FIC: The Frozen
( originally published february 12, 2012 )
Game of Thrones / ASOIAF [AU]; Eddard Stark; 514 words
When the rebellion ended, Tywin seized control of earth's fleet and what remained of the ruined planet. He declared Robert's death a soldier's death: told all the citizens, each and every one, that the bold Baratheon had been slain in battle. And so it was.
When Ned Stark refused to accept Tywin's rule, he declared Stark a traitor and exiled him to a derelict vessel, there to orbit the worlds until the end of his days.
And so it was.
I saw her again last night, the same as I see her every night. Floating. Hovering. Shimmering. Just there, her bare feet pale as china barely brushing the deck, her long hair darker than the space outside twisting and writhing like dying sinews. She sways ever so slightly, her solemn black dress--always the black, always--shifting and sighing; she’s caught in the memory of a breeze, gentle and warm. Or she’s drowning under an invisible sea, trapped and helpless and alone. I blink, and she’s gone. Nothing more than the fading memory of a passing dream. The ship--my ship--is lit up on the inside like an air-raid: lights in red and orange and green and blue are flashing, blinking, sparking. The little electric bulbs on the ancient circuitry are exploding off and on, off and on and I’m thinking, bombs, bombs, boom. They’ve been at it for days. Nothing I do makes a difference. Years I’ve spent out here drifting in this vast black nothingness, three days ago--a Sunday, if the chronometer around my wrist is still accurate--is the first I’ve seen anything other than a dull, green glow from the hibernating ship systems. I snort. Those systems aren’t hibernating anymore, are they? There’s something out there, hidden in the shadows of burning stars and fading nebulae. I can feel it and so can Winterfell. It’s acute and it’s bright but it’s empty inside, the feeling, and it’s woken us both up: neither of us are sure what to do with it, though. The lights continue to flicker and flash, blinking a parade of colours across the cold metal sheeting of my ship’s walls. For a prison, Winterfell hasn’t been so bad. Her guts have all been torn out, her propulsion systems and her navigation, but she’s still here. She’s kept going, spinning through the void. I lean back in my chair and the hinges scream and I close my eyes. Winterfell fades to black--her hull of shrieking joints and battered doors and creaking, damaged walls welded together like popping stone knuckles--all gone, all nothing. Drifting off to sleep I see Ashara again, the same as I see her every night and every day and every moment I close my eyes and some moments when I don’t. She opens her mouth and says, “Ned.” She opens her mouth, her lips painted darkest dusk, and says, “Why?” She opens her mouth and a stream of crimson boils down her chin, down her gown. Her blood, it’s redder than the reddest red I can imagine and it’s pooling below her feet, trailing between her toes. She gurgles. She downs. Her skin is like how I remember snow and her blood is flowing over it and across it and covering it in a sea of red, red, red-- I open my eyes and everything is black. I open my eyes and it’s cold and the warning lights on the ancient circuitry are lighting up the ship--my ship--like an air-raid. I saw her again last night, the same as I see her every night. Floating. Hovering. Shimmering.
(end) |