I've had a rotten couple of days, so it would make my day if I got a little bit o feedback from this one

That being said: THANK YOU for all the support and reviews and reads on the last chapter.

Trigger warning at the bottom.

Please R&R :D

PS: Thank you darkwolf76 for your amazing help, and your own story which continues to inspire my own ;)

Chapter 31: Ours is the Fury

He made the strangest sound when he tried to breathe through the thick blood dripping around the poker. Wet and airy, a sucking sort of sound. He looked so surprised. His hands reached up, disbelieving as his hand wrapped around the poker. Then he started looking afraid, eyes wide as his hands dripped with red.

He was too heavy for her to push aside, and her body hurt too much. But somehow, her right leg stretched upwards, and shoved him off. The canopy above her spun as fast as her breath moved through her lungs.

Her body throbbed with pain, unfamiliar as she'd never been beaten like this before. As a child, once or twice had she been struck for insolence. Her father had grown up without a whipping boy, and he would have his own children forgo the custom as well, much to her mother's displeasure. But the queen had her hand in it; she ensured their septas knew how to be soft. A simple switch upon the palms, sharp enough to hurt, but not enough to last. Truly, her feelings had suffered more than her hands.

Her mother had no heart for such discipline and her father was often too drunk to care.

That did not mean Robert had not given his children a taste of his temper.

A memory rose suddenly from the murky pits of her childhood. It was before the cat, it was before she'd grown afraid of her baby brother. When she still called him 'Joffy'.

Robert had said something cruel to him, and he'd gone running to mother for comfort. But, for once, she was indifferent to his tears. Perhaps it was because she thought he was getting to old to blubber as he did, because she had looked at him and said, "Princes don't ever cry." Sylvia had suspected her rejection hurt more than whatever father had done. He'd always been mother's. It was as clear and obvious to her, even as a small child, that Joffrey was their mother's son, and that there was little connection between him and their father.

Sylvia curled up on her side, wishing for sleep to escape the pain, to escape the fear that still kept her trembling. She curled her arms around her aching, throbbing middle, holding herself together.

The baby, she thought dully, shifting her legs. He hurt the baby.

"If it's a boy, I want Robert."

"Well in that case, if it's a girl we should name her Lyanna." Instead, they'd named her Minisa. She thought she should feel the same terror that ripped through her when Mini was nearly born too early. And yet, there was a muted sort of fear, like listening through glass. It felt distant, hardly real. Like the baby itself—there, but not really. She was too tired to think.

Sylvia did not move. It hurt to breathe, and she could not imagine trying to stand. But more than that, she didn't want to find her feet and feel the blood drip down her thighs. Then, the fear might not be so dull anymore.

She was frozen. The memory of the hands that abused her were so new against her flesh. What if someone else was out there who would hurt her? No, she had to stay here, she had to be still.

If she were still and quiet, if she didn't cry, no one would come.

"Princes don't ever cry," mother had said before she walked away.

"I've seen mother cry," Sylvia had whispered to her baby brother, wanting to soothe him. It had only been a glimpse, a passing second before Uncle Jaime slammed the door in her face, but she had seen the tears on Cersei's cheeks. But Joffrey called her a liar and stormed off.

What she hadn't told Joffrey was that the next time she'd seen their mother, she had embraced her at once, laying her head against her bosom and listening to her heart, hoping that she felt something of comfort. Mother was stiff, and her arms felt awkward around her. But Sylvia had been relieved to hear the steady thrum of a familiar heart beneath her ear.

Sylvia closed her eyes, letting the darkness creep in, taking her away from her pain and fear. In her head, she imagined a small, soft hand slipping into her own, curling up beside her to be with her through it all.

When Robb Stark returned, it was to cries to victory. Tywin Lannister's favored son was in chains at his feet and a satisfaction like no other unfurled itself in his chest to see the proud man on his knees, bloodied and defeated.

Tywin prized his elder son, the entire Realm knew that. Perhaps enough for a trade.

When he saw his mother, he had the kingslayer thrown before her, hoping to appease her wrath with seeing a Lannister on his knees before her. The Imp, she told him in private, had espoused his innocence from the first until the last, and it had sown the seeds of doubt in his mother's heart that the half-man himself had harmed Bran. And yet it did not dampen her ire. In fact, it steeled her determination for justice, for if one Lannister was innocent, another was guilty of the crime. Catelyn Stark would see every man and woman with Lannister blood, bleed if she found the culprit who had crippled her son.

