[MULTI-CHAPTER FIC] FOREVER AFTER DAYS (2/?)
Title: Forever After Days
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance, Fluff, Starkcest, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, Alternate Universe - Canon, Sibling Incest, Early in Canon, Character Death
Length: Will be three-shots, I think (Posted this at AO3)
Prompt: "There are many names in history but none of them are ours."
Summary:(Jon/Sansa throughout ASOIAF timeline [Most certainly AU of sorts])
Word Count: 3, 529
Disclaimer: The characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
[The Seven Kingdoms]
She’s standing on the edge, infinitely sad, infinitely weary.
She remembered seeing him hovering and tittering beside her-the children they used to be, who both loved the high white cliffs of the Storm’s End overlooking the sea. He liked being perched on the high window of his Mother’s solar to stand over the frame and watch the sea always in turmoil below, while she liked the feel of the double course stones underneath her feet and the smooth and curving sense of the window on her palms.
She could hear his voice as clear as those days of her visits when they’re sitting on the window with stolen fruits and bread from the kitchens, and he’d tell her the story of King Durran who built the castle and won the love of Elenei, the daughter of their sea god and wind goddess. He knew she had loved how Durran Godsgrief declared a war on the gods after they destroyed his keep and killed his and Elenei’s wedding guests, persisted every time the gods tear down what he has constructed, until the seventh castle stood in place and resisted the storms of Shipbreaker Bay, so he’d gladly tell the story to her over again on her next stay on his lands.
But that finally stopped when her Father’s business in the Stormlands has been completed.
His first trip to her lands came several years later; she was a grown maid and he was far from the boy she used to teach of courtesies. She remembered how there was a jump in her steps as she rushed to meet him. She brought him to their godswood then, her most favorite place in their castle, the same as he did back in the days of her visits.
He took a look to their godswood, and the bright and airy garden of redwoods, flowers, nesting birds, streams, and slender, carved weirwood reflected back on his eyes.
“Will you make me a crown of flowers,” he asked her, looking up at her with amusement and tease in his eyes, “As befits a knight, if it pleases you?”
“More than that, as befits a King,” she told him as she started gathering the finest flowers of colors she thought suited him best; she then stroked the fragile petals and committed to memory how soft they were.
She remembered that on the third day of his visit, they’ve been drunk from a drinking game of Dornish wine. He was chasing her around the godswood, remembered how red he was and the beaded sweats stuck on his face that made her hands closed around him. She hugged him to her chest, whirling and laughing aloud. Ever so fast, she kissed the corner of his mouth and jerked her head back an instant before his lips would have found her face.
“How would you want to die, Jon?” she had asked him on the last day, as his deal in her domain was concluded, and just before he packed his things and travel back to the Stormlands. They were sprawled on the grass, watching the sunset fade away in darkness.
“By your hands,” he said not a beat too late, all in earnestness.
She rolled her eyes as she rolled to face him, “You mock me!”
He responded with quiet laughter, and then he snatched her hands and pressed them to his chin and cheek. “I do not.”
And then suddenly she said, “My hand is promised to another…”
His eyes darkened as if they were never black in the first place. He kissed both of her hands for a longer while, “I know, and that’s why my business here is done.”
Jon was sent to broker a marriage of alliance between her and his brother Arrec but her Father promised her to an Ironborn. They never saw each other after that, not even when the Stormland invaders came and put a siege on their castle. She remembered how her heart had been in turmoil then, just like the sea below Jon’s Mother’s chambers.
She thought he’d never see him again, and was actually thankful for it, else she’ll never know what will happen to her or to him if she ever acted out her grief and fury on him, but alas, it seemed as if the gods declared a war on her when they found him hiding in the godswood and was brought to her feet, with a few of his men to rescue Arrec from the Ironborn invaders.
“I will not kill a man for loyalty, nor for fighting well,” her brother Robb declared, but her husband only spit to the ground and stalked off, not after he made clear that he’ll have his head on the morrow.
