Hello there! I'm back, and with more :D

Thank you to darkwolf76 for her amazing help, honestly, she really helps make these chapters happen, even though she's busy with her own wonderful story :D

Regarding Vows, because I've been asked about it: It is not abandoned, but it's at a standstill for now, because I've been trying to catch up with this story. I will continue, I haven't lost interest in Jon and Maeve

enjoy! :D

Chapter 26: Through the Barrowlands

My dearest niece

My heart is heavy for you now that your father, the good king Robert, is dead. The Realm is in danger, now as the cruel Joffrey, ascends to the highest position of authority in the land. I feel it is my duty to protect my brother's kingdoms, and so I raise an army to win the right to rule from your brother. I will march with Highgarden and the Stormlands. I ask you, sweet niece, to aide me. Let us three meet, and fight alongside me, as Robert and Eddard Stark once did. I will retrieve his father and sisters.

I ask you to join with me, and keep the country your father saved united as one.

King Renly Baratheon

I can't believe he would do this, was the persistent mantra echoing in her head. Sylvia thought of no one man in particular, because there were several she couldn't understand.

Renly, Robb, Joffrey, Jaime…all these men, these fools, who seemed determined to uproot all of her father's works. Of course, she thought better of her husband than all the rest, for at least he had ample enough reason to act with force. Neither Jaime nor Joffrey had her love, so it was not a weight to be angry at them. But Renly…He had always been more a friend than an uncle to her, and yet he'd crowned himself king while the dirt over her father's tomb was still settling. She hated him for that, for the stain this would leave on her Robert's legacy, on their name.

She felt sick, and fought down the urge to heave her stomach out on the ground.

After the shock of the letter began to wane, anger started to seep into her blood, and even now, she could feel the fire burning hot in her belly, waiting to be let out in a burst of rage. Renly's bold nature had always been an inspiration to Sylvia. He never fretted over what people thought of him, and never had need to, because he was liked so well in father's Court. He could make friends with merchants and beggars in the streets, just as easily as he breathed.

Renly was easy to love. Her other uncles didn't care much for her, so she'd soaked up Renly's attention like a thirsty Dornish flower. And Renly had decided to wield her love against her, to exploit it and use it to manipulate her, as though she were that same affection starved little girl. Like some dog he'd trained to do tricks. Sylvia wasn't stupid enough to be blind to what her uncle was doing. If she was, perhaps it wouldn't hurt as much, but she would rather that then to be so dull, she couldn't see an insult being waved in front of her.

But in the days that followed, as the haze began to lift, she thought more of Renly's scheme. He'd written his words so carefully, crafting them so they'd have the most impact on his target. How could one not be moved, when to go against those sweet words would be to go against love itself? How could she deny her uncle when he referenced the bond between Houses Stark and Baratheon—the union her father had wanted so deeply, he'd wanted to wed the two families twice over?

Late one night, as she felt the cold northern breeze flutter over her skin, she realized with a start that this weapon had been used on her before and by her own mother!

So disturbed by the revelation, was she, that sleep evaded her the rest of the night. She busied herself with embroidery until her fingers began to cramp. She'd never fashioned a finer direwolf emblem.

The thought persisted well into the day, until she lay back down to sleep at night, Robb's spot cold and empty beside her. Cersei's letters—all of them since Catelyn took Tyrion—had talked of family, of maintaining honour and how it was her duty to make Robb rein his foolish mother in. They'd tugged at her heart in violent jerks, they'd brought forth a rift between her and Robb, they'd made her resent Catelyn…was any part of it true? Had her mother's talk of family and honour led her away from the true heart of the issue?

Her good-mother had taken Tyrion for reasons that remained unknown to Sylvia. That was true. Then grandfather had reacted just as the Tywin's of the world are wont to do, and that was true. But even after Tyrion was freed, grandfather's forces kept on tormenting the innocents of the riverlands. She and Robb had to sleep at night knowing their pleas to the north for aid would be answered with no.

Tywin Lannister frightened her, and as Robb kept on, as he called the north to arms, all she could think was how Tywin would punish her sweet, green husband for daring to march south and challenge the lion. No one moved against the Old Lion with impunity, not even innocent children whose only sin was having dragons blood in their veins.

Sylvia's stomach rolled, and she swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

The reason Catelyn took Tyrion was only known in the woman's own mind. To the southern girl, it was not unreasonable to think Lady Stark was touched by madness, bereft at her son's injury and her husband and daughters' departure. Robb had always bristled at the suggestion, but the woman was either mad, or Tyrion had done something to provoke his abduction.

Even now that he was free, Lord Tywin's rabid dogs tore through the riverlands, raping and murdering its people, and putting villages to the torch. And it was Catelyn's fault. Even if her uncle had been provocative or irksome, was that really any incentive for all this pain and destruction? Was it worth turning their backs on their friends in the riverlands? Those were Catelyn's people. Did she not care for their suffering?

