She felt nothing as she awoke. And emptiness. It felt like she was not there. A soulless body, without life or feelings. But still she breathed. And now she felt as well. Cold. Wet. A kiss without heat, a kiss of ashes.
She felt, but it was not complete. The squashy earth beneath her was clearly there, but she was not. Her soul, her life was somewhere else, far away, not in this body.
Slowly it seemed that horrible memories flow back as in a dream. Maybe it was a dream?
Blood ... lots of blood. A red river was before her eyes, a stream without end. It continued to flow and would not break his way, was unstoppable. She wanted to ask where the blood came from, but just a death rattle found its way out of her mouth.
A sharp pain went through her neck. She clutched it with soft hands, felt the slot that went from one ear to the other, wide and dangerous.
Did there the blood came from?
As her hands wandered further up and drove over her face, she felt more cuts, all spread over her face as red as her hair.
My hair. Ned loves my hair.
Was it that what interupted her view? Or was she looking for the wrong origin? Was it not her blood, but that of another?
Again, she felt the dagger in her hand, the cold iron in her trembling hands, felt how it digged into Aegon's flesh.
Suddenly she was the one with the dagger at her throat a long time ago in Winterfell.
And there her song lie dying, pushed by the walls he had loved so much to climb.
Pushed by a Lannister.
Lannister.
The name made her body shudder. She saw Bran fall, even though she had not been there. Saw Ned's head severed from his body, even though she had not been with him.
Ned … oh Ned. Bran, Rickon, Sansa, Arya … Robb.
And she saw a picture, more real than any before, a sword, as it was pushed into the chest of her eldest son.
Bolton.
And there she was again. Standing in the hall her brother had only married a short time before.
(Where was he now?)
And she heard The Rains of Castamere as someone played it right next to her. And she smelled the stale air and heard Walder Frey's laughter. And then she saw his men to kill her son's. Blood, blood everywhere. As a guest under the roof of the Freys.
Frey.
They were all gone now. Ned had left first, had ridden to King's Landing, like his brother, and never returned. Then her babies, Bran and Rickon, murdered in their own home by the confidant, the friend, of their brother. And Sansa and Arya … lost … dead. Robb also. Now he was gone, had left her too.
No, she thought, I'm coming. Ned, wait for me. I'm coming to you, my love.
But she was not coming. She lay in the muddy river dirt, marked by death, but not dead.
For now Catelyn Tully Stark opened her eyes and breathed.