The Prophecy in 38 sentences
I recall reading here a while back an interesting exercise about putting together a story from the first sentences of many fanfics. It stuck in my mind and I gave it go with one of my own finished stories - but this time putting a story together form the first sentences and also from the last sentences of each chapter.
The story is "The Prophecy" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/888167/chapters/1712585), and this is the story formed by its FIRST sentences. I am actually surprised, and it is kind of cool how much sense it really makes!
Image: ‘Aged Sandor’ by kallielefdrawward (http://kallielefdrawward.tumblr.com/)
Sandor sways to avoid grasping hands of the wizened old woman, but her gnarly fingers wind around his arm as roots of a tree. Sandor grunts and for a briefest moment radiant explosions from deep within his core transport him to another world filled with sensations, colours, smells and feels. For the longest time Sandor doesn’t even register the girl properly, nor her deep auburn head of hair.
A steady stream of travellers crowds the roads; fugitives from the battle, common people displaced from their homes and endless bands of soldiers travelling this way or that. Sandor sees the outlaws first, his instincts screaming alert as the caravan slowly trudges forward on a lonely stretch of road. The news trickle in steadily from other travellers, telling them that the War of Five Kings has finally and truly ended, the last nail on its coffin - literally - being the death of Balon Greyjoy.
Sansa laughs. Later that day Sandor sees the merchant’s daughters crowding around Sansa, and later his sons looking angrily at his direction. Part of Sandor wants to acknowledge the dizzying depths of his first love, letting it swallow him whole like a bottomless sea, not leaving even a ripple of his previous existence on its surface.
Sandor lies on the ground completely winded, with no air in his lungs, and when he tries to inhale he feels sharp pain in his side. Young Ser Cley is as efficient in attending to his unexpected guests as he was in chasing the outlaws. Seeing Sansa finally being reunited with her family brings a bittersweet conclusion to the long journey he started on the day Stannis Baratheon’s troops conquered the Red Keep.
He swears himself a dullard, laughs derisively at his own antics, yet he can’t help himself. He stares at her, not absolutely convinced he understood her meaning correctly. The looks he receives when the new arrangement is announced publicly are mostly frosty; Ser Cley is heard to complain loudly how a worthy position such as this should have by rights been awarded to a Northerner rather than to a Westerner blown in by the wind.
Stranger snorts softly and his muzzle presses lightly on Sandor’s head as he crouches in front of the horse examining his front leg. Sansa’s voice is loud and clear, approaching from behind the direwolf. He always thought she would be sweet to kiss - but the feel of her soft lips, the taste of her, the way she pushes against him and yields to his touch overwhelms him in a way he couldn’t have anticipated.
Despite his qualms about whether all that happened was just a figment of his imagination, he taps on her door the next morning as normal. Suddenly many incidents from their past surface in his mind and take completely new meanings. Nothing in his life is as it was before. After understanding that she feels for him as strongly as he does for her, instead of life getting better and simpler, it becomes more complicated.
He sees no real harm in acceding to Sansa’s wish. He wishes he was anywhere but here. The argument goes on and on, Lady Catelyn refusing to entertain the notion of marrying her eldest daughter to a landless non-lord, not even a knight.
Sandor wakes up, Sansa still curled against him in his arms, sleeping peacefully, her hand stretched across his chest and her legs entwined with his. Their reception back in Winterfell is subdued. What then? Sandor had asked Robb that, and the answer is still forthcoming.
The babe screams as the seven devils were sitting on his chest as he lies on his mother’s arms and wildly waves his little arms. Sandor eyes the man sitting on the other side of the table warily and with more than a hint of suspicion. The two men, leaders of their respected dominions, stay up late.
Years go by quickly. News from the rest of Westeros reaches Queenscrown quickly due to new trade routes and increased traffic between the North and the South. Sandor notices that the Red Keep has hardly changed, after having spent only a few days there. Their return trip is swift and they get back in plenty of time for Sansa to prepare for giving birth in Clegane’s Burrow once again.
Fira eventually marries. Sandor hears sounds of feet shuffling around his bed and knows them to be either Fira’s or Santina’s.
