undo the braid.

Sylvia studied his face in the mirror, shivering when his ungloved fingered brushed the back of her neck. "I did what any lady would have done."

"You're not just any lady." He met her eyes. "You're the sister of the boy who imprisoned my father." His voice was gentle, factual, but it still stung.

Sylvia made to stand, not caring if he pulled her hair as a result. "Robb—" her harsh words were stopped when Robb spoke, his voice still gentle and without malice.

"But you made them see that you're my wife as well. You sat beside me, listened with them, spoke with them."

"And still Lord Umber called me a Lannister girl." The barb was hardly half accurate. True, her mother was a Lannister, but it was her father that she took after.

"They know you little, but that will change eventually." He paused, his fingers still pulling her hair loose. "You must prove yourself to them."

"Why are you saying this, Robb?" Her voice was near a whisper. "Is it them I must to prove myself to? Or you?"

"You must believe, I never wanted to ask you to go against your family," He confessed softly, his voice husky. She remained silent, listening as his hands continued their task. "You love them, so you've challenged me. Questioned me. But you've never turned against me. Your faith in me means more to me than any glory or riches the world can offer. For that," he leaned forward and pressed his nose to her temple, "I am grateful to you." His lips pressed against her.

His fingers stopped momentarily as he paused. Absolutely stunned, Sylvia turned her face back to meet his eyes, his lips brushing over her forehead as she moved. Tilting her head up, she saw a world of emotions flitting in his light blue eyes, but above all, there was honesty. She opened her mouth, but no words could escape.

What would this man think if he knew of the letter she'd sent to the queen, while he slept? What would he do?

Her hands moved without her knowledge, and suddenly they were on either side of Robb's face, her fingers weaving into his auburn curls. His fingers released her hair, the freed lock now flowing in waves down her back, while his hands found a home on her waist.

"I love you, Syl. I need you by my side."

His wife blinked, realizing his words had heavier meaning that they let on. "What is it?"

The northerner sighed. "A raven has come, from Highgarden." One hand moved to retrieve a scroll from his belt. "From your Uncle Renly," he pressed the message into her fingers.

"What is he doing there?" she murmured thoughtfully. Her husband was silent as she unrolled it, reading through the message with a growing sense of shock.

"That..." she blew out a disbelieving breath. "That bloody fool...he's named himself king?" Her eyes flashed up to Robb's, a look of both confusion and outrage on her face. "What does he fancy he'll be king of? The bloody roses?!"

oy, right now, I feel like I have sooooo much to do, but such little time to do them :(

Please review my lovely ones ;D