Author's Notes: Just a few more chapters left! Thank you all so much for reading!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

In the Lion's Den
Part XVI

She dreamed of fire that night. Fire and blood and wolves howling in the night. She dreamed of laughter and someone splashing in the water, from somewhere behind the fire that surrounded her. It had been months since she'd had a dream like this, months since she'd really dreamed at all. For the first two months of her stay in King's Landing, she'd taken to dreamwine almost every night to drown out the nightmares; and eventually, she'd mostly stopped dreaming altogether even without the help of the concoction.

Tonight, though, the dreams came back with a roaring vengeance.

She was running through the corridors of the Red Keep, running, running, running, and alone, the skirts of her night grown and robe whipping at her ankles. Her bare feet smacked on the floor, the stone too warm. The flames were behind her, around her, before her. She couldn't escape them. There were no tears in her eyes, no panic on her face, just an urgency coursing through her mind, telling her that she had to get somewhere, she had to find someone. The hallway was coming to an end and there were three doors. She had to choose the right one. She had to escape.

The first door right in front of her jumped out at her; and she reached for the handle, which was slick and hot. She fumbled for a moment and then jerked the door open.

And when she opened her mouth to scream at the sight before her, the cry did not come.

Robb – her boy. She knew it was him, despite the wolf head that had been sewn onto his neck. She would recognize Robb through Grey Wind. His crown, which had seemed to weigh so heavily upon him, lie crooked on the wolf's head. He wasn't wearing the clothes he'd died in, but the clothes he'd worn in Winterfell, and yet they were still covered in blood. His blood, Grey Wind's blood, the blood of the Kings of Winter, his father's blood. He reached out for her, one bloody hand shakily hanging in the air, and though the wolf did not open its mouth, she knew the howling had come from him and she heard the words. "Mother, Mother, how could you betray me like this? How could you marry the man that murdered me? Do you not know that is treason to your own soul and the children you bore to love a monster like him?"

She backed away, hands curling at her mouth, and shook her head. "Robb, you must understand…" she begged, her whole body trembling. "You must understand that I had to do this. I had to…to protect the family that I have left. Robb, my son…"

"Did you have to love him?"

"I don't… I don't… Please, Robb, you must understand me."

"How can I understand? I am dead and the dead have no need to understand the living."

The door closed on her and the fires licked at her heels, telling her that she had to choose another door. For a moment, she didn't want to though. She wanted to let the flames consume her, to die, to be with her family again. The ache in her belly was too much to bear and she wanted it gone. It throbbed and stung and only grew stronger with each passing second. Still, she carried on, turning to her right, and the door opened the second her fingertips touched the handle.

It was Rivverrun. She was back in Riverrun, back home. Of course it made no sense, but she didn't care. It was sunny and bright and filled with greens and blues and reds. The gentle breeze of the air flew over her, fingering through her hair. There was the sound of splashing again and she saw the river that she played in as a child. And – yes, there, children in the river. She was in the river. Not only her, but Lysa and Petyr and Edmure were there as well. He was so small back then. She smiled despite herself. He had always been wary of the river, teetering on the edge, holding his arms out to her.

"I'm here, Edmure," she – the child version of her – called, wading back to the edge. She picked up her little brother and carried him into the river with her, sinking down so that he was in the cold water as well. He wiggled at first and they all laughed, but then he laughed too and smacked the water with the flats of his hands. Lysa began to splash Petyr and he lunged at her, making her squeal in delight and mock-fear.

She could not help but stare at her child self and Edmure. The two of them kept away from the splashing and play fighting of Lysa and Petyr, instead choosing to watch. Edmure quieted as he watched the two and then looked up at her. He had such a shy smile on his face. "Mum," he said to her, burying his face into her neck, his wet, red hair most likely tickling her chin. She didn't correct him. The ache in her chest swelled to a new level; and just as the child version of her could feel it in the river, the adult version of her could feel it in the castle.

This was not her world anymore.

She pushed the door shut, slumping against it. The fire was everywhere now. It had already taken over the first door she'd looked through. It inched towards the one she was at now. The smoke was everywhere, clogging her nose and mouth. She walked to the last door that was directly across from her. It had to be the right one this time. It was the last one. She was so tired though. Smoke seemed to fill her every step, making her hazy and in a daze. She grasped onto the handle, holding herself up, and pressed her forehead against the hot wood. Part of her felt like she didn't even have the will to open the door. What did she have now? What did she have left?

But then she twisted the knob and pulled the door open, because she knew in her heart that she would never be one to just lie down.

Instead, she dropped to her knees.

There was Tywin standing before her, wearing his red and gold armor that bore the lions of House Lannister. (It was strange because she'd never seen him in his armor before, only once in a painting that she'd teased him about and he'd rolled his eyes and) He looked spectacular, splendid, and terrifying all at once. She imagined it was a sight that rattled many a man's cage. This was a man that spoke of power when he walked, when he spoke, when he looked at you. His back was turned to her though.

"Tywin," she breathed, barely breathed, the fire around her, the heat swallowing her, the smoke closing her throat.

When he turned to face her, she let out an audible gasp, even though it meant sucking in more smoke.

Tywin wasn't alone. He was holding a child, a baby, an innocent. The babe was in a blanket and wailing loudly, pleading. She knew pleading when she heard it. ("My first son, my last son,") Her hands were splayed out on the stone floor, but they still shook. Tywin examined the baby carefully, tilting his head to one side, void of anything. His green eyes showed nothing. No concern, no fondness, no hate, no sadness. Just nothing.

