westwhere | "Darkness reigns at the foot of the lighthouse."

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"Darkness reigns at the foot of the lighthouse."

WHO: Daenerys, Five, Jon Snow, Mingyu and Lee Chang
WHEN: January to 1/28
WHERE: The Lighthouse (Plot Roll Stuff!)
WHAT: The mirror calls and must be assembled
WARNINGS: Violence, mind control, dragons, talk of death. Anything else will be added.

Drogon's habit of bringing gifts from the lighthouse had increased. It was still only trinkets and tattered bits of clothes, often singed, but something he was clearly proud of. The influence of the lighthouse still seemed to hold him, as he often flew off even as Daenerys called to him. Using a stern voice, showing the whip once in desperation, none of it stopped Drogon from flying to the 10th floor.

What was truly disturbing was that Drogon often seemed to circle around, low to the entrance of the lighthouse, screeching at her, as though demanding she follow him. For several days, Dany resisted, knowing that whatever was in the lighthouse was likely to be some curse or ill omen. Had it not enchanted them into paranoia and greed? No one had been hurt, but actually stepping foot in there might trigger something far worse.

Or she might find something worse.

Much like the House of the Undying, there was a part of her that wanted knowledge. She wished to know what was inside, what magic was fueling it and why it seduced her dragon so easily. That thought, along with the alluring call of something, haunted her dreams. Each time she woke, she had to question if it was dragon dreams or something more?

The fourth day, she followed Drogon, hesitantly crossing the threshold.

The atmosphere was heavy, but still humming with...something. The surroundings weren't very pleasing. There was dust, cobwebs and everything you could imagine in a land that seemed almost dead. Each floor did not improve. There were no visions, no sounds really except some sound of glass in the distance.

Drogon flew ahead, screeching whenever she fell behind. Step by step, stair by stair, she climbed. One floor passed and then two; higher and higher, she followed her dragon as he called to her, luring her ahead with a dark promise. It was an enchantment in itself. A part of her wished to find that last right door, the one in the House of the Undying that lead to the center of it all, where the Undying waited for her. Here, it was less clear what she would find, but there was at least a promise with the Undying.

The scene she found was an odd one. Unnerving, true, but also...rather beautiful.

There was a mirror on the floor or rather the shards of it and Five seated in the middle of it all. Light glistened over the different shapes of glass, some small and some large, all varying in grooves and curves. It was no simple puzzle, but Five seemed intent on assembling it, solving the mystery of it all.

"What is this?"

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He does not especially wish to be handled — not after being torn at for what felt like days — but being close to someone feels better than not, and he doesn’t really mind it when she brushes his hair off his forehead. It is nearly absurd that such a small woman wants to act as a crutch, but for the moment, he allows it.

“I just want to go down to where we have camped.” That’s only a flight or two of stairs away. “I want to rest. Real rest.”

"Then that is where we will go. There will be others there, you won't be alone." She's able to pick up on that at least. That he is allowing this because he wants to be near someone. The idea that he was trapped there for so long, walking on shards of glass, hunted and torn at. All without help no matter how much he might call for it, she felt hollow, every ounce of feeling and warmth spilling into him.

It would be slow going, but she would get him downstairs. This slightly bigger, heavier man, leaning on her tiny form.

"I'm so sorry, Jon. This is my fault."

The idea that there are others there gives him a sense of relief. The idea of going somewhere away from the lighthouse… a place where he might find himself alone, whether or not it’s dark… fills him with terror.

As they walk, his arm over her shoulder, he clutches the fabric on the other side with his fist.

“No. It isn’t your fault. It’s this place. That mirror is magic. Sorcery. I would be a fool to doubt it. Seems like anything might be sorcerous here.”

He has seen the dead walk, and he has been dead, and he is speaking to a woman who often has a dragon wrapped around her shoulders the way Jon is wrapped now, and still, this is the stuff of cities filled with wizards and mages. It is the stuff of the far edge of the world.

He could say it wasn't her fault, but it doesn't reassure her. She does her best not to tremble against him, afraid he might sense her emotions. Tears might be easily summoned if she lingered too long. Focusing on Jon, taking him from this place at least was a distraction.

