This is a story that has been in my mind for almost a year. It was a sort of a fantasy that (partially) soothed the wounds Season 8 left. I had it in my mind, replaying it, tweaking it, adding to it, on and on, but never writing it.
I may lack a sense of modesty, but I do think it is a beautiful story and I am fascinated at how it just sparked into existence, from beginning to end, in my mind. I usually get a glimpse or just a dialogue from where I need to weave a story. This one though, just appeared fully and that's too rare an opportunity to pass.
Enjoy, hopefully.
Lucene
Blood.
There was blood everywhere. Black on the floor, on the bed, on her hands, in her mouth. Blood and silence. No voice, no movement, not even the wind. All was still and frightening. „I should sit." She would fall if not. She gathered her small boy in her shaking arms and sat on the sticky, bloody blanket. It was a good blanket. It was made from the finest wool found in the Crownlands. Soft and warm. She had swaddled and comforted all three of her babes in it. Daeron was still fond of it and couldn't sleep without it.
She looked down at the baby boy in her arms. His arms were so tiny, his head round and his cheeks soft and chubby. He was still a baby. A walking, talking baby, but a baby nonetheless. She brushed his silver hair off his forehead. The blood had dried and the hair was stiff. She kissed him then. Long and hard. Squeezed him to her chest. Gathered him in her lap and arms until he was no larger than an infant. Not larger than he was two years ago when she had first held him in her arms, just as bloody as he was now.
She fell back on the bed with him. „Its okay, my love. Sleep. You always love sleeping with your mommy." She whispered and gently touched his soft cheek. So small. He wouldn't ever learn how to sail, or swim, or ride, or love a woman and his very own sons. She would never get to know him well, properly. She would never know what kind of man he would become.
She tried crying, but couldn't. She almost covered the small boy's pale body with her own. She would have put him back in her belly if she could. She would have put them all three back in her womb. This was no world for children. She now understood why at every birth she felt a sense of loss, of emptiness. At every birth she secretly mourned letting her children out into the world, this horrible, abhorrent world.
It felt better now. She could hear the seagulls. She could hear the sea. Nothing had changed. It was all as before. She drifted to sleep with her nose buried in her son's hair, his comforting and familiar baby smell dulling everything, even the metallic scent permeating the room.
It was dark when she awoke. For a moment she forgot. Then she felt it. The stiffness and coldness of the small body in her arms. Then it happened. It finally happened.
She wailed like she had never wailed before. A scream so deep, so strong that the seas stilled and the gulls fled. Like an animal, like a beast, with all her being, with every part of her body, she screamed, she roared and she wanted to die, to kill…to burn. Her mind had left her. She was nothing but instinct and matter. A beast and as a beast she cried all night. When the summer sun rose, her violet eyes were surrounded by angry red veins and wide opened starring at nothing, her son still clasped in her beast arms.
She didn't feel anything again. She climbed off the bed, carrying her babe, blood covering her like a second skin, hardened into her travel gown, crusted in her tawny hair, gathered in flakes all over her stark, white skin. She walked the empty halls of her castle, stepped over dead bodies, in search for at least one breathing person. If one servant had lived at least, she could do what she had to do.
She first went to the other chamber where her other two children were. She placed all three of them on the bed, washed them, clothed them in fine silks and furs, spoke to them, read to them and told them stories of their house, of their forefathers, of dragons, merlings and faraway lands. She sang and laughed with them and was about to take them to the Great Hall for lunch, but then she remembered…
They were beautiful. Two had their father's hair and one, had hers. Vysenia would have grown to be a beautiful lady with the colouring and character of her namesake, Corlys, her first, looked like her and loved books and smaller children and the smaller, her Daeron… She would have never known what would have become of him. He was a happy boy and full of humour - always ready to play a prank in his own way, but also impose his strong will on everyone around him.
She would never know of anyone. She was the last. She will have to find her husband too. Her husband and cousin she had grown with since she was just a small, silly girl. She needed someone to help her with her husband. He was a big, strong man. She had no chance carrying him anywhere.
