It is like this in death's other kingdom
Title: It is like this in death's other kingdom
Rating: T
Pairings/Characters: Bran Stark, Meera Reed, Melisandre, Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy, Samwell Tarly, Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister, Tommen Baratheon (Bran/Meera)
Words: 955
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
Warnings: Sadness, death, and violence
Summary: It is the end. The Others win. These are the last hours of Westeros.
Note: Written for lydzi's fabulous prompt at the ASOIAF Kinkmeme
Title (and inspiration) from T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men”
It had been blinding, when he had looked into the heart of winter, beyond the veil of mist and light at the edge of the world, and he had cried at the beauty of it all, the simplicity, the peace. Die or fly. But to fly was to die really, in the end; it was just dying differently - bravely - choosing to face it despite his fear. Father had said that was the only time a man could be brave, when he was afraid.
The air is so cold that it burns and he can almost feel it in his legs, broken though they are. The cave is dark and still, and the Children sing softly, some wordless tune that dances like the stars against a smoky sky before being consumed by the black night.
He hears her approach, her trembling hands reaching for his, and he clumsily wraps his arms around her thin frame as he strokes her hair. Her green eyes sparkle in the flickering flames, and a tear spills down her freckled cheek. He wipes it away with his thumb and closes his eyes to keep from crying.
She kisses him then, chastely, innocently, her lips wet with salty tears, and he feels her heart racing in time with his, feels the rush of wind extinguish the fires, feels the heat of her skin against his, feels their hearts slow together.
But he feels no fear.
---
The fires die on the third day of night, and the blackness surrounds her, the red stone at her neck humming faintly.
He strides through the yard, his black cloak caked in blood and gore, the white direwolf at his side. His sword reflects the scant light of the stars tenfold, blazing white like the hottest part of a flame. His eyes are a swirling blue, the horizon where the sunlit sky meets the tempestuous sea, and his gaze pierces her as he raises his blade high, driving the point hard into her breast. “You know nothing,” she hisses, as the flames consume her.
For the night is dark is full of terrors, and there is no dark without light, no light without dark, and between them falls the shadow.
---
They rush over the broken walls like white-capped waves crashing on a rocky beach, but there has been no Stark in Winterfell for years, and the fight is brief and brutal. His skin trembles and crawls, and he feels the cold in his missing fingers and toes. He looks like them, almost, with his shock of snow-white hair and his stripped and flayed flesh, and he thinks maybe that he might be one of them, for his heart is dead and hardened, and he does not know who else he could be.
The icy figure towers over him, eyes harsh and cruel - sad, almost - and he hears the wildling king’s wails cease with a crack. He spreads his arms wide and waits for the lightening strike, for the silence, for peace.
For what is living is now dead, and what is dead may never die, but lives on, harder and stronger and whole once more.
---
The bells clang, as maesters and novices run through darkened corridors, chains clattering, tripping over books and candelabra. He does not move from his perch in the library, surrounded by the sweet smell of parchment and ink and candlewax - his friends - and he thinks of other, truer friends left so long ago, of how cold it was and soon shall be. Fat fingers clutch at the dragonglass dagger hidden in his robes, and he stands slowly, the sword in the darkness, the fire against the cold, the watcher on the walls.
And then his watch ends
---
She stands at the Moon Door, the wind whipping her hair against her skin and blowing her skirts into swirling eddies of color and texture. The clanging of swords and shouts has stopped from below, and a frozen silence has overtaken the Eyrie.
The figure makes no sound as it approaches her, skin milkier than hers, eyes of fairer, deeper blue - like some hero in a song - pale blade drawn as it stalks its prey. She thinks of Father’s head tumbling down the stone steps, of Robb’s cruelly replaced, of her brothers, her mother, her sister. All gone.
She whispers a name and jumps, the wind caressing her skin, her skirts, her fiery hair, and as she plummets to the hard ground like a falling star, she thinks that she has found her wings at last.
---
He has lost track of how many times he has stood vigil with a king on the eve of the end of days, but then it had always been a fiery end that seemed to await his service - ice will be a welcome change.
She would have lit the city on fire, he knows, would have let them conquer a city of bones and ashes. Perhaps he should too, perhaps it is the only salvation left to them.
He bends over the small figure of his king, running his fingers through the hair that is so like his own. The boy’s eyes are heavy with tears as he looks up, struggling to put words to his terror. He lifts him gently and sits on the throne with him -for the first time since the mad king - holding him close to his chest. “Let me tell you a story, Your Grace,” he whispers, as the screams echo against the stones, followed by silence.
The things he does for love.
---
And the world is still and white and peaceful as blue eyes open, brilliant and terrifying like dying stars, burning ice and freezing flame, drawing breath as one.
