Hello all my beautiful readers! I'm back again with a hella long chapter!

Since this is the first update since the series finale, I think I should bring up the series finale. First of all: what the ! $* was that!? That was a super rushed ending for sure smh. It wasn't a terrible ending but I wasn't a good ending. In the words of Marge Simpson: Its an ending and that's enough

I'm excited about this chapter, and I am very sorry it took as long as it did to come out, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait.

Thank you all for your incredible support and reviews! It really means a lot to me to know you guys enjoy the story :D

PS-Thank you to darkwolf76 for her amazing help! This chapter wouldn't have come out without her help, and I highly suggest you guys check out her stories cause she's crazy talented ;D

Chapter 30: Start a War

"…The Warrior stands before the foe,
protecting us where e'er we go.
With sword and shield and spear and bow,
he guards the little children…"

There was nothing so sweet at the smell of her babe. Even Robb couldn't really smell it, but Sylvia could. Catelyn said it was a mother's nose, an wolfish instinct to scent their young. The smell of Mini's skin was distinct, not so alluring as lavender and rose oils, but something clean and pure, musky and gentle all on it's own. The southern girl rubbed her nose against her daughter's soft head, breathing in the scent of her downy black hair, her song fading.

Sylvia had become a mother only four days before. Maester Luwin had ordered her confinement not an hour after the birth, when it was clear little Minisa Stark was hearty and strong. Once the child had made her entrance into the world with blood and pain, she'd screamed so fiercely that the bell-ringers had hardly needed orders to start heralding the arrival of Robb Stark's child. Not his heir, they later found out, but a beautiful girl in her mothers image.

That wretched creature Septa Maesa had tutted her disappointment at the baby's gender. Sylvia was aware of the old saying—"An heir and a spare"—and how girls were not even considered spares. As soon as the old cow left the room, she asked Lady Stark to find somewhere else for her. She would shield her little Minisa from that sour old creature and her careless words.

Sylvia Stark found herself protective of her newborn, perhaps overly so. She had not allowed the septas to touch the babe since they helped pull her from her body, fearing their aged hands would bring disease to the infant she already feared fragile. When someone called for a wet-nurse, she'd refused, instead feeding the babe at her own breast. Her mother had nursed her own children, and if it was good enough for a queen, it was more than enough for Sylvia.

She continued her song, her voice soft as she gazed down at her daughter. Eyes of ocean blue studied the baby—her fat rosy cheeks, the chubby arms that thrashed towards her, the tiny nose and her full lips…

Minisa Stark was her child in look. She was a Baratheon with hair as black as onyx, and eyes that reminded her of a calm blue sea, but she could see her husband there, too. In the slope of her brow and the quirk of her pouty lips, Robb was there too. She smiled at the child, and she smiled back much to her mother's delight.

The door creaked when Robb opened it, Sylvia pulling her eyes from the infant to watch as her husband stepped into the warm chamber. The septas had tried to bar him from the room, saying she needed rest and quiet, but Robb hadn't listened. He'd stayed out of the birthing room even as he listened to his wife scream and battle death to bring forth new life, but damn them all if they thought he would not see his wife and daughter whenever he pleased.

"Don't stop because of me." He murmured softly. Her hair was loose, and fell down her back in tangled curls, and her night gown left her arms open to the warm air. She was beautiful, and Robb felt an odd stirring in his belly at how she loomed over their daughter, protective as a mother wolf over her pup. Since the birth, she had shed the last of her stag's heritage, donning the skin of a wolf at last.

"You want me to sing for you, Robb Stark?" she teased, raising a brow.

"Always," he came to sit beside her on the bed. "You have a lovely voice." Instead of continuing with her lullaby, Sylvia sat straighter and took the baby up from the soft bed of furs.

"Look," she said, settling the infant in her arms. "I made her smile at me." They pressed close together to watch for any sign the baby would smile again, but she only blinked up at her parents. "She's such a happy girl."

"Aye." Robb agreed. A moment went by and then he held out his arms to take the child. "Too eager to meet the world, this one. When she's older, I'll take her riding through the Wolf's Wood."