Jon was beaten so badly she couldn’t almost recognize the face she loved all those years, if not for his dark solemn eyes and broken smile suggesting he recognized her as well.
“Sansa,” he said as he choked on his own blood. “I will not yield… better to kill me now.”
“How would you want me to kill you, Jon?” She demanded, obviously trying for dismissive and reserved but coming off petulant and more than a little fuming for the years she resented him, but then her voice trembled like the child she claimed she no longer was. Her resentment wasn’t enough to cover her love for him.
“Q - Quickly and too late for me… to ever think what hit me,” his unfocused eyes scanned her face as he answered her.
Her brother stirred on his spot but she raised her hand to stop him. Eventually he retreated after placing a Valyrian steel at her side, with the knights and Stormland prisoners in tow. The Ironborns followed reluctantly, then.
She kissed him as soon as they were alone. He did not stop her; he only raised a weak hand to fist around her auburn hair. She consumed his mouth long and needy. She pressed chaste kisses and ardent ones on his forehead, his nose, his chin, and both to his eyes-too fast, too short they were, not enough for the times she spent wondering how her tragedy all came to be-before burying the dagger deep within his chest in one swift ungainly move, same as those times his deep gazes used to prick her.
His fingers held steady around her hair, their eyes finally locked. By your hands, he seemed to say and then the light within him gave out; hers, followed almost concurrently.
She remembered everything as if they all happened yesterday.
She’s standing on the edge atop the Wheel Tower. She looked up, not so thrilled with the shining stars placed up above but with the darkness of the sky that reminded her of Jon’s eyes.
Everything was clear, but then they all blur at one point and such in her case, when tears obscured her vision.
[The Targaryen Dynasty - 209 AL]
He had almost forgotten how Flea Bottom reeked like pigsties and stables mixed with winesinks and tanner’s sheds once he had found himself walking along the downtrodden area. Old Wisdom Rulf who keeps an inventory of the food supplies of the Guild has sent him for an errand to the Street of Flour and a letter for Angmar the Baker asking for a three moon’s supply of bread with the consent of the Royal Household. He had gone with a purse full of copper pennies and an official financial document declaring the transaction for the breads and now he’s dragging a handcart back to the Guildhall full of spices, preserves and linen, the pastries to be delivered every fortnight.
Below the Street of Flour lay a maze of twisting alleys and cross streets and it’s small wonder he turned down Flea Bottom when his head’s been pretty occupied of the fact that the time for him to make-
Blaaaagh.
His head was deep in thought with green light and magic and though he was looking ahead of the street to turn and lead the handcart around, he wasn’t really seeing and so something had caught his elbow in a tangle and he stumbled over someone judging by the soft flesh, frills and silks beneath him. He looked back and saw that the handcart was turned upside down and he breathed a sigh of relief when the linen saved the bottles of spices and preserves from breaking, and his ear from receiving a clout by Wisdom Rulf.
“If you would please…” a soft voice squeaked underneath.
He turned his head and glanced down, large pretty blue eyes looked up at him. A girl. She was frightened. Her bright red hair was in disarray and her cheeks were wet with tears. That girl!
Immediately, he pulled himself up, “I-I’m sorry… sorry… Are you hurt?” then he helped the young girl back on her feet. Her hands were so soft compared to his calloused ones; he couldn’t help but shy away from the contact.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry too,” she said as she lowered her eyes whilst combing her hair and arranging her dress, “I didn’t look where I was running. You were most kind to help me stand up. I trust nothing broke from your carriage?” She peered at his side to look at the upturned cart and bottles that lay on the cobblestones.
“None m’lady,” he heard himself say, though he was busy looking at all of her for he wasn’t quite believing his luck meeting her here of all places.
She smiled at that, a charming smile from a charming face. She took a kerchief from the inside pocket of her dress and wiped the tears away. “You have called me a lady,” she said as if he had just given her the highest praise.
“Judging by the looks o’ you and your words…” He wouldn’t admit to her but he has seen her several times when she and her family would visit the town. They’d pass the Street of Sisters and their Guildhall since she live near Rhaenys’ Hill and they’re just below the way. And her hair was hard not to notice especially how it shone when the sun would catch it.