She walked for over an hour in search of someone. The kitchens, the stables, the dungeons, but for the dead bodies strewn everywhere, were empty. She went out into the courtyard and that's when she finally heard something else rather than the sea, the gulls and her own pounding heart. Just behind a fallen piece of wood from a corner of the battlements, she heard a scrape and some sort of a moan, or sigh. Her hand immediately went to the knife hilt and she clenched the cold, ornate pommel she found there.
„Who's there? Show yourself!" She heard her odd voice. She could still speak as a human. She was not a beast after all.
The sighs and scraping stopped for a moment and then a boot stuck out from behind the immense wooden beam. Slowly a man stood up from behind it - a trembling, wounded man. He wore Northern armour and the Stark wolf stood proud on his chest. Rage overtook her and she pounced on him, knife at his throat in seconds. He was hurt, so he fell on his back immediately, carrying her down with him.
„Why are you still alive?" She growled and the man sputtered and tried speaking, despite the knife pressing his windpipe.
„M'Lady, I'm sorry. I'm just a soldier… „
„A soldier who destroyed my entire House. A soldier who murdered my children! My babies! One of them WAS TWO!" She yelled in his face and pressed the knife deeper into his throat, small, rubies of blood seeping on the shinny blade. „I held him in my arms all night! Do you know how it is to sleep with your dead baby in your arms?"
The man was sputtering and struggling to breathe, panic overtaking his wide, grey eyes.
„Pghleashe…" He tried sputtering…
There was no one else here perhaps. They locked eyes with each other for a moment, angry violet and frightened grey, and then slowly she released him, keeping the knife pointing at his throat.
„Get up!"
The man gathered himself off the ground, shaking and hissing as he tried standing on a leg that wasn't in good shape. He was a big man. Strong and as young as her. He could do the job.
„Can you walk?"
„I can try…" The man spoke in a thick Northern accent. She nodded.
„What is your name?"
„Heward, M'Lady."
„Come with me, Heward." She commanded and walked in front of him. She wasn't afraid to turn her back to him. She could feel the man was thoroughly broken. She wished all Starks were as broken as this man.
„What were you doing here? Why did they leave you behind?"
„I was hurt… I stayed behind." He trailed off and she looked back at him. His head was down, face hidden in the shadows.
"Are there others?"
"No..."
They kept me alive on purpose. She wanted me alive. She knew I was away.
She brought Heward to her husband and commanded him to be taken to the main hall. She washed and clothed her husband just like she did her children, who awaited for her in their chamber. He was peaceful. Tall, strong, his white hair flowing down his shoulders, combed and perfect, he was laid on the table, awaiting his sons and daughter. He was beautiful. People had said he looked like Rhaegar Targaryen, but then any handsome Valyrian man was likened to the great, almost mythical dragon prince.
Given responsibilities way beyond his age when he was just 6, dead before reaching his 30th name-day. Just like Rhaegar...
She had loved him. She had learned to love him. They had no other option. Neither knew any other love. Neither really knew if it was real love, like the ones in tales and songs, but it was all they had.
She swallowed a heavy, painful lump as her hand slipped slowly through his silver hair. So young.
There was no time...
She took the Northerner to her children and instructed him to escort them each down in the Great Hall, to their father. So he did. The large, dark man's hands shook as he cradled the body of her daughter. He was hunched over and crying. He was trying to hide it, but she could tell.
„Don't cry in front of my children. This is not an example I want them to have. A warrior crying over blood…"
He looked at her wide eyed. As he searched her face his own softened and he nodded slowly, his eyes closing for a moment.
„I had a daughter too, at home…"
They looked at each other for a few seconds and then she turned her back to him and walked the cold, dark hallways of castle Driftmark, to the Great Hall, the Northerner and her daughter following her.
„You will build a pyre in the courtyard." She spoke over her shoulder. „There are plenty of fallen beams and planks and the driftwood burns beautifully."
The man said nothing.
„Go, now!" She said again as the man led her daughter to the table, next to her father.
He nodded and walked out of the Great Hall.
She sat with her family for a long time, listening to the sounds of the sea and the occasional banging the Northerner was making outside, as he was building the pyre. They spoke and said their farewells. She caressed her children and kissed their tightly shut eyes. She kissed her husband's lips and promised him many things. She swore to her whole family, present or not, ancient or young, that she will live and do what must be done. They were all there with her, in the great, stone hall. The walls held their voices, the heavy stone floors their every step and the arching beams up above kept their very souls. The pale, driftwood throne held everything from crumbling and their banner draped above it was still free of blood. The azure blue was still striking and as clean as ever.
