I DON'T OWN THE CHARACTERS IN THIS BOOK, THEY BELONG TO THE AWESOME GEORGE R. R. MARTIN, AS DO THE PLACES (E.G KINGS LANDING, WINTERFELL, QARTH ETC ETC.)
THIS IS A FAN FICTION, WITH MY IDEAS ON WHAT COULD HAPPEN AND WHAT I THINK WOULD BE GOOD STORIES TO TELL.
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This story is set in occurrence with the TV series, although the beginning occurs 12 years before the TV show it set, so as many of you may have read the books, please refrain from commenting things like 'But he's supposed to be dead!' etc.
It's set just after the events of the second series of GOT.
Also, unlike the TV series and original books, I'll be mainly focusing on King's Landing and the events that happen there, it's just my favourite part of the show, that's all.
So, I hope that you enjoy!
Please feel free to leave me comments, you know, likes/dislikes/constructive criticism etc. And if you like it, then press that little vote button up in the top corner!
Merci, Danke Schoen, ありがとう, Gracias, Grazie, Thank You!
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With the first few chapter's of this book, they're are not set in King's Landing and don't involve much romance, etc. It's mainly a prologue to set the scene, and give you a few pieces of vital information. So please bear with it, it really is important in order to understand the rest of the story.
Chapter I - Arienne
I let out a piercing scream. Instantly, I clamp my hand over my mouth. I shouldn't have done that, I know it instantly. But I couldn't help it, the sight that I had just seen was so truly horrific that it managed to make even I feel sick to my stomach.
I should be finding somewhere to hide, but I can't move my legs. I'm frozen to the spot, like a hare caught in a spotlight, stunned and unable to breathe.
I know that I need to run, because if I don't I will die. I don't want to die here, in the muck, with the pigs. My mother told me that I was destined for great things. She would never lie to me, would she?
Everywhere I look, I can see my friends and family, the people that I've known for the entirety of my short life, being slaughtered. The men are being cut down where they stand. Some of them have the mercy of a quick death, their throat's slit, a sword through the heart, decapitation. Others are not so fortunate. A few yards away from me lies a young man who lived a few houses down from mine. I say a young man, but really he is a child. He's only 7 years older than myself, a tall boy of 13. First, a rider came past and clumsily swung his sword, cutting off the boy's left arm. I listened as he let out agonised screams. He fell to the floor, the blood that poured from his arm making the dusty dirt wet and thick.
I wanted to run and help him, but I knew that if I did, they'd find me, and Mother said that could never happen.
I hid my face as another rider, this time on a jet black horse came past. The armless boy looked up at him, pleading for him to take his life quickly. This swordsman was more skilled with his blade, but every bit as bloodthirsty. He took the boy's head off with a single blow, and his remains fell to the already blood-stained floor.
That was why I was screaming. Thankfully, it doesn't seem as if anyone has heard, or at least, there are so many screams that it would be impossible to distinguish mine. Suddenly, it's as if I have got my strength back, and I run on little 6 year old legs to find the safest place that I can. However, every house has now been emptied and there is nowhere for me to hide without being caught.
I remember my mother's last words to me, when we saw the riders appear of the top of the hill what seemed like a century ago, but could have only been a few minutes. "Run, Arienne, find a place to hide. I've arranged for a friend to come and take you in, they know who you are and why you are special. Please Arienne, for the sake of us all, you must RUN!"
That spurs me on, it fills me with dread to think that my mother is either lying in the dirt, covered in her own blood, cruelly murdered by these villains, or she is where most of the other women and girls have been rounded up to, the village square. I don't allow myself to wonder about what will happen to them because I already know. Horrible stories about what happens to the women of ransacked villages have been told to us since we were young. That's another reason why I can't be caught, I won't be a slave.
Somehow, I manage to get into the forest. The trees offer protection and it makes it harder for them to spot me, but it also makes it harder for me to spot them. I need to get to where I am going, and fast.
I press on, wrapping my cloak around me and trying to hide my face. Maybe if they can't see that it's me, they'll let me go.
