Eddard Stark (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
learned_to_die) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-08-10 11:00 am
learned_to_die) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-08-10 11:00 am
[no amount of remembering the better things will make the bad ones go away]
WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: The Stark Family Cabin
WHEN: August 15 and onward
OPEN TO: OTA; feel free to jump in at any point during his halluciations.
WARNINGS: None; will updated as needed
It had started with redness of the skin, first on Ned's hands. It spread like blood-red ink across the paper of his skin, up his arm towards his shoulder, down his back, around his torso. It made decades'-old battles scars scarlet and renewed, the pain of touch excruciating, as though the wounds had only just been made. And then, the heat. At first, he thought it a continued byproduct of the summer temperatures, but it was the absence of perspiration that had drawn his brows together in confusion and realization: he had gotten ill.
Half a fortnight later, having spent the majority of the time bed-ridden and unable to leave the confines of his room, the visions had started.
He’d first seen his siblings’ faces: Brandon, Benjen, Lyanna. He imagined Brandon’s death, simultaneously feeling the constriction of his airways as Brandon tried to rescue their father, and wakes to a coughing fit while gasping for air. Benjen he imagined in black, half-human and half-crow, taking to the skies and soaring back to The Wall. Lyanna, he had seen bloodied and ghostly pale, her trembling hands leaving crimson paintings against his skin with every touch, while the rage and pain and impending loss stormed within him.
Second, Robert’s face - glossy-eyed and slender, the way he’d been when they’d grown alongside each other under the care of Jon Arryn. He imagined them wandering the grounds of the Eyrie, practicing their fighting with one another, Robert daring him to draw closer and closer to the Moon Door. His half of these fabricated conversations are audible to anyone near enough - even through the closed door of his chambers. None of it makes any sense, especially out of context, though it’d be easy enough for someone familiar enough to surmise that Robert was on his mind.
Next, he’d seen visions of Catelyn at their wedding; the hatred and betrayal in her face when he’d revealed to her that he had returned from war with a dark-haired babe in tow, a newly born Robb still in her arms, which she clutched tighter to her breast; the way she’d peer up at him as they lay under their furs and in each other’s arms with only the soft glow of the fire as their audience; when he’d last seen her, outside of Littlefinger’s brothel in King’s Landing, the blue scarf wrapped over her fiery crown. He reaches for her, when he imagines her with him, hands and fingers fumbling in the air for a woman who no longer exists.
Then, he’d seen each of his children at varying stages of their lives, from birth to the last he’d seen of them: Robb at Winterfell, when Ned had left for King’s Landing; Sansa when he’d knelt at the steps of the Great Sept, silently praying for her rescue; Arya when he’d spotted her in the crowd, crouching by Baelor the Blessed, doing the only thing he could to keep her safe by signaling Yoren to take her into his custody; Bran, unconscious in his bed, unsure if he’d ever open his eyes again; Rickon in the yard at Winterfell, too young to understand the weight of the world and his father’s departure beyond a glaring absence; and, though not a child of his own creation, Jon at the crossroads to King’s Landing and The Wall, promising to tell him about his mother upon their next meeting. These memories are strong enough to make a weakened, unwell Ned weep, crying out for the family from which he’d been taken, his feverish mind no longer remembering he has four of them still with him, whether by fate or by the blessings of the Old Gods.
He floats in and out of consciousness, back and forth between the world of Westeros he’d left behind and the world of the village - his second chance - though he cannot seem to convince himself that the latter exists. He wonders if he’s returned to the Children of the Forest, to the Old Gods themselves, to the Weirwood back in the Godswood of Winterfell. All the while, the skin affected by the rash blisters and reddens, leaving smears of blood on the linens underneath - though, if there is one light in the darkness, the intensity of his hallucinations seems to negate the pain from the rash, and he seems blissfully unaware of the sores.
WHERE: The Stark Family Cabin
WHEN: August 15 and onward
OPEN TO: OTA; feel free to jump in at any point during his halluciations.
WARNINGS: None; will updated as needed
It had started with redness of the skin, first on Ned's hands. It spread like blood-red ink across the paper of his skin, up his arm towards his shoulder, down his back, around his torso. It made decades'-old battles scars scarlet and renewed, the pain of touch excruciating, as though the wounds had only just been made. And then, the heat. At first, he thought it a continued byproduct of the summer temperatures, but it was the absence of perspiration that had drawn his brows together in confusion and realization: he had gotten ill.
Half a fortnight later, having spent the majority of the time bed-ridden and unable to leave the confines of his room, the visions had started.
He’d first seen his siblings’ faces: Brandon, Benjen, Lyanna. He imagined Brandon’s death, simultaneously feeling the constriction of his airways as Brandon tried to rescue their father, and wakes to a coughing fit while gasping for air. Benjen he imagined in black, half-human and half-crow, taking to the skies and soaring back to The Wall. Lyanna, he had seen bloodied and ghostly pale, her trembling hands leaving crimson paintings against his skin with every touch, while the rage and pain and impending loss stormed within him.
