ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴀʟ ﹡﹗

––––––––––––––– HE WANTS TO LAUGH !

         cedric looks upon him as though he were some phantom come to haunt and torment ( a vengeful wraith! ). though for a split second, viserion contemplates if he was exactly just that, a flash of recognition of his current state and yet it is gone in a second ( a candle extinguished in the northern wind! ). he remembers pain ( hot blood spilling from his neck! ) and he remembers falling upon ice and into frigid waters beneath ( clawed wing grasping at the edge before he grows tired and closes golden eyes ). he remembers and yet he does not. was he supposed to be -

                                                         ❝ i am dead, aren’t i? ❞

        it’s a strange notion. to be here and not be alive. to be here, in this realm of dreams ad visions and - ❝ are you going to kill me? ❞ lips curl into a RUEFUL smile, one filled withTEETH the way a dragon smiles ( all fangs and carnage! ). does the young stark not remember? that a wolf can bare his fangs and howl terribly like some grey wind, but oh! what was that compared to a dragon’s breath ( fiery death! ) and roar? does he intend to kill him? admittedly, there is a pain in his chest, a sharpness that he finds near infuriating. surely he jests. surely cedric jests. he shouldn’t be scared. why would he be scared? it wasn’t as though viserion had the intention of hurting him. in the past, in the present, in the future ( but he can’t say for certain, can he? he doesn’t know. he flies south of the wall. he’s going home. he’s going home! he wants to go home! ).

        eyes settle upon black blade. does cedric want to hurt him? in this form he’s vulnerable, just like cedric. human. mortal. unprotected. no scales to protect him. no fire to incinerate. no teeth to snap, no claws to tear. viserion draws in a sharp breath, lets the cold air bite at his insides. does cedric want to kill him? a pain at his throat, an ache in his neck ( he remembers how hot it is when blood spills, it catches him by surprise; he feels the fire in his chest flicker and waiver and he screams - mother, is this what it means to die? - and he doesn’t want to die ).

                                           ❝ i don’t know. am i supposed to know? ❞

        eyebrows furrow, lips pressed into thin line. his gaze shifts to the ground ( to the ice and frost and pure, blinding white ! ). was he supposed to know? should he have known? should he have known that dragons would not do well in the north as wolves did not do well in the south? they don’t belong here ( it’s cold! it’s so cold in the water, he - ). dragons do not belong in the north, but he is flying south ( yes, south! he flies south to where his home belongs. to his mother, to his brothers, to the warmth of dragonstone! and he brings - ). death. he brings death back with him. he brings winter upon his wings. they don’t belong south. the dead but not dead do not belong south of the wall ( but that’s gone! he didn’t like the wall. the king did not want the wall there and he obeyed ). the dead that do not die are going south with him. he looks up sharply, eyes the blade.

                                                    ❝ are you going to kill me? ❞

                                    ( idon’twanttodieidon’twanttodieidon’twanttodie )

                                                         but i’m already dead  

its the faces. they’re the hardest part. he’d expected it too. the others had shivered when they recalled the stench of rotted flesh, of exposed bone and crusted blood. some found the chattering of jaws and their haunted screams the most unnerving part. but even without having accompanied the scouts north of the wall, cedric knew. it would be the faces. how could they do it - plunge a knife into the eye of their brother, their mother, their friends? he could steel himself all he liked and remind himself it wasnt real, it was vis -- but when he smiled, it was his smile, and when he spoke -- how did he speak? that wasnt right. none of this was right. his mind ached with the effort of thinking through it all. 

‘ shut up - let me think. ’

he hisses it like an insult, but the words are his defense, the shield paired with the glimmering black blade in hand. the handle of it presses to his temples as he rubs his eyes, with trembling hands and white knuckles. they cant speak, they never could - or perhaps they simply never did, but the night king plays tricks! but he seemed to have a will. perhaps another trick? it was impossible. there were no books, no experience, no wise men to consult. only what he felt. and all he felt was agony, misery at the memory of his friend who fell from the sky. when gray eyes reopen theyre filled with hot tears that contrast bitterly with the frigid cold picking his face. 

‘ y-you’re dead, vis. they say you -- they saw you fall. bran said you came back, for the night king. you’re dead. ’ 

they fight for the living. thats what they always say. theyre fighting the dead so there may always be some living. the knife rises to level itself at the approaching specter. his aim is impaired by the tears in his eyes, but the master marksman knows he could still hit his target. he aches for him to be anything other than a target. 

the look on his face says enough, and sansa doesn’t find herself surprised by the fact. watches, instead, as his mouth curls into something that would resemble a real smile on anyone else. could have fooled many, if she did not already know him as well as she did. “please, do,” she answers, even though she knows that she’s beating a dead horse with her insistence. tired. too tired; of fighting, of trying. of being the only one consumed with panic and guilt over the fact they are likely to lose men of their own because they can barely feed half the amount of people that now fall asleep within these walls. she was meant to be the lady of winterfell. she was meant to know what to do, what to say. then that is the end of it; furs dropping from shoulders, wine in her hand, letting it pour. letting silence hang thick between them. more so, after his words.  she blinks, delayed, and then the meaning of his words sink in. slowly, surely. not unlikethings that she has thought already; dark, secret things that are immediately locked inside abox in her own head. she wonders if he knows that. if he can tell from looking at her. sansa doesn’t dare to ask. “i asked her about the north,” she confesses, lips brushing the rim of her goblet. “before. you were… busy. jon was busy,” everyone is busy. working themselves to exhaustion. how would they fight, when it came to it? “she reacted as though i had threatened to infect her. she wants the north, and what comes with it… we have to make sure that she doesn’t,” she downs her glass. it isn’t ladylike. her head aches. she wants to sleep until winter is over. until she can breathe through the frost in her lungs. “even if we have to use her own men against her.”