As Sylvia gently handed her over, ensuring her little head was not jostled much, she recalled her experience with other babies, with her brother and sister, and with…

She licked her lips.

"Mother said Myrcella was born smiling, but she never smiled for me until a month had passed. Joffrey only smiled when he got his way, and even then, it is a queer sort of smile." Frightening, but she couldn't tell Robb that. Sylvia had only been a year and a half old when Joffrey was born, and just over five when Myrcella came into the world. What little she remembered about Myrcella's birth was only that mother had been gone a long time, and father lifting his ale horn at Court when he announced the birth of the new princess. But the day Myrcella smiled her toothless, gummy smile up at her had been the happiest day of her young life. Myrcella was born good and sweet, and Sylvia vowed to never let anything poison her although Joffrey had been the only poison she could think of.

Her smile returned with a laugh. "You know, we once planned on putting Myrcella in a basket and letting her drift into Blackwater's Bay for mermaids to take, in case she came out as mean as Joffrey." Her husband laughed at that.

"We?" The question startled her.

"What?"

"You said 'we'. Who did you hatch this plot with?" He was teasing her, his eyes still locked on his daughter as she slowly fell asleep.

"Oh. No one, it was only me. Renly wasn't there and my knight would never have helped me, anyhow." But someone had planned to.

It's starting to show, she realized as she removed her cloak. Her hands found the curve as she smoothed down the creases in her gown, pausing suddenly at her lower belly. A gentle curve was there, so small it was hardly noticeable unless you looked. But she was starting to show. Sylvia shifted uncomfortably, biting at her lip. Hurriedly, she loosened the laces of her dress at the side.

She was in the midst of tightening them when she heard the beating of rapid footsteps. It hardly took another second before she was met with it's source. Robb burst into the tent, chest heaving as his cloak whipped at his legs. Sylvia flinched back, eyes wide and fearful as a doe startled by a hunter. What was the matter? What news had he received to stir him this way?

"Robb?" She saw his eyes flash down, and a quick flash of terror pierced through her. Her hands wrung together, a last attempt at hiding the truth from his eyes. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

Her husband huffed once, trying to slow his breaths, stepping farther into the tent. She felt very much like prey all of a sudden, the doe her mother always said she was. Sylvia hated it.

"Is it true?" His voice was dark.

The southern girl swallowed. "Is what true, my lord?" she dared, not meeting his eyes. He took another step closer. Her courtesy damned her, for the guilty always try to mask their misdeeds with sweet words.

"Are you expecting again?" Her eyes met his, and she felt as though all her secrets were showing through her skin. Hurt pierced her heart to realize who had told him, but it was quickly washed away by a hot rush of fury at Catelyn Stark. Never again shall I trust the likes of Catelyn Stark, she vowed. She put too much faith in the woman based on years of kindness and had been gifted, in return, with betrayal. Anyone can be kind, she realized then, even the liars and plotters can look like friends.

Now whatever had been between them was dead. Later in the dark of the night she might weep for the loss, but for now, the fire of her rage dried her tears.

"Yes." She admitted.

The softest, simplest confirmation. Not at all how she'd imagined telling him. She had imagined him smiling as happy as he had when she told him the first time. She thought he'd embrace her, smile into her hair, kiss her. But his eyes hardened and those dreams fell away to the wind.

"How long?" he asked next, jaw ticking.

His wife was quiet a moment, thinking. "Three moons gone. I think."

"You think?" He bit out, unamused.

"It's hard to know for certain without a maester's wisdom." She replied, only just keeping the bite from her tone.

"You haven't even seen a maester?!" his stormy features broke and his voice was as thunder. "Gods, Sylvia, I thought at least you would see to it that the child was healthy." Sylvia clenched her jaw tight, angry because she had no defence, hurt because he was right.

"She had no right to tell you." She said instead. Catelyn had told her a day, and she had lied and gone and told Robb all on her own. The southern girl had planned to tell him when he came to bed that night, whispering it to him like a precious secret. It was stupid of her to hope for that, especially when Catelyn Stark knew of it first.