Second, Robert’s face - glossy-eyed and slender, the way he’d been when they’d grown alongside each other under the care of Jon Arryn. He imagined them wandering the grounds of the Eyrie, practicing their fighting with one another, Robert daring him to draw closer and closer to the Moon Door. His half of these fabricated conversations are audible to anyone near enough - even through the closed door of his chambers. None of it makes any sense, especially out of context, though it’d be easy enough for someone familiar enough to surmise that Robert was on his mind.
Next, he’d seen visions of Catelyn at their wedding; the hatred and betrayal in her face when he’d revealed to her that he had returned from war with a dark-haired babe in tow, a newly born Robb still in her arms, which she clutched tighter to her breast; the way she’d peer up at him as they lay under their furs and in each other’s arms with only the soft glow of the fire as their audience; when he’d last seen her, outside of Littlefinger’s brothel in King’s Landing, the blue scarf wrapped over her fiery crown. He reaches for her, when he imagines her with him, hands and fingers fumbling in the air for a woman who no longer exists.
Then, he’d seen each of his children at varying stages of their lives, from birth to the last he’d seen of them: Robb at Winterfell, when Ned had left for King’s Landing; Sansa when he’d knelt at the steps of the Great Sept, silently praying for her rescue; Arya when he’d spotted her in the crowd, crouching by Baelor the Blessed, doing the only thing he could to keep her safe by signaling Yoren to take her into his custody; Bran, unconscious in his bed, unsure if he’d ever open his eyes again; Rickon in the yard at Winterfell, too young to understand the weight of the world and his father’s departure beyond a glaring absence; and, though not a child of his own creation, Jon at the crossroads to King’s Landing and The Wall, promising to tell him about his mother upon their next meeting. These memories are strong enough to make a weakened, unwell Ned weep, crying out for the family from which he’d been taken, his feverish mind no longer remembering he has four of them still with him, whether by fate or by the blessings of the Old Gods.
He floats in and out of consciousness, back and forth between the world of Westeros he’d left behind and the world of the village - his second chance - though he cannot seem to convince himself that the latter exists. He wonders if he’s returned to the Children of the Forest, to the Old Gods themselves, to the Weirwood back in the Godswood of Winterfell. All the while, the skin affected by the rash blisters and reddens, leaving smears of blood on the linens underneath - though, if there is one light in the darkness, the intensity of his hallucinations seems to negate the pain from the rash, and he seems blissfully unaware of the sores.
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Still, she's working to dab his hot skin with the cold cloth, feeling pretty bad that she can't do more to help him. "Ned, it's Amy Pond," she tries again. "You're all sweaty and bulgy eyes and sick," she says, wrinkling her nose with distaste.
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His hands are gesturing vaguely and randomly, as though they are moving of their own volition and with no attachment or regard for whatever he might be saying. Some motions appear as though he might trying to wield a sword, or dagger, perhaps, while others are more abstract in movement. He is entirely unaware of this.
"Well, then, Amy Pond," he says, emphasizing her name in a way that suggests he'll play along with the game for now, "When you return from fetching whatever name you've assigned to Maester Luwin, won't you tell me of how your lessons are going? Septa Mordane speaks so highly of your needlework."
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"It wound up a tablecloth. Pretty uneven one, too," she finishes, trying not to linger in the failures of her youth. "How about we get some water into you? Try and break that sweat, yeah?"
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"You know the water's dangerous to drink," he continues, coughing violently into his hand. There isn't any blood, though he swears he can taste the metallic tang on his tongue. "Though I fear ale or wine might give this fever strength. Perhaps you can find some Milk of the Poppy. Your mother will know where to find it, if you cannot find Maester Luwin."
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"I'm not your daughter or anyone related to you, despite the fact that apparently I've got hair their colour, and you're sick. You're going to drink this and you're going to like it, or I'm going to close your nose and shove it down your throat," she warns.
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"Amy," he repeats, another coughing fit barging through. He's unable to say more, though he weakly lifts a hand to reach for the water she's offering, encouraging her to bring some to his mouth. His throat feels as dry as the sands of Dorne, and he's suddenly aware of the dampened sheets beneath his body. He's slowly breaking his fever, though it isn't clear whether such a development will be permanent or temporary.
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"I think you might be a little sicker than I know how to deal with," she confesses, which makes her feel uncomfortable because before, she'd just find Rory and get him to help, but she doesn't have that option now.
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"I am grateful all the same, for whatever you have done and can do," Ned hoarsely whispers, the corners of his lips attempting a smile (and failing). "You are kind to have come, but I fear for your own health the longer you stay."
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"Besides, if I get sick, that just means you get to return the favour," she says sweetly, offering him a little more water. "Since Rory's not here to fawn over me, you'll get the prime job."
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"I would gladly," he replies before allowing some of the liquid into his mouth, taking small sips in clusters. "I certainly hope you know that by now."
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"It's metaphorical steel. You know, the sort where you've been through enough bad luck and situations to have developed a good backbone," she rambles. "I mean, I've died at least once, once you go through that, you get stronger." When he actually gives a real promise about helping to take care of her in return, she tries not to let any emotion show, barricading it back behind protective walls. "Well, good," she adds, half-heartedly. "Because I can't guarantee you're not going to get me sick, me doing this."
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