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a-throne-of-lies · 1 month

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THE GODS NEVER HEARD YOU. - JON SNOW X M!OC

summary ― jon snow dies. his best friend cannot save him.

author's note ― offering you all a little snippet of my greatest brainrot. perhaps i will share more of them later if people like this at all <3333

The fire spit and crackled as Andaren fed the logs into the dying flames. The logs were of dry pine with sap still clinging to the bark and caught easily amidst the flames before they took and smoldered into the hearth. The light flickered and danced on the dark stone walls of the Lord Commander’s solar, and behind him sat Jon, who was sifting through a pile of letters with exasperation.

He stood back from the fire and dusted his hands off, trying to remove any bark and sap that may have clung to his gloves before he removed them. He rounded and came to sit by the table, saying nothing as he took the flagon of wine and poured himself a cup. Castle Black had felt empty as of late despite the Wildlings amidst their keep, and their brothers were becoming more and more unsettled with their presence. He had gone to sit at the chair opposite his friend — Jon slumping back into his chair — when Olly burst in through the door. Both himself and Jon looked up, startled.

“Lord Commander,” Olly began, glancing warily at Andaren. “It’s a wildling, ser, says they’ve seen yer uncle Benjen.”

Jon shot up and the letters scattered. “Where?” he demanded, a wild look of desperation in his eyes.

“Just outside, m’lord,” Olly replied and took off.

Jon ran after him without hesitation, and Andaren had no choice but to follow. They came down into the torchlit and snowy yard where Ser Alliser Thorne stood by the bottom of the stairs.

“They said they saw him at Hardhome nigh a moon past,” Alliser said, joining Olly in stride as they took off out into the yard.

“Where are they?” Jon asked, following behind.

“Just ahead,” Thorne replied, stopping just behind a pack of their brothers.

Andaren paused in his stride, but Jon did not. There were too many of them out. Why were there so many of them? Only a few should have been out patrolling. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut and he pressed on. Just as he reached the group, Ser Alliser stopped him. He extended his arm and caught him in the chest with a firm hand. Andaren shot him a warning glance, only to meet icy and determined eyes. His heart began to race as anxiety fell upon him. Jon had stopped, he could see him just ahead, his head was blocking something he could not see. But he knew one thing: he saw no Wildling. Ser Alliser released him and nodded vaguely to a few of the brothers, who seized Andaren’s arms before he could have done anything.

“Hey!” he grunted, struggling against them. “Let me go!” But it was no use, even he was no use against two men.

The crowd parted for Ser Alliser, whose steel in his hand glinted in the light. Andaren’s eyes shot wide. No! It was too late. In a flash, as Jon turned, his blade met his belly, burying into the boiled leather and cloth of his tunic before wrenching it free.

“NO!” Andaren cried in disbelief, and with all the rage in his body, he ripped himself free of his brothers’ grasp and stumbled forward.

He launched himself at the next man who had pulled his dirk, clawing into him and reaching to restrain his arms as he coiled to stab Jon. As he fought, the others moved to restrain him, grabbing into his cloak and doublet and pulling him back. Only his adrenaline kept him from being dragged back. He reached for the dirk and his hands closed around the blade. It bit into his palms and fingers, but he did not notice.

“Anda…” Jon whispered.

“Don’t you dare touch him again!” Andaren snarled, but again, it was no use. Four brothers now clawed him back, and the dirk was pulled free from his grasp. He tried to fight, kicking and writhing like a fitful child, but it did not matter. The dirk was in Jon’s belly again, then another.

“No, no, NO!” Andaren grew louder, yelling desperately into the night as if his words would stop them.

“Control him!” Alliser spat, “Keep him quiet, for Gods’ sake!”

A cold, gloved hand covered his mouth as they wrestled him to the ground like a dying animal. He struggled against them, shouting muffled curses into the hand clasped over his lips until he opened his mouth and in his fury, bit into the leather. His eyes never left Jon, whose wounds were concealed by the black he wore, but his pain was clear as day. He sank his teeth into the hand, biting hard until it was pulled away.

