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Chapter 38: I am Broken Too

The night before she was to set out for Renly, Sylvia dreamt. She fell asleep long after the torches had been put out, long after she stopped expecting Robb to crawl in beside her. He hadn't shared her bed in days, and she could not find the courage to ask him to come back. She was certain that was why it was so difficult for sleep to come.

When exhaustion finally claimed her and her eyes drooped shut, Sylvia dreamed and dreamed as she never had before.

The morning met an unsettled queen. Not because the dream was a nightmare, but because she had never known such peace. Not waking, nor asleep. It soothed the pain inside her, it brought her more comfort than Robb's meek assurances had, more than her own logical thinking ever could. There was such joy there, a deep kind that encompassed all of her like a warm blanket. But there was sorrow too, a grief that was too deep to understand what life was like without it.

"She'll die old and wrinkled," a little voice—a child's voice—promised her. They sat together in the dark, but it was warm here, and she was not afraid of it. A torch burned brightly above her head, and she could almost see the boy sitting across from her, a flickering image that could've been herself looking back. "She will meet us again when the snows have long melted and a thousand direwolves prowl the icy lands, all claiming the same grandmother, when the kingdoms are broken again."

"But how?" she asked, her fingers stretching across the smooth stone floor before her, reaching, reaching, reaching. "She will not remember me. I'll be gone and she will forget her mother."

"Did you forget me?"

Suddenly, Sylvia felt angry. Angry at the boy, angry at herself, angry at all the gods, at fate. Whatever thing that was behind this…this. "You know I didn't. I couldn't. You forgot me. You left me alone. Drowning with the people that denied you existed, until you were nothing but a phantom." Tears welled in her eyes, and choking down a sob, Sylvia clenched her jaw. "They insisted and insisted and insisted, and then I didn't think you were real. Do not dare to accuse me, when you left me first."

The darkness did not reply for a moment. Then, a warm hand reached across to brush his little fingers against her own. But she was still too angry to flip her hand over and clench her fingers tight around his. "Never one…" he began.

"Without the other." She answered immediately, the cadence as familiar as her own name. A sudden pain blooming inside her, an old wound reminding her that it was still there after all this time lying dormant. These words were not true, and to pretend they were, was an agony that Sylvia had never known. But still, she replied. "Never one…"

"Without the other." The voice answered, sounding closer.

Sylvia found herself longing for the boy again. She had so, so many questions, but she could not form one into words. It felt wrong, somehow. So she just thought of the dream over and over, putting her faith into the words of a dream, believing what it said: that her baby girl would live until she was wrinkled, until a thousand wolves ran across icy lands.

It was this comfort that brought her to Robb that morning. She did not know what his thoughts were, but she knew, at least, that he was afraid for their little one's safety.

They shared a child, and what would never change, was how much they loved her. They would do anything for Mini; they'd let the other die if it meant keeping her safe, and Sylvia would not have it any other way. If the day came that Robb chose her over Minisa, it would be the day she hated him.

But the young queen felt small as she approached her king, her riding cloak already secured, gloves already in place, hair braided back tight so it wouldn't come loose and bother her. She had not spoken to him since that night, since she confessed and revealed all that she swore to take to the grave.

It was such a small thing, she thought, and yet he allowed it to make this great divide between them. How many times had he lied to her? How many times he whispered and planned with Catelyn while she played the unwitting fool? She had relayed no numbers, no strategic plans, not even where precisely Robb planned to storm. But Robb only saw the act and it was enough of a betrayal for him.

Still, Sylvia shrunk at the idea of Robb's cold anger. She had seen it on his face that day in the Great Hall with Jaime. She saw it when he spoke about destroying the Crown and avenging his father. He had such hate for her family, and Sylvia was terrified that the day had come when that hatred shifted over to her.

But still…they had a child together. Surely that counted for something?

She made herself brave when she stepped up to Robb, when she took his hands in her own and looked up into his face, hoping, praying to any god that would listen that there was no disgust in his eyes.

And, blessedly, there wasn't. Only the barest hint of anger, but there was curiosity as well. And pain. And fear.

Suddenly, she felt much more certain. The boy in her dreams had comforted her, and she wanted to give that to Robb. It would soothe his poor aching heart, and hopefully smother the anger he felt for her until their little one was returned, when it would snuff out forever.

If she were here, suffering with every possibility she could imagine, and he had something comforting to say, something she could believe, she would hope he gave it to her, no matter how angry he was.

"If we do not find her, if she is lost forever to us," Robb scoffed, and looked away, but his wife could see the tremble in his lips, even as he tried to hide it. Sylvia cupped his jaw, and tilted his head back up to meet her eyes. "We love her, and she loves us. She's stronger than either of us—she held on, even when my damned womb told her to go." At that, they both smiled, the memories somehow both painful and fond. That pain and love had been the very root of their little family, and no matter how painful the memory of that time was, Sylvia would forever cherish it for the love within it was so powerful.

