HEYA! I'm back again :D

Thank you to the lovely, the talented, the very very helpful, Ms. Darkwolf76 :D

PS: Sylvia, Queen of Overthinking

PPS: thanks you to doug goodguy who reminded me about northern inheritance laws

PPPS: the song referenced here is "song of exile" from King Arthur 2004

Chapter 35: Riverrun

….hear our singing, hear our longing, we will go home across the mountains…

It was a song Sylvia had heard Bryda sing as a girl. She had been an old woman when she came to her young charge, ancient and from a far off land that she would never see again. In her sorrow, Bryda sang her song, and Sylvia remembered it even now. In quiet moments, she longed for her first septa, the way a woman would long for her grandmother. She could not bear to think of where life had taken her.

Once, she had considered singing it to her own child, but it was too sad a song to sing to a babe seeking sleep. Even still, she found herself humming the melody, all these years after she last heard her septa sing it. Her hair was damp as she braided it back, slowly weaving the long tresses together, far away in thought.

Grey Wind laid out before the fire, resting and silent. The massive creature deserved to rest after battling so hard to ensure his master returned alive. She cast a look at her silent companion, wondering briefly if she should for Valla to keep her company. Sylvia dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. Her mind was too full to make up pleasant conversation.

When she was a girl, Cersei had had one crown that Sylvia had particularly adored. It was a thick circled band of gold, inlayed with glittering diamonds and gleaming sapphires and more than once she'd begged her to have it for an afternoon. The queen often refused, but once or twice had allowed the little girl to play at being a queen for a few hours.

Sylvia did not know it, but her mother had once watched from her window as she marched around the courtyard, the circlet lying sloppily in her dark curls, making grand sweeping gestures with her thin arms. Cersei thought it sweet and simple childish games, but when the girl turned with a toothy grin to talk to the air at her side, her joy fell flat. The queen had many ears, and she knew all too well what they said about her eldest—calling the child Robert's punishment for rising against the Mad King, a half crazed daughter of his own likeness. It was folly for the girl to wear a crown, she realized then. No doubt it would fan the whispers, mocking the child in private until the entire Keep thought Sylvia too similar to Aerys.

As the queen worried from afar, Sylvia was having a lot of fun. Though the circlet kept slipping down, she felt very regal and beautiful. A few times she pretended she was a storm queen, Argella or Elenei, her favorite heroines. She imagined waving at cheering crowds and hosting lords and ladies at feasts, dancing with princes and lords from far away lands. Of course, all her first dances would be for her brother.

To the girl, that was all what being a queen was. Beautiful queens, smiling at adoring nobles, wearing the most beautiful silks and finest crowns and jewels. Golden and proud, like her mother. But her pretty notions were smeared later that day, tainted until she no longer dreamed of being queen.

"You were not made for ruling, my sweet." Cersei had said when she came to retrieve her crown. "Queens must be stern and harsh oftentimes, stamping out dissidence wherever it sprouts up. You're too soft and sweet for all that." She smiled a warm smile, but her words prickled like a thorn. "Lucky, then you were born a girl. The crown is not suited well for you, nor you for it." Her mother's fingers were cool on her cheeks. "That duty will belong to your brother. Do not long for a throne, sweet girl, it would do you no good."

I never wanted to be queen, she thought as she tossed her braid behind her, indignant even now, years later. I only wanted to be like mother.

Now her husband was a king, and as his wife, she was now a queen. She did not feel much like one—the castle of Riverrun was a beautiful one, but it was not as grand as the Red Keep. It was not even her home, it was Lady Catelyn's ancestral dwelling. Her shift was plain, falling in a shapeless wave down to her ankles, her hair was long and unmade against her back. She had no crown, but neither had Robb and the smiths were instructed to remedy that in short work.

"I'm sorry, m'lady—er, your Grace, but we've got no smiths who know how to make something as delicate as a crown fit for a queen." Corrin, a smith master, had told her, his face reddening with embarrassment.

Sylvia nodded. "Give me your best work, and I will count myself grateful." There would be no pleasure in wearing a crown as ugly as battered metal, nor donning a crown of shining gold and precious gems. It would be heavy, and remind her all too much of the folly she found herself part of.

