Author's Notes: I literally hate all the stuff you have to do to upload things onto this site. But the show must go on. And I've been on here reading a lot of FMA fanfiction, so I figure I'd get back to work.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm awful.

In the Lion's Den
part xii

Life became as normal as possible in King's Landing for Catelyn. Somehow or another, she began to grow comfortable in Her new life. After all, it was all she had and knew anymore. She had decided after the first three months of her marriage that she could either dwell and suffer greatly or try to deal with things and suffer a little less. No doubt there would be suffering. No doubt there would be mourning. No doubt she would always harbor resentment towards the people that surrounded her on a daily basis.

But she could not let it consume her. That would mean that they had won. And so Catelyn swallowed her pride and became a good Lannister wife. She would never be queen of the court, like Tywin had once said, but she would show these ladies what real women were made of. She was steel. She would not break, no matter how many times the lion bit or the court whispered. Trout were supposed to be prey, but not her. She would not allow herself to be the victim.

There were plenty of rumors about her to be spread at court, most of them she could laugh at. Her reputation and what people thought of her meant little to her. Even Tywin gave most of the rumors little credit. He knew what his lady wife was like and he knew what she was not. But some infuriated her. She had heard one about Ned. The handmaiden that had been tittering about "that traitorous old Stark Hand" was near tears once Catelyn was done with her. If these people were not going to show her any mercy, then neither would she. Of course Tywin had been told of his wife's cruelties –Cersei had told him herself – but he had merely waved them away.

"Do you expect me to apologize to this girl for her inability to be discreet and stupidity in crossing my wife?" he had questioned. Cersei had stormed out in a flurry of skirts and fury.

Catelyn could handle everything thrown her way: from the duties she now had as Tywin's wife; her strange role in the court; her private grief and mourning; and even both queens that vied for the attention of the little boy king. Maergery Tyrell was warm as ever to her new good grandmother, but she had a feeling that the girl found it amusing as well. There was only twenty years that separated them. Catelyn felt a strange sense of pity for the girl.

You will be one of us one day, she could not help but think. Maergery, for all her cunning and beauty, was a child of summer. She had not tasted a true winter just yet, despite being twice widowed. Catelyn had thought that she had feasted on all that she could bear.

But what she couldn't handle was this. She could not handle what her body was doing to her now. It responded to his touches more than she wanted it to; it grew more at ease with his hands on her. It wasn't allowed; it shouldn't happen. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since she had been warmed by a man's touch, but this was not what she wanted. She could not bear this. She could not take this, her own body betraying her, even her emotions and mind. And now her body, failing her – she did not understand why she was now at war with herself when she also still felt like she was at war with the Lannisters.

Catelyn roamed the castle for a good time before she found herself in front of Maester Pycelle's office. She paced the hallway there, warring with herself. Should she speak to him first and voice her concerns or wait for Tywin? At Winterfell, she had always gone to Maester Luwin for council, especially for this, but she had trusted him. In all honesty, she trusted Jaime Lannister more than this Grand Master. She remembered that he had allowed Jon Arryn to die and had also had a hand in betraying Ned. No, she could not go to him for this. She would trust Varys with this secret before Maester Pycelle, but knowing the Spider, he had known all this would happen before her. She turned on her heels and walked to the sept.

It took everything in her not to seek out Tywin now, but she knew how furious he would be if she interrupted him while he was working. He wouldn't strike her or anything, but she was wary of angering him in any shape or form. He could cut her contact from people at a whim; and she did not think she could bear that, even if she sometimes loathed the people she was stuck with. When did I start caring about angering him? But it didn't matter. He was in the middle of a meeting with the small council. Maester Pycelle probably hadn't even been in his office even if she had wanted to speak with him. She was being so foolish; she wasn't thinking straight.

Catelyn forced herself to return to her chambers after lighting candles to the Mother and Crone. She should have been with some of the highborn ladies, talking about this or that, hearing the new gossip, but she felt like she might either throw up or smack one of them if she did that. They never talked about anything important, at least not in her opinion. The times they did talk about things that intrigued her, they mostly laughed off and never talked about them again. Political intrigue and politics was something she talked about with Tywin, not the ladies married to highborn lords. There was no sense in trying to rest or lie down in bed either though, so she paced the room instead.

