01-07-2018, 02:31 AM
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 450px; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color: black; padding: 20px"]On the blade of his sword, all blood looked the same.
Her lips were painted with it in uneven brush strokes, like calligraphy, dipping from broad to skinny but slick and red. His fingers were stained with it as he touched the edge of her rosy lips and stained his thumb and forefinger with her lifeblood, and as he stared down at her pale face and fluttering blue eyes, he could tune out her gasps and moans and only see artist's work. She was beautiful, even when she died from a wound he had inflicted upon her with a mere thrust of his sword. It seems I have become the counterpart to Jaime's Kingslayer, he would muse wryly, as he held the intended queen of Westeros in his arms, not as the boy he had been but as the man he had become, and this man was untouched by death, even if it stirred in his embrace and reached out to him. Her touch was chilling to the bone, like winter, and he knew the Dragon Queen was grasping for life, for him, but he would let her fall into the abyss and turn his back on her just like he had that fateful day. Her fingers were fleeting, brushing on his cheek before falling to her side.
He did not cry for her like he had for Ygritte. He was silent all the while. And when she had stilled in his arms, he grasped his sword from the river of blood that watered the vegetation below their bodies, and set fire to her corpse with the woods around them. And when the stars had long come out, the sky had gone dark above his head, and the snow had fallen to melt upon his armor, he slept long for the first time in months, and he dreamed a dream of spring.
Her lips were painted with it in uneven brush strokes, like calligraphy, dipping from broad to skinny but slick and red. His fingers were stained with it as he touched the edge of her rosy lips and stained his thumb and forefinger with her lifeblood, and as he stared down at her pale face and fluttering blue eyes, he could tune out her gasps and moans and only see artist's work. She was beautiful, even when she died from a wound he had inflicted upon her with a mere thrust of his sword. It seems I have become the counterpart to Jaime's Kingslayer, he would muse wryly, as he held the intended queen of Westeros in his arms, not as the boy he had been but as the man he had become, and this man was untouched by death, even if it stirred in his embrace and reached out to him. Her touch was chilling to the bone, like winter, and he knew the Dragon Queen was grasping for life, for him, but he would let her fall into the abyss and turn his back on her just like he had that fateful day. Her fingers were fleeting, brushing on his cheek before falling to her side.
He did not cry for her like he had for Ygritte. He was silent all the while. And when she had stilled in his arms, he grasped his sword from the river of blood that watered the vegetation below their bodies, and set fire to her corpse with the woods around them. And when the stars had long come out, the sky had gone dark above his head, and the snow had fallen to melt upon his armor, he slept long for the first time in months, and he dreamed a dream of spring.