"No, that honour should have been yours but you refused to tell me and so it fell to my own mother."

"She said another day!" she cried. One more day, Sylvia. Tell him, and be done with it, and whatever is decided, we must both live with it. Lady Stark had taken that from her and that burned worst of all. She ought not be surprised. Catelyn's madness after Bran's fall had led her to making all sorts of mistakes. She'd abandoned her sons and Winterfell itself, took her uncle hostage, and still remained with the northern host instead of returning to her children. And yet, Sylvia had trusted her enough with this secret, because she'd needed someone to tell. Never again, she vowed once more.

Robb paused, his face outraged and confused all at once. "How many days has she known?"

"Since she arrived at camp." Her reply was curt. "It just came out. I needed…" she could not finish because she knew Robb would want to know why he wasn't the one she could confide in.

"How long have you known?" He asked.

A beat passed, tension floating through the air. "Longer." Her husband scoffed, looking away from her.

"What were you planning to do?" His voice is sharp and demanding, but beneath it, there is hurt.

Sylvia blinked. "What do you mean?" he knows, gods above he knows about the letter, the message I sent to mother, she thought with terror. It was such a short message, really, one hardly noteworthy. She only wrote it as a courtesy, because the woman who gave her life deserved that much, at least. So why did she feel like he'd drawn a blade on her? Why did she feel as though she'd drawn one first?

"You must have had something planned." He turned to look at her once more. "Some plan to hide it. Was I only to find out when you gave birth?"

Sylvia deflated, her shoulders falling. "Of course not, you bloody mad man. Am I so terrible for wanting to tell you gently?" The sheer relief made her voice softer.

"No, but I would have rather heard this from you. Instead, you lie and lie to me and my mother tells me!"

Once more, her anger is soaring. "Then be angry at your mother, not at me! I planned to tell you tonight and then she had to go and ruin it!"

"I'm not angry!"

"You're shouting at me now!" That made him pause, his mouth opening to say more, but Sylvia spoke before he could. "Are you even happy? Happy about another baby? Because that's what this is." Her hand pressed against her belly.

His silence was all the answer she needed and Sylvia felt the sharp pinch of hurt (different from the pain Catelyn had caused) deep within her heart. He was unhappy she carried his child. It was an honour most men desired, but not Robb. Not now anyway. Even still, knowing he did not want something she could give him, hurt in a way she'd never before experienced. It felt almost shameful to be rejected this way. She wanted to leave him with his silence, but she stayed rooted to the ground. If he regretted this child, let his silence ring in his ears and make him ashamed.

A long time passed. "It isn't…ideal, I admit." Sylvia scoffed, turning away from him. "But I am happy." Liar, she wanted to say, but the idea that he wasn't as disappointed as she thought was too sweet to refuse.

"Your mother wasn't." she mumbled, thinking of her good-mother. "She wants to send me away in a vegetable cart."

Robb didn't smile, he didn't step forward. "I want you with me." It should have been a comfort, and yet Sylvia didn't feel very assured. She still doubted that he was even truly happy about the baby. I won't believe him, she resolved. I believed Catelyn and she pulled the floor from under me. But Robb's eyes had softened, and he stepped forward. "I can't send you away, not now. Not if I wanted to."

"Why not?" she asked, nervously rubbing her knuckle with her thumb.

"Because I know you want this war as short as I do. And I believe you will help me accomplish that."

"How?" she looked up at him. "How can I meet with Renly now? I'll be as fat as a cow by then."

"I don't know." Robb admitted, keeping his eyes locked with hers. Truly, her delicate state made him uneasy. In the early months of her previous pregnancy, his wife had been so hearty. She'd only stopped horse riding when she couldn't mount any longer. Then the seventh moon came and he'd nearly lost them both. It had come so suddenly, from nowhere, it still baffled him, even now, over a year later. Shame at his reaction to his mother's news filled him, and he lifted his hands to her head, tilting her just so. "I am happy, Syl. So happy." He could be, he knew it. A few hours, a few days to think, and he would be truly happy. "Whatever happens, I just want you to know that."

