as i walk through the valley of the shadow of death; i take a look at my life and realize there's nothing left.
open starter for everyone!
location: the quaratine quarters, cerion is already dead & the antidote was finally administered.
tw: sickness, vomit, death mention.
the heat seizes you first. it’s everywhere at once, smothering you under the blankets and burning inside your chest. then the real pain sets in. it's not a sharp prick, no. it's a deep, foul ache burrowed into your flesh and bone, making every limb feel too heavy to lift. a voice echoes from somewhere above, muffled like you're drowning. you can't catch the words. a hand presses against your hot forehead while another yanks your chin up. they force a bitter draft between your teeth. the taste is rank, making your stomach heave. you try to reject it, but fingers lock your jaw in place. swallow. you can't tell whether you obey the voice or if your body has simply lost the will to fight. light and dark trade places. white cloth. the ceiling. a face appears above you, then it’s gone, replaced by another that disappears just as fast. shadows crowd the room, carrying bowls, cloths, and candles. you think someone is praying near the bed. then you think someone is crying. both sounds terrify you. the fever comes in waves. or perhaps it is not a fever at all. you know fevers. you'd seen it take your lady mother. and for a while, brewing elixirs became your fixation, you pestered your maesters, demanded they'd tell you; willow bark, yarrow, peppermint-- perhaps add some macerated elderflower and ginger to the mix. maiden's finger, that blue root from the vale, could quickly heal blood coughs and a bad stomach.
but no, this isn't the sickness that struck the stormlands a few seasons back. you know the difference. this is something much worse, something foul and intentional. the suspicion takes root in your mind and won't let go, even while your thoughts unravel. you try to speak, to say it out loud, but your tongue feels thick and your lips are useless. nothing comes out but a ruined sound. it's infuriating, smothering you from the inside. you're still completely conscious; your thoughts are frantic, hammering against your skull, but there's no outlet left. you are a prisoner in your own body, and you can already feel the walls starting to give way. everything blurs into a haze where time doesn't exist. you find yourself biting down on a thick rag, tasting the metallic sting of blood before you even realize it’s in your mouth. someone has you by the shoulders. a voice keeps hammering away at your name. amaya. amaya. amaya. trying to tether you to the living. it fails. you sink, you surface, you sink again. then, out of the noise, a word breaks through. poison. it echoes in the room: "…certainly poison…" "...not a fever…" "...gods help us…" poison. of course it is. the realization dawns on you all at once. the kingsmoot. someone wanted the throne so badly they struck out blindly at every neck in sight. you want to laugh at their desperation, but another violent cough tears through your chest and you come asunder. then the dark swallows you whole.
the room looks different when you drift back to consciousness. for the first time, you notice the endless row of beds. some figures are moving; others are asleep. your vision blurs the second you turn your neck. through the haze, you spot the unmistakable gold of cerion lannister's hair. then jorah bolton, vaiora redwyne, and hira targaryen. but it’s the next face that makes you lock eyes. the grand maester. oh, no. no, no, no. a weak laugh rattles somewhere inside your chest. "f-fucking…" your throat burns. the rest dissolves into a cough. "…hell." if the grand maester is taking up a sickbed, the court is completely fucked. you close your eyes, the horror finally sinking its claws into you. you succumb to the thought: what happens if i die? the poison is nothing compared to the realization of who will take your place. lyanna and steffon. the two most incompetent creatures you know, presiding over the vale. the thought is so revolting it physically rejects itself from your body; your jaw is forced open by a sudden, hot rush of bile that spills out over the linen. you lie back, tasting the sour ruin of your own choices. you spent years refusing to adopt a proper successor with your wife, draped in the arrogant belief that you had time to spare. you don't. the truth is bitterer than the vomit, harsher, too, than the coil in your stomach and the heat crawling in again. you are growing tired of this. take me. take me.
does the stranger actually claim the faithless, you wonder? where do you go when you die? no way to tell. out of the dark, someone craddles your head and pries gently at your jaw, making way for a liquid to slide into your mouth. your throat moves. more comes, bitter and dark, completely different from the previous medicine. an antidote, perhaps. you do not know and you are too tired to ask. hours or days dissolve, but then comes the light; not the raving, scarlet fire of the fever, but actual sunlight that makes you wince. you open your eyes, and suddenly the ceiling doesn't move. your throat is pure sand and broken glass, and every muscle is sore, but the pulse in your neck is finally steady. you blink through the glare and see a silhouette lingering by your bed, watching. you look at them for a long time before your hoarse voice breaks the silence. "fuck you're looking at? ...ew."
