Kill the messenger

Up spoke, up spoke a mockingjay
Up from a willow tree
Saying, You had a father in the mines
Who's gone this day from thee thee
Who's gone this day from thee
Woe be woe be oh mockingjay
Woe be woe be to thee
I'll send an arrow through your heart
For to bring such news to me me
For to bring such news to me

Her naked feet make no sound as she walks through the dark empty halls. There is nothing but the howl of the wind and if she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine that she is home, really home, where the wolves would sing a lullaby at night. It's cold too, young Robin broke a window the other day, but she feels nothing even if her breath is a small white cloud in the freezing air. Her mind is occupied with other things tonight.

She listens to a voice speaking in her head, looks for memories of it that will give her the strength she will need tonight. It's not hard. She knows this voice better than her own these days, especially since she isn't sure anymore if her voice is really still hers. So many different lives and names and lies. Shouldn't her voice be different too?

Stupid little bird, the voice in her head comments on that. It's rough and hard, full of biting mockery, but she only smiles. It's right after all.

She rounds another corner, the corridor before her as deserted as was the last. It's a good thing that everyone is so concerned with the dangers that lurk outside that no one bothers to watch out for threats from within. The Eyrie is impregnable. Everyone knows that. And there is no reason to be afraid of caged birds, especially not little ones. But tonight she isn't planning on being a bird. Another memory swirls up, the sound of claws on stone, right by her side. She smiles at that too, but this time it's a sad one.

Another hallway, a flight of stairs and she reaches the door she's been looking for. Her heart beating furiously in her chest, she lays a hand on the smooth wood, hesitating. Once she has stepped through it there will be no turning back. What she's about to do will change her for forever and she knows it.

Killing is the sweetest thing there is, says the voice, but for once she doesn't believe it.

Is it really? Than why did you always look so bitter?

She wants to ask, but there is no one here to answer her question. Least of all the one to know the answer. If he would be everything would be so very different now. But that's the problem. There is no one else but her and so she will have to do it alone. And perhaps, she thinks, it's better that way. She's tired of waiting for someone to rescue her like it happens in the songs.

Life is not a song, she thinks sardonically, the echo of another voice in her head. She has learned that lesson. And she's been sorry. But even more so will he, for tonight she's a Stark. She's a wolf. Unsuspecting birds are no match for a direwolf on the prowl.

She takes a deep breath, in out, and silently opens the door, sliding through the tiny crack with a whisper of her garments. The room behind it lies in deep darkness. She knows she got the right one though, because the smell of mint hangs heavy in the air and it takes all her strength of will to keep from retching. She had never known how powerful a simple, harmless scent can be but she's sure that she will never be able again to eat something with mint in it. The smell alone makes her skin crawl, reminding her of fingers sliding up her sides and touching her through the thin fabric of her dress. The urge to empty her stomach becomes stronger, overwhelmingly so, and hastily she concentrates on the task at hand, listening hard to distract herself.

She can hear it then. Quiet and even breathing. He's fast asleep, just as she hoped. And he seems to be alone too. She wasn't sure if that would be the case. The looming shape of the bed is becoming clear to eyes, accustomed to the blinding darkness now. Another deep breath. In and out.

Killing is the sweetest thing there is.

She can do this. She has to. Quiet breathing fills her ears and echoes in her mind. There is nothing else in her world right now. Just the breathing and the ever-present scent of mint. And the cold, hard outline of the dagger in her hands. The dagger. Her fingers clutch the hilt tightly, her knuckles turning white. Her hands are trembling. She still feels nauseous.

If there will be a sign of what she's done this night? This cannot not leave a mark on her, can it? She looks down at her hands, almost as if expecting to see that what she's about to do written there already for all the world to see. But then she remembers that not all monsters are so honest to wear their darkness inside out. Most of them hide their fangs behind false smiles, their cruelty behind empty words. Just like the one she is staring down at right now.

But she knows there are other monsters too, ones that snarl and growl and flash their teeth at her and somehow that thought does not frighten but calm her. She knows those monsters. She can handle them.

In. Out. In. Out.

She raises her arms high above her head, grabbing the hilt with both hands just to have something to hold onto and leans over the man on the bed. Maybe he hears her breathing that is fast and shallow now. Maybe he feels her presence. Anyhow, he's awake now, blinking into the darkness before his eyes focus on her. She can see the moment he recognizes her and his lips stretch into a sickening sweet smile, can see his eyes darken with something she has seen there far too often. And then he sees the dagger.

His surprise is still etched in his face when she buries the blade deep in his heart, a quick and fluent motion, the cold steel cutting through skin and flesh and muscle without any resistance. A part of her wonders about how it can be so easy. Killing shouldn't be so easy, she thinks.

She's not sure how long she stands there, listening her breath, the only sound in the room now.

She waits for the guilt.

But it doesn't come.

She waits for the relief.

But it doesn't come.

Instead, she suddenly feels the cold. It burns on her skin, her bare feet are numb. And so she leaves, walking the way back to her chambers where her things are rolled into a tight bundle, wrapped in a stained cloak that once may have been white.

I'll have to return it, she thinks absentmindedly, her fingers brushing against the walls as she climbs the stairs. She does not want to be a murderer and a thief.

A/N: cause I can't wait for a certain someone to meet a terrible end... (and he better is, Mr. Martin, he better is!)

Also a big Thank You for the reviews...

i still rewrote this one as you may noticed(far far longer now) and now i like it better i think. Though i had to kill my favourite line. Hmh.. I'll have to write something else where I can use it I guess

see you around, Mag!

BTW:

The quote is by The Carolina Chocolate Drops (daughter's lament)

ASoIaF and all its characters belong to George R.R. Martin.

See ya, Mag~