"By the time they knew what was happening, it was too late." He explained, walking around the prisoner to stand at his mother's side.

"Lady Stark," The kingslayer greeted with a nod of his bloodied head. So filthy, and still the strands of his hair caught the sunlight and glimmered like gold. "I would kiss your hand, but," his chained hands rose. Catelyn sneered, and cut him off before he could speak another false word.

"Do not give me your false courtesies. Give me my daughters, give me my husband instead."

"I don't keep nobles on my person, my lady." Behind him, Theon struck the side of the kingslayer's head with a heavy hand, sending him to the ground, face first. It was folly to strike an unarmed man, but Robb would not accept Jaime's impudence, not when so many thought him a weak, feeble green boy.

When he rose again with the assistance of guardsmen, the side of his face was muddied. The smirk on his face had only dimmed. "Where, might I ask, is Cersei's daughter?" He cast his eyes around. "I don't see her here. Her mother misses her terribly and would like to see her again." Some men shifted uneasily, the uncomfortable reminder of the ties Robb's wife had to their enemies hanging heavy in the chilly air.

Robb's rage flickered higher, the threat of Sylvia being taken south so thinly hidden behind the Lannister's comment. Robb did not tear his eyes from the man's face.

"Kill him, Robb! Send his head back to his father!" Theon cried, his face bright with a smile. "He cut down ten of ours, you saw him!"

"Give him to the wolf!" Smalljon Umber called from the crowds. In truth, if Grey Wind were by his side, he would have little objection to the half grown direwolf sniffing at the older man. Alas, his wolf was still in the woods, recouping from the battle on his own. Robb was not worried for him. If Grey Wind were in danger, he would know.

Robb did not pause. "He's more use to us alive than dead."

"Take him away and put him in a cage." Catelyn growled from beside him. "Somewhere small."

Theon and Ser Roderik pull the kingslayer to his feet. "We could end this war right now, boy." Jaime proposed, his voice gruff with something, not quite outrage, but not quite taunting. "You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Lannisters. Swords, lances, teeth, nails—choose your weapon. And let's end this, right now."

Robb stepped forward. "If we do it your way, Lannister, you'd win." He knew the stories well enough. Jaime was considered one of the greatest swordsman in the seven kingdoms. He thought of Sylvia, and their child, Minisa who was too little to know what war was. He could not leave them alone, unprotected, even if the kingslayer was not invincible.

The gods might see to it that the earth was watered with Lannister blood, but the suffering that came from it would be much greater. He might kill Jaime Lannister in single combat, but then the queen would torture his father however she wished, she would wed his sisters to a man of her choosing, and Tywin Lannister would reign hell down upon the north until it was too voice protest against the Crown for another century.

"We're not doing it your way." He spoke lowly to his wife's uncle, satisfaction rising in his blood once more. And when the guards led the bloodied man away, a great cheer arose from the men around them, a thousand voices rising up into the chilly air as one.

It was then that Robb felt the absence of the thousands of men who had died under his orders. Men who had helped them achieve this victory, whose blood soaked the earth and stole them from celebrating alongside their brothers. Men he had not even known the names of had been sent to die for his family.

"I sent two thousand men to die today." He heard himself say when Theon approached him, his anger subdued for a moment.

His friend's smile never faltered. "The bards will sing of their victory for ages to come. Your children will hear of it when they're at your knee."

"Aye." Robb replied. "But the dead won't hear them." It is a solemn declaration that weighs on Robb's heart. His father rarely spoke of the Rebellion, and when he did, he took none of the glory for himself. Instead, Ned Stark spoke of other men's bravery and courage, other men's heroic deeds. It was only from Jory and Ser Roderik and Maester Luwin that Robb had learned of the battles he'd fought in and the part he'd played in saving Westeros from a madman. As a boy, Robb had listened intently, thinking it was more of an exciting adventure with rewards of honour and victory.

Now he understood.