She searched his face for a moment, and her lips trembled to see the soft, open kindness in his eyes. She felt herself falling into the soft feeling of relief, of joy that he was telling the truth. A breath she hadn't known she was holding left her then, and the next breath she took was like the first sign of spring—tentative and weak, but hopeful.

Her arms reached for him, hands coming to cradle his face. "Do you promise?" she needed him to promise. Robb did not break his promises, not ever.

"I promise." He smiled at her, her request amusing him. Sylvia believed him, and she shoved away the lingering fear that he was lying. He had to be telling the truth. He wouldn't lie, not about this.

"I wanted to tell you tonight," she whispered. Robb's hands ran through her hair, and down her back. "Last time I was so happy, too excited to tell you as I'd always imagined. I wanted it to be different this time."

"It doesn't matter now." He replied, dipping his head so his nose brushed against hers. The affection made her feel better. A smile brightened up his face, the anger starting to fade from his eyes. "You're carrying our second child. This is all that matters." His hands found her sides, then, his thumbs rubbing softly against her midsection.

Yes, she thought, another child. Another baby. How could I have even thought he'd be disappointed? He loved Mini more than anything and he would be a wonderful father to their second. Yet he agreed to saddle her with a Frey husband because his grandfather is an over ambitious twat, a voice reminded her. She chose to ignore the thought. Mini was only a babe and betrothals could be broken with a few silky courtesies and marvelous offers. Her baby was worth any number of titles, any sum of gold, any gorgeous castle.

"And you won't send me away?"

He paused then, thinking for a moment. "When your time comes, you'll be in a castle somewhere. Riverrun, perhaps. Far from the fighting, where you'll both be safe. But until then, I want you at my side." Sylvia sighed against his chest, warmth filling her for the first time since she'd left Winterfell. She wrapped her arms around him, snuggling close against his chest. It was enough, it was perfect, it was everything she'd wanted. A smile spread across her face, warm and light as the summer sun.

"I want a boy this time." She heard herself muse aloud. "We've got our girl. She needs a brother." She thought of Joffrey then and wondered if that is what her mother thought when she realized she carried him. Would that she hadn't, Sylvia thought sadly. For all that Joffrey was her brother, it was only in blood. He'd never loved her, and her love for him dried up long ago. She prayed it was not like that for her children.

Let them be friends, companions, let them confide in each other, whisper in the dark to each other, play hide and seek, share luncheons and comfort each other. Let them love each other. There was little she wanted more for Mini than to have a brother who loved her and was devoted to her, one who would champion her when foes came, one who would offer her council and comfort and joy. That sort of bond was precious and it was rare, and Sylvia had never had it with anyone else.*

Joffrey is a cruel little worm. We ought to have given him to the mermaids of Blackwater Bay.

Robb's chuckle rumbled against her ear. "Gods above, Mini's going to be a sister."

A watery laugh left her, and she was so happy in that moment, so relieved. "I know. The Seven are good and generous."

A derisive scoff left him. "What of my gods? I bet ten gold dragons he was made in our bed at Winterfell. He'll be a little northern lad, gifted by the old gods, themselves."

"Pardon, my love, but I am a woman born and blessed in the Light of the Seven." She had never been a particularly pious woman, the gods seeming too far off to her ever since childhood, but they were the gods of her father and she would always honour them. "We might have been wed in a sept if I'd asked you for it."

"I would have wed you in the sept if it would have seen us wedded and bedded, any sooner." She slapped his chest at that.

In the following years, Sylvia would think of this day often. Remembering how Robb's face shifted from angry and outraged to happy and content would become a comfort to her. She would remember how he'd held her close, not even hinting of his intention of releasing her. In those moments, it seemed as though it would last a thousand lifetimes. The happiness would become immortalized in her memory, something secret, something precious and comforting during her darkest moments.

But now, Robb and Sylvia Stark were happy. It was only later when they realized moments such as theses would become a rarity. Happiness and joy do not survive long in war. They are, in fact, it's first casualties.

The conflict between their families made itself known before the sunset the following day.

