HEYA! I'm...less excited about this chapter.

Sylvia is about 10 weeks pregnant at this point.

Shout out to the lovely darkwolf76 whose help has been invaluable

Chapter 30: The Betrayal

The night was cold and dark, but within Robb Stark's war tent, the torches burned bright, and flickered shadows over the map laid before them. The Lannisters had amassed enough men to split their armies in two—one force was led by Lord Tywin himself, while the other was commanded by Jaime Lannister, the kingslaying prick who had put a spear through his father's leg, and made widows of a dozen northern wives.

By their scouts' reports, both armies outnumbered them by at least ten thousand. Tywin marched north, and Jaime marched west—doubtless he meant to take Riverrun, his lady mother's girlhood home.

They argued amongst themselves, debating the merits of facing one army over the other, but had yet to decide. In the midst of it, the guards came with a prisoner, a young man held tight between them. A Lannister scout, as it turned out, counting their numbers.

Lord Umber asked him if he were touched after he allowed the man to keep his head, allowing him to scurry back to Tywin and report their numbers. But he wanted him to know, wanted Tywin Lannister to loose sleep thinking on the northern fury coming to him.

"Tell Lord Tywin winter is coming for him. Twenty thousand northerners coming south to find out if he really does shit gold." Robb murmured into the scout's ear.

The castle was silent as the grave in the days following Robb Stark's march south. A bit of the life went with him and his southern wife. Fredrik would have gone south happily, if only to guard Sylvia from harm, but the Lady had refused him, saying she trusted him best to protect her child while she was away.

Ser Fredrik undertook this duty with the solemn vow to the child's mother that no harm would befall the babe while under his eye. He'd made the same vow to Queen Cersei many years before. But as a man, he had no desire to cluck over the child like a nervous hen over her chick, so Sylvia's handmaid, Elaine, had taken on the more motherly duties.

He wished to have gone south. He hadn't been south since he'd accompanied his former charge to be fostered. It had been so long since the summer sun had warmed his skin, since he'd fished in the ocean, since he tasted warm, spiced Dornish red. He hadn't had a woman with skin as golden and warm as the sun since then, either. But he knew that if he rode with Robb Stark's army, his sword would be bloodied before he could enjoy southern pleasures.

Truly, he did not mind the idea—he almost welcomed it, in fact. Fredrik Ravenback was a knight, able to wield a sword and yet he felt himself growing old and soft without ever having occasion to use his skill. He was all but useless here in Winterfell, the guardian of a babe that was safe within her home, in the arms of her mother's friend. The fight rode south. Would that he rode with it.

But that damned vow, to that damned girl…he'd give his life for her, and her daughter if needed.

The sun had started to peek over the hills and he waited outside Elane's quarters, ready to escort her throughout the castle, his sword ready to cut down anyone who would harm the child she cared for. There was some stirring inside the room, heard in soft muffles through the wooden door.

"Please, please don't cry." He heard the western girl hiss. "Your mama is gone, and I can't help that." The baby only squealed in reply, but did not start bawling. Fredrik pitied the handmaid. She was no nursemaid, and truly, a nursemaid would be better suited to care for the child, but Lady Sylvia had insisted, saying she trusted few with her daughter. He remembered her saying once or twice she would never suffer her daughter with a septa, since she'd hated the one that had come north with her.

The child had been miserable ever since her mother and father rode off, colicky. Elane very often brought her to the Stark boys, hoping the company of her young uncles would soothe her. Bran had no interest in the child, and Rickon's curiosity often lay with his wolf.

Finally, the maid emerged from her room, her arms full with little Minisa Stark.

Elane sighed at the sight of him, looking very much in need.

"Excuse me, ser. Can you please take the babe a while? I've asked the maids, and they're all occupied." She begged, stepping closer to the knight.

"What for?" he frowned.

The maid's eyes widened a little, reminding Fredrik of a startled rabbit. "Oh I…I need to send a message, ser. A raven to my mother in the west."

Fredrik narrowed his eyes, drawing his shoulders back. "Best not do that, girl. These are difficult times, especially between the north and the west. Leave your messages until it's done." He advised.