"One victory does not make us conquerors!" He called out loud enough for all to hear, and he felt the eyes of thousands upon him. "Did we rescue my father from his chains!? Or my sisters from the queen!?" silence rang out, and somewhere, a raven cawed. "This war is far from over."

Two thousand men, Robb thought as he stepped away, walking back in the direction of their camp. Two thousand men. How many more before we can all go back home?

His mother's feet crunched the dry grass as she hurried to catch up with him. "Robb," she said, her voice soft and kind.

"Sylvia did not wish to greet me?" he started bluntly, not wanting to hear his mother's comforting words. He did not deserve comfort. Instead, he asked after his wife, because now that he could think, he found her absence odd. Since childhood, Sylvia had always been there to greet him when he returned home to Winterfell with a courteous word and a chaste kiss on the hand. It had been duty, expected of her as his betrothed, but love had grown and soon she went happily to the courtyard to see him safely back.

Catelyn looked down at her hands for a moment, a warm blush spreading over her cheeks. She was ashamed of how she'd quarrelled with Sylvia. Robb had gone to face death and they'd squabbled over something unimportant. But now she is bright with joy, because the heavy stone over her heart had lifted when she saw Robb return. Catelyn would make peace with Sylvia if the girl would have it.

"We quarrelled," Catelyn admitted, a pinch of guilt tugging at her gut. "She returned to camp to escape me."

Robb frowned, his pace slowing. "She would have returned to see me back." He murmured.

Catelyn sighed, her heart aching for her son. His sorrow and guilt for the men lost today was not made easy by the absence of his wife. She knew little could soothe his soul, but for the quiet moments he could find for himself in days to come, but surely Sylvia's warm embrace could make it a little softer.

"Sylvia has never seen battle," she spoke gently. "Even one as bold as she might flinch from it." Her son paused, and turned to face her with a soft frown on his brow. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Wash the blood from your face and hands, and remove your armour before you see her." It is a soft order, a mother's tender request. "She is a delicate state, Robb. It would be no good to upset her."

Robb didn't want to frighten his wife. She was war-shy as it was, with two sides of her family fighting against the other, never mind that she carried a babe inside her. So Robb followed his mother's advice. He removed his armour and washed the blood away until the water was stained pink.

He'd noticed right away that she did not stand with his mother to see him back, but his blood was still up from the victory and so he did not think much of it. But now as he cooled, he thought on Catelyn's words and his resolve hardened, determined not to frighten her.

Robb washed the blood from his hands and face, hoping to hide the lives he'd taken on the field so well she would not see something shifted inside him. He did not wish to mar her skin with his bloody hands.

He wouldn't confide in her about the first man he'd killed—a man old enough to be his father and how the spray of his blood had felt against his skin. He wouldn't tell her about the frightened shrieks of dying horses that somehow sounded worse than dying men. He wouldn't tell her about the axes and swords that had swung at him, nor the moments he thought the end was coming.

Sylvia was soft hearted, and Robb feared that in knowing these ugly things, she would turn from him. Perhaps she'd realized this before him, and had not come to see him return, doused in blood.

When the blood was gone, he walked with measured steps back to the tent her shared with his wife

"Syl?" Robb spoke softly, hoping not to startle his wife. But when he pushed the tent open, the world descended into a mad frenzy of screams, orders he could not recall barking and blood.

In a flash, Robb was at her side, turning her gently so she was laid on her back, his arms on either side of her, shielding her from the danger long since past. On of his hands went to her hair, while the other touched the damage on her face. "Syl? Sylvia, open your eyes for me, love."

He heard a clamour of hurried feet and the clean slide of steal removed from sheaths behind him. "Get a maester!" he bellowed, turning his head only to return his eyes back to his wife's face. His eyes took in the bruises, and the dried blood that painted her mouth red. Without thinking, his fingers moved to wipe away the stain, and to his relief, he felt the gentle brush of breath against his fingers. "Sylvia? Sylvia, please, look at me, please." Robb had only begged a handful of times in his life, and never had he begged in front of so many eyes. But when his wife let out a soft groan, Robb would happily beg a hundred times more.

Loss is not something Robb had had much of in his life, he would be the first to admit it. He had never known his grandfather Rickard, nor his uncle Brandon. His uncle Benjen had gone north to the Wall when he was a babe, and all of his mother's children had survived past infancy.