They had marched all day and settled in late afternoon, the Whispering Wood towering above their camp, shielding them from sight.

Sylvia had been in her and Robb's shared tent, wondering whether or not she should unpack, when her husband returned.

"We march at dawn." Robb told her, a few short moments after greeting her. Sylvia's heart thundered in her ears, and she fisted her gown in her hands.

"What? So soon? Why?"

Her worry made his gut clench. Truth be told, he was afraid as well. Terrified of what he now had to face. His war plans had been laid out, agreements had been made among the generals, and at dawn, two thousand northern men would die.

"It's the perfect time." He said, fingers fumbling with the direwolf fastenings of his cloak. His hands were shaking, though he tried not show it. His wife was afraid, she was doubtful, and right now, her doubt was a powerful influence. He had to comfort her before he could console his own dread. "Their men think they have the advantage."

"Your hands are shaking." His wife noted, disbelief in her eyes. Robb didn't reply. Instead, he moved all his focus on removing his cloak and tossing it over a nearby chair. Perhaps he hadn't heard her. Perhaps that was better.

Merely trying to fathom all the grim possibilities that lie ahead would consume them both. Sylvia knew it, and it frightened her even more. Robb was marching into a war, a real battle where men would try to kill him. Men who were under the command of her own family, her grandfather Tywin. She could not spend the precious few hours she had with him held captive by fear. There would be time enough for that after he left.

I must be as brave as a lion, she thought, steeling herself. I must be as brave as my father.

Sylvia rose from her seat by the brazier burning in the corner of their tent with a faint smile. "Here, let me," she said quietly as she approached her husband, brushing away his shaking hands to remove his cloak herself. She then proceeded to undo the ties of his doublet and then bid him sit on the bed so she could remove his boots. He was silent throughout, his eyes downturned. She wondered what he was thinking.

After he was down to his under clothes, she slipped out of her dress and curled up next to him on the cot. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her even closer to him. A moment of heavy silence passed between them.

"What do you think it will be? The baby?" Robb murmured softly.

"I told you, I wish for a boy."

"I know," he replied. "But tell me again." She glanced up at him and offered him a smile, hoping to bring some warmth into their night of chill, something to distract from the coming dawn. With their first, they'd made a wager of it that was forgotten by the time the child had come.

"Well..." Thoughts and dreams flittered through her mind then, some true, some not. "A boy, with your hair, and my eyes. But, instead of curls, his hair would be straight as my father's. And he'll be little for his age, but he'll be the tallest of all of them. Or, it will be another girl, and somehow, she'll defy us all and have golden hair and grey Stark eyes." A scoff came from him, but she continued her soft musings. "But she'll be beautiful. And it wouldn't matter what colour her hair was." In her mind, the child looked a like her sister, Myrcella.

For a long moment, it was silent between them. Sylvia wondered if he hated the idea of a child that had Lannister features. "Really, all I want is a brother for our daughter. Then we would have one of each." An heir for Robb, to carry on his name and legacy. Perhaps a son to call his own would raise moral among the men, make them see that Robb's march was not so fragile since he'd fathered a son. But it would not matter if it was another girl. They were young still, they had plenty of time to make a son.

"I'll be happy either way." Robb brushed him fingers over Sylvia's. "As long as they are healthy and safe." Sylvia sensed a promise in his words and she sighed with relief. He valued their children, boy or girl, and that was rare. Sylvia knew well enough the value men placed in siring boys. Her little cousin Shireen must know that too, since she was the only living child after a slew of stillborns.

There was no other man like Robb, and the fact that he was a good father would never change. She knew it in her very bones. For a moment, it was only their own little family that existed in a world ruled by ambition and greed. Their little family, the two of them, Mini and the little one still yet to come.

Robert Baratheon had had many failings as a father, but wedding his eldest daughter to Robb Stark hadn't been one of them.