"Oh, I-I can't!" She chirped, eyes wide and her voice sharp. He tilted his head down at her, his interest heightened. "I only mean…I, my mother is old, ser. And impatient. She'll worry if I don't send word to her that I am fed, and safe and warm."

The old man nodded. "Mothers would rather their daughters remain out of shackles," Elane's face slackened, her skin blanching with fear. Only half a second later, her brows raised with indignation and a touch of fear. It might have been masked as hurt, but Fredrik did know.

"What are you implying, ser?" Tears gathered in Elane's eyes, and Fredrik felt his words might have been too cruel. Too blunt for a simple handmaid. "I haven't seen my mother since coming under Lady Sylvia's employ and my mother's alone and I worry for her, just as much as she does for me." She insisted. Mini squealed in the maid's arms, chewing on her fist as she stared up at the half hysterical woman.

Fredrik sighed uncomfortably. "As I said, these times are difficult. Wait a few months before sending messages to the west. Else someone might think you a traitor." He hoped it soothed her some, knowing that he was not accusing her of anything, but warned her enough to stay her hand. Gods forbid the girl end up in stocks and he was saddled with caring for the babe.

Elane shifted on her feet, not meeting his eyes as she blinked away the wetness. "I…I will listen to you ser. I apologize for my-my emotional state." She sniffed.

"Don't apologize, girl." The knight waved away her apology, uncomfortable with the girl's weepiness. "Just mind yourself. Northerners are a suspicious folk."

"I'll save my letters, then." Her voice was a mumble, and she tucked her little scroll into the baby's bindings. With a curt nod, Ser Fredrik stepped back, ready to follow the maid about her daily business, keeping guard of the child in her arms all the while.

The knight's confrontation had halted her works. For now, she promised herself, for she would be more careful next time. He'd believed her tears, and felt terrible enough to let the issue die between them, never to be mentioned again for fear of more womanly emotional outburst.

Truly, they hadn't been false. The old knight had spoken so plainly, as though the threat of chains were nothing to him. Elane had feared for her poor mother, then. Alone in the world, dependant on her allowance to live the comfortable life she so deserved. If she were discovered, her mother had no one else to take care of her. The queen only sent money when her information was good, and with Lady Sylvia gone south, secrets were harder to come by. Still, she hoped the queen saw her value here, in Winterfell.

One day, I will be done, and I can go home and live and be free of highborns. Perhaps she could buy a farm with her earnings, or start up an inn somewhere in the west and serve no one but herself. The thought was beautiful, and it filled her dreams most nights.

She pulled the scroll from the baby's swaddlings, casting a look to her in her cradle to make sure she still slept. Mini was so wonderfully silent when she slept, and Elane savoured the few hours between each nap that she had to herself. Stupid girl, leaving her bloody rascal to me, too jealous to hand her off to a nurse. Her time alone with Minisa had sealed her resolve on the matter that she would never have a child of her own.

Her disparaging thoughts towards her lady brought her attention back to her prewritten scroll.

Your generosity is thanked a thousand times over. Five hundred men on guard. She'd written her thanks as a means to add more to the short message.

It had been weeks since the northmen set off south, and weeks since she sent word to her friend in the Capitol that Sylvia Stark carried another child. Elane's lips twitched up. The queen had been ever so pleased at that secret, far more keen to promise to add another ten gold coins to her mother's allowance the next month. Odd, since Elane had always thought Her Majesty rather standoffish around her granddaughter, and did not think she would be so rewarding to know she was to be a grandmother a second time.

Of course, Lady Sylvia was not sure, but she did not say as much to the queen. It was not a lie, really. If the girl did not carry, it can be written off as a mistake. No blame set on the messenger.

She had been meaning to send another message to the Queen Regent, a short, dry secret, but a secret nonetheless. But before she could send out her raven, the old knight had stopped her with a warning, too coarse to mince his words that promised punishment for traitors. Elane tossed the scroll into the fire, knowing it would be long before she could send it, and not wanting to risk someone happening upon it.