For indeed, this was foolish, mad even. For a lord to defy three centuries of tradition, to be crowned a king by his people…the last man who had tried had lost all of his sons either to death or to another lord. Theon Greyjoy was all the proof she needed to know how much danger they were in.

She longed for her child, then. The little black haired babe who held her mother's heart in her tiny hand. Minisa Stark, now a princess, would one day be a queen if Sylvia never gave her husband another child. If they were so lucky to live that long. As Robb's only child, the baby was his heir, the key to the north so long as she lived. The Lannisters might try and use the Stark girls, marry them off to western lords, move them to gain favor in the north. But Winterfell was Mini's to claim. If one considered how much power Winterfell controlled, young Minisa was more valuable than Sansa or Arya Stark combined.

And so, the child would be sought after by every enemy they ever made, her claim too sweet to ignore, her innocence and age trivial to the power set on her tiny shoulders by virtue of being her father's daughter. Sylvia wanted to weep, but shook away the urge. Mini was safe in Winterfell, surrounded by those loyal to House Stark. There was nowhere safer for her, so long as their enemies never crossed the Neck into the north.

The door behind her gave a groan as it's massive doors were pushed open, her husband stepping into the dim light of their borrowed chambers.

"Have you seen your lord grandfather?" she asked after a heartbeat of silence. Lord Hoster Tully was an old man, confined to bed with his ill health the last few years. Robb had not been able to come see him immediately, nor even as soon as his mother would like, since the duties and plans that came with his new title occupied his time more than ever. It did not help that they had arrived at Riverrun late in the day.

"For a few moments, yes." The king nodded, coming further into the room. It felt cold in here, despite the blazing fire a stone's throw away. "A few mumbled words, and he fell back asleep. I think he thought I was his son, Edmure."

"Surely you gave him some peace, then." She said, wrapping her arms around herself. "A father seeing the face of his child while he lay sick and weary is surely a comfort." Edmure Tully was here at Riverrun, having taken control of the region since his father's heath took a turn. Sylvia remembered all the times Ser Edmure had asked his nephew for help in defending the riverlands from Lannister forces, led by Gregor Clegane. She remembered all the times he had been refused.

Now here they stood, a newly crowned king and his southern queen, hosted by the man they could not help months before.

Robb nodded, mouth drawing into a tight line. "Aye. I wish my own father had had such comfort." The woman did not smile, for neither a kind smile or a sympathetic one would ease the pain of Eddard Stark's execution.

"As do I." Robert, gutted by a boar. Eddard, on his knees and disgraced. A long silence stretched out between them, broken by the sound of the fire, and the call of a loon outside the balcony. She cleared her throat. "I overheard the maids talking while they made up my bath. They were saying I might be a permanent guest of the Tullys." the gossip of chamber maids meant nothing to her. She would hear the truth from her husband's lips.

Robb unclasped the buckle holding up his cloak with a snap. "It was suggested, yes. Now that you're queen, you are especially valuable to my enemies, and my men had doubts that riding alongside me was the safest place for you." They called for her to make her home in Riverrun until the war was won, stating that their new queen was already brutalized and to make her continue south was cruel and tempting an ill fate. One man had called her strong, another called her the wolf with stag antlers.

One man, however, a riverlord who had drunk too many cups of ale, had found his voice called her the greatest hostage they had, even better than Jaime Lannister. Quickly the talks had been overtaken by roars of outrage, for to name their new queen a hostage was the greatest insult.

But truly, all of them knew some part of the drunken statement was true. Robb had him thrown from the hall, and he heard Edmure call for him to be thrown in the pigpen until he sobered up.

"And what do you think?" she asked, brow scrunching together thoughtfully.

He started on the laces of his doublet. "I would have you at my side. I think that as my queen, your importance to me is more valuable than theirs." He watched her face, taking note of the subtle hardenings of her features that told him she was annoyed.

"Have talks of heirs been brought up yet? A male heir, that is?" Sylvia had always wanted a slew of children, always dreamed of filling Winterfell's halls with sons and daughters of her own, girls and boys that looked like her husband and uncles, named in honour of her father's House. She had been a lonely child, and never wished her children to suffer the same. But it was a new kind of humiliation, that every man in the north had a right to ask after such intimate dealings, to push her husband towards her bed with express intent.

