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.
/cries
The words eased her mind. No matter what happened in Westeros, nothing would pull her from his side now. They were together and the Others take the eyes of anyone that tried to tear them apart. "I won't leave you."
The mention of Jon made tears well up in her eyes, the emotion that she normally kept at bay. He was her weakness and her pride. "You kept your promise. I can't imagine his father doing better than you have. You have made him into the man I hoped he would be. A better person than I ever was." She brushed his hair from his face, that familiar ache in her heart. "He has all the goodness of you."
no subject
His mind is suddenly aware of the feeling of her hand in his, though it can't quite connect and understand its size in comparison to the small baby he's envisioning. His eyes flutter open, brow stitched together in confusion as he looks upon her face, searching.
"They placed you in my arms, and you settled down almost at once - I remember your eyes, how they looked up at me in a way no other ever could or has since ..." He reaches up to roughly brush the back of his fingers against her cheek, the weight of his hand and the lack of strength in his body causing his hand to fall back to the mattress with a thump. "Do I dream you now? I fear waking and the risk of losing you all over again." He tenses his jaw, hot tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "I would have given my life to have saved you. They could have stolen the breath from my very lungs if it meant you could have lived." He falls quiet for a moment, studying her face, though it's clear his gaze is hazy and unfocused. "But I kept my promise. I kept my promise to you. At the very least, I did that."
I hurt myself
She pressed his hand tighter against her cheek, staring back at him with those same eyes of awe and adoration. It didn't matter how old she became or how much their lives had changed, he would always be the man that she loved most in her life.
"You're not dreaming, Ned. I am really here. Nothing can divide us, not even death." Tears were not a normal occurrence in Lyanna's life. Tears brought jests and teasing from her brothers, but she felt safe with Ned. She could share those emotions, brought on by all the missed years and the affection that could not save her. "You did keep your promise. You protected him and raised him, loved him as I would have. I only wish I was more worthy of you. You sacrificed your honor for me, our family nearly collapsed because of me. I'm sorry, Ned. I'm so sorry."
this whole log is me hurting myself repeatedly over and over and over and over and over and over and
It had not been in his nature to show his emotions, even to her (though it happened more frequently in her company than it did anyone else's). He was a man of the North, and he was expected to be as cold as the snow that littered the grounds of Winterfell. Yet she felt less like the sting of ice and more like the golden silk of sunlight, and she could thaw whatever coldness he might carry in his bones. She made his life feel like summer, no matter the season.
"Why are you sorry?" he asks, unable to fully keep up with what she's been saying. His voice grows slightly impatient, but not with her - rather, with himself. The lucid part of him is clawing so desperately at the canyon walls of his mind, trying to climb its way out of the darkness, but the fever is strong and willful. It's difficult to keep from free-falling back into its recesses. "I hated myself for so many years, for being unable to protect you. I remember that tower," he murmurs, repeating the phrase a couple of times with decreasing volume and articulation. "I took your body home with me. I buried you in the crypts, alongside father and Brandon. I brought you home."
Listening to "The Tower" from S6 soundtrack and writing this is so much worse.
They were wolf cubs, part of a pack and reared to be a family, but her twin soul had always been Ned. Disappointing him had always been worse than upsetting their father. She knew how to avoid his reprimand, but the thought of Ned hearing of her mistakes or poor decisions was the only jolt of fear she felt in her life. Until the moment of her death. Her only relief was to have him by her side, holding her hand as she faced the Stranger and what lay beyond.
"I'm the reason Brandon and father died." She whispered, pressing her face against his chest, tears scattering along the fabric of his blanket. "I never wrote you, I never wrote anyone about what happened. By the time we reached Dorne and were in the Tower, we were told that Brandon and father...it was too late."
She shook her head fiercely, "You could protect me from everything but myself. I didn't have anymore strength, you were the last of it, you were the last of my courage as well. You were with me. All I wanted was to see you again one last time."
i hate my life
"You were not the one who set the fire ablaze beneath father's feet," he reprimands, his voice showing a sudden burst of strength. "You were not the one who tightened the noose around Brandon's neck and placed a sword out of his reach. You were not the one who sat on a throne and watched with delight while father burned alive and Brandon brought death upon himself in an effort to save him." They haven't yet had a brutal conversation about the deaths of their father and brother, and the words fall out of Ned's mouth without regard for Lyanna's sensibilities or sensitivities. There's a glint of fire in the ice of his eyes, however, as they pierce the air to his sister's face. "You may have brought them to King's Landing, but you are not the reason they were murdered." He manages to lift a hand, press the palm of it to the side of her face. "You cannot live buried underneath the weight of something that was not your doing."
I made myself cry
She shook her head, pressing his palm against her cheek. "I didn't, but I should have written. By the time we reached Dorne, father and Brandon were dead. I should have told them, I should have told you, you would have understood." At least, she prayed he would understand. She didn't know if Ned had loved anyone then, but perhaps he could imagine why she wanted Rhaegar. "Gods, Ned. Please forgive me." Someone should absolve her, if it were possible. The Old Gods were unfeeling, but her brother was not.
