Game of Thrones

Season 8

The Fanfiction

If you missed my Season 7 fanfic, you can go to my profile and find it there. So SPOILER WARNING in case you haven't read up until now.

Prologue

The Long Night blankets the long, wintery road in shadow; blinding Rickard Grymes on his journey home. After working his market stall in Queenscrown all day under this thick, impenetrable darkness, all Rickard wants to do is see his family, kick his feet up, smoke his pipe, and forget about his troubles. Up the road a ways, a few snickering whores prance drunkenly toward him. One of them points at Rickard and giggles to the other. When they get close enough, the girls link arms and block his path, grinning wickedly. Warts and bleeding pimples cover what might have once been a pretty face. "Where's a handsome thing like you going on a night like this?"

"To my daughter-out of my way, you filthy whores." Rickard replies coldly, forcing their arms apart so that he might pass. They try and resist, and he accidentally ends up pushing one of them over to the cobblestones. She cries out melodramatically, cursing at him while the other throws a snow-ball at the back of his head, but Rickard keeps his eyes on the road, more determined than ever to return home. Just ten more minutes and I'll be back, Myrabell. Today's your nameday and Daddy's been gone all day digging up shit with his nose. Mom probably told you not to get your hopes up since we can't exactly afford gifts… but Gods forgive me, I couldn't resist… Bouncing in his satchel at his side is the clay figurine of a Direwolf. It cost him three silvers and a free pound of his freshest pork, but Rickard paid it happily. It's not every day you turn six. I can't wait to see the look on her face when I show her.

A minute passes before Rickard glances back over his shoulder. He can still hear the whores, but the Long Night's shadow has swallowed them whole. No matter which way he looks, a wall of blackness follows him. There's a brothel nearby as well as a closed down Inn. Asides from that, Rickard is completely alone with the howling wind… Crunch, crunch, crunch, go his feet through the thick snow. As he passes the brothel, he hears men inside laughing about something, "They says the North no longer has a King! They says we gots a Queen of the North now! Can you believes that!?"

Rickard frowns, ignoring their banter, having no interest in the high lord's games. Whether it be a King or Queen, as long as someone's there to keep us safe from the Mad Queen in the south, I don't care who sits the throne in Winterfell. Let the Starks worry about politics while I worry about my family's well-being. A high-pitched scream pierces his ears, making Rickard jump in his skin. He wheels around, facing the black depths behind him, but once again there's only darkness. The scream echoes endlessly, Rickard hears nothing else... nothing but the winds of winter. It's probably just one of the whores in the brothel having a good time. Nothing to fret about.

Rickard continues, hugging himself for warmth. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Up ahead there's a fork in the road. Rickard goes left, heading eastward. The only light Rickard has to go by is the dim torchlight lining the street… Suddenly there's another shrill scream, this one a man's—and it's closer than the other, but he can't tell where it came from, only that it was close. Rickard freezes, his face numb and his knees shivering, before slowly turning around.

Nothing…

Rickard gulps…

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.

Are those just my footsteps I hear?

He stops again, listening…

Crunch… crunch… crunch… crunch, crunch, crunch!

Rickard takes off sprinting as fast as he can, kicking up snow, terrified. He's a child again, afraid of the dark. I'm almost home, just get home and it'll all be over. As he runs, the heavy crunching behind him continues, crunch… crunch… crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch—crunch—crunch—crunch! Rickard's too afraid to look, running blindly, hands flailing, trying desperately not to trip and fall—the snow growing heavier and heavier the closer he gets to his house. He can see it now, just up the street, enclosed by thick trees, it's one of the nicest homes in the village. Seeing it again fills him with relief. I'm going to make it! I'm going to make it!

In his overwhelming, newfound confidence, Rickard braves another look over his shoulder.

There's three disfigured shadows sprinting right for him, each dressed in snow-drenched rags, gripping axes, swords, and daggers in their claws. Rickard only sees them by the bright, blue glow in their eyes. "Oh Gods, who are you people!?" Rickard screams, gawking as he runs, and something catches on his ankle—his world spins as the snow flies up to greet him. The cold bites into his face as he sinks several feet, spluttering and coughing. Crunch—crunch—crunch—He shoves his hands into the ground and forces himself back up on his feet, wheezing for air. Rickard hears them emit a high-pitched cackle, and it sounds like rocks grinding together. They're close enough now for Rickard to see every disturbing detail. One of them is missing half of their torso as if he'd been mauled by a bear, ribs poking out at his sides. Another is a woman with shaggy, black hair, missing her jaw so that her tongue wags around like a limp cock. The third is the thinnest of them, nearly naked save for small-clothes; a young boy no older than Myrabell, with two deep, bleeding stab wounds in his belly.

Somehow Rickard Grymes makes it to the steps of his house, scrambling up to his door, he throws it open and leaps inside—right into his wife's open arms. "Close the door!" he screams, not even seeing her through his tears, he tries to reach for the handle, but his wife is clutching him tightly, holding him back. "Leggo of me! Get the children and—"

Crunch! Rickard's words are cut off as blood surges up his throat. His wife's jaws are around his jugular, ripping his flesh with her teeth. He shoves her and she stumbles backward into the shadows of their home, slipping on a massive puddle of blood. She falls to her hands and knees, blue eyes glaring back at him with a piece of his neck hanging between her teeth… Rickard falls to his knees, gasping for air but tasting only blood. His wife stands back up, screeching the most unnatural sound Rickard has ever heard in his life. The others chasing him are now pounding up the steps to his home. I'm… I'm bleeding—why, what's going on?! Rickard lowers his hand from his throat, and is amazed by the red, glistening oil masking his flesh.

As his wife and the three strangers pounce on him, ripping him apart with bare hands, the last thing Rickard Grymes sees is little Myrabell slowly rising up from the floor amidst the pool of blood, eyes as blue as winter roses.