Robb steeled himself, refusing to flinch. "I told them that until the gods see to bless us again, Minisa Stark is heir to the Kingdom of the North. Girl or not, she is my child, and will inherit before my brothers." Of course, Robb planned to have a son or two to take up his throne before Mini, but his wife had lost a child not long before, and he would not tell her how many lords wished him luck on having a son of his own by the years end. After all, multiple children would only help secure his position as king.

A strange combination of emotions rose up inside her at his words. Pride that he honored their daughter, but also dread that he had. Minisa had always been destined to be a lady of a great house one day, to be the wife of some lord—

Sylvia's heart stopped. "Oh gods." She moaned, her hands covering her face. "House Frey will be tired to the northern crown now." She had forgotten Robb's alliance with the scheming, weasel of a man known as Lord Walder. Now she felt a little less irritated at being urged to make Robb a son. Robb sighed, removing his doublet.

"You could guess how many lords mentioned that fact tonight, and still the number would be low." He would not say the idea of a Frey holding a position of power as consort to his daughter did not make him uneasy. If it came to that, he would see to it that Mini's betrothal did not go through until she was past ready for marriage, until she was hard as iron and stronger than her Frey husband.

The two were quiet in their shared anger at the alliance, Sylvia wrapping herself in a shawl as Robb sat to untie his boots.

"Lord Walder will never release her now." She murmured thoughtfully, staring towards the balcony that overlooked the long, winding river of the Red Fork. She had not thought extensively on the subject, but in the back of her mind, she always planned on offering Lord Frey something to make him release her daughter from the marriage oath. "She's his prize. His reward for dragging his feet like a coward." Sylvia huffed, her heart aching. "Ohh. She's his key to his grandson becoming a king."

"Don't be foolish." Robb snipped, repulsed at the thought. "Should it come to that, she would be the Queen Regent, and the most the Frey boy can be is a consort."

Sylvia scoffed, smiling a bitter smile. How could he not see? If they could defy the laws of the land, how impossible was it for little Olyver Frey to defy them as well? Low and unlikely, but it was not low enough for Sylvia to feel at ease. "The most I was ever supposed to be was Lady Stark of Winterfell, and yet here I stand. A queen, while the one who bore me holds that title as well." A dowager queen, but one nonetheless. "I was never meant to wear a crown, it was always meant to be Joffrey's." Mother never let her forget.

Robb growled low in his throat. "Are you so angry that now he only has six kingdoms instead of seven? Are you so angry that I accepted the crown they offered?"

Once more, she scoffed, this time in disbelief. "Really? You think that is what upsets me? Not the fact that we are now in a position to be subject to all kinds of torture from my family? That no matter what, I am going to loose?" Robb's eyes met hers from across the room. She turned her body towards him, still wrapped up in her shawl, feeling colder than ever before. "I am angry that you happily accepted a crown without thinking of what would become of us if you were to lose. Angry that you put our child in danger, without even thinking twice about her. They will all be after her now, clawing and tearing like beasts to have her, a babe not even a year old." Her brows pinched together, face loosing it's fury as her heart broke through her skin. "I feel I may crawl out of my very skin if I do not have her in my arms soon."

Robb looked away from her, gathering himself before he spoke. It was a short pause, because he knew his heart better than anyone else, even though Sylvia came a close second. "Mini is in my every waking thought. Every move I make, every alliance, every step, I think of her. I am her father, Syl. I love her with all my heart and I would move the immovable to protect her." His jaw worked, the muscle twitching in the flickering of the fire. "Do not ever assume I do not care for her at least as much as you do."

With his words swirling through the air, he left her, his feet taking him into the adjacent solar, attached the sleeping chamber they were meant to share.

Sylvia sighed, weary and annoyed.

"Follow him. I know you want to." She said to the wolf, knowing he was awake and looking for his master. She did not watch the direwolf leave, feeling it would make her heart ache.

Sleep evaded the new queen for hours after her husband left. Apart from the ugly tension left between them, Sylvia still thought of her family—the ones in the north and in the south. Renly was an uncomfortable topic that she hated to address. If Robb was now a king, would her uncle still seek an alliance, and if so, at what cost? Would he be offended?