Somehow the thought made her feel a little more sure that Catelyn was touched by hysteria. She was always kind, always mindful and honourable. She wouldn't allow her father's people to come to harm just because Tyrion wounded her pride.

My lady good-mother is mad or selfish. Sylvia did not know which was worse, but she could forgive her if she'd gone a little mad.

The one thing she knew without a shadow of doubt is that she didn't like being pulled along with strings like a puppet. Her mother was meant to protect her from such things, hand yet she'd pulled and tugged. My heart makes me weak in their eyes, easy to use for their purposes. Her eyes stung at the thought that people she loved so dearly thought so poorly of her.

I will not make that mistake again, she vowed, rubbing at her face furiously. There was too much at stake now, too many Starklings at risk. Mother and Renly will be the last to have use of my mind by appealing to such deep rooted sentiment.

Someone was creeping up on her, but she was not afraid. The air was familiar, the scent was familiar. Even the way he walked was familiar to her now, after so many months. His moments were too soft to be a man's. The cold nose of a direwolf suddenly bumped her temple; the force of the great snout moved her head to the side. She felt Grey Wind sniffing her hair, hot breath fanning over her ear and neck, before the side of his face rubbed against her in greeting.

"Probably the best way to be summoned." She thought aloud, lightly rubbing back. He was gentler than a guard, more intimate. Grey Wind was warm and never hesitated to come close to her. Perhaps he knew she craved closeness, now that Mini was far away. Sometimes, when she shivered with the cold beneath her blankets, the wolf would crawl in after her, curling his massive body round hers to keep her warm.

She smiled at the wolf's loyalty, and wondered, briefly, if he missed home too.

Robb had already planned to march south, for his father and sisters. It was only their luck that Renly's request had reached them the night before the host was to set off.

He called himself king, now. King Renly Baratheon, the man who crowned himself despite being the youngest brother of three, despite the fact he had two nephews, and two nieces. Sylvia's head began to ache just to think of it, trying to make sense of her uncle's bizarre actions. Stupid man, she thought tiredly. What did he expect, for her to kneel for him a heartbeat? Had he expected her to disregard the rightful heir, simply because she hated that stupid, cruel little boy?

Her uncle's missive had called for her support, never mentioning Robb. Yet she would be a fool to think he didn't desire Robb's men to march alongside the boys from Highgarden and Storm's End. But he wouldn't ask Robb, not directly. Instead, her dear uncle had requested a meeting between the three of them, as equals, at some neutral location between the Stormlands and the Reach.

Renly, in all his fools' wisdom, had decided to yank her into the affairs of men and wars, and use her as an emissary between him and her husband, hoping her honeyed words and wifely affections would beckon Robb to his cause. Whatever game he was playing, she wished he'd leave her and Robb out of it. They had enough to argue and negotiate without Renly's misplaced ambition.

Robb's actions are far less treasonous than Renly's now, I suppose. The assurance was a useless husk because she doubted the Lannisters would view the actions of her husband any kinder than Renly's.

She longed for home, for Mini, Bran, and Rickon, for her and Robb's bed, for the strange comfort of a steaming bath in a cold room. How odd. But now duty called her south, instead of north. One may not like their duty, but that was of no importance. You can like your duty very little—it only matters if you abide by it.

But sometimes she wondered if it was worth longing for her child every day. Leaving her had not been easy in the slightest. She would have brought her along, given half a chance. Even now, Sylvia would find herself dreaming of how it would be to have Mini with her—where she'd sleep, how they'd travel for long hours on horseback and the like. Camp would be less lonely then.

The fight between the young parents—brief as it was—had been thunderous.

"She belongs with us!" Sylvia had raged. "She belongs with me. Do you think some servant could take care of her the way I can? You think she'd feel our love from leagues away? I won't leave her alone for months while you and I ride south." The impoverished abandoned their children, those who had no means to feed them or utilize them for coin, and those who had swallowed up their love and looked upon their babes with hatred.

"This isn't a discussion! She's staying here, and you can as well, if you think I'd let her stray one foot from her home!" Robb shouted back, not looking thoroughly angry, but very irritated. He ached, just as she did, to think of leaving their baby for months—perhaps even years to be raised by another. Sylvia had tried to use that doubt, the sliver of weakness, but it was useless.

"But Robb—" she tried, grasping. Now Robb looked angry, his pain tightening its coils around his heart as his wife insisted on the impossible.

"No, Sylvia! My word is final! I will not risk our daughter's safety to satisfy your whims. She stays."

Sylvia had pleaded, begged, yelled, coaxed—she'd tried hard to change his mind, but Robb's staunch Stark stubbornness had made him immovable on the subject. Afterward, all she'd thought of were her husband's words—his reasons why Mini would not come—filled with ferocity she thought was righteous. And, inevitably, doubt crept into her resolve. It only took a few days for her to realize that her husband might be right.

