The Lady of Asshai •Aemond Targaryen•

8. IT'S NOT SO COLD HERE

   Wind was whipping all around her...

...for fleeting moments betwixt the long moments of darkness...

...there was clouds...

...there was rain...

...the storm was raging all around...

...and yet she carried on.

The haze of this vision was thick, as though it was being observed through a looking glass. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last. All she could do was live through what she saw. Feel what was felt. She always saw it for a reason, even though that reason was never truly clear. Although, she could always be assured of one thing when it ended it was always rung out by that same familiar cry...

The Winged Shadow.

• • •

In Brass's first moments of regaining consciousness she was immediately aware of three things; The ground was hard underneath her back, she could smell the remnants of sulphur and the scent of stone after rain, and she was soaked wet.

Was this the judgment place? Whatever God's there were, is this where they would decide her fate?

Her eyes felt heavy as she opened them and her vision was blurred, but from the corner of her eye she could see a faint glow. A fire. It was a fire. Someone had lit a fire. She couldn't fight the groan that spluttered from her lips as she tried to sit up. Her chest was burning. Hells, her whole body felt alight with fiery pain. It was like hot licks of heat sliced through each and every muscle in her body. She felt like she'd just crashed head first into a stone wall, and yet she was shivering. She was so cold.

"Stop that." A newfound burst of pain shot up her back as a hand on her shoulder shoved her back down. She moaned through the agony. "Don't move."

That voice...she knew that voice. A cloud materialised above her. An eerily familiar white cloud. It's outline was as recognisable as an enemy warship. Her vision was sharpening and once the haze faded she knew exactly who hovered over her.

"...Are we dead...?" Her own voice was thick in her ears. It croaked from the strain used to exert it.

A sardonic huff that could barely pass as a laugh came from above. "I'm as good as, once my mother gets her hands on me. But you, against my better judgement, are most assuredly still breathing."

Brass wiggled her toes and fingers to test their ability to still move, all of which obeyed her command, albeit sluggishly and not without pain. "Where are we?" She looked about. Walls of ragged stone stretching up, over and around her was all she could make of the place. That, and of course the fire.

He shifted so he was sat next to her rather than leaning over. He looked into the flames of the half thrown together pit. "A cave. We're only a little ways off from Storm's End." He didn't look back in her direction. "The rains were too heavy and you are too weak to continue on."

She was unsure of his meaning. Continue on...to where? Too weak? What in Seven Hells had happened? She tried to remember back. There had been Storm's End, there had been Lord Baratheon and then there had been Aemond Targaryen...and then it all came flooding back. She shot up and then immediately regretted that decision as she proceeded to vomit up the remaining contents of her stomach.

"I did warn you." The Prince's voice was snide and condescending. Unsurprising, yet still utterly loathsome. He darted up and away from her. Narrowly avoiding her retching.