"You failed me," he said to her, still not looking at her. She shook her head mutely, tears springing to her eyes. "You had to do but one thing. And you failed me. I don't accept failure. What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Please, Tywin, I…I didn't fail you, I could never, I did not…" Always with the pleading. She hated it. She hated it more than anything. It made her want to wretch in disgust. How had she turned to this? She had always been strong, always. When she'd heard about her betrothal, when Brandon had died, when she'd married a stranger in his stead, when she'd miscarried for the first time, when Bran fell, when Ned and the girls left, when everything began to fall apart and she forgot what life was. She had been strong.

"I kept a failure once and it was my near ruin," he said. "I won't make that mistake again."

He held the baby in the air in one hand, its cry bouncing off the walls. The heat of the flames itched at her back. The blanket fell from the baby, and she saw what it was, a girl, a beautiful baby girl with a tuff of strawberry blond hair and the greenest eyes. The gleam of light that bounced off the silver caught her eyes before the dagger in Tywin's hands.

"No!" she screamed, her hands clutching her belly.

That was when she noticed something was wrong. Something felt wrong. Off. Different. She looked down and pulled her hands away from her stomach, only to find that her hands were covered in blood. She choked on a breath. Pulled her robe back. There was blood all over the front of her gown. And then she felt her stomach again. Her small stomach, almost flat, empty, filled with nothing just like Tywin's green eyes. She jerked her head up and tried to get to her feet, but the floor was slick with her blood, everyone's blood, and she slipped, her knee and hands banging the ground painfully. A cry came out, whether from the child or herself, she wasn't quite sure. And the silver of the dagger in Tywin's hand gleamed again menacingly as he brought it down to the baby–

"Catelyn! Catelyn, calm down! Catelyn!"

"No! Stop it! PLEASE, STOP!"

"Catelyn, listen to me, it is just a dream! Listen to me!"

Her eyes shot open as pain ripped through her. Catelyn sucked in a breath, nearly choking on the freshness of the air after the smoke in her dreams, and held back another cry that had formed in the back of her throat. Green eyes hovered in front of her, filled with something that looked like alarm. She could feel a hand on one of her arms and another on her belly. She moaned, leaning her head back against the pillow, and pressed her hand overtop the one of her belly.

Still swollen, still there. The child was still inside her, with her.

She would've begun to cry in relief if another sharp pain had seized her, making her realize that that hadn't been a part of her dream. Her whole body tensed in that moment and she looked at the man next to her. She saw that dark look come over his face as he recognized the panic on hers.

"No," he said, "it's too early."

Despite herself, she let out a sharp cry when the pain hit her again. "Tywin–"

(If she had thought that she had been afraid during the nightmare, after the nightmare, she had been wrong. Dead wrong.)

Tywin was up and out of the bed in a second. She whimpered, reaching out for him with one hand, holding her belly with the other. Why had he left her? She needed him here, at her side. (When she'd miscarried after Robb, Ned had been with her the entire time, much to her shame, but she had learned that it had been exactly what she'd needed. Him clumsily holding her hand as she tried not to cry, smoothing down her hair, pressing a kiss to her sweaty, hot forehead. She'd thought that she'd wanted to be alone, but the truth was that being alone would have smothered her.) She could hear Tywin yelling something, his voice muffled by the door.

And then he was sitting on the bed with her. His hand found hers. It had been a while since he'd held her hand. They did so in public sometimes, if only because it was deemed necessary for the public eyes by Tywin, but never actually out of fondness or care, at least not that she thought. "I told a gold cloak to get Maester Pycelle," he told her.

A hollow laugh escaped Catelyn. "That old man?" She shook her head. "It's a good thing I–" Pain shot through her again, interrupting her as pain is ought to do. "A good thing I'm not in a hurry or need immediate attention. He's like to get here in the next" – shaky breathing – "next century." She tried to gulp down a knot in her throat and closed her eyes.

"Keep your eyes open," his voice told her.

"I'm tired. I'm so tired."

"Catelyn, look at me."

She opened her eyes. He was staring down at her. Even in the door, she could see how green his eyes were. I am scared, she realized and wanted to say, but she held the words in her mouth. She didn't want to admit fear to him, even if she felt it tingling in her body.

"Tell me what you dreamed about."

At first, she shook her head, but then she caught the look on his face and stopped. "Fire," she whispered, "it was everywhere – in the Red Keep. I was running alone, trying to escape, and I couldn't. There were…doors…to open. The first one, I heard howling behind it, and…" She grunted in pain again, trying not to cry out, holding it in. Her whole body pitched forward slightly. "Robb – his direwolf sewed onto his head. He was…upset." She bit her lip, hard enough to make it bleed. "The second door was – it was Riverrun, a silly memory from my childhood, playing in the river with my brother and sister and Petyr…" The tears spilled out unwillingly now. She didn't want to go on any further. But the pain from the nightmare distracted her from the pain in her body. "You were behind the third door. You were holding a baby, our baby–" A strangled sob managed its way out of her. "You were going to kill our baby because it was a girl, because I failed, and I-I was covered in blood and– Oh, gods, Tywin, I don't want to lose this child. I think I'll go mad if I do."

"We are not losing our child," Tywin told her, fiercely, protectively, angrily. But not angry at her – more like angry with the gods. (She remembered Jaime telling her about how his father had been angry at the gods for taking away Joanna from him.)

"My lord?" an elderly man's voice called from the door.

Tywin pulled away from her, and she fumbled over her words to ask him to come back, please, Tywin, and she closed her eyes. She felt more hands on her, cold skin against her hot skin, more voices surrounding her, calling for her to open her eyes, but gods, she was tired. Gods, she was just done. Something about stress-induced labor.

"I want Edmure," she mumbled into the dark. "I want…"

And then darkness.