ā all the fear and the fire of the end of the world ā
( multiple x fem!oc)
(mature themes!)
(doesn't really follow the HBO show
or the books, but has elements)
...
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" I have always, essentially, been waiting. Waiting to become something else, waiting to be that person I always thought I was on the verge of becoming, waiting for that life I thought I would have. In my head, I was always one step away "
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IN THE SHADOWED CHILL OF THE NORTH, where winters gnawed through even the thickest furs and chilled the marrow within one's bones, Megara's dreams of summer warmth seemed as distant and unreachable as the fabled lands of the Summer Isles themselves. Raised on tales of endless sunshine and gentle zephyrs that caressed the land like a lover's touch, she harbored a deep, unyielding yearning to feel the kiss of true summer upon her skin—to be enveloped, embraced by its nurturing heat.
It was as if the very fibers of her being were interwoven with a need for warmth, much like a moth drawn irresistibly to the candle's flame. The fires that she encountered—mere flickers and sparks in hearths and torches—beckoned to her, their light and inviting burn a constant temptation. There was a primal allure in the dance of flames, something that spoke to the core of her, whispering of a life far removed from the icy grasp of her wintry world.
Yet, Megara had always restrained herself, never daring to fully indulge her fascination. There was fear, a respect born of the harsh lessons taught by northern life—where fire was both savior and destroyer, its beauty a perilous thing. The touch of fire promised severe retribution for its embrace, a pain sharp enough to etch itself into memory. Despite this, her desire did not wane; it was an ache, persistent and deep, fuelled by a sense of destiny that she could neither deny nor fully understand. She felt it in her bones, an inevitability as certain as the winter's frost—that she was destined to burn, to feel the sear of flame against her flesh, to know its power as one knows the darkness that follows the dimming of the hearth fires at night.
Her fascination with fire was a solitary contemplation, nurtured by the lonely winds that howled outside her modest dwelling. The villagers spoke little of such things, concerned more with the tangible tasks of survival—the mending of nets, the tending of goats, the weaving of coarse cloth. But Megara's mind wandered the realms of heat and light, her thoughts alight with the imagined scent of sun-warmed earth and the rustle of green leaves in a soft breeze.
