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thesphererp2020-11-08 06:06 pm
prumia) wrote in thesphererp2020-11-08 06:06 pm
Memory Share | The Red Wedding (CW: Blood, Gore, Violence, Death)
[ ooc: This time from the Queen in the North's POV. Please imagine a point of view shot. For the canon-familiar, this is a mashup of show and book Red Wedding, just as Jeyne is from the books but with Talisa's endgame. Also, here is Robb's memshare of the same event, for the curious. ]
The day is damp and grey, and rain has begun to fall. There's the impression of traveling fast through columns of men, soldiers, white banners emblazoned with grey wolves flying bravely in the wind. Soon the head of the host comes into view: a knight carrying the royal standard, which registers in the memory as brother; a grey direwolf; and Robb Stark, the King in the North, on his horse.
"Your Grace." A female voice. Pleading, desperate. "Please take me with you."
Robb's face, closer now. She's caught up with him, and he's looking at her incredulously. He says all manner of things β that she shouldn't be there, that it's not safe for her to go riding, that it's not safe for her to be with him, that she should return to Riverrun immediately, that he promises to be back soon. Once more, there's that feeling of desperation; the memory only shows her hands, gripping the reins of her horse tightly, but they're shaking.
"Robb." His expression changes then, at that moment no longer a king, but a boy, a lover, a husband. "Robb, please. Please let me come with you."
The memory shifts. A wedding feast. But the music is terrible and the food even worse. Drums pounding much too loud, pipes wailing, fiddles screeching. Leek soup, jellied calves' brains, mounds of mashed turnips. Robb eats, uncomplaining, but one can see she's barely touched her plate. Someone asks if she's alright, and she stammers for a moment before very politely saying that she's already full. A lie, of course, and that impression is clear, because she's already feeling like she's about to throw up. There's a laugh from behind her, and from somewhere out of her peripheral vision someone begins an anecdote about pregnant women. She returns to staring at her food.
The bedding begins. The hall is quickly filled by the sound of people banging their cups and shouting, "To bed! To bed! To bed with them!" Robb looks at her, his expression apologetic; she glances down at her hand, on her lap, and his now curled around it. There's a sense of gratitude that fills the memory, for their wedding had been small and quiet and did not involve that shameful tradition. But there's worry now, too. He should join in Lady Roslin's bedding, she thinks, and her concern is palpable even if no one actually sees her face in the memory. Lord Frey might take offense.
And then she hears it. A new song, a different song. The musicians are horrible, and no one is singing the words, but she knows the song even by just the first few notes, and whoever is seeing the memory will feel like warning bells are literally ringing in her head.
She falls. The hall has descended into chaos. Swords have been drawn, bodies are being hacked, crossbow bolts are raining upon them like rain. Blood oozes from her belly and, sobbing in horror, she desperately presses a hand against her wounds as though she can keep their child alive that way. She tries to get up and make her way to Robb, only to once more fall.
The bolts get Robb, and then Catelyn. She looks at Robb, wanting to tell him to stand and leave and save himself, but she can no longer find the strength to do so. Someone's talking, and then someone's screaming; she can't really make out the words, not anymore, as if a wall of ice had descended between her and everyone else in the room. What she does realize a moment later is that Robb is now in her view, and though she can't feel it β it's cold, too cold β he's lifted her up, and he's looking at her.
I'm sorry, she wants to say but could only think it, and her world begins to fade. She sees Robb stand. She sees him turn to his mother. She sees a man come up to him and stab him in the chest with a knife. She sees him fall. She sees Catelyn with a knife in her hand, and she sees a man slit her throat.
The memory grows darker and darker until all anyone can see are Robb's eyes, so hauntingly blue and beautiful, and staring back at her.
I'm so sorry, Robb...
The day is damp and grey, and rain has begun to fall. There's the impression of traveling fast through columns of men, soldiers, white banners emblazoned with grey wolves flying bravely in the wind. Soon the head of the host comes into view: a knight carrying the royal standard, which registers in the memory as brother; a grey direwolf; and Robb Stark, the King in the North, on his horse.
"Your Grace." A female voice. Pleading, desperate. "Please take me with you."
Robb's face, closer now. She's caught up with him, and he's looking at her incredulously. He says all manner of things β that she shouldn't be there, that it's not safe for her to go riding, that it's not safe for her to be with him, that she should return to Riverrun immediately, that he promises to be back soon. Once more, there's that feeling of desperation; the memory only shows her hands, gripping the reins of her horse tightly, but they're shaking.
"Robb." His expression changes then, at that moment no longer a king, but a boy, a lover, a husband. "Robb, please. Please let me come with you."
The memory shifts. A wedding feast. But the music is terrible and the food even worse. Drums pounding much too loud, pipes wailing, fiddles screeching. Leek soup, jellied calves' brains, mounds of mashed turnips. Robb eats, uncomplaining, but one can see she's barely touched her plate. Someone asks if she's alright, and she stammers for a moment before very politely saying that she's already full. A lie, of course, and that impression is clear, because she's already feeling like she's about to throw up. There's a laugh from behind her, and from somewhere out of her peripheral vision someone begins an anecdote about pregnant women. She returns to staring at her food.
The bedding begins. The hall is quickly filled by the sound of people banging their cups and shouting, "To bed! To bed! To bed with them!" Robb looks at her, his expression apologetic; she glances down at her hand, on her lap, and his now curled around it. There's a sense of gratitude that fills the memory, for their wedding had been small and quiet and did not involve that shameful tradition. But there's worry now, too. He should join in Lady Roslin's bedding, she thinks, and her concern is palpable even if no one actually sees her face in the memory. Lord Frey might take offense.
And then she hears it. A new song, a different song. The musicians are horrible, and no one is singing the words, but she knows the song even by just the first few notes, and whoever is seeing the memory will feel like warning bells are literally ringing in her head.
And who are you, the proud lord said,"Robbβ" she tries to call out, but someone suddenly, forcefully grabs her from behind in a chokehold and stabs her repeatedly in the belly. She looks down in horror, shocked and unable to do much else but scream, yet her thoughts are even louder in the memory, for everyone privy to it. No... no, please, no... Eddard... Eddard, our son... please no, not our son, please not our son... no... no... gods, Robb... Robb, run...
that I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat,
thatβs all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep oβer his hall,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep oβer his hall,
and not a soul to hear.
She falls. The hall has descended into chaos. Swords have been drawn, bodies are being hacked, crossbow bolts are raining upon them like rain. Blood oozes from her belly and, sobbing in horror, she desperately presses a hand against her wounds as though she can keep their child alive that way. She tries to get up and make her way to Robb, only to once more fall.
The bolts get Robb, and then Catelyn. She looks at Robb, wanting to tell him to stand and leave and save himself, but she can no longer find the strength to do so. Someone's talking, and then someone's screaming; she can't really make out the words, not anymore, as if a wall of ice had descended between her and everyone else in the room. What she does realize a moment later is that Robb is now in her view, and though she can't feel it β it's cold, too cold β he's lifted her up, and he's looking at her.
I'm sorry, she wants to say but could only think it, and her world begins to fade. She sees Robb stand. She sees him turn to his mother. She sees a man come up to him and stab him in the chest with a knife. She sees him fall. She sees Catelyn with a knife in her hand, and she sees a man slit her throat.
The memory grows darker and darker until all anyone can see are Robb's eyes, so hauntingly blue and beautiful, and staring back at her.
I'm so sorry, Robb...