The Cold Cruel World
Gentle Mother, font of mercy,
save our sons from war, we pray,
stay the swords and stay the arrows,
let them know a better day.
Gentle Mother, strength of women,
help our daughters through this fray,
soothe the wrath and tame the fury,
teach us all a kinder way.
Slowly the knife leaves her throat, back into its sheath, though it seems a long moment before he moves himself. She does not move either. Her palm stays where it is upon his face, against the mix of dry blood that is not his own and wet tears that are. A soft touch, her instinct, his comfort, something that means so much more than she could ever imagine.
"Little bird," The rasp is quiet now, and full of an emotion she will come to wonder at many times when this night is over. She barely hears him over the shrieks, the clash of steel and the thunder of explosions that sound just outside her window. His breath is hot, foul, and ragged as he hovers heavy over her, reeking of wine and sweat, and so much gore. Then he shifts, his weight removed as he stands to his full height and his black shape towers over the bed.
His grip, tight around her wrist, gives her a tug. He pulls her up off the bed to stand on the floor beside him, gently she thinks, or perhaps she is simply used to rough hands.
"Come with me." He says low. It had been meant as a command, but he hesitates and it sounds more like a plea. "Use your wings. I know you have them." So, wordless, she nods and puts her fate in his hands that pull her out and into the green shadows of the dark hall.
I cannot leave, what of Ser Dontos? She thinks too late. He had offered to help me... But when? He can take me now. He is fiercer, and a better fighter... Yet she falters in her step, and mumbles something about going back to fetch a more practical gown.
"No time." He hushes her shortly in his gruff tone, slurring words as he pulls her along, tightens his grip on her arm. She lifts her skirts with her free hand, trying to keep up. Her legs have grown long, but his are longer still and he keeps a quick gait just ahead of her own, cursing when his steps stagger drunkenly.
Outside the world is green and filled with a smell she has never beheld before; an awful, acrid odor that makes her eyes water, her nose and throat burn with the urge to retch. She gags and coughs and brings her sleeve up to her face. "It's the bodies. They're burning." He rasps down at her, and the smell becomes that much more terrifying, even more so when she realizes he, too, may be just as afraid.
They reach the stables with no encounters. Everyone is fighting or hiding or running just as they are. The earthy smell of animals and manure is a welcome relief. He leads a sable creature out of the stall. It snorts and stamps, sensing a fight to be had, anxious to return to the field of battle.
She is placed unceremoniously onto the mount and he swings up behind her, taking her in his arms and the reigns in his hands. His legs tense, and they lurch into movement, fleeing for their lives on a beast named for death.
The gate is manned, of course, but scarcely so. The battle that rages on the shore calls louder, with more concern for keeping Stannis out than keeping smallfolk in. Those left to guard are young and green, frightened soldiers barely out of boyhood. They have no choice but to let the masses by, sword in hand yet unmoving as they gape fearfully at the mob running the streets. Those guards who had been brave enough, foolish enough, to try and stop the horde are among those twitching on the ground, muddy and groaning, or those slumped over against the blood-spattered stone wall like red, resting puppets.
There are the shrill screams of both men and women, the macabre cries of babes or children lost. Those on foot push froward, taking the bags others carry, and running off ahead through the gate. Horses trample those who can't get out of the way.
She feels his breath, still heavy, and hot on her crown, the low rumble as he growls when the sea of people surge against the horse. They reach up, tug at her dress, try to take. He cuts them down with as much ease as he had done that day, and they fall as saplings to an axe. Warm, crimson fluid splashes against her. She sits quiet in saddle, and things fall to pieces on every side.
His arm wraps across her shoulders, holding her tightly against his chest. The armor is dented and cold, and the blood on the metal seeps into the back of her dress. But she cannot find it in her to care. She has already crawled inside of herself, entered into that place she goes when fists pound into her stomach or the flat of a sword lashes against her skin. Instinct grips her, and she clutches to his large limb throughout it all, knowing at least that he is the lesser of so very many evils in this cold, cruel world.