Inside the king's chamber, Cersei Lannister took a delicate sip of wine, watching her son as he ate his lemon stuffed swan, nibbling distastefully at the sweetgrass salad of beans, onions, and beets, careful to avoid the beets. It was an endearing trait all four of her children seemed to share—a true distaste for beets. The queen smiled across from him, gracefully setting her cup down.

"I heard some very happy news today, and thought I might share it with you." She cooed to her son, her jeweled fingers still gripping her cup. Joffrey's eyes flickered up at her, still chewing his food. He shrugged, encouraging his mother to continue. "Your sister carries another child." For a moment, Joffrey had no words, and only scrunched up his face. Once he swallowed he took up his own goblet and drank back some wine. "She rides south with her foolish husband, as well." That bit of news had been so very welcome. Lancel hadn't left her chamber that night until morning light brushed the tops of the Red Keep's highest tower, and he'd left on shaky legs.

"Soon she'll be fat as a cow, and milking like one too. What use is she in an army?" Joffrey frowned, not so much confused as he was disparaging the idea that Sylvia could be useful.

"None at all," the queen admitted. "But she's closer to being home than I originally believed." Closer to home, closer to safety. Joff ought to get used to the idea, and quickly. She would not have her children squabbling like they had years before.

"So? She marches with that traitorous dog and carries his filthy pup." He returned to his food, hacking away at his cut of roast swan.

Cersei took a deep breath. She knew her son had little love for his elder sister, but she needed to make him understand the usefulness of this information. Even if he cared nothing for Sylvia, her daughter's condition would be useful in battle strategy. "She's in a delicate condition, Joff. And she rides with her husband, who loves her so dearly. Can you not see how this might work to your advantage?"

Joffrey frowned, contemplating. He chewed, slowly and then swallowed. "I…I suppose." He said, waving his fork dismissively. Cersei smiled, pleased that her son was slowly, but surely learning how to be a king.

The queen sat straighter in her chair. "I've written your grandfather already, informing him of this news. He will know what to do with it." With any luck, she would have no need for Jaime to locate her daughter and bring her home. Father would do it faster, and he would be pleased to do it, since Sylvia in their custody offered an advantage over the Starks. Father did so love his strategies and his tricks.

"Shouldn't I decide that? I am the king, not grandfather." Joffrey's voice was stern, irked at the thought that his authority was overtaken by his grandfather.

"Of course, my sweet." His mother replied, soothing the rage before it could boil over. "Whatever is your ruling, we must all obey. I only meant that your grandfather is closing in on the Starks. Perhaps before too long, Sylvia will be here with us." Her son grimaced, but said nothing Her smile dimmed a little. "Anyway." The queen folded her hands back into her lap, leading back in her chair with a sigh. "Tell me about Sansa. How fares she?"

Joffrey shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I haven't gone to see her." He continued to eat, unbothered by the change in conversation, though his mood seemed softer now.

Cersei tightened her mouth. The king was very busy, she understood, but not so busy he could not afford to pay his betrothed a visit. It would sweeten their betrothal if he showed her some kindness, especially since her father was in chains, sitting in his own shit within the pitch of the Black Cells. "You should. It might make the little fool a bit happier." Sansa had been kept confined to her rooms since her father was arrested. For her own protection, as far as the stupid girl understood.

"Why should she be happy?" Joffrey demanded, staring at his mother with fiery green eyes. "Her father is a lying traitor, rotting in the dungeons. I have half a mind to take her down there myself and show him to her." He grew more incensed with each word, his anger at Ned Stark's treason filling him with venom, ready to lease it on whomever tread too close.

"She will be easier to control if she's happy." Cersei kept her voice firm, reminding him gently that she was his mother, his wise mother. "And she does love you so. Her love makes her loyal, Joffrey." She took another sip of her wine. "Blindly loyal, but loyal nonetheless."

"I am the king, she should have no other reason to kneel to me." Her son was correct in that, but it seemed he did not see how some people held family above power and law.

"Of course. But look at Robb Stark." Joffrey's green eyes flickered up to hers at that. "He loves his father, no doubt, and because of it, he rises against you."