"How can I not carry this? I knew what I was doing, but I did it anyway. I didn't think of the consequences and everything that happened afterwards was the result of that." She took a shaky breath, pressing her brow to his shoulder. "Would I have been happy if I had accepted Robert Baratheon? Do you think I should have?" She never doubted herself before, but under the weight of her guilt, she had to wonder, she was left questioning the intelligence of her decisions. "I didn't love him."
jesus take the wheel
"I do not know if father and Brandon would have believed you. They might have thought you to have been forced to write such a letter, under threat of pain and death." He withdraws his hand away from her as another fit of coughs wrack his body, his breathing heavy once it's over. "I might have been reluctant to have taken your word, but I've always known you better than they had. I know your Wolf's Blood, your strength." His eyes find her, with some effort, and there's the spark of something amused in them when they do. "Your stubbornness."
His fingers drag the length of his hand across the mattress in search of hers.
"You would never have been happy with Robert, Old Gods know. It would not have been a life in which you would have stayed." He falls quiet for a few moments, lips moving with silent, unaired words. "Were you happy? Before I found you in the Tower?"
Just put this on my gravestone
"Perhaps not. Brandon was hard headed." He acted without thinking, much like Lyanna. It wasn't a stretch to imagine he would have charged ahead anyway, still furious and offended by Rhaegar's proposal, reacting rather than considering her happiness. "I should have written you at most." She waits for his coughing to pass, gently rubbing his arm as he calmed. "You might have told..." she trailed off. Robert wouldn't believe her anymore than Brandon would have.
He doesn't need to search long, her hand links with his once more.
She smiled sadly, "I was as much as I could be." The moment they arrived, the kingdoms were at war. It was difficult to treasure that time together when it came at such a cost. "I was happiest the day he wed me, there was no reason to be afraid. When I found I was pregnant, he was so proud. For a time, we had the chance to dream and imagine our future." She paused, holding onto her brother tightly. "I love him, Ned."
no subject
The muscles of his body stiffen slightly at the proclamation of love that falls so quickly from her lips, but it isn't long before he's eased back into a more relaxed (and exhausted) state. He does not have the energy to try to imagine a Targaryen falling in love with a Stark, but - he hears the earnestness in her voice. He knows she speaks her truth, and he will not disregard it or try to dismiss it as nothing.
"You know it hard for me to condone it all, given the importance of oaths and promises - but knowing that you were at least happy, and that you truly loved him - makes it easier to accept. I do not harbor anger or resentment towards you now, just as I never had back then. You were always the better part of me, Lyanna."
no subject
"Was I really worth a war?" Robert had claimed to love her, but she had never believed him. Obsession was strong and just as potent, but it wasn't as real or deep as love. She was only a woman, one woman compared to a realm full of people. She may not have been the complete reason for Robert's Rebellion, but he used her as a symbol and martyr.
She held him tighter, letting her head rest under his chin. "You were the better part of me too. If I had been in your place...I couldn't have survived seeing you..." seeing him die. Gods, she would have broken. Living alone without him somewhere in the world, her heart couldn't withstand it. "You have to get well, Ned. You need to recover. Please. I need you."
no subject
"I would've burnt all of Westeros .. to bring you back home safely .. if I knew it was what you had wanted."
The fever begins to creep its way back into his mind. He begins to flinch, almost rhythmically, as though in response to something constant, like the clanging of swords. "I watched him kill them all," he murmurs, seeing the face of Ser Arthur Dayne. "Two swords. He used two of them. I'd been bested, he was going to kill me. He was going to keep me from you." His head turns to one side, eyes closed and brows tugged together. "Howland. Howland! I took his life, but only because you had saved mine, Howland."
His head turns the other way.
"I heard his voice. I heard him call me. I hadn't known it then, how could I have? But I heard him. He called me 'father.'"
no subject
She sighed, instantly regretting her words. The subject of her death was painful to Ned and it wasn't what he needed to hear while he was ill. "I know you would have." She clutched his hand tighter. "When Rhaegar died, I didn't know what I was going to do. I knew though that you would take me home and keep me safe. If I couldn't be with my husband, I would be with you."
The fever seemed to make him speak nonsense, insane nonsense. She quickly applied another cloth to his brow and tried to shush him, urging him away from topics that would excite him. "Don't think of that now. Ser Arthur isn't here. He isn't keeping us apart." Howland though. She hadn't seen him and hadn't asked what became of him, afraid to learn that he died. He was with Ned, at least. Ned wasn't alone in the end.
"Heard who? Who did you hear?"
no subject
He stirs at the feeling of the cool, damp cloth against his scorching forehead, but it does little good to still the words that continue to bleed out of his mouth like a gushing wound.
"My son," he murmurs. "My son, my Brandon. I'd heard his voice, though how could I have? He hadn't yet been born. How could .. how could he have .. I heard him, Lyanna. I heard him call me."
no subject
She smiled gently, brushing a kiss against his brow. "I am a Stark of Winterfell, Ned. I belong with my family and our Gods." She would have wanted to be buried with Rhaegar, but she couldn't say what happened to his body. It was something she didn't want to consider or think about. The man she lay next to at night, mutilated or worse. Wherever he rested, she couldn't follow. Buried in the crypts of Winterfell, she would be near her son and perhaps, if the Gods were kind, her soul could watch over him.
There was a sharp chill of fear through her, listening to Ned's delirium. "Try not to think about that, Ned." She murmured, hoping to distract him from the rest. It sounded like madness. "You need to rest."
no subject
"It is one less shadow to cover the sunlight whenever my days fade into darkness," Ned sighs, relieved at having made the correct choice for his sister's final resting place. So much talk of death and loss, he thinks. It heavies his heart.
"Yes ... yes, I .. suppose you speak the truth ... Rest. Rest would do me good."