“Highborn like you live on the other side from here. How’d you come around here? Did some scare you off?” She really looked surprised and panicky earlier.
“Some,” she answered before moping when she related the rest of her story, “We were at the market square when my brothers felt a sudden wickedness. They’ve been hearing about the tale of the bowl of brown and set up a contest among them. Whoever managed to finish a bowl first would be a King for a week. That is, the losers will act as the winner’s servants. The alleys down here are confusing as my brothers look for the most sinister-looking pot-shop. I got left behind and I was about to ask someone for help but the old man mistook me for… for…” and then her cheeks grew redder and the young man restricted his lips from curling to a smirk. A habit he had gotten from other boys of his age in the Guild.
He then contorted his face into a frown and said, “I bet your brothers are worried sick.”
She pursed her lips at that. “Let them be. They’d feel all the more sorry when Father hears of this.”
“If they aren’t sorry first for setting a contest just to eat those nasty bowls,” he snickered. Then he quickly glanced at her, realizing what he just said and wondering if she took any offense at that.
The girl only giggled and cocked her head to the side prettily, “Do you live here?”
“Used to, until the alchemists went here one day and looked for ‘prentices and I volunteered. So now I’m living beneath Rhaenys’ Hill, at the foot of Visenya’s Hill and along the Street of Sisters.”
“Y-You belong to the guild that makes wildfire?” that seemed to have caught her interest and her blue eyes flashed with curiosity and recognition. “You’re a p-pyromancer then?”
He flushed, “No, at least not yet, m’lady. Come along now, I’d best lead you home.” He arranged back the food supplies that spilled on the road and carried the handcart again. “Might be good if you seat on the cart, I’d carry you along with the spices and preserves if it pleases you.”
The redhead girl was a bit hesitant, “I’m not sure if… do ladies,” she trailed off.
He looked down on his feet and on his hands carrying the end of the handles, somewhat understanding her meaning, “I’m stronger than I look m’lady. And this may be a poor coach for the likes o' you but at least it’d serve well for a ride on the way home and won’t get no blisters on your feet.”
She looked at her own feet and it dawned on her that somewhere she had lost her sandals, and was barefooted. “I… how…” she looked up at him, face flushed again and nodded her assent.
On the road they have talked about a lot of things, she was a very inquisitive girl and asked him things that concerned wildfire and the Alchemist’s Guildhall and so he told her that the process of making it is highly a secret but he’s sure they’re made with magic and spells, so says Wisdom Hadrian, the one in charge of its production; he narrated to her the rooms filled with sand and the floors below with enchantment and all sorts of mischief he encountered from trying to glimpse how wildfire are really done, mostly though he’d suffer clouts in the ear for the Wisdoms chastise him, say they’re not fit for the eyes of a boy of ten-and-two, the clouts were so hard he often saw green flames in his head, and she laughed at his expense. It made no matter to him; he already liked the sound of her laugh and giggles. She also asked what the true contents of the bowls of brown were and he had truthfully answered her that they were mostly made from meats of rats and dogs and thankfully he hasn’t eaten any parts of murder victims yet. That silenced her for a long while he thought he had offended her again in some way, but then she blurted out suddenly that if she’s back home and found that her brothers continued their contest on it she would not kiss any of them ever again. They both had laughed to that. Then he asked her of her family and what her hobbies were and she answered that she has a perfect lady mother and her lord father was very stern but would stole two lemon cakes for her after every dinner (He looked puzzled at the mention of it and she looked offended that he hasn’t heard nor had lemon cakes, “Would that I could bring you some for when me and my brothers visit you in the Guild,” she said) and that she may have loved her brothers more if they don’t act stupid all the time and would attend their lessons faithfully. She told him she liked needlework the most and then she reached for her kerchief once again, said she made it herself, and she tied it to his arm as token of her gratitude for he had been her champion this day. He felt his face and neck burn and was thankful his back was on her so she wouldn’t see the stupid look on his face when she did it. She had wiped the sweat off his collar thrice, every time he’d bark at her “Stop that m’lady,” she’d laugh loudly that some people turn at them as they pass. Maybe she had seen his stupid look after all though he couldn’t tell how. She started telling him stories then, of knights and tourneys and the songs that were made after them with a fiery passion. Some he had heard already but he urged her on. He liked it when she’s animated like that. They talked some more, would linger on some merchant stalls and marvel at different sorts that were for sale before the young boy realized that the sun was already high. Old Wisdom Rulf expected him to be back a few hours ago and so he warned the girl to hold on tight on the cart while he made a dash towards Visenya’s Hill.