"And I will crush him and take his traitorous head." Was the king's immediate reply.

Cersei twirled her ring around her finger, frustration rising. While it pleased her to think of the Starks so crippled—too crippled to ever march on them again—what would happen when it came to Sylvia? She marched with him after all. She said she would support her stupid, foolish husband, my own daughter has betrayed us, betrayed me. Her heart ached. Joff didn't know it, but his big sister was just as much a traitor as Ned Stark's son. "Remember where your sister is. If Sansa were harmed, what would stop Robb Stark from—"

Her son scoffed, setting down his fork and knife with a clatter, effectively silencing his mother. Cersei sat back, jaw tight. "Sansa will do as I command, weather she likes it or not. I am the king and she's the daughter of a traitor." Joffrey's voice was low and controlled.

"And your sister?" Cersei found herself asking. "She must be given mercy. The gods do not hold kinslayers in their favour."

"She marches on the Crown." Joffrey countered, jaw set firmly.

"Not of her own choice. You know her, she's always been soft and pliant." It left a rotten taste in her mouth, protecting one of her children from the other. "Sylvia loves you and would not trespass against you, were she not forced." When Sylvia came back, she would instruct her and tell her what a fool her husband was. Once she was done, Sylvia would see that Robert had made her a poor match and would accept a second husband gladly.

Joffrey sat, thinking a long time. Finally he spoke, his finger pointed at her. "She must be punished. I will not have people think I am weak."

"Of course not, Your Grace." Cersei smiled at her son. "But she is your sister."

"As you so often remind me." The king scoffed, sitting back in his chair with a roll of his green eyes.

"And you must be gentle to her." I would not have to remind you if you loved her. "Our family must be strong, now. Your reign has only just begun, and starting off with punishing your own blood will make the nobles uneasy. In any event," the Regent went on, taking up her wine glass once again. "I think crushing Robb Stark and his forces will be enough punishment for Sylvia."

"You haven't told me yet, what you plan to do with Renly." Sylvia said as she finished up her meal, folding her hands in her lap just as Septa Bryda taught her so many years before. She still missed the old septa, and wished she had come with her north instead of the other, younger septa mother had insisted on.

Across from her, Robb set down his fork. They left the Twins behind and set down camp, and Robb had decided to break his fast with her, rather than with his lords. Sylvia almost hated to ask him about battles and strategy and politics now, but the question was pressing. Especially the further they moved south.

After the crossing, Sylvia realized they were now much closer to Tywin's army, much closer to the riverlands where the Mountain prowled through the villages, burning and raping as he went. Robb would relieve Hoster Tully's men, providing the aid he had wanted to deliver months before. She hoped he killed Gregor Clegane, the great beast of a man who led the band of reavers and rapers currently tearing through the riverlands.

"He wants to be king," Robb replied as he leaned back in his chair.

"Yes." She felt ashamed by the admission of her uncle's mad ambition. "The dream of most men, I think."

"Not mine." Her husband replied, shaking his head so his beautiful auburn curls caught the sunlight filtering through the top of the tent.

She smiled at him. "You're a rare man, my love. As is Renly. He wins hearts without even trying. He won over most of the Storm Lords already." She worried her lip. "He can do it. He can crown himself king and men will kneel without thought." A long pause filled the air. "I only want to know what you think of it, and what you plan to…to do with it."

"You mean, will I kneel or contest his position?"

"Yes."

Again, her husband shook his head. "It isn't right, in any regard. He's the third son. If Bran can't be Lord of Winterfell before me, what gives Renly the right to name himself king over Stannis."

"The numbers." Sylvia replied at once. "He has Highgarden and the stormlands, and by my memory, that means he has at least a hundred thousand men. If you accept him, he has…he has a real chance to take the Iron Throne." Such an odd thing to say. There hadn't been a true rebellion since Robert's, and never had anyone contemplated another one hardly twenty years later. Balon Greyjoy had tried, and lost all but one of his sons.

"Is that what you want?" Robb asked, soft and gentle. He was curious, not accusing. She loved him for that.

