She fears the dark.
The unsteady shadow that engulfs the room as the sun sets across the land. Outside the world is bathed in soft silver light but there are no stars on her ceiling, no moon in her hearth, and so she is left in the dark-alone.
Then she must draw the hangings around her bed, and blow out the candle. Darkness consumes the room instantly. And she is caged in behind heavy fabric, smothered by shadows.
Her mind races and sweat goes cold on her brow. Her sword arm throbs and it shakes uncontrollably, yet she cannot still it. She wishes for the dawn, for the light.
She hates that the darkness has such power over her. That she who rejected the shadow, who fought off Grima's advances, who slew the Witch King, she who is sung of in lays and praised as a hero of the Great War, that she trembles in the darkness of her own bed chamber.
She tosses in her place, the bed is too large and the blankets too warm. The air is too thin and she struggles with each gasping breath. She will drown in the endless dark, she knows.
It is not until morning with the dawn and her husbands return, that she is free to breath again.
A/N: Don't own it.