But these past few months, it felt as though loss had made it's overdue entrance into his life, bringing a torrent of pain and longing with it. It had all started when word of the Hand's death made it's way to Winterfell on the back of a raven's wing.

Since then, blow after blow had been inflicted upon his family. Pain after pain, betrayal after betrayal, lie after lie.

He had won against the great Tywin Lannister, he had his prized son in his grasp, and yet Robb felt like a failure. Sylvia lay in their bed, the blood cleaned from her face and changed from her ruined gown, but she looked as delicate and cold as an icicle.

She had hardly spoken since waking up in their cot, breathless and weary. Robb had been at her side at once, before she could panic.

"Syl?" he whispered as he took her cold hand in his. He took in her eyes for the first time in what felt like ages. Blue, but not bright and striking like ice, but warm and wild like the sea. For a long moment she'd only looked at him, and that look in her eyes had struck him dumb. They were deep and heavy, filled with too many emotions to count. For a moment, he wondered if she even recognized him.

"Am I dead?" her voice was hoarse.

Robb's lips pulled into a grim smile and he shook his head. "No, love. Still here in this world. Still whole."

He watched her swallow dryly. "Did he…is he dead?" Robb's jaw clenched, but he only nodded. His heart ached when tears flooded her eyes. "So it really happened then?"

"And you lived." Robb tried to assure her, to comfort her. To comfort himself. "You lived and he died."

Sylvia's lip trembled, but her tears did not fall. Anger seemed to rise up from the fear and confusion. "Is he dead?" she asked again, more bite to her voice.

"I saw them tie his corpse to the horse, feet first, myself. Lord Karstark's sons rode out with it, and they will leave it for the fucking birds to peck at." His voice was calm and soft, a promise made in whisper, almost eerie to his own ears. He found it strange that such a horrific thought pleased him.

Sylvia studied him for a short moment, before she nodded, seeming satisfied. "Who was he?"

"A stranger. He had no gold on his person, so he must have had a hiding place close by. A camp, perhaps. No one recognized him."

"Like with Bran." Sylvia sniffed, thinking of the boy she missed back in Winterfell, the delicate boy she wanted to shield from the harshness of the world. "But this time, we have a clue who sent him." Robb's eyes flickered up to hers, watching her closely. "He said the king had sent him. But do not forget that the Realm is hostage to two kings."

Robb's memories of Renly Baratheon flashed through his mind, suddenly. Renly Baratheon, the man who smiled, who joked, who trained with him and Jon in the tiltyard when he came to see their marriage done. But Sylvia loved Renly and Renly loved her.

"I hope you treat my niece as carefully!" The young man had called to him when he saw how tenderly he cared for his sword, a simple bastard's sword.

Renly loves you, he wanted to say. But Renly had crowned himself a king, and a king had sent a man to kill Sylvia.

Sylvia was silent when the maester stepped from the shadows and encouraged her to lick down a few drops of poppy's milk. The old man glided through the tent, his chain giving the softest rattle as he tended to the lady. Robb helped her sit up when the pain was dull enough to wrap her ribs without too much pain.

Carefully, he unlaced the front of her gown. It was then that Sylvia spoke. "No, Robb, you can't see me like this." Robb could almost laugh at his wife's oddly timed vanity.

"I've seen you worse." He had not. She hadn't even let him in the room with her when she gave birth. He half suspected that her septa had locked the door.

"Not like this." His wife whimpered as he helped her sit up. The maester began his work at once, smearing a paste over the discoloured skin of her ribs before starting to bind them.

Robb looked away. "Remember Mini? You bit my head off for trying to help you lie down. We've come a long way." He tried to lighten the air, but his voice was flat and mirthless.

Her breath huffed against his neck. "Only old women need help lying down." She tried to match him in humour, but tears burned her eyes and her arms shook with the effort it took to hold onto him. The marks on her body were still hot and painful, and shame bubbled inside her belly, revolted to know he could see them. All at once, she wanted him out and at her side, to shield her pride and find comfort in crumbling in his arms. Caught between the two, Sylvia could do little else than allow the maester to complete his work under her husband's eye.