“I’ll find my own way here,” the girl said to him as she climbed down the poor coach. “Thank you again for your help, may the Gods bless you,” she smiled sweetly and bowed before him. They were at the foot of Visenya’s Hill by now and have to part ways, he for the Guildhall and she for her manse along Rhaeny’s Hill.
“I… your feet,” he started, catching his breath; he’s not quite sure how to deal with this parting. He avoided her eyes and her hair, she was made of sweetness and had enjoyed her company greatly, and it seemed as if they’ve been friends for long. He didn’t know how to say goodbye nor ask if he could see her again, that would seem most insolent of him. “Could you walk like that?”
“I could manage,” she said a bit stubbornly. She twisted and knotted her tresses and tousled her dress this way and that, “And I have a role to play and a story to tell,” and she winked at him after that.
The boy then understood and had only shouted, “Make them pay!” after she had moved forward.
The girl turned, raised her hand to him and waived it before she trudged on without looking back. The sunlight caught her hair once more and it shone beautifully; he decided he loved the red glow of flames more than what the wildfire’s colors were. He didn’t linger after that since he didn’t want to watch her go; already he felt a little sadness in his chest and since his head has been flying for most of the morning (so was his heart), he set his chore as his priority.
He had hoped of seeing her again, too many times that it had been a subject of mockery in the Guildhall, but not in the likes of that. He had even dreamed of seeing her again, too many times that it almost seemed true, but not in a cruel way like that.
He was ordered to guard the entrance of the Dragonpit and assist in bringing small jars of pottery that contain wildfire inside. Bodies from high-born and low were delivered indoors and that’s where he had caught a glimpse of her. He had suffered a blow at the pit of his stomach and his eyes sting as he went to her side. That’s her hair, her nose, her lips, her cheeks, her chin, her hands. He dropped to his knees and sobbed, That can’t be her, no; he opened his mouth and felt dizzy, he wanted to call after her but he didn’t know her name.
It had only been just a week when the plague epidemic struck the city so swiftly. Lord Brynden Rivers, Hand of the newly crowned King Aerys I, ordered the bodies killed by the sickness be brought to the building. It was their duty to burn them, but he found he had no strength left for any duty at all. Some of his fellow acolytes noticed him and three of them began dragging him away; he managed to free himself and dash out back to her body only to be yanked by a relatively young Wisdom, but older than him still. The Wisdom whose name he didn’t care to remember cuffed him four times that air had left him at once. He was carried off outside and one acolyte younger than him was made to guard him from entering back. He lost consciousness after that.
When he came to, the light of the wildfire pyres loomed over him. Its green glow danced on the dark starless night. Somewhere inside that cavernous building, she’s turning into ashes in those blazing flames. He retched and that’s the only time he had noticed he has company. The younger boy was looking at him with pity and he wanted to punch those eyes away.
I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair, he had heard the singers sang, once as he had passed an old tavern along Pigrun Alley.
It was wrong. Everything was wrong. Flames shouldn’t have colors like that, he staggered as he rose to his feet. He knew he’s screeching but couldn’t seem to hear his own voice. She’s too young. I’m her champion. He’s been considering leaving the Guild to find a knight he could squire for. It was wrong.
The song was wrong for him too and he didn’t stay too long to hear the singers sang the verse: he loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair.