"Syl." Sylvia frowned at the heaviness in his voice and the way his brow creased. She rose up on her elbow. Robb absently brushed his fingers over her side, ghosting across her stomach, his expression turning vulnerable. "If something happens tomorrow," he paused, swallowing hard as he shifted his heavy gaze back to his wife's face. "If I never get to see this one grow up, will you tell them -"

"Don't say that! Don't even think it." Sylvia snapped, her fright getting the better if her. Robb's jaw clenched, making her instantly regret her harsh tone. Afraid he would close himself off to her now, she raised a tender hand and brought it to the side of his neck, fiddling with the curly ends of his hair. "I'm sorry. I—," she forced a smile, "You won't need me to tell them anything, because you'll be able to tell them anything you wish yourself. You're not going to leave me alone in this world. Some fighting doesn't make a war, not by half." She sighed. Truly, the true stuff of war was something that eluded Sylvia. She suddenly felt as green as grass. "Once we align with Renly, we'll free your father, and we'll be home again before the baby comes."

It was a pretty dream. But it felt as thin as air, unable to truly grasp, a fleeting glimpse that might never be. But it felt so good to believe it, even for half a heartbeat. That brief moment would help them pull through, unscathed, prepared to face the future with some scrap of hope.

Robb's lips twitched upward in a small grin. It didn't reach his eyes, and Sylvia felt very useless.

Still, she could not help but let the warm sensation of comfort flow over her when he nodded and said, "Yes, of course. Everything will turn out." He tugged her forward to kiss her forehead. Her utter failure at assurance would nip harshly at her later, when he left for battle, but for now, she fell into his embrace.

Sylvia rested her on Robb's shoulder, and the pair fell into a silence once more, shifting a little closer until they were warm and comfortable. If only for a bit, Sylvia was able to pretend that the canvas of the war tent around them was the thick stone walls of their chambers in Winterfell, and that it was a wildling tribe Robb was facing now, or a band of reavers or slavers...

For now, they could lie and pretend without issue, for the night was peaceful and quiet.

"You should sleep," she murmured after a while. "It will be a long day tomorrow." Long and bloody and fast.

"Soon, just not yet," Robb whispered.

Sylvia didn't know when she had nodded off, but the next thing she knew, a loud bustling and the clunking of metal had her blinking her eyes open. She slowly sat up in confusion, looking up to see Robb fully adorned in his armor and securing his sword belt around his waist. So startled was she, that she couldn't move her lips to ask why he hadn't woken her. Robb was an impressive figure in his armor. He looked like a warrior, ready and willing to slash down his enemies without mercy, and that was most startling of all.

He turned when her heard her. Sylvia hardly recognized the man that stood before her, his face set in from determination and hand resting on his sword pommel. It was Lord Robb who spoke to her then. "It's time."

Despite his stern demeanor, she bid him a proper farewell in his tent. She didn't let him leave her without pressing herself against him, without wrapping him up in her arms and kissing his checks and lips a dozen times. He could not be soft in front of his men, Sylvia now understood. Affection must always be private. There was no room for softness, not here.

"I will see you once it's over." she promised, whispering into his ear.

When they left the tent, they walked alongside each other, hard faced and silent.

She sat atop her horse beside Catelyn and Ser Rodrik, watching as Robb and his troop rode out. When they had disappeared within the trees, unease arose between the women. Without Robb to keep the peace between them, it felt as though they were dancing far too close to an open flame.

The wound was too raw for any sort of comfort to pass. Sylvia could not forgive Catelyn for telling a secret that was not hers to give, and neither could Catelyn find trust in a woman who loved the people who arrested her husband and kept her daughters prisoner. Now was the time for assurance, for mutual respect that the one they both loved was put in danger. Silence might have been best suited for them, but Sylvia did not feel particularly inclined to hold back.

Sylvia did not want a word of comfort from Catelyn, because right now, she craved a fight. She craved something to slake the rage of betrayal and to tire her beyond all the fear she felt. She would rather battle with words than weep.

"He won't send me away," Sylvia heard herself saying, still staring at where her husband disappeared. "I suppose that upsets you."