She should have fought harder, should have struck him half as many times as he'd struck her. She should have screamed, or even asked that Grey Wind stay at her side. Maybe it would have been different.

It could have been Robb lying here. No one had even thought it would be his wife who would end the day battered and bruised.

Another warm, wet trickle and Sylvia clenched her eyes shut.

They were side stepping the topic, too afraid to even mention the baby or ask after it. Sylvia could not ignore the pain in her middle, but he had hit her so many times, he had kicked her so brutally, she would feel the damage he had done for days to come. The wetness between her legs was harder to write off.

"Sylvia, the maester hasn't—"

"No." She mumbled. "No, not yet."

But soon enough, Sylvia's ribs were wrapped and she laid back on the warm furs of the cot.

"It was too much, my lord." The maester murmured quietly, gently. "Perhaps if help had come sooner, but…" it is too late and the babe is dead, Robb thought, hating that the man had thought to give them the word 'if'. If help had come sooner, if Sylvia were better guarded, if he had not left her, if she were home in Winterfell, if, if, if.

A useless word, Robb decided. He knelt next to the cot his wife laid up on, his face flickering in the orange light of the brazier. Sylvia could not look at the source of their tent's warmth, reminded too much of the poker that had gone through her attacker's neck.

"You can yet have children, my lady. Even a dozen more if your husband wills it. It is not your womb that was damaged." Robb flashed the maester a murderous glare, and the old man halted his line of attempted comfort.

Sylvia, however, did not care for the maester's words. He had told her enough. She did not think much of the cracked and bruised ribs, nor the bruised nose or the swollen, split lip. It was the pain of her bruised belly that she thought of, and the blood that was still between her legs. Her womb could still carry children, but it was a knowledge that passed over Sylvia with dull recognition. Perhaps she would feel something about the news one day.

Pain had been the first thing she knew. It had taken a few long moments before her mind returned to her as well. She had tried to deny the meaning of the ache at first, to reason that it was only the painful reminder of being hit and kicked. Aching, throbbing bruises, nothing more. With Mini, it had been luck. A nearly tragic turn of chance, met by a potent flash of mercy from the gods. She had started to hope, quickly without even meaning to.

"The child is gone, my lady." He had said, turning to look at her. "It was too little to have survived." And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. The blood between her legs and the pain low in her belly were the only proof that it had even been real.

It could have been a grand imagining borne of her fear and guilt, something of the mind she had conjured up to fill up her days with something for herself, something...something.

Tears burned in her eyes and she shut them, holding in the little sob that wanted to escape. With a quick nod towards the old maester, Robb and his wife were left alone.

"I-I tried, Robb." She sniffed as his hand went into her hair, soft and gentle.

"I know, Syl." He murmured back, his heart breaking.

"I'm sorry," the apology came with a sob.

"Don't say that, Syl. Don't say that." Robb leaned in closer, pressing his cheek against hers. His words escaped him, and they were silent.

The sky was fading into a darker blue when the maester returned. Robb had kept everyone out, at Sylvia's request, even his mother was refused entry. Every now and then Catelyn would come and ask to be allowed in, but each time the guards would turn her away. Robb did not ask Sylvia to allow her in, even though he thought her presence might provide some small relief.

Sylvia sat in the cot, propped up by furs and pillows, looking more lifeless than Robb had ever seen her. Her skin was ashen and pale, apart from the purple marks of harsh hands that coloured her skin. The grave itself would give more blush to her cheeks. The maester returned, producing a steaming mug from the sleeves of his pale blue robes. Sylvia heard his heavy chain clink with the movement and cast her gaze over to him.

"My lady, you must drink this." He spoke gently and Sylvia appreciated the gentle tones he used. It reminded her of the voice Ser Fredrik used when she was sad. She wished he were here now.

"What is it?" She groaned from her bed, blinking up at the approaching maester.

"A tea that will help stop the bleeding." He replied gently. It was moon tea, really. It would make the bleeding worsen for a few hours, enough to clean her womb of whatever remained there before slowing and ceasing all together. But he would not tell the lady that. She'd suffered enough. "And soothe the soul."

