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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" But we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever "
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THE CHILL HAD LONG SEEPED INTO HER VERY MARROW, branding her lungs with its icy kiss as if to mock the fervor of her youth when she would dash through the dense, whispering woods. Back then, the might of the Wall was unquestionable, a towering bulwark manned by legions of black-cloaked watchers. Life north of the great barrier was harsh, but not without its moments of peace, for the shadows of fear were kept at bay by the promise of such overwhelming protection.
However, the wheel of seasons turned inexorably toward the dark, the ominous whispers that winter was coming echoing through every hall and heart from the haunted expanses beyond the Wall to the bustling towns below the Twins. The ancient warning was not just a stark reminder of the cold to come but a harbinger of chaos, as the wildlings, or the Free Folk as they named themselves, pressed southward. Driven not by mere whimsy but by the brutal calculus of survival, they fled their frostbitten haunts in the Haunted Forest, choosing the peril of war over the certainty of icy death.
Megara, whose childhood dreams had once painted her swift feet with the colors of the wind, now found her reality irrevocably altered. The first wildling raid, a storm of screams and bloodshed under a moonless sky, had severed her from the forest that was once her refuge. Since that night, not once had she ventured beyond the ramshackle safety of Mole's Town, nor felt the forest's dark loam beneath her feet.
Years ground by, each as unyielding as the last, her former dreams faded like the dying leaves of autumn. Now, her days unfurled with the monotony of survival; her hands, once supple and quick in the dance of youthful play, now bore the stigmata of toil—scarred from the axe's bite and gnarled from relentless hours against the coarse, unyielding washboard. Her dreams of freedom and wild, unbridled sprints through the woods were now just ghosts, haunting the edges of her weary consciousness, as distant and unreal as the fabled green summers of old.
The rickety wagon she commandeered—a possession of the dead, thus claimed by necessity rather than theft—jostled violently along the uneven Kingsroad. Her journey, aiming farther north than most dared to venture, was shadowed not just by the looming trees but by a constant companion: paranoia. Despite her rational mind assuring her that the wildlings, fierce and desperate though they were, seldom strayed near the well-trodden Kingsroad, a visceral fear clung to her, whispering of unseen dangers lurking within the forest's embrace.