Mini was too little, too fragile, a long journey like this would unsettle her, she'd cry for as long as she was on horseback, she'd get sick. It left Sylvia feeling empty to accept that her child did not belong with her for the time being, but Mini was in the best place.

The night they marched out was the hardest day of her life, harder than leaving her family and harder than surviving the birthing bed. She inhaled Mini's hair before laying her down in the cradle, and sang her a lullaby, watching her little blue eyes flutter shut. The southern woman studied the baby's sleeping face, hoping that it was not too long before she came back. She wanted to remember her baby this way—sleeping and dreaming, peaceful and believing that when she woke, mama and papa would be there. She had disparaged Catelyn for this very act, and yet now found herself thrust into doing the same.

Robb understood this pain; she knew he must because he was leaving Mini too. She would see him at dinner, seating her on his lap as he fed her little bits of mashed meat and potatoes, and once she'd woken to find him staring down at their babe, his face soft and young and sad. But it was hard to look at him without the slightest tingling of blame. How could he feel like something was being ripped out of him when he was the one doing the pulling?

As they prepared in the courtyard to ride out, without speaking, Robb offered her a little brown leather pouch. Wordlessly, she took it, and tipped the weightless contends out into her gloved hand. A lock of curled black hair fell into her open palm, tired together by twine. Her heart ached, but she felt warmer and softer. She sent him a sorrowful look, but was thankful for his gesture.

The pouch containing Mini's hair was now tucked into her corset, close to her heart, always. Once or twice, she and Robb would admire the fine strands together, sharing the silence and filling it with their mutual longing.

Sometimes, she wondered if she really belonged here, if her place was on a campaign headed south, or if it was in Winterfell, with her child. After especially long days in the saddle, it was difficult to remember that to deny Renly's request so soon after naming himself king would insult his pride. It might make him less amenable to negotiations. She recalled her uncle's words and thinly veiled assumptions the morning after her wedding. It was clear that Renly cared little for Robb without her by his side.

Her insight might make this war shorter; the blood she shared with the new King could make the outcome less bloody for the Starks.

A bitter smile crossed her face. There were two kings now, and she was related to them both, while her husband was not a friend to either of them.

Soldiers greeted her as she walked past, bowing their heads and halting their work for a brief moment to say, "My lady."

Because of the position she was born into, Sylvia had always been accustomed to this kind of reverence. Whenever she was met with insolence, she tended to react with ire and indignation. Such was the case when Lord Karstark had discourteously named her Baratheon in front of her household, solely to cast shadows upon her.

But since coming to march with Robb, there had been some unpleasant sentiment stirring up among men, like the first wisps of steam on a pot set to boil.

She and Grey Wind walked by a group of lesser nobles, some lord with a little plot of land to his name, his son, and a knight from their household. They acknowledged her as well, but there was something about the look the Lord and his heir gave her that roused her suspicions. Had they been speaking about her? Did they distrust her? Did they wish her away, back in Winterfell? Or did they think she belonged in the south, with her family? Was she a traitor to them, an enemy, even though she'd done naught to deserve it?

She felt like an intruder, an outsider just as Robb had called her, weeks before.

I will grow into this feeling, she assured herself. Soon they will see I am a loyal wife, and that I aim not to make this war longer by acting with treachery. She did her best not to think of the letter she'd dispatched to her mother.

It was not the first time, nor did she imagine it would be the last. She was Cersei's daughter after all, and Joffrey's sister. Cersei, whom had their Lord Stark arrested and Joffrey, whom charged him a traitor to the Crown. Sylvia would not fool herself into thinking Robb's men trusted her wholly. She knew well that wary look that others gave her, like she was some snake that would strike at them if they drew too near. It was part of the reason she'd had no suitable companions of an age with her until Myrcella was born.

But, she remembered, her heart softening, that not all the lords and their men seemed to think ill of her. Ever since Grey Wind had bitten off two of his fingers, Lord Umber had become one of Robb's most avid supporters, and it seemed that fondness had extended unto her.

The warm, thick body of a direwolf brushed against her arm. Grey Wind's massive head now reached to her wrist and he was longer than any hound ever would be. He was still a pup, and he would grow much larger. Benjen Stark was not wrong—Mini would ride her father's wolf as though he were a horse. Perhaps it was not her men were wary of, the thought comforting her some.

The camp was massive, so the walk to Robb's council pavilion took a little while. Along the way, she saw many men, many young men barely out of boyhood, sharpening their swords and spears, laughing and singing songs. Lambs led to slaughter, she thought. She almost hated herself to think that these soldiers who left home and marched against her family would die at Old Lion's command. It felt wrong to have so little hope that the northerners would prevail.

Sylvia walked faster.

Robb's pavilion was far less crowded than she expected it to be.

At the start of their journey, she'd approached the tent after she'd spent hours sitting with Grey Wind, waiting for Robb to come to bed. What she found inside were a dozen burly men clad in leathers and furs, talking in low tones about whatever plans they wanted to enact. When Lord Glover caught sight of her, he had stumbled and murmured apologies for his lack of grace, while Sylvia had pointedly ignored the fact that his slip had overturned their maps.

