The Long Night is Coming [Open]

[thekittenqueen]

WHO: Margaery Tyrell
WHERE: The front porch of the Stark Home
WHEN: Dec 15th
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Nothing so far
STATUS: Open

---

Winter is coming.

She heard those words enough during those education, but never understood the true meaning until coming to this place. Unlike the Starks, she had never lived in the cold or around snow. At first, it had been lovely, a wonderful thing to wake up to (even if it was frustrating to work in). But with the temperature dropping and everything seemingly becoming hardened, she was beginning to show that side of her that had been spoiled by the southron heat.

She tried to endure and hide her discomfort. She wrapped herself in her woolen cloak, buried herself beneath the blankets and huddled in front of the furnace. It didn't do much to heat her blood.

I suppose the Tyrells are not as hot blooded as I thought.

Despite this, she soldiered on, hoping to at least earn some respect from her northern countrymen. She worked as she always did and planted herself on the front porch to spin and weave. She even sang, no matter how her voice quivered and her teeth chattered. If she was going to be a northern lord's wife, she was going to manage through the cold, godsdammit.

She pulled her gloves off, gently spinning her wool into yarn. Maybe with enough of a distraction, she could forget how miserable this was. She would sing of heat and warmer things. The mind could be fooled that way, couldn't it?


" The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,

and her kisses were warmer than spring.

But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,

and its kiss was a terrible thing.

The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,

in a voice that was sweet as a peach,

But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,

and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.

As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,

and the taste of his blood on his tongue,

His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,

and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,

"Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,

the Dornishman's taken my life,

But what does it matter, for all men must die,

and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"

001 ✝ there's an angel with a hand on my head

[ottimismo]

WHO: Sonny Carisi
WHERE: The fountain and the inn
WHEN: 12/14
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Nooothing? Will update as needed.
STATUS: Open

---

( she says i've got nothing to fear )

arrival

[3ofswords]

WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: Arriving out of the Fountain, later at the Inn - evening or night
WHEN: December 15
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open

---

When you're a kid, even growing up on the Hudson, there's something magical about snow.  You watch it fall from the grey sky, you catch it on your tongue--it's pure, and light, and you barely feel the cold.

At 26, face-down in it with his hood flipped over his head, Kira's fucking sick of it.  His face is going numb, his cheeks burning and chapped, and it tastes like the smell of the nearest dumpster with a fine dusting of cigarette ash.  The footsteps of the rioters grows closer, pauses.  His fingers don't so much as twitch over the 6mm in his pocket, though the opposite hand strokes one finger against the side of his cards, seeking the smallest comfort.  The deck told him to come back, and he can feel the three of swords at the top, his message to Ty scratched to the back of it--go home.

The gun isn't an option, against so many footsteps.  He has to play it safe, just another body in the alley, waiting for them to pass.  He has to get into the building, find the stash.  He has to get these antibiotics, or Ty isn't going anywhere.

He grits his teeth, grey snow melting against his lips.  Exhaustion saves him from flinching when a silencer taps against his hip.  "Leave it man, shit's still dirty out here.  We've got places to be."  The rifle lifts; someone steps over his body.  The snow crunches, broadcasting their footsteps down the alley and around a corner.  He'll give it another minute, until the sounds fade and the silence only Winter can bring falls again.

It's the span of his body relaxing, his head ready to tilt up, his eyes ready to open--he swears he falls asleep.  Passes out, loses the plot: when he blinks awake the world isn't divided between cold snow and cold wind.  It goes deeper, swallows everything around him, keeps the world dark when he opens his mouth and eyes and starts to gasp--only to find himself choking.  He doesn't wonder if the earth gave way under him, if he's fallen through the concrete and subway into the fucking sewers, if he's lost his mind and someone's dragged him back to toss him in the river.  All he can do is kick his feet, hit a hard surface below him and push for the surface, breaking it moments later with a whooping cough and a hoarse "What the fuck?"

The surface of the water provides no substantial answers, though it reveals the edge to be within reach.  Expecting a waterlogged parka to weigh him down, he tugs hard at the lip of a stone fountain, rolling himself several times over--a backpack?

Laid on his side, a parenthesis to the foreign landmark, he coughs and gasps again, air no warmer than Manhattan's assaulting his soaked body.  He's close enough to reach out a hand and lay it on the edge once more, his panic and confusion elaborating on their theme: "Fucking christ, what is this?"

[optional - at the pub]

Shockingly, a second dip in the freezing waters hadn't improved the situation, or his understanding of it.  He can't swim back to the alley and his hypothermic delusion is so advanced it's also trying to give him hypothermia, until he Inceptions himself out the other side and sets himself on fire in a daze, probably.  Hopefully--crazy and freezing to death is better than trapped.  At least his body combined with the note he left might lead someone to the supplies.

He stares down at the food left in front of him, wondering why he couldn't imagine a step up from what he'd been serving at the safehouse, and nudges it around on the plate just to feel his hand moving, see the signal his brain sends reach his body, try to decide if this is actually real.

He should eat, his fingers shaking from that as much as the cold, as much as the fear--but he pushes the plate back and hides them in the pockets of his new coat, burrowing into the warmth, missing his dirty old parka.