Little Dragon - Game of Thrones

22

Purple spread throughout the green in the pit of the Corpse City. Where Lyla had fell, slowly the flesh burnt away from her bone. Slowly, her very bones turned from white to pitch black.

As the glowing violet contaminated the rivers, the corpses wandering the abyss fell. The violet crept through the cracks of their bones, turning them the same black that Lyla had.

The Corpse City began to fall silent. What once was filled with the wails of the dead, of monsters feared by the Asshai'i, the Red Priestesses, even the dreadful Shadowbinders, all was quiet.

Moments passed.

A faint movement stirred in the lake after a while.

A terrible rumble came from within.

---

Jon couldn't watch as they burned her. He stood, eyes slightly averted so it would seem as if he was, but he did what he would sometimes do when his father made him look upon beheadings when he was young. Crossed his eyes a little, so everything got a little blurry.

The healers had no clue what had happened to Lyla. Her lungs were flooded with some kind of acid, like that of a basilisk. Some suggested she might have been poisoned. Jon hardly believed that.

He felt his throat tightened a little when he saw the flames go up. Lyla... He'd never see her again. Not properly, at least.

The flames burned for a long while, and Jon suspected it would soon be over. Oddly, some of the people attending began to murmur with worry. Jon blinked slightly, trying to look at the fire.

She was still there. Unharmed by the flames.

Minutes passed. The fire didn't burn her at all, a layer of ash laid over her skin where they had wrapped a fur around her body.

Finally Daenerys stepped forward.

"We'll just have to bury her." She decided with a sigh. Her face was tight with distraught at the situation.

---

His steps were silent as he neared the end of the black stone road. A red mask over his face, like most Asshai'i wore. Krohln pulled his cloak tight around him the air growing stale the further he wandered into the shadows.

"Krohln!" His father called from behind him. He stopped, but barely turned to him. "Son. My son, if you go there, you will never return!" Krohln kept walking. "Please! This is irrational, please!"

"Do you doubt me, father?"

"Wh- what?"

"Do you doubt me?"

"Well.. No... I mean, Krohln, it's the Shadowlands. You are powerful, yes, but not even the Shadowbinders go very far!" His father tried to reason.

Krohln ignored his words, leaving his old father to weep silently into his sleeves while racing back to the city.

His journey was long. Eyes glared at him through the shadows, monsters and demons daring him to take one step closer. The Ash went from the smoky black to a low red, then full crimson.

Days went he traveled. His mask seemed to keep the smallest of the creatures away, the worst waited for him to take one step away from the Ash, one step into their reach. But Krohln knew better. He'd prepared his whole life for this.

No one's born in Asshai. They arrive. The young blood mage aspired for more. He came here with his father. Scrolled through every gods forsaken script he could get his burnt hands on.

He folded the papers he had brought with him. Some exotic trader had found some old, old dragon scales not far within the Shadowlands. Claimed that they "must've been ancient!"

But when Krohln touched them... No, he knew better. They still held warmth. They still held...

Life.