She stood up from beside her family and walked to the throne. She took off her shoes and climbed on its smooth seat to reach the banner hung up above. It will have to stay off for a while… she thought as she wrapped the heavy turquoise cloth in her arms, holding it as she had held her babe just hours before.
The Northerner was exhausted and was sat on the cold stone of the courtyard, propped against the wall. Her family was lying on the driftwood pyre, the banner from the throne room covering them all and the pale limbs of sea washed wood looking as if they were made from the same throne the cloth had guarded for the last hundred years.
The sun was setting. Perfect!
The heavy castle torch in her hand was sputtering flames angrily, burning her with hot droplets of oil. It felt good. It made her feel alive.
"The Old, The True, The Brave! We are the blood of the dragon, we are the blood of the sea. As old as the sea, as true as the tides, as brave as the dragon. Never fail, never fall! To the fires, to the seas! To the fires, to the waters! Monterys, son of Monford, rise! Corlys of the old Velaryon, rise! Visenya of the old Velaryon, rise! Daeron, of the old Velaryon, rise! Rise in fire, rise in smoke, rise in storms! Rise!" She thundered and tears ran down her face.
Her feet took her to the pale arms of the driftwood pyre and the hand holding the torch slowly descended.
The wood took to the fire quickly, as she expected. The orange and red tongues rose high as columns, engulfing and consuming the azure and the seahorse that covered her family. The blaze climbed to the dark, starry sky, embracing them all, growing in infinite beauty.
She stood entranced by it, smiling, closing her eyes, letting it blow hot winds upon her face. There was freedom in fire, just like in water.
A hand pulled her gently away and she knew the Northerner was worried she would burn. They both stepped back from the wild flames and she felt a sense of loss. Her place was there with them, in the orange and the red and the blinding white of the pyre. But, no. She made a promise. This is not the end of the Velaryons.
The pyre burned until dawn and she sat on the ground watching them, the Northerner curled on his side closer to the castle walls.
The sun broke the horizon between sky and sea and tears were still going down her face as the fires were slowly dying. The air smelled of morning and sea and fire. It would be a beautiful summer day. She would have taken Daeron for a walk, his small legs needing the exercise. She would have broken fast with her husband and older children... It would have been a beautiful day and she would have traded everything for it.
She wiped her tears off and stood. She could see the Northerner stirring in the corner of her eye as she walked to the large pitcher that held sea water. She poured it over the smouldering fire, making it hiss and crackle. A thick black smoke curled up to the sky.
"Now rise!" She spoke in a raspy, consumed voice.
She took the bones from the ashes carefully. Bones are always indestructible. She washed them with all the love and sorrow that boiled in her chest. Wrapped them all together in a Velaryon standard and carried them to the burial area, where she finally put them to rest in a shallow grave, dug by the Northerner. He dug the grave and buried the bones, dutifully and with sadness in his face. If this had to happen, then I'm glad its over... She swallowed thickly as she watched the man.
Why is he still here?
It was customary to have a feast after each burial. She knew that it was the least she could do for him, offer him the comfort of food and drink. He was indeed just a soldier. He was not the Starks. Why would he have stayed here helping her? She saw the surviving Northern soldiers sailing back to Winterfel with her own eyes as she was returning to the island. He could have joined them as he wasn't even that badly hurt.
"Thank you." She spoke to him.
He looked up at her. He was gaunt and sad, his eyes just as red as hers.
"I can repay you. I will give you whatever coins and valuables I still have left and will take you down to the kitchens to eat and drink. I don't have much. Your queen owns everything we had, I believe, but seeing as you deserted, you may not get any of it, so all I can do, I shall do."
"Thank you, M'Lady..." he bowed his head. "Just some food and a few coins for the road will do. I'm not asking for anything more."
"Oh..."
She waited for him to say more, give more details about his destination, but he looked down, averting his eyes from hers and putting an end to the conversation. She turned her back to him and walked in the direction of the Kitchens.
