Disclaimer: All characters and settings in the below piece of fiction belongs to George RR Martin, and I am in no way profiting off of this

Warning: Violence, Character Death

Authors Note: The idea for this oneshot struck me while I was trying to get to sleep one night. I knew I had to write it out, otherwise it'd be pestering me for weeks. I'd like to thank knightofflowers on Tumblr for offering their beta'ing skills to correct this story. I really appreciate it! Please, enjoy!

He did not weep when he gazed upon the body.

There was panic all around—overwhelming feelings of fear and uncertainty, alarm and rage, mixed in with the strong stenches of blood, fire, and death. Something else lingered, something heavy and thick that rested in the back of the throat like tar and crackled through the air, but it went unnoticed by the men as the scene played out before them, lost in the panic and disorder.

The knight had been alerted to the situation by the noise—the scream of a woman followed by the frantic clash of steel. The excitement felt for the upcoming battle that streamed through the camp disappeared as soon as it had come. He rushed down the wide, brightly lit paths between the colourful camp tents, dread coating him as he neared the largest tent in the middle, smoke and ash thick in the air while the stag pranced above on a yellow banner, almost completely swallowed up by flame.

Men approached him, yelling and shouting, trying to explain what had happened all at the same time, but he ignored them all. The knight felt as if he was no longer in control of his body, limbs carrying him forward, arms reaching out in their own accord to push past nameless people and frantic brothers in arms. Eventually, he reached the clearing that had been created outside the burning tent, men running back and forth, trying to stop the flames before they spread further. Others created a circle around a fallen form that had been dragged from the tent before it was completely consumed, no one knowing what to do as they stood uselessly around their fallen king.

The knight felt like he could not breath, his heart hammering in his chest—harder, faster, louder, stronger with every step—until he came close to collapsing, his body and mind already reacting to the sight that deep down, he knew he would encounter.

Please, no…

Shouldering past the last man, the knight looked down at the ground and froze on the spot. Everything stopped. There was no sound save for his heartbeat and shuddered breath, no warmth or light or grief or pain or even happiness. Nothing.

And then his world came crashing down, slamming into him like a destrier at full gallop. The once muted sounds came back to him, louder and stronger—amplified. Shouts and yells, panic and disorder; the clink of armour and the unsheathing of swords; the cries of horses and the questions of men all filled the air. His name, whispered throughout. The terror and uncertainty clung to the knight, trying to drag him down into the shadow while the smell of death sat heavy in the air, smothering.

Falling forward, he landed on the grass, mud and crushed blades marring his clothing. Without thinking he reached out and pulled the body close, armour clanking as he gathered it up to rest in his arms, ignoring the heat from the flames. Another gush of blood poured from underneath the helm, and the knight felt like he'd been kicked in the gut as it came unrelenting from the gash. He held half the body in his arms, cradling it close to his chest, unwilling to let go and holding out hope that somehow he'd wake from this nightmare. More questions were asked, but he paid them no mind as he bore the weight of the fallen man.

Removing the helm seemed to take an eternity, the knight's body once again moving on its own accord. He wanted to stop—he wanted to prevent this horrible, horrible nightmare from becoming a reality. As long as the face stayed hidden, he did not have to see the truth that was written before him in blood and sorrow. As long as the helm stayed on, he could believe his sun was still shining high in the sky.

But before he could stop himself, he unclasped the blood soaked leather strap and pulled the helmet off, letting the expensive piece of craftsmanship fall to the floor with a dull thud, the gold horns shining brightly in the flames. Coal black hair fell down across his forearm, strands coming out of the silk thong that had tied it back in a once elegant ponytail. Blood coated his chin, neck, and chest, writing itself across what was once unmarred skin. The sickening wound along his neck went from ear to ear, a message from a shadowed assassin. But the knight did not look at the wound, or the blood. He saw nothing but the dead eyes that stared up at him, eyes that had once held so much life, so much freedom and kindness, love and intelligence. Now they were empty, save for a thin trace of panic that lingered behind the haze of death.