Cersei was another matter entirely, as was Joffrey. Sylvia was certain Joffrey would not allow the blood of their mother to soften his plans for her if the north should loose. No, she would loose her head alongside Robb, if not worse. Oddly enough, the thought did not frighten her as much as it should have. Rather, she found her lips curling up with pleasure at the thought of the rage on his face when he learned she had become queen.

It was Cersei and Tywin she feared. However, Cersei was her mother. The northern queen could not imagine that she would punish her in anyway similar to Joffrey. No, Sylvia feared losing her mother's love and affection. Strange that she should even care, but a lifelong love was hard to shake away and harder still to uproot. Tywin, though, was cold and unyielding, never driven by affection, only a desire to win.

They were children.

They were Targaryens.

Always, her thoughts would return to Robb and their daughter. She thought of when she still carried Mini, of her birth and the days after. She thought of how happy she had been, how in love with the tiny babe in her arms. Truly, the novelty of that love had not faded, but had grown each day since. Her love for Robb had grown as well, at seeing him first hold the child they had made, seeing the love and adoration on his face. She had known then there would never be a time she did not love him, for how could she be hateful to him if he had given her the greatest gift?

Slowly, guilt started bleed into her anger. She knew Robb loved that child as much as she did, and felt wretched for implying he loved the crown more. A small part of her felt vindicated, for she would never forget the words he had spat at her in his grief. He had said, after all, that her family did not love her.

Sylvia threw the thought far from her, turning over in bed. His heart was still raw from the loss of his father, he had been angry and hurting and had said things he shouldn't have. Nothing more.

But, she thought, deflating, perhaps so have I.

Her shoulders began to loose their tension and the bed felt far too big.

When she crept from the bed and tiptoed into the adjoining solar, she paused a few moments to find his form from afar. More than a dozen candled flickered in the solar, the hearth warm and blazing, Robb's borrowed desk sat before it. Her king faced away from her, his shoulders hunched forward as he stared out at the map and figures before him. He wore his trousers and undershirt, a strange picture of leisure as he made his war plans. But Sylvia knew that if he were up this late, after a row with her, it would be hard for him to find a peaceful sleep.

Swallowing her uncertainty, she moved forward, the moon casting a shadow on the wall. Robb's face turned towards her, not looking directly at her but acknowledging her presence. She wondered if he braced for another argument.

Without a word she went to his side, reaching her hand for his shoulder, letting it guide her way to his chest to feel his heart beating steady beneath her fingers. "Forgive me," she whispered. "I let my fear speak for me." My anger too, though you will never know it. "I know you love her. I know it pains you as much as it does me to be so far from her." Robb sighed, and reached up to lay his hand over hers. His hands were warm, twining his fingers with her own.

"If I could go home and feel her in my arms for a few moments, I would have set my sights north in a heartbeat." The air was quiet and calm between them, sounds of their breath floating gently though the solar. "I know too well what we stand to loose, Syl. I mean never to see it happen."

"Let us make short work of this war and return to her, then."

And so the king and queen spent the night in their borrowed bed, curled together in shared longing. With his arm slung over hers, his fingers brushed against the pouch containing a lock of hair, resting in her hand.

…Land that gave us birth, and blessing,
Land that calls us ever homewards,
We will go home across the mountains…

War talks came the next day.

In the Great Hall of Riverrun, lords of the north and the river gathered among the long-tables, once used for grand festivals and feasts, now used for preparation and marching tactics. From her place beside Lady Catelyn, she studied the map before her, her eyes drifting too often to the road that would take her north, back home to Winterfell.

The Hall was one of the more beautiful structures that Sylvia had seen in some time. The round ceiling was painted a bright inviting blue, a dozen rounds of candles hanging from the rafters, though the great windows behind the dais provided enough natural light. How beautiful it must be, she had thought, to feast here during the day. The walls were lined with Tully banners of rich river blue and crimson red, now accompanied by the white fields and grey direwolves of House Stark. The riverlords had knelt as well, and had named Robb King of the Trident.

When the newly crowned monarchs arrived in the hall, arms linked, the long tables had already been gathered in a line before the dais so all those attending could be on equal footing.

