I got tired of waiting for TWOW, so I wrote it
Feb 22, 2018 17:50:00 GMT
voice, freyfamilyreunion, and 4 more like this
Post by Deleted on Feb 22, 2018 17:50:00 GMT
TYRION
He had just turned six and twenty. Words are wind. He had done and little and less, yet in some ways much and more. They were as useless as nipples on a breastplate. A raven arrived. Dark wings, dark words.
"Corn, corn," it crowed.
The river was choked with grotesque, swollen corpses. Men on fire danced like candle flames in the night. A terrible, pale king flourished his broken bastard sword limned in blue fire. Blue as the eyes of death. The courser was overturned and spilled its bowels on the wet paving stones. A dragon wheeled overhead, howling, dancing, bathing the vanguard in fiery death.
After the battle, Sansa joined the council for a 30 course meal in celebration of Khal Drogo's death. There were lamprey pies ladled with bits of onion and gravy. A jester and a fool covered in black motley tilted at quintains. Ned Stark looked down disapprovingly at the undead direwolf being shaved with a Valyrian steel razor. I mislike this.
Tyrion reached out and put his hand on Lyn Corbray's grave. He felt only the cold.
Wherever whores go...
"An Other needs a name," he whispered.
Without hesitation Tyrion rose from the trestle table and drew a cruel iron halberd. He swung it around with bestial strength. It flashed in the dawn like burning ice and diamonds and rubies and emeralds. The blade came down and split the lemon cake in two. Strawberry filling ran out red like the tears of a grieving mother.
It all took him back, to the Godswood at Winterfell.
A promise broken and a promise kept.
To the plains of the Jhogos Nai, where his mad blood riders threw themselves from the ragged cliff, sick with greyscale and perilous fear. To the Red Keep, where the Mad King was dying in agony on the floor. To a wasteland bright and terrible. The dead heads of the usurped kings lapped their tongues in mute disregard. Some ways off he heard his father, and the crossbow... thrummm...
His eyes grew heavy. The jam was running down the blade. He felt relief.
"Tysha..." he murmured, jam on his lips.
She loved me and she loved my cock. She was never a whore.
The food coma was real.
THE END
He had just turned six and twenty. Words are wind. He had done and little and less, yet in some ways much and more. They were as useless as nipples on a breastplate. A raven arrived. Dark wings, dark words.
"Corn, corn," it crowed.
The river was choked with grotesque, swollen corpses. Men on fire danced like candle flames in the night. A terrible, pale king flourished his broken bastard sword limned in blue fire. Blue as the eyes of death. The courser was overturned and spilled its bowels on the wet paving stones. A dragon wheeled overhead, howling, dancing, bathing the vanguard in fiery death.
After the battle, Sansa joined the council for a 30 course meal in celebration of Khal Drogo's death. There were lamprey pies ladled with bits of onion and gravy. A jester and a fool covered in black motley tilted at quintains. Ned Stark looked down disapprovingly at the undead direwolf being shaved with a Valyrian steel razor. I mislike this.
Tyrion reached out and put his hand on Lyn Corbray's grave. He felt only the cold.
Wherever whores go...
"An Other needs a name," he whispered.
Without hesitation Tyrion rose from the trestle table and drew a cruel iron halberd. He swung it around with bestial strength. It flashed in the dawn like burning ice and diamonds and rubies and emeralds. The blade came down and split the lemon cake in two. Strawberry filling ran out red like the tears of a grieving mother.
It all took him back, to the Godswood at Winterfell.
A promise broken and a promise kept.
To the plains of the Jhogos Nai, where his mad blood riders threw themselves from the ragged cliff, sick with greyscale and perilous fear. To the Red Keep, where the Mad King was dying in agony on the floor. To a wasteland bright and terrible. The dead heads of the usurped kings lapped their tongues in mute disregard. Some ways off he heard his father, and the crossbow... thrummm...
His eyes grew heavy. The jam was running down the blade. He felt relief.
"Tysha..." he murmured, jam on his lips.
She loved me and she loved my cock. She was never a whore.
The food coma was real.
THE END