"I brought you to the mirror. I put you in its path." That was the truth of it. Without her pulling him along, he would have been free and perhaps it could be her inside. Better her than him. "You were the only one I wished to share it with and because of that, I put you in danger."

They had discussed it before, but it was all the more true now. He being threatened with near death, it crushed her strength.

"I thought you were gone for good."

“I could not,” he begins, but his steps are laborious. As far as he knows, the mirror did no true injury to his feet; that still doesn’t make walking easy. He takes a few steps and deep breath, in and out, and then tries again.

“I could not leave the mirror. I could not even think to leave it. Whatever you did, it must be what it wanted, or what the man wanted… I don’t know the difference. But we couldn’t stop putting it back together. It can’t be your fault, not in truth.”

He does not mention that he had agreed because she was the one to ask.

She clutched him tighter, his shirt bunched in her fist. It might seem like exertion to hold his weight, but it was emotion tightening her fingers. Drogon was singing in the distance. She could hear his wings before anything else, meaning he was flying furiously around. Thank the gods he came. One blast of fire and the mirror was destroyed.

Jon was with her again. It seemed a greater rescue than the House of the Undying.

He was warm against her, no different than the dragon scales that often touched her bare neck. It was comforting, no matter his weight. "Perhaps," she allowed the excuse, but still didn't feel absolved of blame. "Drogon saved you where I couldn't. He must wish to protect you."

He shakes his head, mystified. He can’t imagine why the little dragon would take any interest in him. It can’t just be Daenerys’s flirtation — he remembers that, right enough, only it does not seem to matter now, when he is rattled and wants nothing else but to hold on to something solid and real and warm. Might be that it is that they come from the same place… but he hasn’t seen Drogon take the same interest in Sansa.

“I don’t look to question the reason why — I am grateful that he did. But what do you know about dragons? What do they know?” Had the dragon known that the man in the mirror was looking to steal someone — had he known, in some way, that Jon was in real trouble?

She hated to admit her short comings, but it was better with Jon. There was less judgement that she was only a little girl, clearly new in the ways of the world, particularly the magic of her family. "No." She murmured, at least close enough to his ear so he could hear her.

"There was nothing left to me to understand my dragons. Viserys knew nothing and that lore was lost with the last dragon." Now she would have to start again. "I only know what I have learned on my own. I remember though, the House of the Undying that I told you of. There was a moment where the Undying tried to feed on me, as this man tried with you. They surrounded me, bit and groped at me. Drogon, he sensed the source of their power and burned the beating heart in the room."

It mystified her, but he was intelligent beyond her understanding. "Perhaps Drogon is only responding protectively, spewing fire wherever, but it sometimes seems as if he knows."

He takes a few more labored steps… down, and down, and down… and pauses to look at her.

“There was a book at Winterfell when I was a boy, but I never took an interest. I thought the dragons were gone. Now — well, I suppose it does no good to think of things I haven’t done, but I wish I had read it. What if he has some sort of feeling for dark magic? My wolf is canny — why not a dragon?”

He tries not to notice that, in her guilt and in the darker space where the stairs are, her eyes are especially fine.

Edited 2022-02-22 03:13 (UTC)

"There is a certain magic between dragon and dragon rider. A bond that's inexplicable. It wouldn't surprise me that he could sense that sort of danger and respond." Another step down. Her body was aching, no different than the early days on horseback, but at least now she was stronger, if not small. Their heads were close together as they gingerly took each step. The heat from him comforted and soothed her worries.

"Your wolf has such an ability?" She hadn't asked about him much before, only hearing bits and pieces. It seemed fated. Strange that they both crossed paths with creatures that would share such a link to their souls.

"It doesn't matter the how or the why. I'm relieved he saved you."

“I don’t know if Ghost has such an ability, but he’s - smart. Knows who my friends are. Knows who a foe is, sometimes before I do. A little like your dragon and rider.” He takes a step.

“I’m glad he saved me too. I don’t know how it could have - “

Jon bites off the words, hesitant.

How it could have ended. Would he have survived it? Would that have been better or worse than dying? What would have happened to his body?