She knew now, weeks later that it was a mistake to ask when Robb would come to bed in front of his men. Shame and fury boiled inside her belly to remember the lords' raucous laughter at her inquiry. Still, she'd gotten her answer—"When my plans are ready."—and then received a stern dismissal from her husband. Her soft question had embarrassed him, she realized too late, though she found it odd that men found it weak to have a wife who wanted to go to bed with them. Her eyes had burned with angry tears as she returned to her own tent.

As it was clear that Robb would not return for a long while, Sylvia had opted to try to sleep alone. Elane remained at home to care for Mini, and she had no other maid to help her undress. She would have liked to have her husband help her, but she furiously refused to miss him, still raw in her own embarrassment.

With frozen fingers, Sylvia had undone the laces herself, loosening them until she could let the dress fall to the floor—ground, rather. She'd gone to take up her nightdress, but when the soft, flimsy material was in her hands, she'd thought of how cold she was in Winterfell with it on, only warmed by her husband beside her, the thick furs covering their bed and the fire set in the hearth. There were no such things here, somewhere around the Barrowlands. She'd crawled onto her little cot in her underclothes, but even under her blankets, she still found herself shivering.

If only Robb would let the plans go with the daylight, and come to bed, and keep his wife warm. While Sylvia had accepted that her husband would not have much time for her during the day when he became the true Lord of Winterfell, she'd always thought she'd have his nights. After a few moments of trying and failing to get warm, Sylvia had risen again, and donned her dress. When she crept back under the covers, she found herself a little warmer.

That night, she had dreamed of a boy who looked like her, speaking a language only she understood. There was more to the dream, but she didn't remember much else, only that she woke with the queerest sense of longing deep within her bones, like it had always been there.

Now, Robb's tent was barren, all the lords and their sons cleared out. Even Theon was absent, and he'd quickly risen to one of Robb's closest advisors in the short weeks they'd been marching, (though Sylvia dismissed that as favouritism on Robb's part, for Theon was as green as Robb, and his closest friend).

It was only Robb and his lady mother who greeted her when she entered the tent.

Sylvia stopped short at the sight of the older woman, having never expected to see her here at camp. She had hoped the woman would finally see sense and return to her sons in Winterfell once her kidnapping fell through. Her mouth tightened, and she continued walking forward. It had been months since she'd last seen Catelyn, and in that time, the woman had played a hand in starting a feud between the north and the Crown. She'd stolen Sylvia's uncle, and had only released him after the damage had been done. The lady noticed her look and lifted her chin sternly.

"My Lady," Lady Sylvia greeted, her hands clasped together in front of her belly. A smile graced the former princess' lips, but Catelyn did not believe it. She'd raised the girl, but she had the same false smile her mother, the queen, had worn when she wished for Bran's recovery. "It's been too long. I'm relieved that your months of travel have not left you in poor health. Truly, though, you look in much better spirits since the last I saw you." No one could accuse her of abandoning her courtesies, false as they were.

Catelyn had raised Sylvia since she was eleven and the girl had birthed her first grandchild, but she had a Lannister mother. She had been suspicious of the girl before she'd even left for Winterfell. Her doubts had flared once Petyr confirmed her belief that the Lannsiters pushed Bran from the tower, and then sent a man to open his throat—only to be soothed by Varys the Spider. The Master of Whispers' silky voice had said her daughter-in-law was a sweet girl, fanciful and incapable of scheming against them. The doubt still lingered though, because every time she thought of Sylvia, she thought of the queen.

When Ned came to Littlefinger's brothel, she told him her news about their son. His hands shook with rage and he gripped the damned dagger tightly, but then he'd told her to return home and wait, to watch over their vulnerable boy should another assassin make an attempt. He would make inquiries and amass evidence of the Lannisters sins against them and Jon Arryn, all with Petyr's help.

Ned had asked Petyr to allow them a moment alone, and once the doors were shut, the man was quick to duck his head to whisper to her urgently. Her lord instructed her to strengthen the north's defences in preparation. He assured her it would not come to war, but still he told her to ensure Moat Cailin was fortified with two-hundred bowman, and that White Harbour's ramparts were strengthened and well manned.

"Sylvia will be suspicious of the fortifications," she'd warned. "I've told Robb to tell her nothing of why I left. She might have sent word to the queen."

"That girl would not betray Robb," he murmured back. His good-daughter had her own temper, but she had never given him reason to suspect her of disloyalty. Sylvia adored Robb, just as much as his son adored her. They had a child together. To plot against Robb would be to plot against her own child, and no mother would do something so dangerous. No, they had nothing to fear of Sylvia. "Have more concern that she will protest vigorously against our claims."

Catelyn had felt comforted by Ned's words, and it held her over until she seized Tyrion Lannister. Immediately after his capture, he had promised her that his niece would not allow her son to have a peaceful night's sleep until he was freed. She'd had him gagged.

