━ in which; the game of thrones was a harsh game with unyielding rules and far too many scheming players. though it might just seem that ned stark might just of been hiding one of the most valuable pieces, lyarra snow. though remains yet to be s...
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Never let it be said there is little happening in life. In each moment, in every second, there is an event occurring that will alter lives and potentially even change histories, everywhere, all at once. One such moment was the ringing in the air of a iron hammer bending the black steel and sending shimmering rubies into the muddied banks of the trident. The wheezing gasp of a desperate, foolish man taking his final breath and the breathy, rancorous, roaring laughter of a man with antlers.
Men screamed, the song of steel clashing and clanging, boots suctioning and slipping in the muddied evergreen grasslands and muddied riverbanks. The roaring of battle cries, horns and drums, horses and hoofbeats. Arrows planting themselves deep in flesh. Wet blood dripping down bodies, hot and sticky and being washed away in the now pink river.
The day the dragon died. Many things happened. A singular princess clutched her babe to her chest, her daughter clung to her sunset coloured skirts, swirling reds and oranges, golden jewellery, brown eyes fixated on the ship sailing into the direction of the rising sun. Fear was all she felt. A hostage, children disinherited, husband abandoning her and forsaking their children. All the while her pregnant goodmother and child of a goodbrother, barely older than her little Rhaenys, sailed across the blackwater. A blackwater she prayed would not bloom with blood in a few moons time.
As a silver prince was slaughtered, his life taken in payment for his crimes, a girl locked away in the tower cried. A party of riders were giving their best effort into slipping through the enemies line. Into the brilliant evergreen hills and rolling fields of crops and forests and meadows of the Reach, there had been word from a spy that only one kingsguard remained, the rest either joining Rhaegar in the Riverlands, or south, into Dorne. Men screamed as war waged around them A justice owed to the north, yet taken by the south. The golden stag, a claimant for the throne. A rival king, snivelling, paranoid and infected with the worst of ills all that stood in the way.
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A woman stood on the battlements of a castle. Her home, or at least the home of her heart. The home of her childhood. Mounted between thick rivers on all sides, shimmering waters, rushing past in a soft song. Her hand rested upon her stomach. Would her new home be as beautiful? As peaceful? She prayed it would be so. Would she survive? Lest her body be claimed by the Stranger whilst in her birthing bed, like her mother had been.
Crimson hair was twisted away from her face, though it hung loose from behind her ears in loose waves, small braids she had woven in whilst muttering her morning prayers. Let her husband be safe, let her uncle return from the war unscathed, let herself birth him a son, let her live to meet her babe, let her homes -past and future- be safe and prosperous. She prayed the father, warrior and mother would agree to her requests. Each night she pleaded with her gods that the Lannister forces would align with the rebellion, to recover Lyanna - her goodsister, the sweet girl, the beloved sister of the dead man she had been to marry and the sister of the man she had, yet never gotten to know - would be found alive and returned home.