Robb valued each man's opinion, and so he listened carefully to each call to action that was suggested—from the great houses of the north and Riverland's to the smallest. He had learned best from his father, and doubtless Lord Eddard would have made a good king if given the chance. Life would have been so different—Robb would be king now and there would be no war to fight for it.

"Tywin Lannister licks his wounds at Harrenhal," Lord Glover said. "We ought to ride there and overtake him while he gathers what's left of his forces."

"A fools errand!" Someone called out from the crowd. "The old goat expects that!"

"And leave the riverlords to fend for ourselves?" Lord Piper of Pinkmaiden voiced, his voice thick with outrage. "We were left to defend our smallfolk for too long against the Mountain and all his men. You expect it again?!" Sylvia cast her gaze back down to the table, shamed though she had no reason to be. She had not commanded Robb's men to stay north, and she would not have marched them to the Riverland's if she had command. Robb had chosen the best of two terrible choices, and it allowed them all to be at Riverrun today.

"Which is the sweeter prize? The Old Lion or his dog?" Lord Flint countered.

"The obvious choice is to take Harrenhal. It is too obvious for my liking." Said Lord Bolton.

"Who do we protect if not for the smallfolk? It would take a hundred trained men to defeat the Mountain! They say he tore Princess Elia in half with his bear hands." Lord Manderly spoke grimly of Princess Elia, who had been given the most unjust end imaginable by the monster in question. Murmurs of agreement echoed through the spacious hall, but through the noises of approval, a few spoke quietly of Elia and her children.

"Aye, my lords." Lady Mormont agreed from her seat once the chatter died down. "The lion's loyal dog still runs rabid through these lands. I say we cut off his head and throw it to his master."

"That might bring the Dornish into the fold," Theon's voice was somehow silky after hearing so many gruff tones. "They've wanted vengeance for their princess for long enough. I say we give it to them."

"They are too much south." The Greatjon replied, shaking his head so that his beard brushed over his belly. "They'd freeze over and become useless once they leave their land of sun and sand."

"They hate Lannisters as much as we. That makes them allies in my view." The Ironborn replied with a smirk.

The talks went on for a time, until finally Robb held up his hand, halting anymore words.

"Lord Manderley and Lady Mormont have the right of it: the smallfolk are ours to protect. They are nothing to the Crown, especially as we march as one against them." Robb's jaw worked, his eyes sweeping through the faces of the men and women who crowned him. His blue gaze lingered on his queen's the longest. "We will crush the remaining Lannister forces in the riverlands, taking Ser Gregor Clegane's head as we do it." There were scattered cheers as he announced it. "In doing so, we bring justice to all who have been touched by Tywin Lannister's cruelty. When we are done, we'll throw his body to Tywin, and his gift his head to the Martells." Robb's vow made her shiver beneath her cloak, but she doubted anyone took notice as the lords beat their hands on the tables at the king's decree.

"What of Renly, Your Grace?" A riverlord interjected once the celebration was done. "We cannot forget the strength he has packed behind him."

The days after Robb had been crowned had been quiet between he and his wife. A cool kind of courtesy had formed between them, one that they dared not disturb for the time being. Their rule was too young to test the uneasy legs they stood upon. The caravan rode with haste to Riverrun, the steady and secure walls of the castle would shield them as they made their plans, far better than any camp. But one plan had not changed with the shifting tides.

"I will meet with Renly as planned." Sylvia said one morning once Robb's squire, Danwell, was dismissed. Riverrun was only a day's ride away, and this would be the only time she could speak to him in private.

At once, Robb shook his head. "No. That would be madness. I will not deliver you to him."

"It would throw salt onto an already aching wound to send him another missive." By the time she reached him, word would have already spread of the northern move to independence. She would meet him as a queen, and knew not what he would think of it.

But she had not been born a queen. Only his niece.

"He might have sent someone to kill you." He reminded her, fist clenching to remember how broken she had been in his hands. How she had wept. How she had apologized. "I will not risk you to appease his pride."

"I am a queen now." She said, lifting her chin. "He fights for the throne, we fight for the freedom of the north. As you said, it does him no good to harm me. If he dares to lay a hand on me, the north would not aid him in taking the Iron Throne, and he cannot do it if only two parts of the country support him. He hosts me and then allows me to leave when I choose, or it will be war. He cannot afford to fight the north as well as the Crownlands and West. If he does not realize that, I will make him realize."