All throughout their travels in the mountains—when the gag was removed so her prisoner could eat his bread—the Imp had continuously made it known that Sylvia loved him dearly and would not stand for this. Lady Stark wanted to tell him she cared not for what Sylvia would abide and that the girl's whims were nothing to her. When they arrived at the Eyrie, they stood before the little Lord of the Vale and his mother…Catelyn's sister, though this woman resembled little of the girl she'd grown up with.

Jon Arryn's heir was poorly. Even if young Robin Arryn were not so young, he was sick and frail, still at his mother's breast at seven years old. It made Catelyn think of Sylvia, who had breastfed her own baby until recently. Catelyn had expected her sister to be pleased that she sought justice for her murdered husband, grateful. Instead, Lysa's eyes had been wild, her arm wrapped protectively round her suckling son.

"You bring him here, without permission!?" she'd cried, her voice echoing off the high marble walls of the ancient throne room. "You might be content to pollute your home with a Lannister and be grandmother to Lannister brats, but you think I would be so happy to allow this creature into my home?!" Even now, weeks later, Catelyn remembered her sister's words.

"Is your mind so scattered that you forget the girl you speak of is a Baratheon born?" The Imp's voice had been hard, but not angry. In fact, he'd sounded bored. "And I daresay, I would rather be in her company than either of yours."

It was not long before Sylvia's letters started arriving in the Eyrie. For a heart stopping moment, Catelyn feared that Robb had given up their secrets to his wife, and that Sylvia knew everything—from their suspicions about Bran's fall, to her visit to King's Landing. Then, she remembered, this had been their lie—to Sylvia, Catelyn had always been in the Eyrie.

Tyrion Lannister had not been embellishing his promises, Catelyn learned to her sorrow. The first raven's scroll to find her hands had been nearly hysterical. Her good-daughter demanded answers, begged her to reconsider, to let Tyrion go, and to return immediately to Winterfell. Robb's raven was far less ridiculous, but he too wanted to know why she'd seized one of Tywin Lannister's sons the way she had. She chose to ignore both of them, not willing to risk the location of her hostage getting out, nor her reasons why she took him. She wanted the south to believe she took the dwarf far north, rather than veering east.

The next messages were harder to ignore. Sylvia became more controlled as time went along, but Catelyn knew that as each raven went unanswered, the girl became more irate. Her words were not of calm council, but rather an indignant anger. Ned had been correct, but she wondered how adamantly Sylvia would complain.

But then she and Robb had both sent word of the sufferings of the riverlands—how Tywin Lannister's men rampaged through her father's lands, like bandits. There had been a change in the tone of the young couple's letters when Ned was attacked by Jaime Lannister. Robb was seething with rage, while Sylvia calmly and rationally advised for her to do nothing brash, no doubt fearing for her uncle's life. The girl pled for reason while her kingslaying uncle attacked Ned, and ambushed his guards like reavers.

Her doubts of her good-daughter's loyalties had burst to life again. Ned had always treated her well, far better than Robert, Catelyn suspected, and was the grandfather to her child, her father by law. Why did she not the feel the same anger and frenzy for Ned's assault, as she had when her uncle had been merely captured?

Catelyn was sorely tempted to send Tywin his son's ugly head in a box. To show the Lannisters that trouts and wolves could be just a fierce as lions when their own were harmed.

When the Imp slipped through her fingers after that repugnant trial by combat, she had felt frustrated and defeated. She had wanted to return home and see her sons, and enact her husband's orders for defence. Then when the raven had brought her news that her son was marching south with an army, because his father was arrested on accusations of treason…home was no longer an option.

Now, she stood before her son and his wife—the wife she would rather have leagues away, under Maester Luwin's watchful eye. Why would a proper little lady like Sylvia even come along? Catelyn had raised her half her life and she knew that she was too proper and dainty to desire to live in a travelling camp. Too comfortable in luxury, was her good-daughter. Catelyn's suspicions rose, wondering if Sylvia's ears were open to her husband's war plans.

Catelyn's knuckles whitened as she clasped her hands together, though her gloves thankfully kept her feelings hidden. Doubtless, Sylvia was on high alert as well, and Catelyn did not wish to reveal her thoughts to her just yet.

Truly, she would rather both of them be back at Winterfell and another, better seasoned lord march the host to battle. Alas, it was done, and it could not be undone without wounding their pride and making her son look weak.

"Thank you. I feel much more myself. I am sorry for your father, my dear." Catelyn stated diplomatically.

Sylvia looked away, her fingers twisting together. "Thank you. If he had lived, perhaps he might smooth out some of these injustices." Her father was a king. He loved the Starks, and if he were alive, Ned Stark would never have been arrested to begin with. Now there were two kings, one a cruel maggot, and the other an overly ambitious third son.

If Lady Catelyn disagreed or took offense, she did not say. Instead, she moved forward and took Sylvia's hands in her own. "You look pale, child. Are you ill?"