A/N: The Seven Kingdoms part was heavily inspired from the song Fairy Tale by Shaman.
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance, Fluff, Starkcest, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, Alternate Universe - Canon, Sibling Incest, Early in Canon, Character Death
Length: Will be three-shots, I think (Posted this at AO3)
Prompt: "There are many names in history but none of them are ours."
Summary:(Jon/Sansa throughout ASOIAF timeline [Most certainly AU of sorts])
Word Count: 3, 529
Disclaimer: The characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
[The Seven Kingdoms]
She’s standing on the edge, infinitely sad, infinitely weary.
She remembered seeing him hovering and tittering beside her-the children they used to be, who both loved the high white cliffs of the Storm’s End overlooking the sea. He liked being perched on the high window of his Mother’s solar to stand over the frame and watch the sea always in turmoil below, while she liked the feel of the double course stones underneath her feet and the smooth and curving sense of the window on her palms.
She could hear his voice as clear as those days of her visits when they’re sitting on the window with stolen fruits and bread from the kitchens, and he’d tell her the story of King Durran who built the castle and won the love of Elenei, the daughter of their sea god and wind goddess. He knew she had loved how Durran Godsgrief declared a war on the gods after they destroyed his keep and killed his and Elenei’s wedding guests, persisted every time the gods tear down what he has constructed, until the seventh castle stood in place and resisted the storms of Shipbreaker Bay, so he’d gladly tell the story to her over again on her next stay on his lands.
But that finally stopped when her Father’s business in the Stormlands has been completed.
His first trip to her lands came several years later; she was a grown maid and he was far from the boy she used to teach of courtesies. She remembered how there was a jump in her steps as she rushed to meet him. She brought him to their godswood then, her most favorite place in their castle, the same as he did back in the days of her visits.
He took a look to their godswood, and the bright and airy garden of redwoods, flowers, nesting birds, streams, and slender, carved weirwood reflected back on his eyes.
“Will you make me a crown of flowers,” he asked her, looking up at her with amusement and tease in his eyes, “As befits a knight, if it pleases you?”
“More than that, as befits a King,” she told him as she started gathering the finest flowers of colors she thought suited him best; she then stroked the fragile petals and committed to memory how soft they were.
She remembered that on the third day of his visit, they’ve been drunk from a drinking game of Dornish wine. He was chasing her around the godswood, remembered how red he was and the beaded sweats stuck on his face that made her hands closed around him. She hugged him to her chest, whirling and laughing aloud. Ever so fast, she kissed the corner of his mouth and jerked her head back an instant before his lips would have found her face.
“How would you want to die, Jon?” she had asked him on the last day, as his deal in her domain was concluded, and just before he packed his things and travel back to the Stormlands. They were sprawled on the grass, watching the sunset fade away in darkness.
“By your hands,” he said not a beat too late, all in earnestness.
She rolled her eyes as she rolled to face him, “You mock me!”
He responded with quiet laughter, and then he snatched her hands and pressed them to his chin and cheek. “I do not.”
And then suddenly she said, “My hand is promised to another…”
His eyes darkened as if they were never black in the first place. He kissed both of her hands for a longer while, “I know, and that’s why my business here is done.”
Jon was sent to broker a marriage of alliance between her and his brother Arrec but her Father promised her to an Ironborn. They never saw each other after that, not even when the Stormland invaders came and put a siege on their castle. She remembered how her heart had been in turmoil then, just like the sea below Jon’s Mother’s chambers.
She thought he’d never see him again, and was actually thankful for it, else she’ll never know what will happen to her or to him if she ever acted out her grief and fury on him, but alas, it seemed as if the gods declared a war on her when they found him hiding in the godswood and was brought to her feet, with a few of his men to rescue Arrec from the Ironborn invaders.
“I will not kill a man for loyalty, nor for fighting well,” her brother Robb declared, but her husband only spit to the ground and stalked off, not after he made clear that he’ll have his head on the morrow.
Jon was beaten so badly she couldn’t almost recognize the face she loved all those years, if not for his dark solemn eyes and broken smile suggesting he recognized her as well.