"No." her reply was swift. Perhaps too swift. "No…I-I don't know. Joffrey will make a poor king. He's too cruel, and too stupid to win over the hearts and minds of the people. He took your father prisoner, and that is proof enough."

"My father has told me that nothing before the word 'but' means anything." Her husband offered her a grin, sensing that there was more to say.

"But…" she gave him a wan smile. "Renly is the third son. And Tommen comes after Joffrey, anyhow. Then Stannis and then Renly." She shook her head and licked her dry lips. "The gods were cruel in deciding Joffrey would be born before Tommen."

Robb shifted forward. "Do you think Renly would still agree to an alliance if I refused to kneel to him?"

Truly, she did not know. Her uncle was a proud man, not overly so, but proud nonetheless. She'd come for this exact reason—to offer her husband council about all matters regarding Renly and the south. She did not want to make him question his decision to bring her. Her hand rubbed at her belly, and she quickly pretended to be only smoothing down her gown.

"Renly is a rather complex man. Most people don't think so, but he is. I don't think he would." She admitted, finally. "But he still marches on my brother. He wants the Iron Throne for himself. It is likely that he would ransom your father back to you, in exchange for your fealty." If he won, if he took the throne for himself without her husband's aid.

Robb thought on that for a moment. "I don't plan on overthrowing your brother, Syl." It was almost like a reassurance, and perhaps her husband had intended for it to be a comfort, but she felt unnerved all of a sudden. This talk of taking Joffrey's crown was treason, and part of her worried of someone hearing. "This isn't a rebellion I'm leading. I only want my father and sisters back. I only want justice." For Bran, he wanted a Lannister's head. Whoever threw him from that tower, and whoever sent the knife to open his throat would have no mercy.

"I know, my love." It was a strange relief to hear him say so, because at least he wasn't frothing at the mouth, hungry for the blood of her mother and siblings. Her hands worried over each other. "This should be dealt with later, then. When we meet with Renly. To bring this to the attention of the men now would only serve as a distraction. They'd wonder who their southern allies are: Renly and his Tyrells or Stannis. Their true loyalty must lay with you, and only you. The one who sits on the Iron Throne will come—and must always come—second." Robb regarded her oddly, as though he'd just discovered something new and strange. Sylvia resisted the urge to squirm, but only just.

Finally, a slow, pleased smile spread across his features, and he stood, crossing the room and took one of her hands in his. "Syl," he murmured, kneeling. Her husband kissed her hands, leaning his head against them for a moment, before he met her eyes. "I think you should go to Renly alone."

"What?" She pulled her hands away, frowning. "What do you mean?"

He pulled them back. "You said it yourself—he loves you dearly. He wanted to use your love for him to make us do what he wanted. But you're too clever to believe his tricks. I want you to act as my eyes, and my voice, and when the time comes, I want you to broker a deal with him."

Sylvia was confused. "He asked for both of us to attend. He will think you insolent if you refuse him."

"I cannot ride south only to meet with Renly, leaving my army without direction. I don't trust Renly. I trust you, Syl."

Her heart felt odd—it ached so sharply and yet she had never been so happy. "Robb," she murmured, her hands finding his face. She could tell him now, he'd be happy, he'd kiss her and it would be done. The words were on her tongue, but she paused.

He'd send her home, take back his offer, loose faith in her usefulness, in her judgement.

Instead, she kissed him.

The men paused as she walked by them, bowing their head with respect. Sylvia looked every bit a lady as she strode by, her head held high, the white fur on her cloak giving her a regal sort of look. Catelyn remembered the day she'd arrived at Winterfell, a skinny, frightened little thing, who'd had to gather her courage to meet her eyes.

Catelyn paused, watching Sylvia's retreating form for a moment. She had grown under her care. She'd been kind to her and raised her to be strong and courteous. And Cersei Lannister repaid her by arresting her husband and taking her daughters as hostages.

Her eyes trailed to the men, who had slowly started their work again, but noticed something curious. A few men still watched Sylvia's back, eyes hard and cold.