Sylvia swallowed dryly. She was all too aware that Robb was watching them. "I miss my child," she paused. "I will admit. But I am adjusting."

"It is always hard to leave your child the first time, no matter how you prepare or occupy yourself." Catelyn replied, her voice almost empathetic. Sylvia's anger flared, remembering how the woman had abandoned her sons without warning. She smiled gently at her good-mother, hoping she did not see her true feelings in her eyes. "I was surprised when Robb told me you had come." The Lady's voice was soft and to men it sounded pleasant and curious. But when there is a meaning hidden in a woman's words, women hear it more clearly than men. Sylvia's defences rose.

"Would that I was home with the children, my Lady. I wish it had not come to this." Alas, if only you had stayed home and took care of your sons like you were meant to, rather than flittering off to the Eyrie and stealing lords.

The older woman's face was impassive but there was understanding in her eyes. "As do I. But why are you here, Sylvia?"

"Has Robb not told you of Renly?" she asked curiously, frowning.

Catelyn nodded. "I have heard he crowned himself a king in spite of your brother."

Sylvia tugged away her hands from Catelyn's. She was starting to feel a little flushed. "He has Highgarden and the Tyrells backing him. He aims to use Lord Stark's imprisonment to foster support to his claim." Catelyn's head snapped around to look upon her son, who stood between them, looking severe as his wife revealed her uncle's manipulative move to his mother. Robb had half wanted to avoid playing Renly's game, but his wife reminded him Renly's game might help him free his father and sisters. "And he aims to draw Robb and the north to his side. Through me." Sylvia concluded, her heart fluttering.

"You?" The Lady asked, her brows rising curiously.

"Yes, my Lady." Sylvia took a breath, moving aside to stand by the table of maps and figurines. A yet unused stags head figure found its way into her hand, and she traced the fine carving with her thumb. "Renly and I have always been close. Closer than Joffrey and I ever hoped to be. I know he means to use this love between us to draw Robb's support and, in addition, his fighting men."

"As well as the forces of the riverlands, since Tywin's dogs have ensured they are no friends of the Lannisters." Robb supplied. "What of the Vale? Will they march?"

Catelyn shook her head solemnly. "No, she will remain neutral. Her son is sickly, and she fears already for his wellbeing."

"But her—" Robb stopped himself before he could reveal that his aunt's husband had been murdered by Sylvia's family. Luckily, his wife did not notice.

"This is madness." Her good-mother lamented. "One fool on the throne was quite enough." Sylvia should be home, far from Robb and his plans, and farther still from Renly and his. "Robb you cannot allow Renly Baratheon to overtake your campaign. He would sooner see himself crowned than free your father."

"That isn't true." Sylvia's voice was harsh and swift, her hands tight around the stag figure. Even through her anger at her uncle, she still rushed to his defence readily and fiercely. "Have care how you speak." Her eyes flashed between the two Starks. "You all forget so easily I am that man's niece, but then throw the fact back in my face when it suits you well." She spat, her heart aching and her guts twisting.

Robb did not address her final words. Instead, he said, "Syl, we can't rely on Renly's word. Neither can we side with him, lest the Lannisters seek to abuse or kill father to make an example of what will happen to Renly's supporters."

"You don't know Renly." She replied. "I tell you this is what he means to do. His only hope of swaying you to his side is that you hate them more than you hate him. The only way he can gain your support is through your father. Not without him!"

"Aye," Robb nodded, looking thoughtful. "Aye. But I will not trust a man who would step over his two nephews and his older brother to win a crown. A man who places ambition above his blood is a man I neither trust nor would see on the throne."

She scoffed. "Don't pretend that you're not pleased he means to step in on Joffrey's claim." Sylvia sniped back, petulant as a child. Catelyn's brows rose at the girl's bold words.

"Only when you admit you're giddy about this affront to the brother you hate." Robb countered. Catelyn watched the exchange impassively, noting how Sylvia's cheeks flushed and a light sheen of sweat gathered on her brow.

"I am not giddy!" She cried, slamming the stag's head to the table with a harsh clack. "I am anything but." The woman seethed, teeth bared in anger.

"That is enough." Catelyn interjected her voice sharp as a blade, but low enough so that no one in earshot could hear. "You are married with a child, and yet you still squabble like the children you were, tossing pointless, petty barbs." Robb looked away, and Sylvia wrung her hands together, and Catelyn was satisfied they felt thoroughly ashamed. "It does us no good to argue amongst ourselves." She tilted her son's chin back to look her in the eyes. "The real enemy, the real threat is out there." The older lady turned her gaze to Sylvia, and saw the fire in her eyes started to quench. "It is late in the day, we ought to leave these matters alone for the night, and discuss them on the morrow."

"I agree." Sylvia hastily replied, looking at her husband a moment more.

Robb paused, watching her as well, and then agreed. "Aye. Tomorrow. Syl, please find my mother a warm bed and a hot meal. She's earned it."