Robb had huffed from his seat, working it over in his stubborn head. If Renly was the one to send her a paid murderer, doubtless Sylvia would be able to sniff it out. He feared what would happen then, for Sylvia would surely strangle him and find herself at the mercy of Renly's army.

"You run too hot," he replied, leaning back. "Diplomacy requires a clear mind, clear intentions."

Sylvia sighed, stamping down her growing irritation. "We need allies, now more than ever. If Renly is our enemy too, let him be dealt with afterward. We cannot fight two enemies at once. And as you Starks say, winter is coming. Without food, we'll all starve before the war is done." A painful surge flowed through her heart, feeling like a monster to push aside the loss of her child. It might have been taken by the one she pushed to meet with, but truly, she wanted to see Renly's face, to know once and for all where her hate and blame should lie.

Once, she had counted Renly as a brother. He had beckoned her south with her husband. She prayed he still bore love for her, that he would never dare hurt her.

"You are correct, Lord Darry." Robb replied, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Of the two Baratheon brothers, it is Renly who has the larger army. And with the bounty of the Reach, they will have grain enough to feed their army. Renly will be met with, and talks will be held."

The king said no more, and the lords were prudent enough not to ask. It was a sensitive mission to undertake, one that would be better completed if fewer men knew the details.

In Robb's borrowed solar, once the lords had cleared off, leaving only kin gathered, it was Edmure who asked who Robb would send to speak for him. At Robb's answer, the older man drew back, failing to manage the shock on his face.

"Why not send Cat?" asked Ser Brynden Tully, Lord Hoster's brother and Catelyn's uncle. He had seen, even in their short time at Riverrun, that his niece was older and wiser than her good-daughter, doubtlessly attributed to her years as Lady of Winterfell. The new queen was green and untested and like to return a lonely laughingstock at best, or worse, seal their fates by being manipulated by her uncle into accepting terms that benefitted none but Renly. He would hate to put his fate in the hands of a girl barely into womanhood.

"My Lady does not know my uncle, ser." The queen replied, meeting the older man's eyes. They were as blue as Catelyn's, but rather than the warm, motherly edge in them, there was something more stern. "We were close when I was a girl. He would be more open to talks with someone he knows, someone he has trusted in the past."

"Trust?" Blackfish tutted. "Just because a beast doesn't attack you if you wander through its woods, doesn't mean you can walk into its den and trust it not to tear you apart."

Sylvia frowned, never having compared Renly to a dangerous beast. Joffrey, she had always likened to a fanged creature with claws as sharp as daggers and skin thicker than scales. Renly had been soft and warm, like the stag that was their sigil. Of course, stags had antlers sharp enough to kill. "Renly trusted me in the past, just as I trusted him." The old man's uncertainty did not seem to fade. She thought of telling him she loved Renly more than she had ever loved Joffrey, that he had earned his place in her heart, for the kindness he had always shown her and those smaller than he. However, Sylvia thought better of it. The Tully's valued family above all else, no matter who it was.

"We began this march knowing Renly put great value in Sylvia's place here. He called for an alliance from the start, inviting us both to treat with him." Robb's words brought her back to Winterfell all those months ago, when she had just learned Renly had named himself king. Oh, how her heart had raged, how her soul worried over Joffrey's temper. "It was always clear he sought an alliance through Sylvia, his best loved niece."

"It is not safe for the queen to stray southwards." Catelyn spoke from her seat. "If the Lannisters found out you were gone from Riverrun, they would raze every village looking." Ser Edmure nodded his agreement.

"Or, if you made it to Renly, he might like to keep you as a trading piece. The girl has value on both sides." Edmure noted.

"The girl stands here before you." Sylvia reminded him with a tilt of her chin. The knight lowered his eyes, and Sylvia saw some pink flow into his cheeks. "It is unlikely Renly would try to take me hostage. He proposed an alliance first."

"And you trust the word of this man?" The Blackfish asked, narrowing his scruffy brows. "He who crowned himself, though he falls so far from the throne, he was lucky to be in it's shadow?"

"We shall have to." Robb replied, his mouth tight in a grim line.