Carding his fingers slowly through his king's hair, the knight's hand shook as the strands fell through, occasionally catching with every stroke. Resting the palm of his hand against a sharp jawline, he rubbed the skin gently with the pad of his thumb; an affectionate gesture that had, not but a few short hours ago, been enjoyed by the both of them as they kissed and caressed. Now such affection was lost as quickly as it had come, swallowed up by the hungry demons that fed on grief and loss.

He realized, dimly, that there was blood in his own mouth. He had bitten his tongue so hard it had begun to bleed. He did not even feel the sting. Staying in that position for what seemed like eternity, he cradled the body close while shaky, calloused fingers caressed the face of a man whose life he had sworn to protect. The knight was oblivious to the gazes of those around him.

He did not know what to feel. Emotions trickled through his fingers like dew drops, unable to catch any of them but feeling each in passing. He had never done this before—never experienced a death like this. Never thought he'd have to. They were invincible, the two of them; so young and carefree. They were supposed to rule the world together… so how was one supposed to react to such a loss? Was any emotion correct? Could he not stay in this comfortable numbness that seemed to have taken over? Could he not stay like this forever? His lover's body in his arms, hair tangled in his fingers with the horrific summer blossoms of blood blooming from the gash on his neck? Could he not keep his madman's peace?

But their love and devotion was a remnant of the long summer that had come to pass. Winter was coming, and with it death and loss.

Suddenly a voice broke through to the knight, confusing and jumbling the thoughts in his head so much that he had no choice but to abandon them. The voice was low and tentative, and while the words made little sense to him he knew it was important. But he ignored it for a moment, and moved his hand up to close his king's eyes, pulling the lids down to hide the brilliant blue from the world for the last time. Only then did he look away from the body to the man who was speaking to him. He couldn't seem to find it in him to look at his face, though, and instead stared at his shoulder. The man was wearing a coloured cloak, rainbow stripes adorning the fabric. A cloak exactly like his own. The man was a Kingsguard; a brother; a man who swore to protect the now lifeless form in the knight's arms.

And suddenly that madman's peace was broken, snapping him out of that comfortable numbness. All he could feel was rage, so strong and hot that he felt as if a fire had burst inside his chest, tearing a vengeful hole in his center before lighting strips down his limbs, ripping him apart only to rebuild him in time to unleash his grief.

XX

The Silent Sisters stood over the body, their thin, brittle fingers deftly sewing the gash across the neck with effective tugs and pulls. The open wound slowly closed, pale blue skin marred the colour of death joining in the middle to hide his downfall.

He stood close by, hair hanging lank in his face while thick clouds of incense masked the stench of decay. There he stood vigil, waiting and watching, guarding over him even now.

And still he did not weep.

XX

The sun was hot and unrelenting in its assault. The air was thick and muggy and it felt almost impossible to walk through it at a brisk pace, the humidity pushing back to stop a fully armoured man dead in his tracks. Even the animals grew tired, the squirrels staying in the trees while the song birds nestled themselves under the shade of leaves, singing to one another but not leaving unless to bathe in the stream that curled around a large oak tree.

The tree itself was old and large, the branches fanning out for what seemed like miles, cloaking the undergrowth in an ever present shade, cool and dark save for the dappled sunlight that managed to break its way through the leaves. Ferns and moss grew closes to the trunk, before grass and wild flowers took over, spreading across and out, reaching further than the oak trees branches could go until they hit the stream. Blue and yellow, red and pink, even purple flowers sprouted up all over the ground, and the knight remembered picking a few when he was a young squire.

Standing here, one would never know winter was coming.

Working despite the heat, the knight dug a wide, deep hole under the tree, uprooting the grass and flowers that had once flourished there. The shade had offered him some respite from the heat, but sweat trickled down his brow and over his eyes, making him stop every so often to brush it away. He had pulled his hair back long ago, but strands had come out, curls and waves of hair clinging to his slick forehead. He knew his appearance would shock those who saw it—a man such as his standing should never be seen looking like he did, but he cared little for that. No one would find this spot; it was his spot. A place only the two of them had enjoyed. Here they had been free to do what they pleased, and here was where his final resting place would be. No one could bother him and no one could ask him of anything. He would be alone and at peace.