"Follow me. I think I may faint if I do not eat and drink something." It had been over two days since she had her last taste of water and even more since her last meal. She wondered how she was still alive. Sorrow and rage can keep you alive.
The castle was permeated by the stench of death. The summer heat had done its duty upon the hundreds of bodies lying everywhere, from the towers to the gardens. It was a horrific scene and she gagged several times. How would they ever be able to eat like this? Stark and Velaryon men rested everywhere, on top of each other, in ghastly embraces, cut to pieces, bludgeoned and crushed to death and bursting out of their armours with the bloat of decomposition. This whole castle needed fire, but she couldn't bring herself to put it to torch.
"We'll have to take what we can from the kitchens and move away from Driftmark. There's no one to give these men a proper burial or incineration... Why isn't your queen honouring her men?" She asked Heward who was following her close behind, his hulking frame shaking with exhaustion and pain from his hurt leg.
"I do not know, M'Lady... She is probably trying to save resources." He mumbled.
"You don't believe that, do you? She's making a statement." She almost growled as she said the words and walked faster in front of him, running almost. She needed to get out of here, for the time being.
In the kitchens it was worse.
The smell of death danced with the one wafting from the spoiled foods and for a second she thought she was going to fall face down, swooning from the abominable stench.
The Northman coughed and gagged behind her and he tore a piece from his armour undergarments and tied it around his face.
"M'Lady, we could find food at an inn, I'm pretty sure. Better, fresher..." He spat out through coughs.
"We need water at least. Shush. I'll take what I can. You do the same. There are unused provision sacks in there. Fill them with whatever we can carry. We'll find a boat to put them in. I may be the Lady of Driftmark, but I may as well come from Flea Bottom, seeing how your demented queen took everything. We may not afford an inn, so we need all we can get!"
There was water. It was stagnant and warm, but she gulped down as much as her belly could take, which wasn't very much after two days of having it empty.
"Where are you planning to go M'Lady?"
His question was sudden and she froze as she was reaching for some waterskins to fill for the road.
Where was she going?
"I don't know. Anywhere but here. Where are you going? You avoided saying anything earlier."
There was silence. The man was standing behind her and shuffling around with something. She grabbed a large sack and started filling it with loaves of bread, hard as rock. Over fire they would be delicious. In the large cellar there were plenty of supplies. Some of them she could even trade because they were valuable and rare. Their own Sea Wines, hardened cheeses and dried meats and fish would get her good coin, especially on this famine. Hopefully some of them were left behind by the Stark army.
All she needed was to find at least one working boat and then maybe, hopefully a horse.
"Well?" She pressed on, whipping around to look at the Northerner. She now understood what was the noise he was making. He had found a pyrite and flint the cooks used to start the fires in the kitchen. "Good find. Take it. There must be more around here..."
"I don't know where I'm going either, M'Lady. Beyond the Wall perhaps. Or maybe the Free Cities. I want out of here." He said as he shoved the tiny stone and flint in the pouch he carried around his hips.
He had a good sword on his back, a short, iron pommeled knife on his belt and sturdy leather armour. He would fare better than her and even more so for being a man. She should probably try to make him escort her. But where was she going? The Free Cities sounded good. But what would she do there? Live off the rest of her life among strangers, warlocks and bare breasted women, the Northerner who fought against her house, her only family? There was nothing there for her. She was still young. Her house would fall to a mere memory if she left. Driftmark would be gifted to an ally of the King or completely abandoned and left in ruins, for the ghosts and beasts to take shelter in. The last was more probable. Who would have wanted this lone isle in the middle of the sea, beaten by winds and waves and barren as an old man's head, most of all now, after it had been looted by the Grey Queen? And then it was the matter of what they had been all fighting for, that led them to this horror...
No.
She had to do something. If the gods were kind she would find allies and ways to restore what was lost, if they weren't, then she would at least die with the comfort that she was brave and true, like a Velaryon should be.
"Did you do the same in Dragonstone? Where is Gendry Baratheon?"
Heward hung his head for a moment and then averted his eyes away, running his large hand through his dark hair.
"Yes, M'Lady. I don't know where Lord Baratheon is..."