Scars are the proof that something tried to kill you and failed, she remembered hearing. Sylvia wished she could tell her baby that when she was old enough to understand. She hoped she would.

"She will beat back every pain, every fear, every cruelty that threatens her, and she will survive." Her eyes burned with tears, thinking it was cruel to expect a child to be so hard and cold. But in her heart, she thought it crueller to pray for a soft, gentle child who could be abused and manipulated until not a drop of her own soul remained. "She'll outlive us both," her tears broke free, suddenly, and she smiled. "And we will meet her again as a grandmother. I promise you that, my love." She vowed, trying to pinch her lips together, to keep it in. "I promise."

Robb's brows were drawn together, the look of someone trying so hard to be strong, and Sylvia loved him for it. But she loved him even more when he deflated, when his face cracked open and she saw the pain beneath, when he surged forward and brought her into a hug so tight, it left her breathless.

We will be alright, she thought as she tightened her arms around him. He would not hold me like this if he hated me, if he thought me a traitor. She had seen how Starks dispatched traitors and Lannisters alike.

In public, Robb kissed her hands in farewell, a long, lingering look fixing her to the ground.

Her departure was seen by only a few, but there were still too many eyes for a more passionate farewell.

She wondered what he was thinking. Was he thinking of her betrayals, of her lies? Did he know that she thought of his deceptions? Of the disgusting claim that her uncle had tried to murder his brother? Or was he memorizing her face one last time before the miles between them came into reality?

Sylvia might have known where his thoughts lay with only a look, but not now.

When they parted, Sylvia did not look back at him. If she did, she might turn around and throw herself at him and beg him to tell her he forgave her, that he still loved her and that nothing would change that.

But those were the deeds of a child, and Sylvia was no child. She wasn't even a lady anymore, nor the daughter of a king. She hadn't been since she knelt before her husband and called him her king.

A queen walks forward, and when she looks back, she does not do it in front of a dozen critical eyes.

"He will miss you, Your Grace." Said Gawen Glover as he helped her settle onto her horse. For a moment, she forgot his name until she recalled how he sat with two sons of House Glover, one his father, and the other his uncle. Galbert had no sons, but his brother had plenty of them, the first born being Gawen. Strictly speaking, it would be Robett Glover, Gawen's father, to inherit Deepwood Motte, but no one really thought Galbart's brother would inherit in this lifetime. Thus, young Gawen was thought of as Galbart's heir.

"And I will miss him." She said, turning her head to regard the young man—who was really of an age with her. He was handsome in a scruffy kind of way, but Robb was far more appealing. The queen's horse shifted, and she reached out to run a soothing hand over it's neck. "We will get this work done, and then we will return to them, to the North."

The young boy paused, seemingly searching for words, and then replied, "Yes, Your Grace."

Sylvia slumped. "I was not always a queen. As I'm sure you were not always part of a queen's guard." She looked forward, their horses trotting along silently. When morning came, they would gallop, but for now, their silence was their strength. "But you were always an heir. The future of your noble house is yours."

"As you say, Your Grace."

"So let's not die."

They rode through the night, quietly through the path and through the tall grass, along the river and then off it, into the brush and into the darkness.

Catelyn's fingers glided over her father's cold brow, brushing away the hair that had grown out too long. He still had the softest traces of copper in his hair the last she had seen him, so many years before. He was an old man then, and he was older now, and in the mangled bit of flesh in her breast knew that her mother called him to the afterlife.

Please let that be the only Minisa that calls for him, she prayed, her fingers lingering to brush through his dry white hair.

After Bran, Catelyn had been sure a heart could not break twice, and yet Ned's death had done it. Her father would be another blow, and though it would hurt, she could bid him farewell without bitterness. But it was one thing to be parted from a loved one who lived a long, full life, and quite another to part with one whose life had only just started.

Minisa Stark was not an ordinary babe, and she had to believe that the ones who stole her away knew that too, and deigned not to harm her. The Lannisters tested the fury of the north when they killed Ned, and she hoped they knew better than to kill a helpless pup. Catelyn studied her father's face, so slack, so weary. He was gaunt, whereas the last she'd seen him, he'd been jolly and life spilled from every smile and gesture. Now, there was only weariness.

Her little grandchild had been asleep when she pulled herself from her son's side and walked towards her cradle. It was after it was decided she would journey south to King's Landing, dagger in hand to inform Ned of her fears, when she knew the miles from home would feel the longest. So she had come to see her grandchild, feeling like her soul was a thousand miles away. Behind, or ahead, Catelyn knew not, but still she looked upon the babe and felt nothing.

