Eddard ("Ned") Stark, MBE (winterishere) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-05-03 01:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, eddard stark |
Who: Ned Stark [Narrative]
What: Memory
When: Wednesday night/Thursday early morning
Where: Stark home
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
"Promise me, Ned."
Her blood pooled at his knees. She was frail in his arms. A corpse on borrowed time pleading with him, and how could he say no to Lyanna? For all the years they had spent apart she was still his beloved sister, torn apart by cruel overrreaching hands and subjected to a wretched fate she did nothing to deserve.
She wanted to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell. When the war was over, it would be the least he could do for her. He would honour her from time to time, whenever he could, with the blue roses she loved.
But there was fear in her eyes that mirrored the fear caught in the back of his throat. The weight on his shoulders was heavier than just the steel and leather of his armour. Guilt, fear, uncertainty, dishonour - he cannot do what she is asking of him but he must. He must carry this burden for her and live this lie so that she could die in peace.
He was a man of few smiles but he kept vigil over her with determination burning in his eyes and love pouring from his heart until her last breath left her chest.
It was just as well that Catelyn had kicked him out after their quarrel over Jon and he spent the night on the couch. It was half four when he cried out 'Lyanna' into the darkness, and his voice echoed off the high ceilings and adorned walls of the otherwise empty living room.
He stumbled outside to the porch and breathed in the cold night air. His hands were shaking to the point where it was nearly impossible to light the cigarette.
It had been a long time since he dreamed of Lyanna. He had blamed himself for letting her get on that plane, and he knew that his previous dreams of her dying were manifestations of his guilt. But he never had an outrageous dream like that. And it had never felt that real.
His hand was still trembling as he wiped a tear from his eye. There had been so much blood and he felt sick thinking of her limp body lying in his ensanguined hands. Over two decades on and he could still feel like that young man who was told his family had been killed. Suddenly rendered very much alone, scared and vulnerable, and he had no one he could talk to.
It was almost five when he forced himself to go back inside. His skin felt colder than ice. After a cold shower and a change of clothes, he left the house.