She stopped him, turning to face him. Still keeping one arm around him, she pressed her palm to his cheek. Her heart raced, beating as quickly as Drogon's wings. No, she wouldn't allow that thought to even manifest between them. Giving it voice, paying it credence, it would be real and the fear would exist fully.

"No," she murmured, brushing her thumb over his cheek. "Don't think it or speak it. You are here and safe. I'm with you and soon you will be downstairs in the camp." He could sleep, likely face night terrors, but resting and regaining his strength. She would stay with him, as long as he needed.

"Hold tight to me." She offered, knowing he needed her presence, or perhaps hoping that he did.

He gives her a long look, and then the sharpest nod he’s capable of, which is a small thing, a grateful thing. He is grateful to her.

“I’m already holding tight to you.” Her sleeve, all bunched up in his hand. “I am no craven, but — “ A sidelong glance. “Might be that place has made a craven of me. It will pass. It must. But please don’t leave me. Call for my sister; she will come if she can.” He cannot expect Daenerys to just sit with him for hours or days, no matter how warm her hand is against his face.

It was what she suspected, but it was a relief to hear. After that experience, being alone would only be a sharp reminder of what happened and how he suffered. "I will stay with you as long as you need." It was what she owed him, or so she told herself. Guilt was surely the cause of her fear and panic. Remorse had to be what pushed her to want to watch over him and ensure that he slept.

"It makes you no craven. Magic can strike us at our core. What happened-" she didn't want to mention it, worried for his response. Still, she pressed forward, "You wish to be safe and to not feel alone. Alone raises ghosts and shadows." She shook her head, holding fiercely to him.

"I won't let them touch you."

He raises his hand to where she touches her face, and if she allows it, he gently grasps her wrist and lowers her hand, patting it at the end. His nod this time is less sharp, more small and shaky and understanding.

“All right. All right. I’m not a man to shake at shadows. It would be a lie to say that I don’t fear them, but I would face them with a sword.

“This was something different. I feel like I’m still there, trapped in the dark. Nothing is at me now, but if I’m alone, it might be. It might come back. — I know how this sounds.” (Foolish.)

Edited 2022-02-22 23:22 (UTC)

Perhaps she was being too forward and likely mothering him too much? Her response was based off of everything that had just happened and the disturbing things she hadn't known. She needed to compose herself, as difficult as that honestly seemed.

She nodded at his reassurance, resuming helping him back towards the came.

"It would not be a surprise you felt that way," she offered. "Things are different in the dark and when we are alone. When you faced something like that on your own, pulled away from the rest of us, it's better to remain close until that feeling subsides."

Whatever she was doing, he still has her hand between both of his before they continue down the stairs. He is not used to someone taking this kind of concern with him. The nearest to it had been when Maester Aemon had patched up his arrow wounds after his return to Castle Black. It is strange, and it feels like too much trouble for the other person. Jon is already asking so much of everyone else.

“Wish I knew when it will stop. I can’t ask people to sit with me like nursemaids for weeks on end. I already feel like half a fool.”

"You don't have to ask," she answered easily. There was never a question in her mind what she would do. He didn't need to voice it or raise the subject with her. The moment he admitted all that happened, she had made up her mind to stay with him. If it took weeks, it took weeks. If it took months, it took months. Until he no longer wanted her, she would stay at his side.

Out of guilt and a feeling of obligation, of course. It was her fault that this happened after all.

"I don't see it as a nursemaid. It would ease my mind to know you are still here. Staying with you helps me as much as you."

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, concentrating on keeping his balance on the steps. It isn’t a matter of the strength to walk down them, or the pain in his back (already less now than it had been a few minutes earlier), but he doesn’t feel like he’s slept in days. Easy to make mistakes and take an unfortunate tumble, in this state.

“It will be a little dull,” he says, cautious. How could it help her as much as it helps him? She isn’t the one who’s afraid of being alone, like a little child might be. “But you will have my thanks.”

Not many more steps to go.

