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a drabble a day keeps boredom awaygame of thrones
Winterfell.
For the first time in its turbulent existence, it looks hideous; a graveyard. The sea of decaying corpses and detached limbs that fills the courtyard and stretches all the way to the open field past the gates is what Sansa sees upon emerging from the crypts with heavy steps. Gods know she won't be setting foot down there for the foreseeable future, not after witnessing generations worth of dead Starks breaking free from their tombs and ripping to shreds anyone with a beating heart. The air outside is thick, poisoned by a range of different odors, all of them unpleasant. Ashes and death, rotting flesh and blood.
A despicable place. Sansa can barely recognize her home.
Northerners and southerners alike wander in despair, looking for their loved ones. Some find them on their feet. Others weep. They weep screaming. It's the most devastating melody in the world and, sadly, a melody she relates to.
Death is everywhere she looks. Thousands upon thousands of bodies scattered, and there, among them... the dragon Queen. She cradles what is unmistakably the lifeless body of Jorah Mormont and her grief manifests itself in the form of loud sobs and searing tears, her eyes blood red. The tragic moment in all of its intensity leaves no-one untouched and Sansa can only feel sympathy. She and Daenerys weren't particularly fond of one another and there was a chasm between them which they didn't seem willing to fix. But pain speaks in a language everyone understands; it has a way of bringing people together. Sansa knows it when the need to comfort the silver-haired leader becomes almost primitive.
Something stops her. The alarming realization that she has yet to encounter a single member of her own family suddenly dawns on her and soon, a stronger need roots itself deep within, commanding her to look for them, to ensure they are alive. Arya, Jon, Theon...
Theon.
She finds them at the Godswood. The breathtaking, sacred place that served as a shelter to the Starks for decades today mourned the loss of one more beloved member. He's on the ground, lying on a soft blanket of crimson snow, dead before his time by the hand of the Night King himself. Kneeling beside him is a visibly exhausted Arya who pulls the spear from his body and closes his eyes with her fingertips. Nothing in her quiet, precise movements gives away her victory. Nothing in her mournful posture gives away that she defeated the bringer of the long night by herself. Sansa's gaze meets hers and their grief is identical. In the distance, Bran watches them both in silence unperturbed, always displaying a cold demeanor, colder than the North's heaviest winter. How she hates his apathy. How she envies it.
The threat is gone now, yet none of the survivors have the heart to celebrate. In spite of the eventual outcome, the army of the dead took countless lives; splendid soldiers, husbands, loyal friends and advisors. So many souls for the living to weep for.
And the night finds them all mourning.
For the first time in its turbulent existence, it looks hideous; a graveyard. The sea of decaying corpses and detached limbs that fills the courtyard and stretches all the way to the open field past the gates is what Sansa sees upon emerging from the crypts with heavy steps. Gods know she won't be setting foot down there for the foreseeable future, not after witnessing generations worth of dead Starks breaking free from their tombs and ripping to shreds anyone with a beating heart. The air outside is thick, poisoned by a range of different odors, all of them unpleasant. Ashes and death, rotting flesh and blood.
A despicable place. Sansa can barely recognize her home.
Northerners and southerners alike wander in despair, looking for their loved ones. Some find them on their feet. Others weep. They weep screaming. It's the most devastating melody in the world and, sadly, a melody she relates to.
Death is everywhere she looks. Thousands upon thousands of bodies scattered, and there, among them... the dragon Queen. She cradles what is unmistakably the lifeless body of Jorah Mormont and her grief manifests itself in the form of loud sobs and searing tears, her eyes blood red. The tragic moment in all of its intensity leaves no-one untouched and Sansa can only feel sympathy. She and Daenerys weren't particularly fond of one another and there was a chasm between them which they didn't seem willing to fix. But pain speaks in a language everyone understands; it has a way of bringing people together. Sansa knows it when the need to comfort the silver-haired leader becomes almost primitive.
Something stops her. The alarming realization that she has yet to encounter a single member of her own family suddenly dawns on her and soon, a stronger need roots itself deep within, commanding her to look for them, to ensure they are alive. Arya, Jon, Theon...
Theon.
She finds them at the Godswood. The breathtaking, sacred place that served as a shelter to the Starks for decades today mourned the loss of one more beloved member. He's on the ground, lying on a soft blanket of crimson snow, dead before his time by the hand of the Night King himself. Kneeling beside him is a visibly exhausted Arya who pulls the spear from his body and closes his eyes with her fingertips. Nothing in her quiet, precise movements gives away her victory. Nothing in her mournful posture gives away that she defeated the bringer of the long night by herself. Sansa's gaze meets hers and their grief is identical. In the distance, Bran watches them both in silence unperturbed, always displaying a cold demeanor, colder than the North's heaviest winter. How she hates his apathy. How she envies it.
The threat is gone now, yet none of the survivors have the heart to celebrate. In spite of the eventual outcome, the army of the dead took countless lives; splendid soldiers, husbands, loyal friends and advisors. So many souls for the living to weep for.
And the night finds them all mourning.