"Of course, my husband." The woman nodded.

The two women exited the tent together, leaving Robb to make his war plans. At one time, they would've walked arm in arm, talking as intimates. But not now, perhaps never again. Their conversation was stilted, tension lingering in the air as they made sure to maintain several paces between them at all times.

"Bran is doing quite well, considering," Sylvia supplied, not able to take the silence any longer. "He was riding again by the time we left and he has Hodor to take him anywhere he desires to go." She kept her eyes forward.

Catelyn raised her eyebrow in surprise. "He can ride? How is that possible?" The Lannisters had taken the boy's legs, and she had wept bitterly to think of the things her son would never have because of it. The warm beginnings of hope spread through her chest at this news.

"Well..." Sylvia hesitated, for she knew it was likely not wise to reveal that Bran was using a contraption designed by the very man she had kidnapped. Perhaps she could tell her Maester Luwin had created the device. But she did so want to see the pinched look on her face when she told her that Tyrion Lannister himself gave Bran back his ability to ride. "He-" Nausea wrenched her stomach, stealing her words. "Bran uses a harness—", she tried, but it was no use.

Lady Catelyn stole a glance at her good-daughter's face, seeing that the colour had gone from her face, and collected in the apples of her cheeks in a ruby red colour. Suddenly, Sylvia covered her mouth, feeling dizzy.

Oh gods above, not now, not here. Not wanting to humiliate herself by getting sick in front of all the northmen, she spied her tent and half ran to it. She didn't even look back when Catelyn called out to her. Gods above, why did this happen in front of her?

Within the cool refuge of her tent, she grabbed the water carafe and gagged into it, her saliva dripping disgustingly down into the water below. Sylvia gagged again. She had just collapsed into a chair, flushed and short of breath, when Catelyn barged into the tent.

"Gods above, Sylvia, whatever is the matter? Sylvia? Sylvia can you hear me?"

"I'm alright, Catelyn, I'm alright." She mumbled, slowly coming back to herself. Her sleeve wiped away anything that might have lingered on her mouth.

"No you're not, you're sick." Sylvia breathed deep, her hands coming to hold her swimming head. "I'm getting a maester." Catelyn resolved.

"N-no, no my lady, please, there's no need." Sylvia opened her eyes again, and settled her arms down onto the rests of the chair.

"There is every need—!"

"No," Her voice was soft. "I already know what ails me. I must eat, the," she took a deep breath, as though speaking made her sickness worse. "The pages, they brought me lamb stew. I-I cannot eat lamb, I could not."

Catelyn frowned. "What do you mean?"

"My lady, I'm pregnant," Sylvia confessed quietly, her eyes trained on the ground. She had not entered planned to tell Catelyn, she hadn't planned to tell anyone for a while yet. In her daydreams, she would think to hide this child until it began to move, until her belly swelled out so much, she could not blame eating more than her share. That would never be, now, she knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth.

Telling Catelyn was a mistake, she knew it in an instant. Mothers were always on the side of their children, and so she knew Catelyn would side with Robb. She could not expect an ally in Lady Stark, and that cut her deep. She was afraid to meet the women's eyes. Life had become so lonely, so quickly. Surrounded by gruff warriors who did not think much of her, in a place as foreign to her as Essos. Mini was not with her, neither were Elane nor Fredrik. She had no companions to confide in, but for Grey Wind, and he was as silent as the grave.

She wished for her mother often, and Myrcella and Tommen even more so, because she knew in her heart, her siblings had never moved to manipulate her.

The long stretch of silence that followed had the onyx haired southerner fidgeting, a trait she'd abandoned years before. But Catelyn always had a way about her to make her feel inadequate, even stupid. But Sylvia had quickly found she couldn't even hate Lady Stark for it, because she was training her to be the wife of a lord, a northern lord. The wife of her son, and she couldn't be the strong wife Robb needed if she were given an easy go of her education.

She'd worked diligently to ensure the lady never looked upon her that way again—she learned all the boring histories of the north, learned to stitch the course fabric of wool and cotton together for her dresses, she'd learned to manage books and how to foster healthy relations with northern nobles. She'd even carried and birthed Robb an heir.

Catelyn had been like a second mother to her once, not so long ago. Just as dear to her as her old Septa Bryda had been when she was a girl. Perhaps, deep in her mind, she had blurted out her secret to have that again, to have her affection and support, a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold. A friend to tell her fears to before she found the courage to tell Robb about their next baby. Why not Catelyn? She'd been a rock to Sylvia during her first pregnancy. But things were much changed, now.

Slowly, Sylvia raised her eyes to gage to the reaction to her impulsive reveal.

"Did you know when you left Winterfell?" Catelyn's voice was not angry, but it was not pleased, and her words were not made out of joy at being a grandmother twice over.

Sylvia was quiet a moment, and that was answer enough for Catelyn. She drew back, shocked at the girl's foolishness.

