ch. twelve - the old gods and the new.

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the hands that cradled your face                     and tilted
it upwards to kiss your forehead,              are soaked in
unfathomable                                        amounts of blood.        

but they cradled me, yes?



The flames engulfed Lyarra's body like a blanket. Her vision was hindered by thick, black smoke. She could feel the vibration of the screams surrounding her, everywhere she turned, another became more discernible. Her feet struggled to carry her weight, building into a sprint as she ran her hands along the stone walls. She was in Riverrun. At the very least, she knew that. She could recognize these walls as well as her own.

She could feel words pouring out of her mouth, frantic and desperate — and yet, they were impossible to capture. It felt as if someone else was in control of her body, pulling her strings as though she were a puppet.

All of a sudden, the screams quelled into silence. The flames dwindled, leaving only a mist-like level of smoke lingering in the air. Lyarra paused, taking in the sight. Her feet carried her forward, into a room which she could only vaguely recall being the main hall.

Just before her stood Petyr, standing tall on a pile of something she could not decipher. He was as she knew him to be. The small, thin, frail boy with wide, hopeful eyes. He turned to her with glee, and at once, her heart filled with warmth. The boy that she knew, that she loved — had returned to her. It was then, that she noticed the dagger in his hands. Memories flooded in one by one. She'd seen that dagger not long ago, in the hands of Catelyn Stark. It was Tyrion's, or so Petyr had said.

Her vision cleared, taking in the true sight before her. Petyr was coated in blood, the dagger digging into the tip of his finger as he beamed at her. As he stepped down to approach her, she noticed what he'd been standing on all that time. Piles of bodies. Each, someone that she had come to care for in her life. Lyanna, Brandon, Ned, Benjen, Her mother, Her father, Catelyn, Jon, Reyne, Arya, Sansa, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Old Nan, Wyllis, Jory, Jaime, Tyrion, Bronn, Ros, Aianna — and in the very front, Sandor. His body was charred, unburnt only on the left side of his face.

"Don't you see, Lyarra? Don't you see that this is all we have ever wanted?" Petyr, with the tone of a child, inquired. As he approached, his voice seemed to deepen — taking on a mature tilt. With each step, the boy grew — morphing into the man that she had come to know. "We don't need anyone else. Only each other. All we ever dreamt of is in our grasp, Lyarra. Don't let it go to waste."

Petyr reached forward to take her chin into his grasp, thus tainting it in the blood of her loved ones. She trembled in his hold, and yet even still, she leaned into his touch. He was warm, familiar. She tried to tell herself to move, to get away from him — but he only brought her closer. At once, pain shot through her — blossoming from her stomach. Blood began to pool, pouring out of her in waves. The dagger twisted, forcing Lyarra to look up in horror. Petyr only met her fear with a sharp grin, one bearing no concern. He pushed the dagger in deeper, leaning into her space.

With each passing second, terror and pain bled through her in equal waves. Petyr was only moving closer, with his gaze trained on her lips. Just as he moved to claim her lips as his own, she was jostled from her sleep — a heavy weight placed on her chest. She blinked blearily, taking in all that had just happened. At once, she jumped from her bed — clutching onto the figure before her.

"Don't let them get me, please," She begged, though she had yet to take the time to address who the figure was. All she knew in that moment was fear. "Don't let the flames get me. Don't let him hurt me!"

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