Lord Sandor Clegane, the First Warden of the Far-North, is buried in the little island in the shadow of the turret first built to honour the visit of a long past Targaryen Queen.
The story is "The Prophecy" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/888167/chapters/1712585), and this is the story formed by its FIRST sentences. I am actually surprised, and it is kind of cool how much sense it really makes!
Image: ‘Aged Sandor’ by kallielefdrawward (http://kallielefdrawward.tumblr.com/)
Sandor sways to avoid grasping hands of the wizened old woman, but her gnarly fingers wind around his arm as roots of a tree. Sandor grunts and for a briefest moment radiant explosions from deep within his core transport him to another world filled with sensations, colours, smells and feels. For the longest time Sandor doesn’t even register the girl properly, nor her deep auburn head of hair.
A steady stream of travellers crowds the roads; fugitives from the battle, common people displaced from their homes and endless bands of soldiers travelling this way or that. Sandor sees the outlaws first, his instincts screaming alert as the caravan slowly trudges forward on a lonely stretch of road. The news trickle in steadily from other travellers, telling them that the War of Five Kings has finally and truly ended, the last nail on its coffin - literally - being the death of Balon Greyjoy.
Sansa laughs. Later that day Sandor sees the merchant’s daughters crowding around Sansa, and later his sons looking angrily at his direction. Part of Sandor wants to acknowledge the dizzying depths of his first love, letting it swallow him whole like a bottomless sea, not leaving even a ripple of his previous existence on its surface.
Sandor lies on the ground completely winded, with no air in his lungs, and when he tries to inhale he feels sharp pain in his side. Young Ser Cley is as efficient in attending to his unexpected guests as he was in chasing the outlaws. Seeing Sansa finally being reunited with her family brings a bittersweet conclusion to the long journey he started on the day Stannis Baratheon’s troops conquered the Red Keep.
He swears himself a dullard, laughs derisively at his own antics, yet he can’t help himself. He stares at her, not absolutely convinced he understood her meaning correctly. The looks he receives when the new arrangement is announced publicly are mostly frosty; Ser Cley is heard to complain loudly how a worthy position such as this should have by rights been awarded to a Northerner rather than to a Westerner blown in by the wind.
Stranger snorts softly and his muzzle presses lightly on Sandor’s head as he crouches in front of the horse examining his front leg. Sansa’s voice is loud and clear, approaching from behind the direwolf. He always thought she would be sweet to kiss - but the feel of her soft lips, the taste of her, the way she pushes against him and yields to his touch overwhelms him in a way he couldn’t have anticipated.
Despite his qualms about whether all that happened was just a figment of his imagination, he taps on her door the next morning as normal. Suddenly many incidents from their past surface in his mind and take completely new meanings. Nothing in his life is as it was before. After understanding that she feels for him as strongly as he does for her, instead of life getting better and simpler, it becomes more complicated.
He sees no real harm in acceding to Sansa’s wish. He wishes he was anywhere but here. The argument goes on and on, Lady Catelyn refusing to entertain the notion of marrying her eldest daughter to a landless non-lord, not even a knight.
Sandor wakes up, Sansa still curled against him in his arms, sleeping peacefully, her hand stretched across his chest and her legs entwined with his. Their reception back in Winterfell is subdued. What then? Sandor had asked Robb that, and the answer is still forthcoming.
The babe screams as the seven devils were sitting on his chest as he lies on his mother’s arms and wildly waves his little arms. Sandor eyes the man sitting on the other side of the table warily and with more than a hint of suspicion. The two men, leaders of their respected dominions, stay up late.
Years go by quickly. News from the rest of Westeros reaches Queenscrown quickly due to new trade routes and increased traffic between the North and the South. Sandor notices that the Red Keep has hardly changed, after having spent only a few days there. Their return trip is swift and they get back in plenty of time for Sansa to prepare for giving birth in Clegane’s Burrow once again.
Fira eventually marries. Sandor hears sounds of feet shuffling around his bed and knows them to be either Fira’s or Santina’s.
Lord Sandor Clegane, the First Warden of the Far-North, is buried in the little island in the shadow of the turret first built to honour the visit of a long past Targaryen Queen.