It is not fear that freezes Sam's gut; it is anguish.
All the anguish he cannot treat.
His words and numbers and categories do nothing for the dying who cannot die in peace, the women sick with grief that their men are lost, the men sick with grief that their women are lost.
~o~
Even the dragons falter.
Shivers in their wings grow to shudders; snow finds no resting place on their skin.
Daenerys does not falter.
She does not know.
~o~
Even Valyrian steel and dragonglass shatter.
The Night King and his Queen dwell within a cold that stills all with its sorrow.
Sam knows.
They will die.
~o~
Orange fists of flame beat back an ocean of snow.
"It is not a woman or a man."
Their heat gives Melisandre voice.
"It is the promise of humility."
~o~
Death comes without dying.
Anguish stabs blood made solid, twisting and carving and gutting.
~o~
"You have to, Jaime."
The vial underneath Brienne's wrist shines softly in the candlelight.
Icy wind slices the flame.
Brienne holds out Oathkeeper, gleaming red-gold.
A secret spark of dawn.
"Do you remember the Riverlands?"
Jaime's voice is quiet as the dark.
"I won't scream."
A muscle twitches in Jaime's cheek.
"This is as much of a violation."
At Jaime's shoulder, the linen of his tunic bunches where Tormund holds him fast.
"She'll not be alone, after."
The cut is swift and clean.
~o~
Daenerys is a small girl, without claws to rend her heart and offer it to Drogon's flame.
Her weapons a gift to grief.
"How can I cripple my children?"
Jon's breath blows frozen mist into their chamber.
"The same way Jaime crippled Brienne."
~o~
Rhaegal unfurls his wing.
Strong in soft green silence.
The gems in Longclaw's pommel glitter blue in the endless black.
~o~
Death comes without dying.
Colours blood with its greatest power.
~o~
Melisandre lays herself on wood and blood and flesh.
Softness in her smile.
She will sleep on silk.
~o~
Jaime's tear steams on Brienne's palm.
~o~
Dany's tears shimmer, molten salt on red, green, and white.
~o~
The rulers and their army fall to ash.
In the air hangs their stillness, brightening.
As if they had longed for the summons of the sun.
~o~
After swordplay, one left hand holds another.
~o~
Tyrion lays out wood and parchment and leather.
"They've each only lost one wing."
~o~
Many summers later, history ripens, a falling star searing into a distant sky.
What they reached for, that in never-grasping, made them.
~o~
A girl's mother claims she is too frail for sword-dancing.
The girl reads of the woman who gave her hand, and how she danced again.
The woman who gave her dragons' wings, and how they flew again.
The girl's smile is her own star.
Her fingers fall upon the the hilt of her blade, the comet's tail.
~o~
In the shadow city across the Narrow Sea, Melisandre's ghost glows.
Bloodsong breaks centuries of silence; winged flesh flames sweet with light.
Sweeter still with life.