Catelyn eyed the girl beside her, sitting tall and straight on her gelding. The elder lady studied her profile, the shape of her brow ridge and chin, so similar to the queen's, Catelyn felt a strange surge of pity rise inside her. Catelyn wondered how the queen must feel, knowing her child was in the clutches of her enemies. She hoped the woman felt half the fear she felt, because Cersei had an advantage that she did not: Sylvia was loved here, and Robb would never see her harmed. Catelyn could not say the same for her own children.

Her pity was washed away in an instant and she felt her own irritation rise. Yet she was not so cruel as to bite back with the same ire as Sylvia did. Her son rode against the girl's family, and yet here she sat, on their side of the field.

"A woman with child has no place among an army." She replied evenly, hoping the girl would respond with reason.

"But the king's sister does. The queen regent's daughter does." She tilted her head towards her good-mother, trying to conceal the satisfaction from her voice when she spoke. It gave her perverse, dishonourable pleasure to know Robb had defied his mother for her, that he disregarded her wishes in her favour. "I am more than what grows inside my womb, my lady." They will never let me forget it, so it will become my strength.

"You are." Catelyn surprised her by saying. "Which is why we would be better off if you settled in Riverrun until you gave birth." Anger flared in her belly at the woman's words. It was the thinly veiled implication of mistrust towards her which offended her beyond any ugly jab her horrible little brother had used to hurt her.

Joffrey had been horrible and cruel and bold, but Sylvia had always known what he was, what he was capable of. Ever since he sliced open that poor cat, she had known. His elder sister had not trusted him with their little brother and sister, and had tried her best to protect Myrcella while she'd lived in the Capitol. Time made him better at hiding his nature when he needed to, and his gentleness with Sansa had prickled her apprehension more than her hopes that time had made him sweeter. After having Sansa's wolf killed, she'd known for certain that ugly snake still lived beneath that honied exterior. She prayed Sansa only faced his kind mask, that she loved the lie and never saw the truth.

But Catelyn had been kind and gentle with her since the very first. Sylvia had not felt anything but trust and affection for the woman, and in return, when things became clouded, Catelyn treated her like the Stranger. She thought of Jon Snow, and how he'd lived his entire life under Catelyn's heavy glare.

Sylvia wanted to rage, wanted to weep, but she could do neither, and so she wheeled her horse around and trotted the mare back into camp. Let Catelyn think me angry and indignant, but don't let her know how deeply she can hurt me.

It was the first time since that horrid night that Sylvia could say she craved a cup of wine. A cup or two to dull the senses, to mute the thoughts running through her head. But she couldn't. She'd made her husband a promise, and her pride would never recover if that drunken night happened a second time. But as time went on, she grew more and more frustrated. There was no release for this terrible worry, and the only kind of relief she knew of was forbidden to her.

The southern girl's belly was a mess of twisting, writing worms. Her hands were restless, but the needle work was too delicate and she had no patience for it now. Her thoughts were with her husband, with the danger he was in at that exact moment.

Was he killing a man who'd tried to kill him? Was his sword bloodied? Had he lost his helm? Was Grey Wind fighting beside him? Was the wolf hurt?

In the past, she'd gone many times to the tiltyard to watch him spar with his brothers. He was a splendid fighter, and she had adored the way he was able to twist away from the practice sword. He was strong and brave, and she hoped it was a clean transition to a real battle.

With stiff arms, she reached for the pitcher on her table, pouring a generous cup of water.

There was a stirring behind the flap of the tent and Sylvia bit her lip. It was too soon for the battle to be over, wasn't it? Her annoyance flared, and her jaw clenched.

"Lady Sylvia?" it was a male who spoke.

"Yes, what do you want?" she asked, not turning to greet the intruder. Instead, she took a sip of her water.

"My own castle, for a start." For a moment, she did not think she'd heard him correctly and frowned. "And a highborn girl to warm my bed each night and another one to birth my children." Her head turned slowly to look at the man who thought to speak to her like this. He was as tall as Robb was, but he had short brown hair. His face was lined with the first sign of age. She had never seen him before, but that was hardly noteworthy. Robb's army was massive and so she could not be expected to recognize the face of every soldier.