It had been midday, when Sylvia left her alone with the maids to tend to the babe and after she'd departed, she had ordered them as their liege lady to not inform the girl of her visit. But the entire time Catelyn sat with the sleeping child, Catelyn only had thoughts of her own. Her little Bran, already so small and fragile in his bed, a boy, a child who had enemies who wanted him dead. It left her cold and sad to think of leaving his side before he woke, but she had to leave her children behind to protect their future, no matter how it made her ache with shame and longing.

Months later, a new kind of shame fell on her heart, like fresh snow on muddy slush. As she sat with her grandchild, she had only thought of her own, and cut the visit short after only a quarter of an hour. That had been the last time she had seen her grandchild, her mother's namesake.

Gods knew when she would ever see her again.

Catelyn sniffled, and let her grief break free from her throat in a rough sigh, urging it away. Mini was a baby, and it gave the Lannisters nothing but the promise of misery and destruction to murder her. Robb's father was one anguish, but a slight against his child would destroy her son, until all that remained was a husk filled with rage and hatred. And when his work was done, she feared what would become of him next. Songs had been sung of men who lost their souls, and all of them were sad ones.

He would not stop until his child returned to his arms, be she full of the smiling beauty of a living girl, or bones to lay to rest in Winterfell. She only hoped with all her heart that it was the former.

"Ohh, father," she whispered, her thumb running across his tired, weathered skin. "You called Robb 'Edmure'. Would that I could match a face to my own grandchild." Whenever she thought of the babe's face, it always felt like a fiction, a conjuring she had mashed up of Sylvia and Joffrey. Lannisters were beautiful, and charming and sweet when they wanted to be…and too often since leaving Winterfell, Catelyn had wondered how much of that cunning had been given to Sylvia, and then passed down like some poison to Minisa.

Shame bit at her like a hateful mutt, and Catelyn shook it away, and pressed her cheek to her father's hand, watching his sleeping face, wishing like a child that he wake, but dreading the words and fear that might come from it.

No matter who mothered her, Minisa will always be half a Stark, just as I am half a Tully. I am half Hoster and half Minisa.

It was time to sup the next time she saw her son, a full day and a half since Sylvia had ridden off in the night.

He bade her come to his borrowed solar, and she found him looking out at the river, his food untouched, and a handful of northern lords seated around a table. While they made merry, eating and drinking, and standing promptly when she entered, her son stood silent and gloomy. He came to the table eventually, and ate and drank, but he was far from his company, and so Catelyn took the task of hosting this little feast.

In a way, she understood. There was a certain ache that came with this sort of separation, a fear. It was a familiar one by now, the last lingering traces of this foul feeling slowly dying the longer she was a widow. Would that it had remained, that she and her husband were separated by miles and chains, not the unforgiving finality of death.

When night fell, the tables cleared off and the last of the generals bid farewell, Catelyn regarded her son, her first born who seemed to be a boy clinging to her skirts only a short time ago.

"You can't look for forlorn. The men will start to talk."

"My father is dead." The cold way he said it set her teeth on edge,. "My daughter is missing. Is there any reason at all to merry?"

"I do not expect you to be downright jolly. But act as though your wife is still here to sooth your soul." It was their ploy, after all. Pretend that Sylvia was shut away in Riverrun so none would know she was treating with Renly. All their plans would flow together smoothly if all their enemies thought she was quiet and out of the way. But Catelyn looked forward to the day when Cersei learned that her daughter was an agent who worked in their favour. That betrayal would be a hard one to accept and she wanted that for the queen.

"She could not heal it, even if she tried. After all, it is her family that I plan to kill."

Catelyn scoffed at him, her missing heart angry at him for being so stubborn at the wife he had, at the wife who was living when her own love was dead and disgraced. "You love her, do you not? Act like it." She commanded, turning away so she could look out at the river.

Robb sighed and silence stretched out between them for a long moment.

"If they find out she's gone, all this planning will have been for nothing."

"My daughter is missing from her cradle." Robb spoke again, his voice weary. "What does it matter if they know my wife is gone too? What difference would it make?"

"I don't know." She confessed, turning again to face him. "But that is not a wager I am willing to take. In taking Minisa, they have taken our future too, they have the advantage. All our plans must be in whispers, rumours and speculation will be our shield, and secrecy our sword. Until we have the girls back, until your own child is back in your arms."

"They named me king, and I can't even keep my own child safe, nor my southern wife in line. Am I to be defeated because of the woman I have called my wife for nearly three years?"

Catelyn drew back, momentarily stunned at her son's words. Her suspicious mind and loving heart had told her the same, that Sylvia was too close, too much of a weakness to aid her son much. If anything, she would make him soft, perhaps even pliant. When Ned had died, Catelyn had momentarily imagined the girl beseeching for peace with her murderous family, and in that thought, Catelyn had hated Sylvia. Even for only a second, she had hated the very idea of her, thinking how much easier life would be if she had begged Ned to refuse the offer of betrothal from Robert.