“Bloody hells,” the brother hissed. “He fucking bit me!” He shook his hand, pulled back into a fist and punched Andaren right in the jaw with enough force that his head knocked into the dirt and his lip split. The world rang for a moment. He did not notice.

Hot tears welled in Andaren’s eyes as he watched helplessly as another knife found Jon’s chest. He struggled and struggled, managing momentarily to crawl free before he was brought down again, and this time a knife found his leg. He grunted, but the pain was nothing. Jon looked at him, wide-eyed, shocked and broken, then he looked away again as Olly approached.

“For the watch,” the boy whispered, and the last blade met Jon in the heart.

“Jon!” Andaren cried out to him and the world fell away. He did not know when the others left, nor when they had left him free, only that they had and he found himself blindly scrambling to Jon’s side as he collapsed into the snow.

“Jon, Jon. . .stay with me, stay with me! It’ll be alright, it’s alright. I’m here.” He was shaking. Jon did not move, nor did he speak. His dull eyes flicked to him for a moment, full of sorrow and regret. He said nothing, but the look he bore said anything he could not. A single tear rolled down Jon’s face, and he shifted feebly before he went limp, the light draining from his eyes like a flame doused in water. “No. . . No please, you have to stay with me, you can’t go!” he pleaded, gathering Jon’s limp and lifeless body into his arms. “Please, please. . . I cannot lose you!” His hand lifted to caress Jon’s face, smearing the blood from his own wounds onto his pale cheeks.

He held him, cradled like a babe in his arms as he cried, his tears streaming down his cheeks and spilling over onto Jon’s bloodstained face. He adjusted slightly to kiss his forehead, his lips trembling against his cooling skin.

“I love you, Jon...do you hear that? I love you, you fool.” The words left him in a whisper. “My dearest friend, my companion. I love you, you hear me? I love you, I love you, I love you.” He spoke as if his words would bring him back, as if he were there to listen, as if saying it enough would entreat the Gods and bestow upon him a miracle. But all he was greeted with was silence, deafening silence, and the horrible tightness in his chest as grief ravaged him.

He sat with him all night, holding him tightly into his chest as if to share his warmth in the cold night. If his wounds hurt or he was cold, he did not notice. Nothing mattered any longer. When dawn finally did break, he did not notice it either. To him, time had stopped, lingering in that moment and never going forward. It was only when Ser Davos roused him, did he break from the lifelessness of that moment.

“Andaren,” Davos said, shaking his shoulder. “By the Gods, what in the bloody hells happened ‘ere?” he asked.

Andaren lifted his head to look at him with dead and puffy eyes, blood and tears dry on his cheeks. “Jon…” he whispered, “It’s Jon. He’s hurt. Ser Alliser, Ollie…” he trailed off, looking down at the lifeless body in his grasp. Tears welled again and he bit his lip to stop himself from trembling. “Help him, please…he’s…they—“ the words were spit out in a dry sob. He’s dead. They killed him.

Davos looked at him in all of his despondency and anguish, and touched his cheek lightly to brush his dark and ruined curls from his face like he would a son. Andaren flinched away, dark in his sorrow.

“Leave me here, ser,” he chided lowly, and Davos pulled away.

“I will not do that. I cannot do that. You are hurt, you must let me see to your wounds.”

“Don’t touch me. Leave me here, I do not wish to be healed.” A look of black resolve settled over his face and eyes. He did not wish to live. His heart was dark and heavy. There was no light for him, nothing that could have convinced him to continue on.

Davos sighed softly, clearly adamant in his words. He moved slowly touching Jon’s shoulder before he began to reach out as if he were going to take him. Andaren’s knees shot up and he hastily shoved Davos away.

“Don’t touch him!” he snarled, gathering him back into his arms to hoard him as a dog might its meal, or a dragon its lair of bones.

