━ in which; the game of thrones was a harsh game with unyielding rules and far too many scheming players. though it might just seem that ned stark might just of been hiding one of the most valuable pieces, lyarra snow. though remains yet to be s...
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All she felt was pain. Excruciating pain coursing through her body. Muscles tense, bound taut around her bones, like how her mother had used to curl ribbons to tie into her and Lysa's hair when they were young. Sticky with sweat, a fear like none other eating away at her stomach like rabid hounds.
She had been scared entering the birthing bed for the first time. Scared that like her mother, it would be a place she would not leave. Yet her son, her sweet Robb, had came quickly, without much fuss and she had recovered within a week. Yet upon the second, it was different. The labour endured for hours longer, each second, minute, hour filled with cold terror and excruciating aches. Contractions coursed over her body and left her half-screaming, half-crying.
The maester and midwives hurried about and fussed over her. Each tried offering comfort or advice or whatever other horseshit she could no longer decipher. Even milk of the poppy, though she did not allow any of it to slip any past her lips, despite how thirsty she was. Nor did she stop once they told her to push, yet the babe did not come. For hours, she writhed, pleaded, screamed and shouted out. Where was Ned? Where was her husband? Why wasn't he there? She wanted, no, needed him there!
Why did the gods deem her this suffering? Gods, Catelyn cried as her mind moved to her mother. Her rose-blonde hair, straight as a pin and delicate features, her high cheekbones. How gaunt she had looked upon her deathbed - did she look much the same? Life brought forth in the same space it took. How cruel the gods were, yet the gods were also just. Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, she prayed, be just, spare me, spare my babe. I want to meet my child. I want to watch them grow old. Do not take us yet. Please. The Maester placed the goblet to her lips once more, she drank. Yet it did not quicken the process.
Her hands twisted the bedsheets and her throat was hoarse as she screamed out. How long had it been? Mere hours or days? There was a sinking feeling in her chest. Dread. Terror. Perhaps neither. Perhaps all. Blood and sweat smeared her body in a sickly sheen despite the midwife incessantly wiping her forehead with a damp rag. It was then, when she finally felt the babe breech, with a shuddering gasp that Catelyn Stark realised that one of them would not come out of it alive.
~
The child did not survive the birth. Born still, the midwife had said. Born still. Stillborn. Dead. She had brought forth another son, yet he was dead. Had he only just died? Perhaps he had been dead inside of her for quite a while. She knew not - but did she really want to know? If she had been, carrying a corpse inside of her in the place of a child. She was alone. So very alone.
Maester Luwin had tried to hide him from her, whilst the midwives had tried to soothe her, though it would do naught for her aching soul. Upon screeching her throat hoarse once more, he had passed over the babe. He was half-cold. Like tea that had been left to sit for too long. The warmth she shared with him fading more and more by the minute.