Sylvia closed her eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. "I don't want it if it has some potion in it to make me sleep." She mumbled. "I slept when my father died, I don't want to sleep through this." She had no face to remember the babe by. Her father was flesh and blood, real in her memories and in the children he'd sired. If she took the tea he offered, she would sleep but not dream. She might wake and think the babe's existence had been a dream. Morning might greet a rested woman, but she would doubt her own mind.

The maester paused. "My lady, it will not be pleasant for the next few hours. I highly recommend you drink the tea as it is."

"She said no." Robb's voice was sharp beside her where he knelt.

"Yes, my lord. Understood. I will…" he looked between the couple, the lady pale in the bed, and the lord kneeling at her side. "I will brew more tea, without sleeping draught in." Quickly, he made his retreat with a rattle of his chain.

Robb was prepared for another long stretch of silence, but Sylvia chose that moment to speak.

"I want them all dead." Robb's eyes flashed back up to hers. For a moment, Robb was startled at the strength of her voice. "They took this from me, from us. They've taken more from others, especially the riverlands. I want them all dead." She sniffed sharply. "The Mountain, all his men, his officers, all of them." Grandfather too, but she did not dare say it aloud. She thought of Renly and her rage faltered. Tears burned her eyes, and tiredly, she pulled his arm, bringing it closer and wrapping her hand around his. "Please, Robb. Please." She sobbed. The tears burned her cheeks and yet she wanted a river of them, to purge this terrible guilt, to calm the pain.

"Yes." Robb agreed, shifting closer. "Yes. I'll kill them all. Everyone of them. I promise." He would slaughter them, bloody his sword and himself, to avenge this blood that his wife had shed.

Robb had promised, but she wanted more. She wanted them to hurt, wanted them to feel afraid, to know the biggest mistake they had ever made was crossing Sylvia Baratheon's path. Ours is the fury, she thought, urged on by her houses' ancient words. She wanted vengeance, for herself and the child. Even more, she wanted the child back. Sylvia wanted the hopes back, wanted their dreams back. And yet, they would never return. Not even when the blood of his murderers flowed into the dirt, not until she heard the screams of grief from their wives and children.

She wanted Tywin Lannister's disposal of the Reyne's to look soft and gentle compared to what she was capable of.

It was a terrible feeling, to have something ripped from your hands, to have anger inflicted upon your body, to feel a life slip away from inside you with each pulse. The child she'd imagined aloud with Robb was gone. It was a gentle word, one meant to spare the heart, but she could not even think of the callous, far more accurate word.

Even if she could still bear children, none of them would replace the one she'd lost. Always, the face of a lost child would be a mystery. It had been stolen forever by someone who had no name, only empty dreams of gold and glory, and the word 'king' on his lips. The monster had meant to kill her, so why should he lie about who had sent him?

There were two kings in Westeros, and to Sylvia's sorrow, her blood ran through both their hearts.

Renly and his kind smiles and kinder gestures of love and affection, more a brother than an uncle. And Joffrey, her true brother, their mother's love shared in common between them. One of them had sent a man to kill her, and it resulted in the death of her child. It sent a sharp wave of some unpleasant emotion through her body to think of it, but revenge did not seem so monstrous. It would be justice, no matter which man had sent the murderer.

Even still, Renly and his smiling face invaded her mind, and it made her angry, uncomfortably so.

"My uncle. My brother." She wept, hot and bitter tears made her grief somewhat bearable. "How could they do this to me? T-the same blood flows through us."

"I don't think it was Renly." He whispered into her hair. "He called you south because he loves and trusts you to entice us to join him. He would never think of killing you. It brings him nothing."

"Killing me brings Joffrey nothing, either." She mumbled into his chest. She did not want to believe him, only to find out later that Renly had been the one to betray her.

"Joffrey does not love you as Renly does." Sylvia was silent after that, and Robb prayed to any god that listened that it was not the man Sylvia loved that had sent the killer.

The night dragged on, one moment to the next, and before long, the maester returned with a new mug of tea, one which Sylvia drank without protest. He told them it would be a difficult few hours and that it was best to try to rest.

When the pain started coming in waves, Sylvia pulled him into bed with her, clutching his hand in a vice each time it peaked.