They do not trust her, she thought as her eyes flickered back up to Sylvia's retreating form. Catelyn thought of her sister suddenly, who had referred to her good-daughter as a Lannister brat. Northerners are suspicious people, she remembered. It had taken them years to warm to her. But Sylvia was the daughter of the woman they marched against, the sister of the boy who'd ordered Ned's arrest.

How long would it be until the doubts gave way to hate? How could her son win a war if his men did not trust him, if they thought Sylvia would turn on them?

Her feet brought her to her son's tent.

Robb stood alone in the tent, hands resting on the table as he stared down at the map of Westeros. He didn't really see what he was studying, his mind still with his wife and their discussion over breakfast. Finally, he and Sylvia had found common ground. He knew she would never betray him, but for awhile now, every interaction, even their good moments, had been fraught with tension, frustration and anger boiling right under the surface, beneath every courteous word. But now that she felt she had a way to fight too, they could stand united in the common cause to bring the strife between their families to an end.

A slight breeze and the rustle of canvas announced the arrival of his mother. He glanced up as his mother stalked in, a severe look on her face. "Robb, this isn't going to work." She said at once, a swift scan of the tent assuring her that they were alone.

"What isn't?" He furrowed his eyebrows at her.

"Sylvia."

Robb sighed and straightened himself from the table. They had already been over this a thousand times and each time left him a little more irritated. "Mother, I need her here. Renly addressed his letter specifically to her. He's her uncle. If we're to have any hope at forming an alliance with him—"

Catelyn scoffed. "Renly's love will only take you so far. Sylvia has no mind for politics, you should not trust her with something so big. She would be of better use if you'd left her in Winterfell." Her mouth pulled into a thin line as it always had when she'd scold him as a boy.

Robb felt a spark of anger, but fought to keep his temper in check. His mother just wanted to protect her family, and she grew impatient each day that went by without Sansa and Arya in her arms. But he needed to remind her that Sylvia was as much a part of it as any of her children. "She's more than capable and knows Renly better than anyone else," he said calmly.

Catelyn frowned at him. "She also is the daughter of the queen and sister to the boy that holds your father and sisters captive." She reminded him.

"She doesn't command her brother or her mother. You speak as though you think she arrested father herself."

"Blood cannot be denied." Catelyn countered. "She loves her mother, that much is plain, and because of it, she cannot be trusted to strive to achieve your goals." Robb opened his mouth to deny it, but she continued. "And even if she can, just her walking about the camp is causing disquiet among your men. She is getting in the way."

Robb clenched his fists. Catelyn didn't have to go on for him to understand what she implied, that Sylvia would betray them, him, for the family that had never done anything but hurt and humiliate her. Had his mother forgotten all the years she had raised Sylvia as practically one of her own?

"She is my wife and the mother of my child as well," he snapped, narrowing his eyes. "She may not have been happy about some things, but she has not once gone against me! Our daughter is a Stark as much as your children, and she would never put Mini in danger. A man who cannot trust his own wife can't inspire the men he leads to trust—"

"She is actively putting your child in danger right now." Catelyn lashed out. She heard herself saying it, and wished she could take it back. But something urged her on, and whether it was anger or fear, she could not say.

"What are you talking about?"

"Robb's she's with child!" Catelyn cried, and in the silent aftermath of the revelation, a single thought crept up from the tumultuous abyss: what have I done? A stupid thought but yet some veil of guilt encompassed her. Sylvia had always trusted her, and now it had come to this. Now the girl could a traitor to her family, and her good-mother spoke such intimate secrets without pause.

Whoooweee, multiple betrayals all occurring within one chapter. Incredible.

I just wanna say, Catelyn's a complex woman-on one hand, she loves Sylvia, but on the other, she love she children more and is legitimately afraid that Sylvia could be exploited as a weakness. In addition, Sylvia is directly related to the people who pushed Bran from the tower and took the use of his legs. So, honestly, I don't think Catelyn is being unreasonable here, but she's also not thinking logically. She's primarily driven by emotion.

Please drop me a review and lemma know what you think :D