martyr.

a martyr's song.

MARTYR: a house of the dragon & fire
and blood fanfiction / hecatefuror © 2024

 

────────    INTRO.

( . . . found within the dowager queen, alicent hightower's journal, 132 after conquest. )

1. queen alicent hightower's writings
on lord theodore arryn:

 
     [ "theodore. . .his name lingers on my tongue. . .theodore arryn... it lingers like the last breath of a song, half-forgotten, caught in the wind's grasp. he was not meant for the world as it is. the world is a blunt instrument, hacking away at all that is fine, all that is soft, all that is tender. and he. . .he was made of some rare, fragile substance, like the wings of a moth that flutters too close to the flame, seeking its warmth but finding only destruction. 

      he was the youngest, yes, the last born of a great house. his brothers—they hardened themselves like bark thickening around old wounds, or stones at the river's bottom, polished by the current but unmoved by it. but theodore remained untouched by the rough hands of life. the eldest spoke of war, of power, of destiny as if the world were a board game and men were mere pieces, but theodore—he spoke of the stars, of distant constellations that only he could name, of forests that whispered secrets to the trees, of the quiet between breaths where one might almost hear the heartbeat of the earth. 

      but what use was wisdom that did not slice like a blade or wealth that could not be counted in gold? the world measured men by their weight in iron and their thirst for blood. and theodore. . .he could not bear to cut even a rose without mourning its fall from the bush. he saw too much; he felt too deeply. he lived as if his soul were wrapped in glass. and in a world where men sharpened themselves into weapons, what was he but a poem written in a language no one knew how to read?

      the world tried to shape him, bend him, make him fit into the mold it reserved for all men. it thrust its crude chisel at him, but he would not yield. he was a delicate reed by a riverbank, bending with the current, but never breaking. yet there is a cruelty in being unbreakable, for the storm is relentless, and it knows no end. it wants its pound of flesh. it desires to carve its mark on all things that breathe. 

      and he? he was a dreamer in a world that never sleeps, a candle's flame flickering in the wind. they say the gentle ones never last, but he lingered longer than the strongest. he persisted, as if by some quiet defiance, a silent rebuke to the brutality around him. but i fear it wore him down, like waves wear away at a cliff, relentless, tireless... 

      oh, theodore, what did the world know of you? what did it know of your quiet wisdom, of your boundless heart, of your spirit that danced on the edge of eternity? the world was too small for you, too narrow, too harsh. it had no place to hold your light, and so it extinguished it, not by force, but by its sheer inability to comprehend. 

      i remember his laughter—soft, like the rustle of leaves in a forest at dawn, like a secret shared between the earth and the sky. i remember his eyes, clear as a winter morning, searching for something just beyond the horizon, something he never found. 

      theodore. . .they called you a fool, a dreamer, a man out of his time. but they did not see what i saw. they did not hear the music you carried in your heart, a melody that was not of this world, that no one else could hear.