A/N: I know it's been a while, so once again, I DON'T OWN ANY THING!

Daenerys is a mother. Her children did not come from her womb, but they are her children nonetheless. She feeds them, watches after them, and gives them all her love. She loves them, her ferocious babies, and she knows that they love her back. She observes them from the prow of her ship as they fly through the sky, screaming their fury into the air. One of her children catches a fish, tossing it up into the air and broiling it with fiery breath. Her child swallows the fish whole and flies towards her, crying out a high sound. Daenerys can't help but smile, and gently rub her dragon-child gently beneath the eye socket. Her dragon-child rubs its head in her hand, and then rejoins his brothers in the sky. She watches them for a moment longer. Yes, they are her children, but not necessarily the children she wanted. She would not trade the world for them, but she can't help but remember the child from the House of the Undying, a child with coal black hair and beautiful eyes. She sighs through her nose, one hand going to her barren belly. She yearns for that ghost child, for the children she will never have now, thanks to Miri Maz Durr.

"They're growing fast."

Ser Jorah's voice snaps her out of her thoughts, and she turns away from the wanting of a phantom baby. Her attention returns to her children born of fire, and she watches them with a mother's critical eye.

"Not fast enough,"

Catelyn Stark is a mother. But, sorrow fills her heart when she thinks of her children. Sansa, beautiful Sansa, trapped in King's Landing with lions who would gladly eat her alive. Arya, rebellious Arya, somewhere alone with no one to take care of her (not that Arya needs someone to take care of her). Bran and Rickon, babies the both of them, dead. Hanging by their necks from Winterfell's wall because of a heart-wrenching betrayal by someone her eldest boy thought he could trust. Robb, brave Robb, leading an army and a proclaimed king by a people who were quickly questioning his leadership, who gave everything for his new queen and spat on the word of a man who would not miss the opportunity to take his revenge. Catelyn tries to think of Jon Snow, her late husband's bastard. She tries so desperately to think of him as her son, but the thought makes her heart shudder and a cold sweat form on the back of her neck. She knows she turned away from the gods; they answered her prayers to spare the child, and she returned their blessing by returning her heart to a hatred so cold it would put the Stark winter to shame. She does think of him, though. However, she can't decide if she's wishing him well or harm. Catelyn shakes her head rapidly, shifting on the make-shift seat she has perched herself on. She holds the same wreath she made for Bran when he lay on his deathbed, twisting the plants around and around. A noise causes her to look up. Robb's wife, Talisa, unsteadily holds her horse's reins. Talisa gently pulls the horse to a stop, wincing as the horse starts. A soldier helps the lady down from her horse. Catelyn attempts to return to the wreath in her hands, but looks at Robb's wife. She's such a young thing, pretty. She's her wedded daughter now, and Catelyn thinks she now has another child that she isn't quite sure she wants.

"She knows you're afraid of her." Catelyn observes, and then returns to the wreath in her hands.

Cersei is a mother. A mother to three golden-haired children, who should, by all accounts, actually be brunettes. Two of her children are angels, well-mannered, soft-spoken, but with enough fire to be able to defend for themselves. Her firstborn, the one she holds most dear to her heart, is a monster. Cersei is loathed to admit it. Joffrey just has too much Jaime in him; he's a young boy with no common sense. Excuse after excuse so that she didn't have to take the blame in her eldest child's faults. But, the riots in King's Landing and the way he looked at her after she struck him make a cold stone settle itself in her stomach. Her Joffrey is cold, hate-filled, calculating, and extremely hot-headed. He's rash and judgemental. But, he is still her child. At least, he was, until that Tyrell bitch came into his life. Cersei isn't a fool, and she certainly isn't stupid. She sees the way Margarey controls him, jerks him around like a puppet on a string. She plays the well-mannered lady, all soft-spoken words and well-bred mannerisms. Cersei can see the shrewd mind behind the act though. Apparently, no one else can though. Everyone loves the little whore, and it makes her sick to her stomach. Cersei stares at the wall of the Sept, vaguely listening to Olenna Tyrell prattle on some nonsense about motherhood, until she hears the door to the balcony open. Cersei spins around and feels a growing sense of dread. Margarey and Joffrey stand silhouetted against the opening doors.

"No," Cersei whispers, gathering her skirts in her hands and starting down the steps, "Wait, stop, don't,"

But, as the doors open, she is shocked to hear the grounds praise. She stops dead in her tracks, staring at the backs of her son and Margarey. The cold feeling becomes a lump in her throat, and Cersei can feel the cold hands of fate wrapping around her throat.

She was a mother, until the Gold Cloaks came and killed her baby. They ripped her sweet baby girl from her arms and shoved a knife through her tiny body while she wept. Now, she knows nothing but a piercing agony that no Maester can heal. She lays curled on her side, weeping softly into her pillow. She hasn't been able to stop; it displeases Lord Littlefinger, but she can't bring herself to care. She's still making money, so she's still valuable. Littlefinger can't bear to rid himself of a still-working tool. She sometimes wonders if she should have fled King's Landing shortly after her baby's birth. After all, what kind of life would a child, whose mother was a whore, have? Not a decent one. Besides, Littlefinger would only use her daughter when her baby grew old enough, and that thought makes her lean over the side and wretch. Her heart has broken into a million tiny pieces, and she can't hold herself together. Each sob makes her head, heart, and body hurt. She's exhausted, tired from crying, but she can't bring herself to stop. She clutches the blanket her sweet baby was wrapped in, pressing the cloth to her cheek. She tries to ignore the dark stain. She presses her hand against her mouth until her sobs quiet. She sniffles, and returns the blanket to its hiding spot underneath the floor. She scrubs her face vigorously with her hands and pushes herself into a sitting position. She rearranges her clothes, straightening her hair and plastering a fake smile on her face as a hand raps against her door. Lord Baelish appears in the doorway, a serpent's smile across his face.

"You have a customer, my dear."