Davos’ gaze narrowed and hardened briefly, but he stood and tugged at his cloak. “I’m not leaving you out ‘ere. You’re both coming with me, even if I have to knock you over the head to do it.”

Andaren looked miserably from Jon’s body, to Davos above him, and all of the anger and frustration melted from his face. If it had been up to him, he would have sat there and let time turn him into carrion. It’s my fault, he reflected, feeling more hot tears burn his eyes and roll down his cheeks. I should have protected him. I should have fought harder. Before he could have gotten up, more of their brothers came crowding in, shouting. He registered Ghost’s low howls, then the flash of black as Maesa came down from the rafters. Some of the men parted for her, still wary of a shadowcat. She approached, sniffed Jon’s body, and sank off into the shadows again. Andaren only clutched Jon closer to him, his brow furrowing and his lips turning down into a scowl. He did not like all of the eyes on him. The scene was pathetic as it was, he was not in the mood to feel humiliated on top of his grief.

“Give him some space,” Davos demanded, although not unkindly. Edd, among the others, shuffled back enough to make Andaren feel less suffocated by their presence.

“Come on, we have to get inside,” someone said.

Andaren, scowling, weak and weary, stumbled to his feet, still cradling Jon. When Edd moved to help him, he shot him a venomous look and he backed away with his hands raised. They rushed across the yard, Andaren trailing behind both from the weight of the body he carried and from the limp in his injured leg. Regardless of the pain or his inability, he continued on until they were amidst a room. Edd had thrown everything off of the table and gestured for him to put Jon down. Reluctantly, he placed his body atop the table and buckled to his knees. Not once did he stop touching Jon, just now instead of holding him, his hand was clutched into his arm. He felt sick, and his leg had begun to bleed anew.

He took Jon’s cold hand in his own and held it, saying nothing and not moving from where he had collapsed. Vaguely, he could hear the others talking, and feel Davos crouch beside him. He wanted to fight him, to snap and bite, but any strength he had left had fled him, and he resigned to whatever came next. Davos ripped his breeches, exposing his wound and pressing fresh cloth to it. Andaren didn’t feel a thing. He should have, he knew he should have, but nothing stirred him. By all rights, he was dead too, devoid of life, light or warmth. His eyes had become empty black pools, his hair had flattened and blood covered most of his body. Jon had bled out on him, soaking into Andaren’s blacks and mingling with his own blood. He was flesh, he breathed, he bled, but he was nothing beyond that. Every inch of him that gave him life had dulled like an old tapestry hung for too long.

“I never told him…” he began to whisper after some time had passed, and that was all he said. Some of the brothers had exchanged confused looks, but none ever said anything either. Andaren was the only one who spoke, whispering over and over and over again. I never told him I loved him. All those years, every moment I spent loving him, and he never knew. I never stopped. I never told him. I never stopped.

He clung to Jon for hours, as if he could share his warmth, as if holding him long enough would give him his own life and bring him back.

At some point, Tormund was there, talking to him distantly, but nothing he said made any sense. Time seemed to lurch on slowly, and everything around him happened as if he were on the other side of a door, listening in on something. When he was spoken to, he did not respond. And when some of the brothers tried to get him to eat or move, he did not budge. He sat, holding Jon’s cold, bloodless hand in his own, staring off with dead and empty eyes.

It was only when Melisandre began to interfere, did he finally snap from his lifeless state. Some of the brothers tried to pull him away from Jon, but failed miserably. Melisandre tried to rouse him as well, but it was only when they had given up and began undressing Jon’s body, did he come to life like some wight. He snapped up, feeling Jon’s body move, only to realize it was Melisandre.

“Don’t touch him!” He shot to his feet and stumbled, realizing then how weary he was. He fought against his body’s urge to collapse and grabbed at her with weak and stiff hands. He found he could not clasp his fingers around her wrist. “Leave him, don’t touch him!” He was furious now, and the Red woman sat and stared at him with dismay.

