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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.

Chapter List
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Fresh tears streaked down Lyanna's face, misting and freezing upon her cheeks before they even had a chance to fall to the ground. Horrified, she glanced over at her hand. What was once a part of her body was now an unrecognizable, frothy mess of steaming blood and squirting meat. Jagged shards of bone jutted out of the flattened appendage in sharp, splintered angles, and her knife had been crushed and hammered down into the fleshy pulp.
“I am so sorry cousin, I should have listened! I should have stayed in the crypt with the other children!” she wept pitifully, clutching her ruined hand and bringing it to her chest.
Jorah Mormont stood upon the battlements, a grief-stricken expression on his face as he heard her wailing cries. His Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but he hardly noticed it. Sansa, who was famously indecisive, stood between her brother Bran and her sister Arya, wondering if she should order the soldiers under her command to rescue the girl. The Mormonts were one of the most loyal vassal families to the Starks, and she still considered herself a Stark; though in truth, she was all at once a Stark, a Lannister, and a Bolton. Though she had never been divorced from Tyrion, her marriage had also never been consummated, which by Westerosi law, meant that Bolton was her one true husband. But she had also fed him to his dogs, so the question of what to call her remained a mystery for the time being.
The legions of wights in the courtyard formed a massive, teeming circle around Lyanna and the Night's King, for he wanted an audience for what he was about to do next. The wights smelled overwhelmingly of rotting meat and decomposing body parts, forcing Lyanna to use her remaining good hand to cover her nose as the air was thick with their awful stench. She dreaded the sight of them up close, because it was harder to deny what the truly were. Not monsters, but men, women, and children. People. Murdered and enthralled by the corpse-king. Although the wights seemed frozen in place, they continued to chatter their bony jaws together, sounding like a chorus of cicadas. The Night's King regarded her from beneath a curtain of oily black hair that seemed to sprout from his head like grave-grass. The sharp, white pinpricks of his eyes glinted menacingly beneath the greasy locks.

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“Hath the realm of men swelled so overripe in its decadence that it now sends its children off to fight and die?” the Night's King asked as he looked down at the crying girl, “In the days of auld, men of valor would be dispatched to meet We of the White Shadow in combat, not mewling babes.”
Although the Night King's parted slightly as he spoke, the sound actually emanated from the mist surrounding him. His voice sounded like a chorus of cacophonous murmurs; as though it were actually the legions of the dead speaking for him. His manner of speech was archaic, sprinkled with words and phrases from the Old Tongue that were only still spoken beyond the wall.
Lyanna shrunk into herself as she felt the creature's cold eyes running up and down the length of her body, radiating with malevolence. Suddenly, she felt a strange prickling sensation in her mind, as though an icy finger was flipping through pages in her mind. She tried to fight off the uncomfortable feeling, but she had never felt something so intrusive or strange before. Unsure of how to repel an intruder burrowing deep into her thoughts, she simply screamed out and frantically shook her head, as if this might dislodge him from her mind.
“Ah, so ye are the sovereign of the meager isle adjacent to the Frozen Shore,” the Night's King spat, for he bore a special hatred for the lords and ladies of the North, “Born of the lineage that assumes the semblance of bears. An <b>auld</b> family. Were ye not taught that sows were not forged for battle, little one? Their purpose lies in the realm of rutting and protecting their cubs. 'Tis time someone unveiled thy proper station and reminded thee thereof!”
The Night's King voice was a harsh whisper now, sharp and cold in Lyanna's ear. She desperately attempted to make her legs move, to kick out at her assailant or speed her to safety, but they seemed completely unresponsive to the signals she was sending. The Night's King stretched his hand up toward the sky and took off the old, iron crown that was balanced on his head. He placed it carefully on the ground, letting it rest in the snow. He then began releasing the buckles of his reflective thigh armor one at a time, letting the pieces of shimmering mail clatter loudly to the ground. Wordlessly, he stepped out of his trousers and let them pool at his feet, revealing his manhood, which was as pale and well-preserved as the rest of him. As a prim and proper young lady, Lyanna had never seen a man's naked penis before. In her bewilderment, she momentarily forgot her fear as she stared at the vivid blue veins shooting across the length of the corpse-king's shaft. The only indication that she was looking at a dead man's dick was the fact that rather than covering his glans, the creature's foreskin was hanging in tatters from his cock like the skin of a peeled fruit.
“What is this?! What are you doing?” Lyanna hissed in confusion and revulsion.
“You know, bear-child,” the Night's King whispered coldly to her in response, “You know.”
A fresh near fear gripped Lyanna's heart and she tried to push herself up off the ground, but the Night's King placed a firm hand on her chest and shoved her back into the snow with a surprising amount of strength. The wights encircling them were still chattering, but the sound was now accompanied by the shrill thrum of their bones and armor clinking together as they bounced excitedly.
“Please, don't do this! I've only seen twelve years pass!” she gasped fearfully.
He seems more conscious than the other dead things, more human. Surely, he must listen to reason? Surely there is some mercy in him?
“Be still child. Thy mortal years hold little weight in mine eyes, for when mine purpose is fulfilled in this realm, thy castles and strongholds shall be entombed beneath the icy shroud of snow, and the very fabric of time shall coalescence into one eternal night, stretching forth unending!”
“He speaks of the Long Night!” Melisandre wailed from atop the ramparts, and her knees buckled from underneath her as she collapsed on the ground, “Of the time of perpetual winter, before men drew the Others back at the Battle for the Dawn!”
“We need a maester and some milk of the poppy!” the newly-knighted Ser Brienne of Tarth cried out, catching the red priestess in her arms.
The priestess writhed miserably in the woman's embrace as if being assaulted by some unseen force. Spittle flew from her mouth as she began babbling in some unknown, foreign tongue. Melisandre suddenly let out an anguished cry. Her body started to convulse and her eyes rolled back into her head as she began foaming at the mouth. Jaime Lannister rushed to get help, but when he returned with a maester and some milk of the poppy, it was too late. Melisandre's thrashing had stopped and she lay still and silent in Brienne's arms. The woman's hair had gone completely grey and her skin had wrinkled and browned like old parchment dipped in tea.
“Throw the bitch over the side and be done with it,” grumbled Gregor Clegane, backing away from the corpse as though it were contagious. He had been wary of the fire witch ever since he had laid eyes on her.
Brienne, incensed at his insensitivity, accused him of cowardice and cruelty. Gregor thought about this accusation for a few seconds and then accused her of being a big, ugly cunt. The two began arguing and nearly came to blows, before Jaime Lannister broke them apart and reminded them that the true enemy was out there, pointing derisively at the Night's King.
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The Humiliation of Lyanna Mormont