What she was truly desperate for was companionship. Everyone here was so fake and playing a game. Tywin was the only one that was honest with her, even though he too was playing a game. Their marriage was a part of that game, but he never lied to her. That much she could at least appreciate, even if it hurt at times. She was sick of all the fake pleasantries and smiles; she wanted to tear the smiles right off everyone's faces. If you think I'm a traitor and a waste, she wanted to scream, then say it to my face, not my back.

She yearned for her family. She was desperate for Edmure, who was being held captive at Casterly Rock along with his pregnant wife Roslin Frey. From what she had heard, they were doing...well enough. There had been no contact allowed between them yet, even though she had asked many a times. No or not yet was always the answer. Then there was her uncle. The Blackfish, my hero. She had been close to her uncle from the day she was born. He might not have gotten on well with her father, but he had always been there for her. She needed him the most now. After she had freed Jaime Lannister and many of the men had shunned her, he alone had been fierce and steadfast in his love and concern for her.

Where are you, uncle? Catelyn thought miserably as she stared out her window. From what she had heard, he had vanished in the dead of night, right under the noses of the Freys and Lannisters; and no one knew of his whereabouts. She hoped he was alive, safe, and warm, wherever he was. If she had been a little girl, she might have dreamed of him saving her, as knights in songs often did, but now she was old and bitter and knew better. Anyways, she would not want him to try.

Just when she did not think she could take it anymore and she might seek Tywin out anyways, the door to their bedchambers opened and her lord husband stepped inside. A strange mixture of relief and panic washed over Catelyn; and she completely froze, much like a deer the moment when it was spotted by a predator. For a moment, she wished time would reverse and he would not have walked in at all. It was completely contradictory to what she had been thinking just seconds ago, but she felt it all the same. She felt like that all the time now though. She felt this and she felt that and she should never have been capable of feeling both at the same time.

(She both hated him near her and wanted him by her side.)

Tywin seemed to immediately know that something was wrong with her. A look flashed across his face – a look that someone might think was a look of concern – but Catelyn could not be sure of what it was. "My lady?" He stepped closer to her, somewhat hesitant. No, that wasn't right. Lord Tywin was never hesitant. He was careful, but not hesitant. "You are very pale."

"I…" Her mouth felt dry and her throat seemed to constrict on her, but she was not going to cry. Quite the contrary, in fact, she felt nothing. She felt a strange sense of blankness as she stared at her lord husband, unsure of what to say or do. She felt his hands on her arms, his fingers warming her even through the sleeves of her dress; and it was only then that she realized that she'd forgotten to light a fire in the hearth and the room had grown cold. Part of her thought about ripping away from him and tending to the fire, but she could not move. She could only look at him.

Tywin was older than her, but he was still handsome. Jaime had made some quip days ago about how Lannisters were blessed with the ability to retain their youthful looks and also outlive everyone else. She had seen him before though, when he had been Jaime's age. They looked much alike, although Tywin had kept his hair short, as Jaime had only just now started doing. Golden blonde hair, bright green eyes – they were such Lannister features. Both Cersei and Jaime had his nose as well. And Tommen – the boy was pure Lannister to the bone in looks.

All of her children, save for Arya alone, had favored her. When Ned had first come back from the war and held his son for the first time, he had made a comment that it looked as if his son had not a single drop of the North in him. (But oh, Robb may have looked all South, but the North had burned in his blood hotter than the springs under Winterfell.) Sansa looked so much like Catelyn had at her age that it was remarkable. Bran had a little more of the North in him, his hair a bit darker, but Rickon too had had her hair and eyes and nose.

"Catelyn." It was not a question. His eyes bore into hers. Green against blue.

She wondered what color their child's eyes would be.

"I am with child, my lord."

Catelyn could sharply remember the fear that had gnawed at her day and night the first time she had realized she was pregnant. Eighteen, newly married, her distant lord husband off to war, unsure if she would remain married or become a widow, home at Riverrun with her father and little brother to reassure her… She had been so scared. The maester had told her not to worry, but she hadn't been able to stop herself. Would her child have a father? Would she be a good mother? Would she be able to raise her child alone if need be? Would she have to remarry and then what would happen to this child? What if she lost the child altogether? What if she died during childbirth, just as her lady mother had? What if she left her child alone in the world with no parents to speak of? She hadn't even truly known who the father of her child was, just his name and his solemn face and the gentle touch of his hands on her porcelain skin.