But Sylvia had not done that, at least not in public. She was not a stupid girl, and had always revered Robb, even when Catelyn could see how it tore her apart. Still, she was green. She was soft and knew not what warfare brought with it. When it came time for her family to die, rather than their hoards, how might she react? Catelyn was old enough to admit she would do whatever she could to have her family spared, even if it meant breaking the hearts of her husband and children. Pride healed far better than a lost head.

So why did her son's change of heart trouble her? It was what she had wanted, wasn't it? For him to see the Lannister in his wife? To see Cersei and Joffrey and the Kingslayer?

Robb had always adored his intended, at least since he was thirteen. Then, three years after, he'd made her his wife in the godswood, before they eyes of a thousand. Robb was her champion in all regards, and even when the largest crack had been Minisa's troubling pregnancy, it was borne of fear and love for Sylvia and the child that grew inside her.

Catelyn had not known this victory would taste as bitter as it did. She loved Sylvia, truly she did. But she would always love Robb more.

Even still, she had to remind him, "Sylvia's always been willful." She had come soft and spoiled and angry from the Capitol at eleven, and had made sure everyone knew it. It was only the years in the north that had cleaved away that ridiculous shell.

At once, Robb pounced, his arm slashing through the air, and if he had been close to something, it would have clattered to the ground. "Yes, and is it any wonder?" He spat, voice angry, but honesty simmered beneath. "Her father a drunken whoremonger, a mother who fucks her own brother, and a grandfather who murdered little children in their beds." He huffed, cheeks filling as his rage seethed out. "How am I to give her a crown and call her my queen when her family is stained red with the blood of my people?"

A long silence drew out between them, Catelyn regarding her son with a curious frown. "Are you angry with her?" she asked. She was met with more silence, and it was all the answer she needed. Her brows drew together, heart panging with sympathy. However she felt about Sylvia, Robb was still in love with her, that much was certain. What had happened that had resulted in this venom? "Why?"

Robb's upper lip trembled, jaw clenching. She could see that he wanted to tell her, the words perched on his tongue, barely held back. But he said nothing.

"She is my wife." He said finally. "My wife." And somehow, Catelyn's sore, mangled heart managed to break a little more. The way he said it…it sounded like both a curse, and a reminder. An expression of disbelief and anger. Her son was angry with his wife, but the fact that he loved her still was what hurt him the most.

The babe's breathing stopped once too often during the night.

Elane was not a midwife, nor a maester, but babies breathed as oft as regular children. At least Minisa had. She had rocked her to sleep enough times to know what her breathing sounded like, and there was this horrible, aching surge of panic when she had stopped.

But then, to her relief, she had started up again.

Then, a few moments later, she stopped.

It was then, Elane's felt terror grip her heart with such a ferocity she had never felt. And strangely enough, reminded her of when the baby had nearly been born too early. This baby, the one in her arms, looking so peaceful that it might have been an afternoon nap. But it wasn't. It wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't!

They'd only ran for a day, and she knew it couldn't be the cold. At least, she thought it couldn't be. Her fingers were frozen, as were the lobes of her ears and the tip of her nose. But the baby was bundled from head to toe, warm cottons and furs and linens padding her little body until she felt more of a small dog than an infant.

But if it was not the cold…it was her. She had given her a potion, just a little so she would sleep until they were safe. But what if it was too much? What if this little bit was enough to kill her?

Elane fell to her knees, a shriek leaving her lips as she pulled the bundle closer to her chest.

"No, no, no," she chanted, frozen fingers rubbing at her charge's exposed brow. So cold. A sorrow she had never known gripped her heart, and Elane could not imagine surviving it. It pierced the soul of her, latching onto a fear she had known she had. This child had depended on her, trusted her, and she had failed it. She would have brought it to the warmth of the south, but instead, led it to a cold, lonely demise.

She found it funny to realize she did not think of her mother. Her mother, who she loved above all else, was not her first fear. She didn't think of her cat, of her cottage, of her comfortable life away from the affairs of the highborn.

Elane wept, into the bundle she had cradled, fed, rocked to sleep, for months.

Elane wept for her failure of this little thing, this fragile thing, who had never looked at her with anything else but trust.

And then, a miracle…she thought it was thunder at first. But thunder does not accompany the voices of men. Then, the softest inhale she had ever heard…

Without thinking much more of it, she found herself screaming, "N-no! HELP! HELP! PLEASE HELP US! HERE! HELP!"

The Elane redemption story no one wanted but one that i needed :)

Ok, so Elane never wanted kids, but even tho she never wanted kids, when you care for one, you become protective and refuse to let it die because HOW can you let that little shit die after all that hard work? And, in addition, Elane is a human. She doesn't want to see something pure die because of her.