The Humiliation of Lyanna Mormont | By : Meowshi Category: G through L > Game of Thrones Views: 13397 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire, nor any of the characters from these series. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
Even after the demise of the Night King, the ethereal fog lingered over the woods. Jon stood vigil over the creature's corpse, half-expecting it to rise again and strike out against him. Eventually, his stomach warned him that he needed to escape the shadowy forest before he starved, and he left the creature's shimmering milkglass skeleton lying prone against the ancient weirwood statue.
When he finally emerged from the Wolfswood, he was first greeted by Wolf, who pounced on him like he was still a small pup and knocked him to the ground. Jon laughed, scratching the direwolf behind the ears and marveling at the massive war camp that had been erected just outside of the forest. “When did they have time to construct all this?” Jon asked his companion in bewilderment.
It turned out that Jon had actually been missing in the woods for five days. The mist seemed to not only affect one's sense of direction but also the mind's perception of time passing. Over the next few days, more individuals began to emerge from the misty forest, each having wildly different ideas of how much time had passed. Sandor Clegane, drenched in sweat and clutching his sword, stumbled out of the trees shortly after Jon; shouting for water and claiming that he had been disorientated in the fog for a moon's turn. The Knights of the Vale surfaced a few hours later, under the impression that they had only been trekking through the mire for a few minutes, though their armor and weapon were caked in mud and many of their clean-shaven faces had sprouted beards. It quickly became apparent that the Night King's enchantment on the wood would endure long after his death, so Jon commanded his men to start posting warnings on the trees, forbidding access to the haunting forest.
The march back to Winterfell was a celebratory one. Even though the Northern armies knew that they would have to march south to make war with the Lannisters, that was a problem for the future. For now, it was a time of unbridled jubilation, for the living had triumphed over the dead. In the carriage he shared with Daenerys, Jon remarked on how unusually slippery and washed-out the roads seemed to be getting. Something suddenly occurred to Daenerys and she pointed out the window, beckoning Jon to look at the trees. The snow was dripping from the branches and onto the roads in big, languid drops.
“Spring is coming,” he said with a casual laugh, though she didn't get the jest.
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The war procession reconvened at the shattered gates of Winterfell, the sight where they first pushed back the slavering hordes of the undead. Naturally, the individual armies were planning to go their separate ways, but before that happened, Jon was asked to say a few words to commemorate their astounding victory. Unfortunately, midway through his speech, which was not particularly impressive to begin with, someone in the crowd began to loudly and incoherently shout.
Jon assumed the man would be quickly silenced or thrown out, but he gasped when he realized it was his brother, Bran Stark. Jon approached the boy, who was writhing in his seat and nearly foaming at the mouth, when suddenly Bran's neck snapped back and he pointed at Jon accusatorially.
“He is the Prince That Was Promised! The White Wolf! His is the song of ice and fire! His is the legend dating back to Aegon of House Targaryen! He is the Warden of the North! The Vanquisher of the Long Night! Jon the Fire-Risen! Jon the Undying! Friend to the Wildlings and Protector of the Living! He is Azor Ahai reborn! The Warrior of Light! He is the Blood of the Dragon! He is the rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! He is ... the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!”
Jon backed away from the lad, utterly perplexed by these words. He didn't want it. He had pledged himself to Daenerys. They all had. He didn't care that he was a Targaryen. What right did that give him to rule anything?
Bran suddenly wilted in his seat as though all the energy had vanished from him. Melisandre, who everyone had assumed had died, suddenly appeared behind the boy and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, beaming a bright smile. She loomed protectively over the boy and he seemed to shrink before her. The red priestess looked much refreshed from her illness, the wrinkles had vanished from her skin and the gray streaks in her hair had faded away. The ruby at her throat seemed to pulse in time with the beating of her heart and her captivating red eyes turned towards Jon, sparkling joyfully.
Men began to fall to their knees and cries out “Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!” began to ring out from every camp. Not all of them, not even half; but near enough as makes no matter.
Cobb Bright-Eyes found himself on his knees, cheering along with the crowd for the one who had defeated the dead.
Daenerys looked around with a hurt, bewildered look on her face. They had pledged their allegiance to her, had they not? Were the words of these Westerosi nothing but wind, as fleeting as the passing breeze? She looked at Jon, and thankfully he seemed to be as uncomfortable as she was. She loved Jon, but could she trust him? Could she trust anyone in this land of strangers?
Something had been nagging at her ever since she had emerged from the haunted woods and reunited with Jon. Something felt wrong. As if they had missed something, or made some grave error. The sun was unusually oppressive in the sky, hot and implacable. Missandei stood close to her side, wafting cool air across her face with a pleated fan, and her khalasar bloodriders had stripped down to the waist, their muscular chests streaked with sweat.
She felt a nervous bead of sweat run down her spine and she glanced up to see that Melisandre was staring at her with a gleam of mad fervor in her eyes. Every instinct inside her warned that the red priestess was untrustworthy, but Melisandre's penetrating gaze was not unfriendly. On the contrary, it seemed to beckon her closer, as if it held the promise of secrets and hidden truths.
“Long live the King! The Son of Fire, beloved of R'hllor!” she called out in a frenzy. Although it seemed that her words were directed at Jon, she hadn't taken her glimmering red eyes off Daenerys.
Her network of spies and advisors had nothing but grim news to report. A priest from Volantis, whose skin was black as pitch, whispered dark words into Euron Greyjoy's ears. A young man calling himself a Targaryen had just arrived in the Stormlands with an army of mercenaries at his back. Cersei Lannister was siphoning off large quantities of wildfire from King's Landing for some unknown purpose. A sense of dread was welling up in the girl's chest, fear of the unknown clutching at her beating heart. She was wise to be worried, for just as the sorrowful symphony of ice was coming to a close in the world, the bastardly ballad of fire was only just beginning.
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Cobb Bright-Eyes was one of the commoners assigned to the job of stacking corpses for burning. To his great sorrow, he found Lyanna among the lifeless remains, her body broken and neglected. The sight of his beloved lady in such a state broke his heart. The lower half of her body was mangled beyond recognition, shattered and ripped apart up to her abdomen. Her upper half however remained mostly intact and looked much like it had in life. The frigid conditions of Winterfell had preserved her body well, and her skin was still smooth and white, unblemished, pale as cream. Cobb grasped for the girl's flat chest, kneading the soft flesh between his fingers and marveling at how her nipples still pebbled beneath his fingers despite the lack of blood flowing through her body. With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, he brought his lips down onto hers and kissed the fallen Lady of Mormont. A single, languid tear fell out of Cobb’s good eye as he bid farewell to his sovereign and flung her defiled corpse onto the pyre. Tucking his growing erection into the waistband of his breeches, he went to go find another corpse to drag to the funeral pyre.
Drogon, the gigantic dragon of Daenerys Targaryen, spread its red-black wings and soared across the sky like a rolling shadow. “Dracarys!” shouted the Queen of Fire and Blood, and her dragon released a flood of fire from its mouth, engulfing the pyre. With so many thousands dead, the resulting inferno was titanic in scale, creating a churning plume of smoke that could be seen for miles. Lyanna Mormont would not be transported back to Bear Island to be buried alongside her sisters and mother, but instead, she would be burned atop a mound of lowborn commoners miles away from her home.
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