"As my royal husband travels with his army to destroy what remains of Lord Tywin's army, so I will remain here at Riverrun, away from the fighting, laid up in my chambers. All the excitement has not suited me well, you see." Sylvia's words were precise, heavy with meaning.

When Robb left with his men, she would leave with twenty of his best guardsmen, seasoned warriors and sons of lords to see her safely to Renly. It would insult her uncle to greet a handful of unknown knights, killers without the glamour of name and position.

As she remembered him, Renly loved presentation, always looking as bright and handsome as polished silver, smiling at all he met, charming men and women without much effort. He was a man who enjoyed fine things, and when the north came to treat with him, he would find a queen before him. How could Catelyn Stark have known that? Sylvia did not want to go because of sentimentality or pride. She knew things about Renly, small intimate details that a handful of people living knew. Things she might use to garner the most favorable outcome for the north. She wasn't the tender hearted fool so many thought her to be, and Renly would soon be the first to learn that.

Sylvia reached across and touched Catelyn's folded hands. "Stay at Riverrun, my lady. Stay and sit with your father. Enjoy your time with him and care for him, the way all daughters wish to when their fathers grow old." And although it had been a battle between them for the last few weeks, the ice in Catelyn's eyes melted.

"What of Stannis, then, Your Grace?" Edmure asked, taking no time to let the moment rest.

"No word. A raven was sent to him months ago, and no reply came."

The Blackfish shook his head. "If we intend to make an ally of Renly, it will not matter. Stannis Baratheon is as stubborn as a mule and soft as stinging nettle. A man like Stannis does not sit idle while the country is at war with each other. Once he hears of a summit with Renly, doubtless he will not welcome us in with open arms." Sylvia knew her uncle Stannis little, but she found herself annoyed that the Blackfish spoke as if he knew him well. Twice, already, he had doubted her ties with Renly, compared her uncles to beasts and nettles, as though they were not men with higher thoughts. Was that what the trouts thought of everyone beyond their own camp? Snarling, stupid beats in need of taming or cutting down?

Well, she thought, I am a stag, neither tamed nor cut down.

"You believe he will not remain neutral? He has been silent a long time." Catelyn spoke, looking up at her uncle.

"As you say, Cat, he has been silent since the war began. Securing an alliance with Renly is essential, Your Grace."

"And I will secure it." Sylvia's voice rose just a hair, her Baratheon fury peeking out from her calm, queenly mask. "Renly wrote to me, he was the one asking for the alliance. I know him better than almost anyone else in Westeros, and he cares for me. Ser Brynden, tell me, between myself or your niece, whom would you want to fight for? I, a stranger, or the woman you knew from her birth?" It took a moment for Sylvia to realize the dishonour of her query, the impossible choice she placed on the old knight. But queens do not apologize, and she would not apologize for speaking truths, nor for making a man expose his. "Which of the two of us would know if your words were not sincere?" Rather than looking offended, he looked surprised, and Sylvia allowed herself to savour it. She suspected it was not often a man like the Blackfish was taken aback. "Dear knight, it is my family that stands across the field."

It was her family, yes, and the fact made him uneasy. Blood could not be denied

"Uncle," Catelyn's voice was firm but gentle. The old man met his nieces' eyes. "I think Sylvia is right." In this closed space, before so few eyes, Sylvia felt more comforted that her good-mother called her by name than title. "She must be the one to treat with Renly." But then she looked up at her son, distress creasing the lines of her face. "But even if all goes well, and he agrees to fight with us, how long will it all take? What if the Lannisters' patience runs thin or they grow desperate before you can march on the Capitol?"

"What do you mean, mother?" Robb asked.

"All it would take is for Joffrey to assert that he is the king, and I fear your sisters will meet the same fate as your father, or worse."

The Blackish scoffed. "They wouldn't dare, so long as we have the kingslayer in chains."

"And so long as he is in chains, Cersei Lannister will never release the girls. They will rot, just as he does. It is Jaime Lannister she wants, and it is Jaime Lannister who sits in our cells."

Robb sighed from his chair, pausing a moment to speak the truth as kindly as he could. "If I trade Jaime Lannister for the girls, my bannermen would string me up by my feet."

"They made you king!" Catelyn protested.