“Sansa,” he said as he choked on his own blood. “I will not yield… better to kill me now.”
“How would you want me to kill you, Jon?” She demanded, obviously trying for dismissive and reserved but coming off petulant and more than a little fuming for the years she resented him, but then her voice trembled like the child she claimed she no longer was. Her resentment wasn’t enough to cover her love for him.
“Q - Quickly and too late for me… to ever think what hit me,” his unfocused eyes scanned her face as he answered her.
Her brother stirred on his spot but she raised her hand to stop him. Eventually he retreated after placing a Valyrian steel at her side, with the knights and Stormland prisoners in tow. The Ironborns followed reluctantly, then.
She kissed him as soon as they were alone. He did not stop her; he only raised a weak hand to fist around her auburn hair. She consumed his mouth long and needy. She pressed chaste kisses and ardent ones on his forehead, his nose, his chin, and both to his eyes-too fast, too short they were, not enough for the times she spent wondering how her tragedy all came to be-before burying the dagger deep within his chest in one swift ungainly move, same as those times his deep gazes used to prick her.
His fingers held steady around her hair, their eyes finally locked. By your hands, he seemed to say and then the light within him gave out; hers, followed almost concurrently.
She remembered everything as if they all happened yesterday.
She’s standing on the edge atop the Wheel Tower. She looked up, not so thrilled with the shining stars placed up above but with the darkness of the sky that reminded her of Jon’s eyes.
Everything was clear, but then they all blur at one point and such in her case, when tears obscured her vision.
[The Targaryen Dynasty - 209 AL]
He had almost forgotten how Flea Bottom reeked like pigsties and stables mixed with winesinks and tanner’s sheds once he had found himself walking along the downtrodden area. Old Wisdom Rulf who keeps an inventory of the food supplies of the Guild has sent him for an errand to the Street of Flour and a letter for Angmar the Baker asking for a three moon’s supply of bread with the consent of the Royal Household. He had gone with a purse full of copper pennies and an official financial document declaring the transaction for the breads and now he’s dragging a handcart back to the Guildhall full of spices, preserves and linen, the pastries to be delivered every fortnight.
Below the Street of Flour lay a maze of twisting alleys and cross streets and it’s small wonder he turned down Flea Bottom when his head’s been pretty occupied of the fact that the time for him to make-
Blaaaagh.
His head was deep in thought with green light and magic and though he was looking ahead of the street to turn and lead the handcart around, he wasn’t really seeing and so something had caught his elbow in a tangle and he stumbled over someone judging by the soft flesh, frills and silks beneath him. He looked back and saw that the handcart was turned upside down and he breathed a sigh of relief when the linen saved the bottles of spices and preserves from breaking, and his ear from receiving a clout by Wisdom Rulf.
“If you would please…” a soft voice squeaked underneath.
He turned his head and glanced down, large pretty blue eyes looked up at him. A girl. She was frightened. Her bright red hair was in disarray and her cheeks were wet with tears. That girl!
Immediately, he pulled himself up, “I-I’m sorry… sorry… Are you hurt?” then he helped the young girl back on her feet. Her hands were so soft compared to his calloused ones; he couldn’t help but shy away from the contact.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry too,” she said as she lowered her eyes whilst combing her hair and arranging her dress, “I didn’t look where I was running. You were most kind to help me stand up. I trust nothing broke from your carriage?” She peered at his side to look at the upturned cart and bottles that lay on the cobblestones.
“None m’lady,” he heard himself say, though he was busy looking at all of her for he wasn’t quite believing his luck meeting her here of all places.
She smiled at that, a charming smile from a charming face. She took a kerchief from the inside pocket of her dress and wiped the tears away. “You have called me a lady,” she said as if he had just given her the highest praise.
“Judging by the looks o’ you and your words…” He wouldn’t admit to her but he has seen her several times when she and her family would visit the town. They’d pass the Street of Sisters and their Guildhall since she live near Rhaenys’ Hill and they’re just below the way. And her hair was hard not to notice especially how it shone when the sun would catch it.