She'd had four other children since then. She had lost one child, in between Robb and Sansa; and it had been one of the most terrifying experiences of her life. The memory of waking up to blood everywhere in her bed had been ingrained into her mind. They had thought about naming the child after her mother if it was a girl or after an old Stark king in the stories Ned told Robb if it was a boy. After that though, she had sworn to never lose a child again, even if she had no control over it. I lost all my children in the end.

Now though…

It was Lord Tywin Lannister's child she was carrying, not her beloved Ned's. She was carrying the enemy's child – the child of the man that had had a hand in killing her last and oldest son. And yet she already felt attached.

Tywin did not react at first. He merely took a measured breath as he looked her in the face, as if he was trying to determine whether she was lying or not. She most certainly wasn't. "Are you for certain?"

Catelyn nearly started to laugh. A feeling of hysteria swept over her and for one brief moment she thought she might laugh, cry, and collapse to the ground all at once. Instead, she remained very still, perhaps held by Tywin's slowly tightening grip on her arms, and did not blink. "I have bore five children," were the distant words that came out of her mouth, though she could not be for certain that she was saying them herself, "I think I know what it feels like when I am pregnant."

There was a grim look about Tywin. Most men would be happy, overjoyed, excited even. Should the child turn out to be a boy, he would have the heir that he so desperately needed. (No, that was wrong; he was not desperate about anything. But with his oldest son the Lord Commander and his other a dwarf and condemned and supposed kingslayer as well…) But Tywin was made of stone.

And he knew just as well as she did that a new life could also mean her death. Joanna died giving birth to a monster; and my mother died giving birth to a stillborn. As scary as it was, it was not uncommon for women to die during childbirth. Sansa's birth had been difficult one. Maester Luwin had believed that she'd gotten too pregnant too soon after losing the second child, but she had been stubborn about giving Ned more heirs. Now she was to give Tywin an heir, if the gods were…. If they were what? Good? Cruel? She could not be for certain of anything anymore.

"How long?"

"It's been nearly two months since I had my last moonblood." The response was so distant, so not her. It was like she wasn't saying anything at all, but that was her voice and that was her mouth moving and that was the truth of it. This week, she should have been on her moonblood, but just as it had not come last month, it did not come this month either. She had tried to shrug the first time off because of stress, as sometimes happened to women, but two times in a row…

"You must be… We must be very careful," Tywin told her, his grip on her arms loosening. Was he concerned about her or about the baby in her belly? His hands slid down her arms until they reached her hands and his fingers intertwined with hers. His hands were so warm. She had been hiding in the cold for so long. "Have you seen Maester Pycelle about this?"

"No," Catelyn replied, "I will not go to him."

"Catelyn–"

"I will not," she snapped, not caring if it angered or frustrated him. "The man is a disgrace to the Citadel. I don't care if he's the Grand Maester; he is nothing but poison. You will need to find someone else."

Tywin gave her a hard look, but she looked at him unflinchingly. "I will write to the archmaesters at the Citadel. I do not want anything to happen to you–"

"You mean, you do not want anything to happen to your heir?" A vicious streak seemed to tear through her. She hadn't wanted this. She hadn't wanted any of this. (And yet, she did, oh she did.) She ripped her hands out of his, taking a staggering step back from him. "You don't care about me; you care about your legacy and House and nothing more and–"

"I do care about you, Catelyn." The fierceness in his voice caught her off guard nearly as much as his words. How someone could say something like that with such anger in their eyes at the same time… "And yes, I do care about the legacy of House Lannister, but whether you believe me or not, I am concerned with your well-being as well."

Catelyn bit her lip, so hard that she could taste her red blood. How was she was supposed to respond to that? Her chest rose and fell quickly as she tried to breathe again, her heart thumping against her chest so hard that she thought it might burst through. She wanted to spit in his face; she wanted to rush into his embrace. All of a sudden, she was eighteen again, pregnant for the first time, and scared out of her wits – but she could not show it, not to anyone, not even herself.

"You swear you will find a different maester to tend to me?" she asked in a quiet voice.

Tywin grabbed her hands and pulled her back to him. She allowed herself to be tugged close to him, allowed his scent to envelope her, allowed herself to feel safe. She hated it all the same, but she could not help it. "I said the vows," he told her. "I swore to protect you, and so I will."