"And can unmake me just as easily." Robb replied, short and severe. "Nearly half of them shed blood for me, and the rest lost their fathers, brothers, sons. I turn my back on their sacrifices if I lay my crown at the Lannisters feet and beg them to release the girls in exchange for the kingslayers return."

Catelyn looked down at her folded hands. "A crown will not bring back my Ned. A thousand more dead soldiers will not bring my husband back from the grave." The pain was heard deep within her voice, and Sylvia's heart ached for her. "Trading one prisoner may bring back my daughters." Kill them all, she had said, but only once she had her children back.

"If father were still alive, I might have traded the kingslayer." Robb cast his gaze to the floor, thoughtful and longing for things that would never be.

Catelyn sat straighter in her chair, her eyes burning. "But not for Sansa or Arya?" She spoke softly, but none could dismiss the anger in her words, the accusation, the way she twisted her knife where Robb was most vulnerable.

The queen's own anger grew, having to remind herself that the woman was grieving and missing her daughters before speaking. Even still, her voice was steel wrapped in a thin garb of gentleness. "If you traded the girls for the Jaime, the queen will send back highborn imposters." There was a strange kind of relief to hear the words spoken out loud, but it quickly crumbled when her good-mothers eyes swept to her. What warmth there was before had hardened back into ice, and Sylvia felt her resolve tremble.

Catelyn's brows narrowed in confusion. "She would risk her brother in such a way?" If imposters were caught before the exchange was complete, death would come for Jaime Lannister.

"For her, Jaime is worth the risk." She hoped she did not speak half as uncertainly as she felt, for the only queen she had ever known had never so much as trembled when she spoke.

Catelyn breathed deeply, fingers working together. Edmure shifted on his feet and the Blackfish looked from his niece to the new royals. If they were uncomfortable, the only indication was the crease between Robb's brows and the white knuckles of his wife.

"For all that you know your father's brother, I wonder though if you know your mother's family as well." It was an offhand comment, too simple to garner much offense. But she caught sight of Robb's hand clenching into a fist on the arm of his chair. That was nothing of note either, but there were few more words spoken before Robb told the three Tully's to leave. It was then that Sylvia began to wonder.

Around and round her thoughts churned in her head, wondering why Robb reacted to such an offhand remark. Catelyn's words were not entirely without merit, for she knew little of Tywin and Jaime. All she knew of Joffrey was the cruelty he enjoyed. Unlike her mother, she did not know her brother's heart.

But, what if they thought she did? What if there was some hidden meaning behind Catelyn's statement, what if they saw her as a queen, but still spoke in hushed whispers behind her back? If Lady Catelyn could feel as such, what hope was there that she could be a good, respected queen to them?

When their supper was served in their borrowed chambers, Sylvia found her voice to speak.

"Did your mother have another meaning, when she asked how well I knew my mother's family?" She asked, setting down her cup. Robb's jaw froze midbite, his jaw slowly working to swallow. "I would never hide something from you Robb, I swear it. If I knew what would help make the war shorter, I would reveal it!" Robb began to cough, but Sylvia had too much to say. "All I know is that mother loves Jaime more than she loves Tyrion and would do anything to get him back. I think he's her favorite person in the whole world! She always asked that he join us for supper, he would usually be the one to guard my father. H-he never liked me, he was always too uncomfortable around my siblings and I. I don't think he likes children very much."

Finally, Robb gulped down a bit of water, soothing his throat. "Syl," he croaked before clearing his throat. "Syl, please, be at ease."

"My love," she murmured, settling back heavily in her chair. "What made you react so, to your mother's words? A vague insult would not stay with you like this."

It was quiet for a moment and she knew he wanted to tell her something. Like with Catelyn, he wanted to tell her something harsh, in the gentlest way. The young queen sat straighter.

When he stood, he walked around the table, pulling her chair to face him directly. Sylvia ignored the swoop in her belly at his strength. It wasn't the time to feel desire, to feel the warmth and passion of a bed shared with him. If he wasn't going to sheath a knife through her heart now, it was still too soon after their child had been taken.

The King in the North knelt before his queen, and told her everything.

HOLY this came out in RECORD time for me! YAY!

I hope you guys enjoyed! Stay safe, wash your hands, and stay home as much as possible :D