“My lord,” she stared, but he cut her off. “No!”

“I have to try…” She looked off towards the others and nodded vaguely.

Andaren felt hands on him, pulling him back. Fear gripped him and he writhed feebly. He was too weak to resist them and so he fell into the arms of Edd and Davos. He watched as Melisandre undressed him further, stripping him of his small clothes and laying him bare. Andaren could see each of his wounds, the markings where they had stabbed him; where they had killed him. His lips trembled and tears began to pour from his eyes again. He turned away, burying his head into Davos’ shoulder as he started to cry. Davos held him, albeit awkwardly, but he held him.

Eventually, they had gotten him to settle in a chair with a fresh cloak wrapped about his shoulders. Melisandre washed the blood from him, cut and burned his hair, then washed it and chanted softly as she worked until she came to rest her hands on his chest. Andaren allowed himself a quiet moment of hope, but the gods were cruel, and he had never hoped in them. He was not worthy enough to be given such a gift as many others had hoped for.

When Melisandre stepped away, they sat in the dim light with baited breath, waiting and listening, watching. But no life returned to Jon. He remained as cold and dead as he had since they had brought him in. Andaren’s heart blackened ever the more. He stood, his chair shrieking against the wood floor, and turned.

“Andaren, do not do it!” Davos protested behind him and tried to reach to grab him, but it was no use.

Andaren shoved out the door and into the cold, fury blinding him. Jon was dead, truly dead, and there was nothing else they could do. A crowd had gathered below, wildings and black brothers alike. They parted for him as he stalked down and into the yard.

“ALLISER THORNE!” he yelled, drawing his steel and spinning in the fresh snow to take in his surroundings. Thorne was on one of the decks, scowling at him.

“Get down here, you bloody coward, and face me!” Andaren’s fury was unmatched. His hands burned and he could not grip his sword like he used to, but it did not matter. In that moment, his fury bound his sword-hilt to his hand.

Hatred burned deep in his belly, and Ser Alliser seemed to feel it. A flash of fear flickered in his eyes before he grit his teeth and came down the steps, his own sword now in hand. Andaren gave him no time. He was upon him the second his boots met the snow, his blade crashing down into Thorne’s with a hideous scream as cold metal met metal and rang out in the yard. Alliser stumbled, but regained and moved to attack him back, both hands gripped on his bastard sword as he came in heavy with a sidelong strike. Andaren met his blade again, blazing. He knocked aside his sword and went in again with an overhead swing. Their blades caught, slid apart and met again until they were closer than ever, driving their swords against one another. Andaren’s sword hissed against Thorne’s own blade and they struggled.

Thorne resorted to his fists and wrenched free to punch Andaren. He stumbled for a moment, caught off guard. Alliser hit his sword from his grasp and it went clattering down. Andaren spat blood and regained himself, dodging an attack, grabbing ruthlessly onto Thorne’s wrist and ripping Alliser’s sword free of him. It fell. He grabbed him and his knuckles met his face. They fell this time, tumbling violently into the snow and mud, fighting tooth and nail against each other. Andaren was beneath him, and he found himself fumbling for something, anything. Then he felt it in his furs: the dragonglass dagger Jon had made him. He wrenched it free of his clothes and stabbed Alliser in the belly. He froze and grunted in pain. Andaren shoved him off and mounted him this time, blade in hand. He stabbed him again in his chest, and again. The blade tore at his blacks and bled him like a stuck pig. Alliser tried to fight back feebly, but Andaren shoved aside his hands and held the jagged blade to his throat and cut. He slit him open from ear to ear, catching the artery and spraying blood everywhere. Alliser choked, clawing at his neck before going limp.

Andaren’s jaw was clenched, blood drenched his face and blacks, and he sat atop Alliser’s body until the hatred faded from him and was replaced again with grief. He stumbled off of him and dropped the dagger. He looked at his bloodstained and ruined hands, then up again as a shout came from above him on the decks. Davos was there, looking as if he’d seen a ghost.