“Highborn like you live on the other side from here. How’d you come around here? Did some scare you off?” She really looked surprised and panicky earlier.
“Some,” she answered before moping when she related the rest of her story, “We were at the market square when my brothers felt a sudden wickedness. They’ve been hearing about the tale of the bowl of brown and set up a contest among them. Whoever managed to finish a bowl first would be a King for a week. That is, the losers will act as the winner’s servants. The alleys down here are confusing as my brothers look for the most sinister-looking pot-shop. I got left behind and I was about to ask someone for help but the old man mistook me for… for…” and then her cheeks grew redder and the young man restricted his lips from curling to a smirk. A habit he had gotten from other boys of his age in the Guild.
He then contorted his face into a frown and said, “I bet your brothers are worried sick.”
She pursed her lips at that. “Let them be. They’d feel all the more sorry when Father hears of this.”
“If they aren’t sorry first for setting a contest just to eat those nasty bowls,” he snickered. Then he quickly glanced at her, realizing what he just said and wondering if she took any offense at that.
The girl only giggled and cocked her head to the side prettily, “Do you live here?”
“Used to, until the alchemists went here one day and looked for ‘prentices and I volunteered. So now I’m living beneath Rhaenys’ Hill, at the foot of Visenya’s Hill and along the Street of Sisters.”
“Y-You belong to the guild that makes wildfire?” that seemed to have caught her interest and her blue eyes flashed with curiosity and recognition. “You’re a p-pyromancer then?”
He flushed, “No, at least not yet, m’lady. Come along now, I’d best lead you home.” He arranged back the food supplies that spilled on the road and carried the handcart again. “Might be good if you seat on the cart, I’d carry you along with the spices and preserves if it pleases you.”
The redhead girl was a bit hesitant, “I’m not sure if… do ladies,” she trailed off.
He looked down on his feet and on his hands carrying the end of the handles, somewhat understanding her meaning, “I’m stronger than I look m’lady. And this may be a poor coach for the likes o' you but at least it’d serve well for a ride on the way home and won’t get no blisters on your feet.”
She looked at her own feet and it dawned on her that somewhere she had lost her sandals, and was barefooted. “I… how…” she looked up at him, face flushed again and nodded her assent.
On the road they have talked about a lot of things, she was a very inquisitive girl and asked him things that concerned wildfire and the Alchemist’s Guildhall and so he told her that the process of making it is highly a secret but he’s sure they’re made with magic and spells, so says Wisdom Hadrian, the one in charge of its production; he narrated to her the rooms filled with sand and the floors below with enchantment and all sorts of mischief he encountered from trying to glimpse how wildfire are really done, mostly though he’d suffer clouts in the ear for the Wisdoms chastise him, say they’re not fit for the eyes of a boy of ten-and-two, the clouts were so hard he often saw green flames in his head, and she laughed at his expense. It made no matter to him; he already liked the sound of her laugh and giggles. She also asked what the true contents of the bowls of brown were and he had truthfully answered her that they were mostly made from meats of rats and dogs and thankfully he hasn’t eaten any parts of murder victims yet. That silenced her for a long while he thought he had offended her again in some way, but then she blurted out suddenly that if she’s back home and found that her brothers continued their contest on it she would not kiss any of them ever again. They both had laughed to that. Then he asked her of her family and what her hobbies were and she answered that she has a perfect lady mother and her lord father was very stern but would stole two lemon cakes for her after every dinner (He looked puzzled at the mention of it and she looked offended that he hasn’t heard nor had lemon cakes, “Would that I could bring you some for when me and my brothers visit you in the Guild,” she said) and that she may have loved her brothers more if they don’t act stupid all the time and would attend their lessons faithfully. She told him she liked needlework the most and then she reached for her kerchief once again, said she made it herself, and she tied it to his arm as token of her gratitude for he had been her champion this day. He felt his face and neck burn and was thankful his back was on her so she wouldn’t see the stupid look on his face when she did it. She had wiped the sweat off his collar thrice, every time he’d bark at her “Stop that m’lady,” she’d laugh loudly that some people turn at them as they pass. Maybe she had seen his stupid look after all though he couldn’t tell how. She started telling him stories then, of knights and tourneys and the songs that were made after them with a fiery passion. Some he had heard already but he urged her on. He liked it when she’s animated like that. They talked some more, would linger on some merchant stalls and marvel at different sorts that were for sale before the young boy realized that the sun was already high. Old Wisdom Rulf expected him to be back a few hours ago and so he warned the girl to hold on tight on the cart while he made a dash towards Visenya’s Hill.