It took a while, but eventually, the pain dulled enough to allow for rest. Sylvia's breathing slowed and her eyes dipped shut, and sleep enticed her away to calmer waters. Robb was glad for it. The poor woman needed sleep, to rest and regain her strength. They had to move, eventually.

"There had to have been a pair of them, at least, Syl." Robb murmured softly into her hair. Her breath remained soft and slow, and Robb was relieved. "I assigned two guards to you. I thought that would be enough to keep you safe. I was the one going to battle, not you." His jaw clenched. "When I came back, only one guard remained, and he was the one inside your tent." Until the day he left this world, Robb would always remember he had been the one to assign the guards who had nearly killed his wife, and succeeded in killing their child. "I'll find who did this, Syl. I'll kill them all, I promise you."

For a long while, Robb remained at her side, thinking and listening for sounds of danger. He'd ordered ten men posted outside, sons of his bannermen, seasoned men who had seen battle before this day. But it was only when Grey Wind trotted back into the camp that Robb felt at ease.

There was a shifting outside when the great wolf approached, a murmur of fear that went through the group at seeing the glowing yellow eyes appear out of the darkness. Robb was pulled from his position beside Sylvia, his heart starting to race as he approached the entrance of the tent. When he pushed open the flap, he smiled to see his wolf returned, and stepped aside to give him room to enter.

The young Lord Stark knelt before his wolf, running his fingers through the soft fur of his neck, partly checking for injury and pleased to find none. When Grey Wind's yellow eyes moved towards the sleeping woman in bed, he gave a soft whimper. There was something almost sad about his yellow eyes, intelligence that went deeper than men could understand.

"No pup." He whispered, scratching the wolf's neck. The wolf remained silent, watching him. "Never again." He promised it solemnly, as though vowing beneath the eye of a heart-tree. Grey Wind snorted his reply, and with that, Robb stood. "No one comes in, but me." Grey Wind's chest rumbled and he stood to lumber towards the cot.

Grey Wind curled his massive body against Sylvia's, his watchful eyes trained towards the opening of the tent as his master slipped through it.

The camp was silent as Robb Stark walked through it. The guards watched on silently, some of them whispering of an attack, carefully carried out on the young lord's wife as the majority of them were fighting. Some men feared Lord Stark's wrath would turn on them, for no one had found the lady until her husband returned to see her, hours after the battle had started.

But Robb walked with one singular purpose in mind, towards the one man in the camp who could possibly provide him with the answers he needed.

"Who sent the man to kill my wife?"

Jaime Lannister cocked his head, looking at the young man standing in front of him. The only hint that he was surprised about this news was the soft frown of his brows. "Someone who wanted her dead, I imagine." Fire burst inside Robb's belly and he punched the kingslayer in the eye, hardly feeling the pain in his knuckles.

"She was with child." He spat at the wincing man, lowly so only he could hear. "That coward failed to take Sylvia's life, but the same can't be said about the baby she carried." His heart ached to say it aloud the first time.

Jaime regarded the younger man for a moment, thinking. He imagined Sylvia Stark the last he'd seen her, smiling at her fat father, beaming to earn a tiny bit of attention from the drunkard. Robert had no great love for his grandchild, he only saw it as a prize—proof that houses Baratheon and Stark were united with blood. It would have been so if his beloved Lyanna had lived. While Cersei had wept when the girl's pregnancy was announced, Robert had toasted and gotten drunk for four days straight.

"Cersei always thought the girl was too young for children." That flippant comment earned a kick to his groin. Robb was surprised at himself in the few seconds following. He hadn't even thought before his foot was moving, and for half a heartbeat, he'd wanted to do it again. Jaime cried out, grunting and twisting in his chains. Through clenched teeth, the kingslayer hissed, "Hit me, kick me, stab me, slice me…it won't bring the babe back, Stark."

That gave Robb pause, but he would not feel ashamed because of this man. For all he knew, he'd sent the man to Sylvia. "Did you know of this?" The chill of the air brought a huff of mist with his words. But beneath his harshness, there was a desperation in his voice, the tone of a wounded man who wanted answers, who wanted to know where to lease his rage.

"If I did?" The man taunted.

"I'll send you back to your father, piece by piece."

