04.19.15 - man the armory

They whisper it of Targaryens and Lannisters, but in the cold, terrible North, no one breathes a single word as Sansa Stark bears a fatherless son. They call him Snow, but the King in the North names him heir to the throne of Winterfell. His childless Southron wife says little save for the words she mutters to the Seven in the sept. The Winterfell direwolves, Grey Wind and his Lady, hold vigil by the new prince's cradle. The Targaryen Queen, having claimed the Red Keep, keeps her silence, and Westeros continues on as it has since the war's ending.

The first time he Silenced her was an accident, the lyrium in his blood releasing a wave of nullifying energy in response to the magic that pulsed delicately along her quivering skin. Her entire body tensed under him, and though no sound pushed from her parted lips, he felt her pleasure crest so violently that she took him right along with her, spending himself inside her tight heat while he watched her eyes widen in panic and confusion.

First there was the prince, all fists and noise and fury against the world that tore him from his mother's womb. He does not stop crying until he hears her outraged wail, shrill but short-lived. He was silent then, waiting patiently until the waiting women laid his sister beside him. Their little hands touch and only then does the young prince sleep.

the hospital was a god-damned tomb. with bruised skin and serrated nerves, she scaled the impossible steps, searched the helipad out, though she knew with heartbreaking certainty that the sky would send no saviors for her tonight. her head was pounding, and she tasted metal in her mouth, sharp and painful, like the insistent bite of a frenzied lover. overblown, a memory – the memory – slaps her in the face even as she blinks the haze from her bloodshot eyes. she was sniffling like a child; the pathetic, miserable sound echoed in the empty stairwell along with the monotonous tap-tap-tap of her stolen military-issue against unforgiving concrete.

Climb! she told herself, though to what end, she had no clue. all she knew was that her tattered shirt sported her firstborn’s blood, and jamie—godfuck, jamie, where the hell are you? her other half, heart of her soul, was lost somewhere in the vast oblivion outside of her stupid sanctuary. she had to find him. tonight, of all nights, she needed to feel whole.

she had this silly thought.. ridiculous, really. it seeded itself within her veins in place of the grief that should have paralyzed her into nonexistence. she thought that maybe - who knew, maybe - maybe if she found the rooftop and looked hard enough, searched long enough, she’d spot the unmistakable shock of golden hair peeking from the ocean of nothingness that had become of their city. it was pitch black tonight, and jamie was sure to shine.

so her legs, tired and aching, carried her like tattered wings, propelled her forward even when she could no longer see through the bitter tears clouding her vision. her name was cersei lannister and, by the seven, she was so fucking sorry.