art by majara_, Bridget
how ruthless are the gentle - 0. prologue
And she was there . In front of father’s empty crypt, she was there. Torchlight bathing her in an unsteady glow, hiding half of her in the dark, with her shadow flickering against the granite walls, dancing, while she kept stone still. Taller – that was the first thought he had. She was taller than he remembered. Her face sharper, her hair longer, her eyes sad.
She was there. And the lid of father’s crypt was opened.
Bran meant to call her name, he did. He meant to run to her, hug her as he had before she’d left. Ask her why she’d led him here, what she wanted from him. But he could not speak. He was frightened of her. And even in a dream that was to him unnatural and strange.
She looked at him then, and Bran shivered. It seemed as if she meant to say something, but though her lips moved, she did not make a sound. The fact seemed to distress her. She brought her hand up, as if to touch him, and that was he saw it. It was not a torch she was holding. The fire was in her hand. A red coal clutched tight between her fingers. Blood dripped from her fist.