Rating: T
Pairings/Characters: Bran Stark, Meera Reed, Melisandre, Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy, Samwell Tarly, Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister, Tommen Baratheon (Bran/Meera)
Words: 955
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
Warnings: Sadness, death, and violence
Summary: It is the end. The Others win. These are the last hours of Westeros.
Note: Written for lydzi's fabulous prompt at the ASOIAF Kinkmeme
Title (and inspiration) from T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men”
It had been blinding, when he had looked into the heart of winter, beyond the veil of mist and light at the edge of the world, and he had cried at the beauty of it all, the simplicity, the peace. Die or fly. But to fly was to die really, in the end; it was just dying differently - bravely - choosing to face it despite his fear. Father had said that was the only time a man could be brave, when he was afraid.
The air is so cold that it burns and he can almost feel it in his legs, broken though they are. The cave is dark and still, and the Children sing softly, some wordless tune that dances like the stars against a smoky sky before being consumed by the black night.
He hears her approach, her trembling hands reaching for his, and he clumsily wraps his arms around her thin frame as he strokes her hair. Her green eyes sparkle in the flickering flames, and a tear spills down her freckled cheek. He wipes it away with his thumb and closes his eyes to keep from crying.
She kisses him then, chastely, innocently, her lips wet with salty tears, and he feels her heart racing in time with his, feels the rush of wind extinguish the fires, feels the heat of her skin against his, feels their hearts slow together.
But he feels no fear.
---
The fires die on the third day of night, and the blackness surrounds her, the red stone at her neck humming faintly.
He strides through the yard, his black cloak caked in blood and gore, the white direwolf at his side. His sword reflects the scant light of the stars tenfold, blazing white like the hottest part of a flame. His eyes are a swirling blue, the horizon where the sunlit sky meets the tempestuous sea, and his gaze pierces her as he raises his blade high, driving the point hard into her breast. “You know nothing,” she hisses, as the flames consume her.
For the night is dark is full of terrors, and there is no dark without light, no light without dark, and between them falls the shadow.
---
They rush over the broken walls like white-capped waves crashing on a rocky beach, but there has been no Stark in Winterfell for years, and the fight is brief and brutal. His skin trembles and crawls, and he feels the cold in his missing fingers and toes. He looks like them, almost, with his shock of snow-white hair and his stripped and flayed flesh, and he thinks maybe that he might be one of them, for his heart is dead and hardened, and he does not know who else he could be.
The icy figure towers over him, eyes harsh and cruel - sad, almost - and he hears the wildling king’s wails cease with a crack. He spreads his arms wide and waits for the lightening strike, for the silence, for peace.
For what is living is now dead, and what is dead may never die, but lives on, harder and stronger and whole once more.
---
The bells clang, as maesters and novices run through darkened corridors, chains clattering, tripping over books and candelabra. He does not move from his perch in the library, surrounded by the sweet smell of parchment and ink and candlewax - his friends - and he thinks of other, truer friends left so long ago, of how cold it was and soon shall be. Fat fingers clutch at the dragonglass dagger hidden in his robes, and he stands slowly, the sword in the darkness, the fire against the cold, the watcher on the walls.
And then his watch ends
---
She stands at the Moon Door, the wind whipping her hair against her skin and blowing her skirts into swirling eddies of color and texture. The clanging of swords and shouts has stopped from below, and a frozen silence has overtaken the Eyrie.
The figure makes no sound as it approaches her, skin milkier than hers, eyes of fairer, deeper blue - like some hero in a song - pale blade drawn as it stalks its prey. She thinks of Father’s head tumbling down the stone steps, of Robb’s cruelly replaced, of her brothers, her mother, her sister. All gone.
She whispers a name and jumps, the wind caressing her skin, her skirts, her fiery hair, and as she plummets to the hard ground like a falling star, she thinks that she has found her wings at last.
---
He has lost track of how many times he has stood vigil with a king on the eve of the end of days, but then it had always been a fiery end that seemed to await his service - ice will be a welcome change.
She would have lit the city on fire, he knows, would have let them conquer a city of bones and ashes. Perhaps he should too, perhaps it is the only salvation left to them.
He bends over the small figure of his king, running his fingers through the hair that is so like his own. The boy’s eyes are heavy with tears as he looks up, struggling to put words to his terror. He lifts him gently and sits on the throne with him -for the first time since the mad king - holding him close to his chest. “Let me tell you a story, Your Grace,” he whispers, as the screams echo against the stones, followed by silence.
The things he does for love.
---
And the world is still and white and peaceful as blue eyes open, brilliant and terrifying like dying stars, burning ice and freezing flame, drawing breath as one.