They pass the rest of the time in silence. By the time they reach the bottom of the stairs, where all the others sleep, her body aches and feels stiff. It's a struggle to remain firm for him, acting as though his weight were nothing against her slight frame. But when she finally helps him onto his sleeping roll, she winces at the sudden flow of blood into her limbs.

She knelt behind him, lifting his shirt to look at the now nearly healed wounds. "There doesn't seem any reason to bandage you or clean this. There's no risk of infection now." That brought back a sharp memory of pain and sorrow. Something not needed in this moment with Jon.

"You should change it though."

He stiffens when she lifts his shirt, then relaxes.

“They scarring?”

He has no desire to try to find and look into another mirror. He has no desire to see his own melancholic face most of the time: there are days when he needs to look like a king, and days when he needs to play a part for the people he travels with here, but he does so without much vanity. If he had been vain, what has just happened to him might have been a sharp corrective. Either way, it leaves him less than eager to try to see his own reflection. What would he see?

No need to ask why he’s healing so fast. It’s this place.

She ran her fingers over the marks, determining the depth and how they were healing. "It seems as if it will be light." Which might be a blessing, though having the scars at all will only remind him of what happened. "Perhaps only a few thin lines?" She resisted the urge to rub his back again and gave him a little space.

Going through his bag, she found a clean shirt for him and offered it out. "I'll pour some fresh water for you as well." Was she fussing? Perhaps, but she needed to move, to act, to do something. There were too many thoughts and tears that were building inside of her. Eventually, it would all spill out. For now, in front of him, she needed that brave face.

"Are you hungry at all?" So much time spent in the mirror, did he need to eat?

When she touches his back, he does it again: stiffening, then relaxing, a reaction to touch he doesn’t quite expect. Her fingers on his back are not unpleasant.

More scars mean little to him. They’re ugly, but it doesn’t matter much. Few people will ever see them, and if they do, if they ask, he will explain that there was a fight and that he had likely come out the better of the combatants. But he cannot imagine who might ask that, other than his wife, someday, and it is hard to imagine that he will ever live long enough to have one of those.

He takes the shirt from Daenerys, provided before he can ask for it, then turns away again. He always keeps his face to the wall when he dresses, if anyone else is about; he does not like the questions that are like to be raised by the scarring on his chest and his belly. Those scars are different than the ones on his face, or his legs, or the new ones on his back. No one could have survived the wound over his heart. No one had.

“I am. A bit of bread and a bit of meat wouldn’t go amiss.”

As he says so, he strips the bloodstained shirt off over his head, shakes out the clean one, and puts it on. He eats and breathes and does the things that other men do, and he is just a man, he knows that much. Some days, more than others, he knows that he should not be alive. How could a dead man’s wounds heal so quickly? It had not been as easy for him to return to life as wishing it so. He had been dead; he had not been capable of doing anything at all.

Edited 2022-02-24 05:44 (UTC)

She caught a glimpse of his scars again as he changed his shirt. Those deep gashes and what they meant, they were all the more poignant now. There were others added, perhaps faint, but still real. She did her best not to stare at him, aware that it might make him feel a bit uncomfortable.

Instead, she put together a meager meal for him, but likely to be welcome and nourishing. "If you want more, I will give you the rest. Better to let your stomach grow used to the food." Had he felt hunger there? Fatigue? Something other than fear and pain?

She turned back to him, wishing she had a bit of wine. Something strong to steady her nerves and help her feel in control once more. She was trembling, feeling the cold more than she might normally. It was almost as though she were back in the water, infected to the depth of her bone. It was pathetic, to feel so small and helpless, so afraid.

"I can take the shirt and wash it later, if you like?"

“Just a little, so I don’t wake from hunger.”

He is not sure that he’ll wake from anything just now, except being done with sleep: his limbs feel as heavy as his eyelids. His stomach is empty, but it is hard to say how long it’s been since he’s eaten. It had been a while even before he had been pulled into the mirror. Which accounting of time is right? Hard to say anymore.

He turns to her and tries to smile, though just now, it is a thin and rueful thing. She is shaking, and he means to reassure her.

“You don’t have to wash my shirt. You don’t have to do anything. Sitting with me is enough — more than enough.”

"Darkness reigns at the foot of the lighthouse."

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