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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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.”

It's a bit disconcerting that he is attempting to comfort her when he is the one who truly suffered. In an effort to brush her bodily response aside, she presented him with a soft smile. Perhaps she was being ridiculous, but she couldn't shake the sudden loss of him and how deeply it affected her.

"Then I will sit with you." She murmured, offering out the plate. She might wash his shirt anyway, once he was asleep. He would need it later, most likely. She could also predict that she needed to do something with her hands, some sort of work to help keep her mind from her anxiety.

"Here, eat."

He takes the plate and eats like what he is: a starving soldier. No grace. It is all to the good that Sansa is not in the room. He is not sure she would correct him, but he can imagine the look on her face, how it is a scandal that he has undressed in front of the Targaryen, and how his table manners are wanting. But there isn’t even a table in here, and in certain places at certain times, that sort of propriety isn’t important.

When he has finished, he feels somewhat better.

“This food… how’s it compare to what you get in Essos?”

It's not a question she expects from him. She had usually volunteered information about her past, but he hadn't asked very much. It makes him seem less formal and stiff. It's enough to allow her to relax a little as she drew her knees to her chest. Holding onto something, yes, that was the way to avoid trembling.

"It depends on if it was my childhood or after my dragons were born." However bad his time in Winterfell might have been, there had always been food for him. "There were always assassins, so my brother and I were constantly fleeing. Often we had to rely on the charity of others, those who wished to profit from our name. Other times, we lived a very poor existence. So food was scarce for us and far worse than this."

Far, far worse.

"After my dragons, many wealthy and powerful people wished to host me, but only as a curiosity. They were generous and the food was rich. Meereen at least afforded me the same banquets, but without the expectations of hosts." She considered something before adding. "I always had a fondness for Honeyfingers."

He listens, but he feels like he’s watching from some distance away.

“For the rest of it, I am sorry. But what are honeyfingers? Some sort of cake?”

'Some kind of cake'? She simply shook her head. Northerners. Apparently both Ser Jorah and Jon Snow had the same response. If she did someday become queen, she would see them baked and sent by the cartload to the North. Perhaps they would know true delicacies then?

"They were made in Tyrosh and a bit different than simple cakes." No she is not defensive about it, not especially for the reminder of Jorah.

"What food do they have in Westeros?"

“I don’t know what they eat down south. I’d say to ask my sister, but — “ He hesitates, frowns. “The Lannisters were not kind. They didn’t starve her, but I don’t know how much she likes to think on it.

“For me… when I was a boy… I liked apple cakes. I liked roasted chicken covered in honey, any sort of good meat, roasted turnips. In the Watch, men eat blood sausage, dried meat like this,” (he means what he has just eaten,) “whatever stew the cook can put together. And now… a lord’s table will always be rich, but we do not feast too carelessly. We put up what we can for the later days of winter — the leaner days.”

A wave of exhaustion passes over him, and when he finishes speaking, he stifles a mighty yawn.

She wants to respond, but it's clear that he's exhausted and after the ordeal, he needs his rest. His strength was likely drained completely. It seemed to take all of his energy to even get down the stairs. No more conversation or holding onto his company, he should sleep.

Dany placed her hand on his shoulder. "Lay back. I'll stay with you while you sleep."

Whatever possessed her to brush his hair from his face, gently stroking those dark locks. She wanted to soothe him, to urge him to rest.

He frowns, nods, stretches out in what passes for bedding.

Her flirtations had, perhaps, not been fully welcome, but her care is. He is not used to it, except in the case of a wound. “Thank you.”

It only takes a few seconds for him to roll to his side. The torn skin all across his back doesn’t hurt as much as it had at first, but it isn’t a comfortable thing, either. More than that, while he doesn’t like resting on his back, he also doesn’t like it being open to the room. When he closes his eyes, there is a yawning blackness all around, with just a shimmer of light at some of its edges.

He begins to struggle to sit up.

His sleep doesn't seem to last as long or seem truly calm. She placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to urge him to stay on his bedding, but if he pressed on, the urgency of her touch would fade and would help him up.

Where she had been stroking his hair before, now her attention was fully on what may be wrong or how she should help. It was clear that sleep would not come easily for him, which perhaps she should have predicted. After the darkness of the mirror, closing his eyes might only bring it back.

"Lie back, Jon. I am here with you."

He hesitates, then murmurs, “All right. All right.” He relaxes, back on his side and trying to sleep again. He can think of something else: some sort of feast at Winterfell. Firelight, mead, old strong stones all about. A warm bed and a fur coverlet.

What can one small woman do? She had not been able to keep him from being pulled through the mirror, though it is better that he’s the one who was. None of them has been able to change anything for the better in this tower — not really, not as much as he would like.

“Just don’t go.”

She stretched next to him, letting him feel her pressed against him. Her fingers ran through his hair, brushing them back from his face. He would know she was with him, feel her even in his sleep. Whatever plans she had of cleaning his shirt while he slept, that was removed at his request.

She would not risk frightening him by slipping away. Perhaps also, she wished to know he was here as well.

"I won't. Sleep." She whispered.

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northerndragon - 2022-03-04 07:17 (UTC) - Expand

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