Jaime Lannister's face did not change; he did not smirk, but neither did he cower, and Robb resented him for it. "A lot of threats, eh, boy? Well lucky for you, you won't have to make good on them." He paused. "My sister would run me through if I harmed a hair on that girl's head." He avoided saying her name, because if she had none, it was easier to forget the look of her.

"And what of her son? Joffrey." He'd tormented Sylvia through childhood, taunted her when he came to Winterfell, called her a whore and their daughter a bastard. "What would she do to him if he sent a killer after his sister?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You'll get the chance to ask her yourself by the time the war's over, I'm sure."

A handful of hours had passed when Sylvia woke, the sky slowly fading into a light pink that marked the rising sun. For a few moments, the stillness of the morning felt almost normal. Like when father had died and life carried on when it felt as though everything ought to take pause.

She wanted to curl back up, to be warm under the furs and not have to move for a day or two. It was impossible, but that was what she wished. A few more moments passed, when the flap of the tent fluttered and in appeared the maester, breathless and holding a fresh pot of slave for her ribs. "Apologies, my lady." He panted. "I was tending to a few of the men wounded in battle when I remembered I was to change your wrappings."

It shamed her to realize she'd forgotten, but she did not ask about the details. Robb returned, and that was victory enough for now. Instead, she asked after her husband, seeing no sign of him, apart from his faithful wolf at her side.

"The nobles wanted to know what happened from his own lips." Sylvia hummed in response to that, once more accepting the diluted poppy's milk he offered. With some help from the maester, she sat up and removed her shift from her shoulders, the material bunching at her waist to give him access to her ribs.

Once the maester's work was done, she pulled the shift back up over her shoulders and asked that he help her to sit at the side of the bed. With some mild protest, he helped her feet brush the cold ground.

When Robb returned, he did not come alone, but with his mother in tow. They were in the midst of a conversation when they finally stepped into the tent.

"…would not care how these things work. This is no place for it." She heard Catelyn say before the flap moved and Robb and his mother appeared. "Speak with the maester, Robb. She cannot ride in this condition."

The two took pause when they saw the subject of their conversation sitting at the side of the bed, her hair loose and only in her under-dress. Robb wondered, briefly, if she felt cold.

"Syl," her husband murmured. "How are you feeling?"

The maester had asked her the same, and she answered it just as she had with the old man. "Well as I can be." Grey Wind shifted in the bed, and rested his head next to her leg. The poppy's milk worked wonderfully at muting the pain. She felt like she could even stand.

"Maester, how fares she?" Catelyn asked softly. The wolf's fur was soft beneath her fingers, and his paw was almost as big as her hand. She wished she had his teeth and claws, wished she were as strong as he was.

The man cleared his throat. "Cracked and bruised ribs, bruises to her belly, and, erm…"

"Just say it." Sylvia ordered from her place on the bed, still stroking Grey Wind's fur.

Even so, the maester wished to be gentle, mindful of the ladies he spoke to. "It will be a few days before the bleeding stops. If we were in a holdfast somewhere, she would lie abed until then, my lord."

"Any castle she can retire to is miles away and we cannot stay here." Robb said. "Tywin Lannister's forces will recover soon enough and his spies will report back as to our whereabouts." Robb replied. It was an ambush, he feared. If they were caught unprepared, it would be a slaughter.

"Then have an escort prepared for her to recover elsewhere." Catelyn advised urgently, her eyes soft and pleading. "Spare her a cart and brave a castle, find an inn at least. She'd been through a terrible ordeal and she must rest."

Rage bubbled hot inside Sylvia's belly. Bruises marred her skin, blood still trickled from her womb and Catelyn still sought to be rid of her? "Let them see what they've done." Sylvia said, her head inclined back towards where her good-mother stood. "I am bloody and bruised from the men they ride against. Let them all see my face, and doubt me no longer."

"My lady, I must protest. This is a delicate time for you." The maester sounded so insisting, and yet almost timid.

"It cannot get any worse can it?" she bit out. "I won't be laid up in bed while the men who ordered this, strategize my family's fate away."

TW: This chapter contains the aftermath of a miscarriage

I just wanna say, Sylvia's rage is misplaced, but so was Robb's, and it is normal because sometimes being angry is easier than grief.

Again, it's been a rough couple days, so a review would be very very very much appreciated.

Love you guys!