𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐀𝐊 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 , 𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 & 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐁 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 ; dappled evening sunlight streams through the breaks in dense foliage & warms the girl beneath , poised in supplication amidst dragon’s breath blossoms . she appears as though a statue of marble , immobile , as if patiently waiting for nature to reclaim what was once earth , what will be again : smokeberry vines tangled around her throat , her mouth full and choking on crimson petals . it is all red here . the plants , the stone . she wonders if it’s a testament to all the blood that’s been shed . the news of queen daenerys’ death hovers over all of them like an omen — a swift blade in the hands of an executioner . they are the condemned .
it’s not prayer , for the fallen queen or otherwise , that she partakes in , though one would assume such from appearance alone . the facelessness of the supposed heart tree has left her awash in fear even stronger than previously thought . there is something stilted and dangerous about the clear irreverence displayed here , in a place where they are claimed to be welcome . her stomach twists anxiously ; all she can see is the statue of lord eddard stark , still & solemn in their crypt . he had been here once . he had died here . the beat of her heart hitches in fright for her family .
it would be better to call it conversation that she engages in , lilting , stilling only to revive again . as her thoughts drift in between reality & obscurity , wind rustles through the leaves overhead ; in it , she hears her father’s tired , gently chiding sigh , and so she hums apologetically in response , quiet and tentative . she can feel the old gods here , even with the false heart tree & the blood of broken smokeberries staining the front of her silken dress , fingers twisting in the grass & stems of the lily - like flowers surrounding her . not a godswood , but a garden . not a girl , but a lone phantom .
until another comes to haunt alongside her . she does not need to see him , hear him — she needs only look to her heart and know . gaze does not flutter , no move is made to turn towards him . it is unnecessary . they need no indication . “ hello , victarion . ” in her voice , a smile trills , a bluebird’s song on spring’s first morning . it is , with little doubt , the first and only she has worn today . the wind stirs again as if murmuring acknowledgement , and her chin tucks atop bare shoulder to greet him with a fond gaze . he is a jagged shadow in the glow of the sunset , hovering between towering elms . were she able , she thinks she’d like to paint him here in shades of vermillon & sable , a wraith amongst men . “ if i try hard enough , the petals of the dragon’s breath — ” she offers up an aforementioned flower to receive his judgement , stem weaved between her trembling fingers . “ — could be weirwood leaves , don’t you think ? ” it is the gentlest form of complaint one could hear — spoken as such that one might never realize it was a complaint at all , if they did not know her .
@wildlingsblood .
