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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" there's something tragic about you something so magic about you don't you agree? "
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A COLD SWEAT SLICKED MEGARA'S PALM as the pouch nestled deeper into Jon Snow's cloak. Coin. Never, in all her years scrounging through the fetid alleys of Mole's Town, had she ever grasped such a weight. As a child, she'd watched, a scrawny wraith with eyes wide as chipped sapphires, as Stark men swaggered through the muck, their leather purses bulging fat with silver. They'd come sniffing after whispers of outlaws and oathbreakers, their questions laced with a disdain that felt colder than a winter wind. The goodfolk of Mole's Town weren't in the business of handouts. Information, like a poxed whore, had its price.
But this. This pouch, pressed tight against her empty stomach, felt like a king's ransom. The weight spoke not just of coin, but of power, a fleeting glimpse of a life beyond the ever-present stench of sewage and despair. It was a stolen treasure, a fistful of defiance ripped from the bony maw of winter itself. The coppery tang of possibility filled her nostrils, a heady counterpoint to the usual reek of rotting fish and desperation. This coin, this unexpected bounty, whispered promises of a full belly, a roof over her head, a respite from the relentless gnawing of hunger. It was a sliver of hope, a chance to claw her way out of the muck, even if for just a single, glorious breath. Yet, a cold, cynical voice, honed from years of surviving by her wits, echoed in the cavernous halls of her mind. Easy come, easy go. This windfall could just as easily turn into a death sentence, a target painted on her back for envious eyes and desperate hands. The coin, once a promise, now felt heavy with the weight of uncertainty, a gamble with the fickle hand of fate.
As she trudged through the bustling streets of White Harbor, her mind wandered back to Jon. His steadfast demeanor, the way his eyes held an unspoken promise of protection, lingered in her thoughts. She had never encountered a man quite like him, one so noble and selfless, traits that seemed as rare as summer snows in this harsh world.
Guilt gnawed at her, a relentless vulture pecking at her conscience. Could she have told him of her dreams? Would he have believed her if she had spoken of the ominous visions that plagued her nights? Or would he have dismissed her as a madwoman, lost to the delusions spun by the darkness of her own mind?
