A.N: This is my first venture into the asoiaf fandom, and I dunno if it's very good cause it's 3am in the morning and I haven't slept for nearly a day. I promised myself I'd never write about RW, but this just sort of...happened. I'm still trying to place the characters right in my head, and I haven't written anything in about a year, so I may go back and change it later.

SPOILERS if you haven't read Storm of Swords.

Disclaimer: I don't own AsoIaF. If I did, the Red Wedding wouldn't have happened and all the Freys would be dead.


"I look around me

And feel you are ever so close to me.

Each tear that flows from my eye

Brings back memories of you to me.

I go to sleep,

And imagine that you're there, with me." (I Go To Sleep, The Kinks)


Golden leaves are falling in the godswood as the King wipes his blade clean of traitor's blood. She approaches him, always hesitant after he has gone to perform the King's Justice. She has gotten better at consoling him, has had many years of practice, but is always acutely aware that this place is not for her. Here, the old gods walk, nameless, faceless save for those carved into the white of the weirwood.

She announces her presence by clearing her throat, and the King's eyes fly towards hers, cold and hard as the plains he rules. His eyes soften as they take in her presence, placing the sword down.

"My lady."

"My lord. The boys are in the practice yard with their uncles, and wish to show off their skill. Will you join me?"

Their children always manage to bring her husband back to the present time, she has learnt. Eddard and Brandon are five summers now, too young to watch the King's justice being dealt, but old enough to play at being knights. Most days they play out their father's victories against the Lions.

The King smiles thinly, events of the day still etched onto his face. He moves to stand beside her, saying a silent prayer to the gods of the forest, before placing a hand over her ever-swelling belly and kissing her softly. This one will be a girl, she thinks, and she will be called Catelyn.

The twins run to meet them, dressed in padding and waving wooden blades, eager to begin. The King's siblings are near, smiling and laughing as the boys prepare to do battle.

Jeyne sighs contentedly.


The young Queen wakes and reaches for her husband, grasping at furs and pillows until she remembers. He has gone to the Twins. To watch a wedding that might have been his.

She sighs, rolling onto her side and absent-mindedly presses a hand to her stomach. She had dreamt she was with child, and had given Robb twins. They were at Winterfell, happy, at ease; Robb reunited with the siblings he'd lost.

When he returns, Jeyne thinks, I shall give him an heir. Perhaps, with her lady mother's possets, she already has.

Then comes a knock on the door, the ashen white face of the message bearer.

"The King is dead, your Grace."