"I don't know what fishing village you crawled out of, but generally, when a lady asks you what you want, they don't want to know about your far off hopes and dreams." Her bite was only met with a little smile. When he started approaching her, unease bloomed in her belly, but she refused to show it. "What is it that you want?"

"I just told you. And I need you to make that happen."

"Are you mad?" she hissed, confused. Why would she reward him?

Then suddenly, he rushed forward. Sylvia scrambled to her feet before he could lay his hands on her, stumbling to the side. But she wasn't swift enough, and before she could right herself, a rough hand wrapped itself around her upper arm. Time seemed to slow as he pulled back his fist before throwing it forward, right towards her belly.

No, she tried to scream, but the words were garbled in her throat. The baby.

When his first slammed into her, all the breath escaped her lungs, and she gasped, gagging on her own breath. The pain exploded throughout her middle until her legs felt weak, until she was curled around his arm. She felt like she was going to be sick. Panic surged through her, and she tried to pull away, but he delivered another blow, and then another.

The girl gasped for air, the urge to cough taking over. She was too shocked to think.

His hand wound into her hair, gripping it tight and pulling her head to make her look at him. He was blurry, but she could see his eyes were brown.

The back of his hand met her face and the pain was so sudden, Sylvia did not feel it for a moment. Her ears were ringing. The force of the blow sent her to the ground, but he gripped onto her hair for a heartbeat longer, and when he let her fall, he pulled away long strands of black.

Sylvia was still seeing stars when he sat down at her table, trying to catch his breath. The skin was hot beneath her fingers, and something felt wet. When she lifted her head, she found blood in her hands. Her jaw hurt, and she tasted blood.

"I'll have you killed," it was a promise made with a pained whimper. Against herself, a sob tore from her throat, accompanied by a few wet coughs. Her throat hurt. Sylvia didn't understand why he was hurting her. What had she done? She was only doing her duty, only trying to make this conflict as short as possible. Why was he hurting her?

"I have a king on my side, I'd like to see you try." She heard the chair creak when he stood up, and that was all the warning she had before he kicked her. The pain burst from her side, the force of his blow moving her onto her back. A strange grunting noise left her, but it was too soft to have been heard by anyone nearby. She could taste her blood, pooling in her mouth choking her for one terrible moment. His foot came down again on her belly, and then and again, until all she felt was pain.

He paused for a moment to catch his breath, and with aching slowness, Sylvia curled up on her side, trying to protect her middle. Her lungs screamed for air, and her whimpers now were quiet and strangled. All she wanted was to lie there until the pain faded.

She spit out some blood, and breathing became a little easier. It still hurt to breath, but she didn't feel so much like she was drowning.

Behind her, the man took up her cup and took a long drink, grimacing at the plain taste of the water. Another pained whimper rose from the woman's throat, and he glanced back at her, finding that she was shakily rising to her hands and knees.

She was a small woman, delicate and lithe. Killing her would be easy, it would be fast, and with the battle only just starting, he could slip back to his camp and carry on, innocent as a lamb. But his orders were not to kill her. His orders were far more specific and he was looking forward to the castle he'd been promised.

Her entire body shook with the effort it took to creep forward in a crawl. Sylvia hardly knew what she was moving towards, but only that each painful inch took her farther away from the man behind her. Tears and blood wet her face, and she felt swollen and aching, body too sore to move very far.

Heat licked at her face, and it was only then she realized she'd crawled towards the brazier at the center of the tent. It felt nice, it felt warm.

Movement caught her eye. The iron stand that held the poker for the fire swayed a little from it's hook. It was warm when she touched it.

Another moment passed, and then a hard hand gripped her shoulder and spun her around, forcing her on her back, poker in hand.

Cliffhanger. I'm evil, I know

*hey…does this seem a little…off to you? :D perhaps you should…refresh yourself with chapter 2 :D

But I'd be more than willing to explain it to anyone who wants to know :D Just shoot me a PM ;D

Anyway, I'm not comfortable writing fight/attack scenes because I feel like I don't do a good job writing them

So, uh, what did you guys think? Did you see that coming? Who do you think sent the man? Why?

Review please and lemme know!