I stumble slightly on a root that's sprouting out of the ground. The grass here is thick, it reaches right up to my knees and for a moment I wonder what might be hiding within it. I dread to think.
The trees tower about me like soldiers, silhouettes against the cloudless night. Beyond, the great pearl-coloured orb that is the moon shines, guiding me to my salvation. Or to my death.
It's a cold night though, and the ice that has dusted the ground cracks under foot as I run through. Inside these trees, animals probably sleep, unaware of the evil that is taking place just a few hundred metres back. I know that where I'm going is about a mile away from the village, it's a journey that I've made several times in my 6 years, but never on my own, and never at night. I have to concentrate hard to remember the way, and not being distracted by the sounds of screaming in the distance.
After 10 minutes of running, checking behind me to make sure that nobody is coming, straining my ears and jumping out of my skin at every noise, I get to where I've been heading. The Godswood. As soon as I have arrived, I feel as if a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders and that I am truly safe now. The Weirwood is easy to find, the beautiful white tree with blood-red leaves that stands in the middle of the Godswood.
It's where the First Men would come to pray, or anyone who still follows the Old Gods. Myself, I don't tend to be overly religious - it's never done me any good - but today, I will pray to anyone and everything that will listen.
But first, I find a place to hide. I know that there is a small burrow in the roots of the tree, just big enough for me to fit inside. I find it easily enough, and push the branch that conceals it aside and slip in, pulling the branch back to seal me in.
Fumbling around, I know that there is a candle and some matches here somewhere, I hid them here a long time ago should the need for them ever arise. Mother always told me that I needed to be ready if there was ever an attack on our village. I hadn't known why she was so afraid all the time, who would want to attack our peaceful, tranquil village that played no part in the wars of the high families. It doesn't matter to us who sits on the Iron Throne in that far away land that is King's Landing, or even what the Lords and Ladies closer to our village in The Reach. So long as there's enough food to eat and our lives aren't threatened, we don't care about the game that the High Lords play.
I curl up into a ball and wish that I'd thought to bring some food with me. Of course, the attack was so sudden that I had barely had time to grab my thick, winter cloak. It's summer right now, but the night's are cold here, and I had no idea how long I'd have to hide for.
I cover my ears because in the distance, I can still hear the pained screams of the womenfolk of my village. A tear streaks its way down my cheek as I wonder if that woman might be my mother. It's then that I realise even if she isn't dead yet, then I'm never going to see her again.
You see, the reason for all of this is me. At least, that's what I've guessed. I don't know what makes me special, nobody would ever tell me that, but I've spent most of my life in company, never being allowed to be alone. I grew up to think that this was normal, sharing my mother's room, having to have her accompany me everywhere, even to the toilet. But then as I got to 4, and then 5, and then 6, I began to look outside the window of our little cottage and ask my mother why the children playing outside didn't have their mother's with them. She'd tell me that it was because I was special and they were not. There were several times when I asked her what made me so special, and all she'd say was "You are destined for great things Arienne, it is known."
Well, someone else must have known the truth that I did not too, as right now my home was being burnt to the ground, my brothers murdered, my sisters raped.
I squeeze my eyes shut and begin to sing quietly to myself, the lullaby that my mother sings to me every night before we go to sleep. I'm not a particularly good singer, I don't have the voice of an angel like Mother, but that doesn't matter to me, there is no one to hear my wailing.
Little Angel, little bird,
My sweet, angelic baby bird.
I raised you and fed you and now you are strong,
My sweet baby bird,
It's time to fly on.
Oh little bird, do not cry,
Your mama loves you
For you she will die,
She raised you and fed you and now you are strong,
My sweet baby bird,
It's time to fly on.
Sweet, baby bird,
For her you must live,
Prove your worth, and rise again,
She raised you and fed you and now you are strong,
Grand majestic bird,
It's time to fly on.
I don't know how long it takes for me to reach the end of the song and fall asleep. But I do, with the screams of a mother dying for her children echoing around me.
Though I don't know it, the screams belong to my own mother.
My martyr.