“I’ll find my own way here,” the girl said to him as she climbed down the poor coach. “Thank you again for your help, may the Gods bless you,” she smiled sweetly and bowed before him. They were at the foot of Visenya’s Hill by now and have to part ways, he for the Guildhall and she for her manse along Rhaeny’s Hill.
“I… your feet,” he started, catching his breath; he’s not quite sure how to deal with this parting. He avoided her eyes and her hair, she was made of sweetness and had enjoyed her company greatly, and it seemed as if they’ve been friends for long. He didn’t know how to say goodbye nor ask if he could see her again, that would seem most insolent of him. “Could you walk like that?”
“I could manage,” she said a bit stubbornly. She twisted and knotted her tresses and tousled her dress this way and that, “And I have a role to play and a story to tell,” and she winked at him after that.
The boy then understood and had only shouted, “Make them pay!” after she had moved forward.
The girl turned, raised her hand to him and waived it before she trudged on without looking back. The sunlight caught her hair once more and it shone beautifully; he decided he loved the red glow of flames more than what the wildfire’s colors were. He didn’t linger after that since he didn’t want to watch her go; already he felt a little sadness in his chest and since his head has been flying for most of the morning (so was his heart), he set his chore as his priority.
He had hoped of seeing her again, too many times that it had been a subject of mockery in the Guildhall, but not in the likes of that. He had even dreamed of seeing her again, too many times that it almost seemed true, but not in a cruel way like that.
He was ordered to guard the entrance of the Dragonpit and assist in bringing small jars of pottery that contain wildfire inside. Bodies from high-born and low were delivered indoors and that’s where he had caught a glimpse of her. He had suffered a blow at the pit of his stomach and his eyes sting as he went to her side. That’s her hair, her nose, her lips, her cheeks, her chin, her hands. He dropped to his knees and sobbed, That can’t be her, no; he opened his mouth and felt dizzy, he wanted to call after her but he didn’t know her name.
It had only been just a week when the plague epidemic struck the city so swiftly. Lord Brynden Rivers, Hand of the newly crowned King Aerys I, ordered the bodies killed by the sickness be brought to the building. It was their duty to burn them, but he found he had no strength left for any duty at all. Some of his fellow acolytes noticed him and three of them began dragging him away; he managed to free himself and dash out back to her body only to be yanked by a relatively young Wisdom, but older than him still. The Wisdom whose name he didn’t care to remember cuffed him four times that air had left him at once. He was carried off outside and one acolyte younger than him was made to guard him from entering back. He lost consciousness after that.
When he came to, the light of the wildfire pyres loomed over him. Its green glow danced on the dark starless night. Somewhere inside that cavernous building, she’s turning into ashes in those blazing flames. He retched and that’s the only time he had noticed he has company. The younger boy was looking at him with pity and he wanted to punch those eyes away.
I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair, he had heard the singers sang, once as he had passed an old tavern along Pigrun Alley.
It was wrong. Everything was wrong. Flames shouldn’t have colors like that, he staggered as he rose to his feet. He knew he’s screeching but couldn’t seem to hear his own voice. She’s too young. I’m her champion. He’s been considering leaving the Guild to find a knight he could squire for. It was wrong.
The song was wrong for him too and he didn’t stay too long to hear the singers sang the verse: he loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair.
A/N: The Seven Kingdoms part was heavily inspired from the song Fairy Tale by Shaman.