"I had suspicions, but I did not know for sure." Sylvia voiced quickly in her defence. Still, Catelyn couldn't look at her. "Catelyn, please, I did not—"

"You knew. You knew, and still you rode off, knowing this march would last for months. Or did you hope the long ride would take care of the problem?" She seethed out, fixing the younger woman with an icy glare.

"No!" Sylvia cried at once, anger and hurt coming over her face. Her hands tightened around the arms of the chair, her back straightening. "No, I did not. Never. How can you even ask such an ugly thing?" Sylvia had not allowed herself to react to the possibility she carried again, but Catelyn's disgusting accusation wounded her deeply. Two moons had gone already without her red flower making its entrance, but she pretended not to notice. Stress does these things to women, she'd thought impassively.

Truly, she had wanted more children with Robb, many more, in fact. But she had not thought it would happen so soon, before their first was even a year old, nor that it would happen like this. It was easier and less painful to pretend there was nothing amiss.

"What did you expect would happen when you're in a saddle for hours at a time, every day? It won't be long before there is no babe to fret over." The elder Lady Stark's eyes were sad at the notion, but still wound tight with disbelief.

"I was not sure until we were well away from Winterfell." Sylvia insisted, looking close to crying, and Catelyn eased back a bit. Sylvia rarely cried.

A beat past, and Catelyn sighed. She tugged the other chair away from the table and sat down. "Have you told Robb yet?" she asked.

"No. If he knew, he'd send me back."

"As well he should. This is no place at all for a pregnant woman. You are fool for dragging a child into this."

Sylvia clenched her jaw. She wanted to argue, but had no words to defend herself. She had been a fool to think she'd receive any sympathy from Catelyn. The woman spoke as though she thought she'd gotten herself pregnant. "It isn't like I planned this." She mumbled to herself. "Will you tell Robb my news?"

"If you do not, I will." Catelyn vowed.

"I must be here when he meets with Renly." Sylvia replied, linking her hands.

"Robb and a midwife will decide if that will ever be. If it were my way, you would be northbound in a vegetable cart by now."

Sylvia looked to her good mother, her face blank. "It is good then that Robb leads this camp, and that he wants me by his side." There was nothing sweeter than seeing Lady Catelyn's face tighten with annoyance.

"I confess, I had heard you travelled with him, but I had hoped it was not true." The lady said at length, her voice softer.

"I wish I were home, too, my Lady." Sylvia conceded.

"Then why have you come? Surely you know your presence here will only incite more unease? Renly seeks to overtake the country with my son as his accomplice. You ought to be home, with your little one."

"I truly long to be, my Lady, but Robb has need of me here. Renly requested me specifically at their summit, and that negotiation is vital to the success of his campaign. It's my duty as his wife to support him and as a princess to do what I can to bring peace." Even if it is my kingly brother who disturbs it, and my lordly uncle who would trample it further.

"Do you know the words of my birth House, House Tully?" Catelyn asked, suddenly.

Confused by the unrelated question, Sylvia frowned. "Of course, 'Family, Duty, Honour'."

"Yes," Catelyn nodded. Her eyes had a stern glint to them. "'Family, Duty, Honor'. Family is first for a reason. Family should always be put before any other duty or obligation. As a mother, that means your children should come before anything else." Her countenance softened into a look disappointment. "I thought I taught you that better, Sylvia. You should have stayed with your child."

"What of your sons?" Sylvia's voice was harsh, but her eyes held all the wild passion of a child who had been slighted. "Your youngest cried every day after you abandoned him. He cried for the smallest of reasons. One evening, I told him to have at least three more bites of his vegetables and he screamed so loud, I thought he might deafen me! And Bran! Imagine poor little Bran. He woke up to more than half his family gone and useless legs. Do not tell me where I ought to be, my Lady."

Lady Catelyn's jaw clenched. She had thought of her youngest boys often over the past weeks she'd been away from them. There was no part of her heart that did not long to be with them again, and she knew very well that she was going against her own instincts, but the desire for justice was too great. How could she dare to look Bran in the face again, knowing the monster that had hurt him roamed free and unscathed?

"Mine own actions do not excuse your own." She countered coldly.

Sylvia was not moved, and continued in her hateful tirade. "You left your children in mine and Robb's care. Now I've left my own to Maester Luwin and a handmaid." Sylvia murmured, her eyes narrowed, her lips trembling. She had not expected this absolute resentment she would feel when faced with her good-mother. But now it burned over her skin, hot as fire. "Because of you. Because you took Tyrion Lannister, you started this entire thing."

Catelyn regarded her carefully, thoughtfully, even though she itched to strike the girl for her ignorant and spiteful words. But she let the girl rage, and let her tell her everything she needed to know. "Go to sleep. It's no good for the baby." Lady Stark did not await a reply, and then turned from Sylvia and left the tent.

There we are! I'm very very pleased that this is out, it's been driving me crazy for months

How are you guys doing? Good I hope.

Please review, let me know if it's good, bad, needs work etc :D