#jon snow #asoiaf #male oc #i love the gays #i also really like writing pain #jon and anda have rotted my brain so bad dude

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filurig · 5 months

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a guy ive had in mind for a whileee its a crime i havent actually made an oc of my faeries yet so this guy!! this guy is actually the faerie that provides folke with funky fantasy hrt. more on them (and a bit about faeries) under the cut...

krillimir, or as they're known to many non-faeries, (spider's web) glasswing, is a rather newly adult faerie, having emerged about 3 years ago from their pupae. a bit of a free spirit in comparison to other faeries, they hail from the Hemarikkit Till colony to the south of vätterunda, perhaps the largest colony in the area with its main structures occupying a sunlit forest grove. due to the size and relatively stable nature of the colony, there was not a lot of pressure/demand on newly emerged faeries to take up a specific role, and krillimir preferred to keep their options open and thus chose to identify as a generalist.

generalist faeries can kind of take on less specific work than other faerie genders usually do, and especially work which involves collaboration with other species, and curious about the world outside of the colony, krillimir applied to be a participant in the colony's medical program - basically all faerie colonies have a medical program which involves a collaboration with the area's local tomtar, who will provide them with illusory magic to maintain their settlements and keep them hidden/protected. in return, the faeries offer their faerie dust, which can be finely tuned to affect an organism's hormone levels (as well as some other biochemicals) - this of course can be used to treat certain conditions, or as a way to alleviate pain, etc.

gullmar, who is folke's "tomte uncle" in a way, ended up visiting the Hemarikkit Till colony in search of a faerie that could help with folke's Trans Gender Blues (aka: provide him with hrt, after gullmar realised that folke was trans) and the freshly emerged krillimir would be assigned to him. due to the nature of the assignment, krillimir would just be permanently assigned to gullmar and comes by the granholm residence once every few months to readjust folke's hormone levels to the proper ones when the T levels start to fall off. while gullmar can find the faerie a bit neurotic and too energetic, their relationship grows to become amicable - a part of gullmar probably feels a fatherly instinct towards them hehe.

some extra faerie stuff i thought about making this guy so ill include:

faeries do not have a directly "spoken" language like we do, and communicate mostly through pheromones, body gestures and sounds like squeaking, trilling and hissing. they can communicate with other species through their pheromones, but as they communicate with said species in the target's language, things like names are often just directly translated. "krillimir" means "spider's web glass wing". how do we have the "romanization" of their name then? Well through some convoluted shenanigans. basically - tomtar have an anda-powered ability to learn the language of other species. with enough exposure and socialisation they will just naturally begin to gain an understanding of that language, and their ability has led them to be able to learn faerie language, especially helped by it also existing in a written form. while faeries don't speak this written language, it is how they conceptualise more complex ideas internally (the internal voice so to speak) - with the tomte ability, they can somewhat approximate what the language would sound like if spoken - at least filtered through the tomte brain. its most definitely not 100% accurate to what it would sound like though but most faeries accept it as close enough. this probably makes no sense but erm it sorta makes sense to me. LOL. but it means that most species that haven't learn to read faerie will only hear the literal translation when a faerie introduces themself, and thus many call krillimir by glasswing for short.

krillimir is a "generalist", which is one of many faerie genders. i made a post about it a while back! they go by they/them but generally doesn't mind he/she either.

faerie clothing is generally made of a fabric woven together by silk produced by them themselves - this silk is mainly produced by broodtenders or generalists. they also have a special way of "tanning" leaves, ending up with them having leather-like properties, which is part of what krillimir's outfit is made out of there! very popular reccuring symbols in their fabric design are "eye" "mimicry" and sometimes patterns which mimic some other animal/creature.

#fantasy #fairy #faerie #folklore #fae folk #spec bio #sorta in the description LOL #oc #original character #pareidolia tag #oc: krillimir #oc: folke

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