It felt like ice was forming in her chest.
"And his children and wife?" She asked him accusatory, as if he was the one who single-handedly destroyed two houses and their young heirs.
"I do not know anything, M'Lady. I was stationed here. The Dragonstone attack was under the command of the Arryns."
Of course.
Did she even have anyone? The Celtigars. She should go to the Celtigars. Or maybe in The Reach. There were many rebels there too. What was left of house Highgarden, true or not, legitimate or not, pretenders or pure of blood, it didn't matter, they were opposing the Crown and as of now they were too big of a force to be dealt with as easily as their tiny dragon isles thought.
They had been careless and they had been impatient. Too close to Kingslanding to be so bold and stupid.
She nodded and returned to getting more sacks and fill them with whatever provisions and dried goods there still were in the cellars. Surprisingly, she had got used to the stench. The Northerner too. He breathed and spoke freely to her, the rag off his face.
This is how one gets used to decadence and rot. Living in it long enough.
Used to it or not, she should not stall. The day was growing old and they still had to find a boat and sail it to the shore, or maybe to Claw Isle, the Celtigar home. She feared that the Celtigars met the same fate. If the Baratheons and the Velaryons had been attacked, surely the Celtigars too, the smallest of the dragon isles and furthest away from the other two.
She ran to the cellar door and quickly descended the steps into the deep, cool pit, Heward behind her.
In corners, on the floor, in broken crates, there still were bits and pieces of the once abundant cellar. There used to be all sort of fishes - dried, marinated, prepared with spices and salt, hanging from beams, in jars or crates. The dried game sausages and smoked meats were gone, save for a few bits here and there. The cheeses too. Daeron loved cheese with fruit. It was his favourite snack and he would jump and squeal when she would announce that he will get some. She sniffed. No.
She found wine and Heward finally looked happy for a moment.
They filled their sacks and he hauled them on his broad back. It wasn't much, but it would do.
Out in the courtyard, in a corner decently devoid of rotting, bloated men, she held a feast with Heward who ate like the proverbial emblem on his chest, wolfing down a whole rock hard bread, ripping strands of cheese off a wheel, chewing on cured meats and washing it all down with the red Sea Wine she had found. She ate dried fish and dried bread that Heward broke off for her. The familiar taste of their house wine made her feel good for a moment. It wasn't the best wine. They had a tiny vineyard on the isle, beaten by winds and sprayed by the sea, the vine one of the hardiest and the grapes the same, crunchy, hard and sour. She preferred the Southern wines, like any other woman, but now, the rustic, sour, teeth staining liquid was heavenly and she decided she will like it from now on and just like her father, call it the best wine in the Seven Kingdoms.
She left the Northerner there with the food and wine and went to search the castle for any valuables and to take a few spare clothes for herself.
She was a ghost in the empty halls of the ancient castle and to easily disappear just like any ghost, she had to take the simplest, most unassuming clothes she could find. Maybe she could even search her handmaiden's closets.
A drab dark blue dress and a brown cloak that she had found in the handmaiden's tower were perfect and just enough. In her chambers she unearthed spare small clothes and some jewellery that had fallen off her vanity and got lost in the upturned and strewn about dresses and gowns. They had completely ransacked her room and taken everything. Soldiers often did this with or without being commanded to plunder. Nonetheless, she knew that this long summer was cruel and food had gotten scarce. Judging by how much food and supplies they had carried away, this was on the orders of the queen. Winterfell was starving. She smiled at the thought and bundled all her belongings in a blanket. A small depiction of her entire family painted on pinewood, used to sit on her bedside table. It was now on the floor and cracked. Some of the paint had chipped off, but she took the two pieces, kissed them and then placed them in her small clothes bundle.
Above her large bed hanged the Velaryon banner. She would have taken it, flown it, hung it above whatever half broken dinghy they would find. Attention to herself was the last thing she needed, so she brought it down, folded it carefully and hid it under the bed, wrapped in the fur that carpeted the floor, to protect it from whatever storm may hit the castle in the future.
Not many coins were found, but the few she did find and the others she had had with her on her trip, she would give Heward. She decided to start this, whatever it was, on the right foot. No more mistakes.