Snow in the Crownlands

The Death and Awakening

No, I do not own ASOIAF. If I did, I would have quit university. I only own a pack of smokes and a notepad for shitty poetry.

His eyes open, and he feels pain stab at his torso. His body felt weak, but strength was returning slowly. Looking around the room, it wasn't a cellar, it wasn't his room in Winterfell, the absence of fur on the bedding he lay on apparent, nor his Night's Watch solar.

Instead, what he found was red and black, silk instead of fur and lavishness everywhere he looked instead of a cold, simple room.

Lifting up his coverings, he was not surprised to see scars on his chest, but they looked unusual.

Instead of stitches, they looked like the milky white scars one would have with aged scars. He thought he had been transported to a different part of the North, or at least taken captive, but those thoughts perished immediately after examining himself in a silver mirror.

Gone were the multitude of scars from training. Gone were the scars on his eyes from Orell and the multiple cuts he received in the Battle at the Wall. Even his burned hand from when he set the wight on fire.

Speaking of which, he looked around the room, yet he found no black fur, no Longclaw, and the most disheartening of all, Ghost was not here. The presence of his wolf was nowhere to be found. It doesn't make sense. He could always know whether Ghost was ok, whether that massive, loving and, to their enemies- savage, direwolf was near or far, but always alive and strong.

Looking back to the mirror, his visage looked like when he had started for the Wall at 15. Unmarred and less tortured by grief and responsibility. But his eyes, those stormy grey, were unchanged.

He found black clothing, 'Thank the Gods', and got dressed. Boiled black leather and boots of the same color, reminding him of the Watch. He did however grab a well crafted steel blade from the wall upon which it rested against. Not a bastard sword like Longclaw, but it would do.

He walked out of the room and roamed the place. Walls red as flame, with statues of Targaryen Kings trailing along the path.

'This is queer. Why would- oh Fuck the heavens.' He cursed in his mind. A realization had settled in his mind. He was in the Red Keep. He should be in chains, or worse, short a head.

And yet, he was free, armed and unstarved. This made no sense. Who was king now?

He kept going forth, his eyes narrowing and steeling his resolve, he faced the wooden doors of what he assumed was the throne room. Two guards were in front of the gate, yet surprisingly, for the umpteenth time this morning, they opened the gate for him.

'Huh? What has happened since I lost conscious?' Had Robb won? No, that can't be. The breastplates of the guards lack the snarling direwolves. Instead, they have a three headed. Dragon.

'Oh Fuck.'

He did as set out to do and entered.

He looked around the room, where a massive throne of molten blades fused together stood menacingly in the center. The walls had the banners of the Targaryen sigil, and seven Kingsguards stood in all their glory.

But what drew his eyes were three figures in the centre of the room, in front of the throne.

The first was a young woman with dark hair, a streak of pale hair mixing with the dark. Her eyes a burning purple, and a smile gracing her face.

The second was a boy about his age, mayhaps a year older. He had the classic Targaryen look, albeit with a bit of a tan upon his skin. His gaze was one conflicted between relief and childish annoyance.