Ignoring the sting in his hands and the shake of his arms, the knight dug for as long as his body would allow him, gaze always at the task at hand and never at the tightly linen bound body that lay in the shadiest part under the tree, far away from the dirt that had been kicked up. He had started in the early morning, just as the sun was coming up from the horizon, and it was now late day, the sun having risen and fallen so that it rested just above the ground off in the distant, colouring the sky in pinks and baby blues.

Stopping for a moment, the knight leaned against the shovels handle and wiped more sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing bits of dirt across it. Breathing heavily, he looked over at the stream, memories making themselves present even as he tried to stop them from coming, unsure of if he was ready to remember. It was near here that they kissed for the second or third time, perhaps? He was still a squire and his king still a lord. It was awkward and fumbled, with he having never kissed someone quite like that before, let alone another boy. He had tried, of course, to show off despite his lack of experience, and almost broke his lover's nose. The memory made him smile.

When they had grown slightly older, this place had been used for less… innocent matters. It was all hands and sweat slicked skin, playful laughter and throaty moans. The knight had complained about the patterns the grass had created across their skin at the time, claiming they looked like they had suffered some strange disease, but now he wanted nothing more than to run his hands along his lover's back to feel those queer indentations once more.

The sight of the body from the corner of his eye snapped him from happier thoughts, and he went back to work after taking a sip from the watering skin next to him. Soon enough the hole was done and the sun was even lower, dark, almost black night meeting the still present baby blue sky in the middle, creating a rift between night and day. That was when the knight laid his king in the ground.

He was as careful as he could be using what strength he had left to rest the body as gently as possible. A yellow cloak with a prancing stag was lain across the form, before a bright red rose was placed on the spot where a heart used to beat.

And the knight just stood beside the hole, fingers linked together, head down while sweat cooled on his skin. His eyes remained downcast, fixed on the rose that lay on top of the stag, joining the two of them for eternity. No one could come and break that bond.

Only when the sun had completely disappeared and a bright moon had lit his path did he move again, hand grasping a handful of dirt to lay across the body gently, before the knight picked up the shovel and began to cover the hole proper. Working under the hauntingly bright moonlight, he concentrated on the task at hand, only letting the simplest of memories to play inside his head.

And still there were no tears.

XX

As much as a grieving person would wish the world would just stop to give him time to move on, it never does. The world continues on as it always had, ignoring the cries of those in agony and shouts of praise.

The world was unaffected by human emotions, and made it known by pressing forward the days of the year and the changes of the seasons, giving humans little respite from the ever altering place they called home.

The knight had little time to digest what had happened, his mind far too filled with pent up rage and anger at the injustice of it all to realize that he was hurting himself. While he believed that he had come to terms with what had happened that fateful night, he knew, deep down, it was a lie. A sham. A cover-up intended to spare not only himself, but his family the heavy burden of grief. There was no time to think of those who had been lost, and only revenge and justice would win the game of thrones; not misery and sorrow, nor crippling grief. And so the knight did not entertain the thought of properly dealing with his emotions, and saw in his father's eyes the relief he must have felt at seeing his son once more in control. The death of two men by his blade did little to ease the thoughts of those around him, and even the knight had begun to question his own sanity. The killing had come so easy, as had the anger and the need to hurt.

He could let the rage out of him, but he could not let himself mourn. A cruel, startling reality, especially for such a young boy.

It had only been a week after he had buried his king's body under the large oak tree. His body still ached in some placed, and the blisters on his palms from holding the shovel broke open as he practiced with his blade in the yard. Word had spread a certain individual from Kings Landing was coming to meet with them, in an effort to join the lions with the roses. The knight knew they'd be looking for him soon enough. It was common knowledge amongst the inner circle that the young man was the one who had ultimately married the young lord to his bride, making them king and queen. It was his meddling that won the man his crown, and lost him his life…

Slamming his blade down hard, the knight caught his sparring opponent off guard with the sudden force of his blow, and the opponent slipped on a damp bit of grass before crashing to the ground, a muffled grunt accompanying the action. Snapping himself out of his thoughts, the knight extended a hand down to help his partner up, and took the verbal assault before assuring the man he could not have possibly broken his arm.

Once again his anger had come out, and he was starting to worry at how easy it was for him to yell and rant and fight, but how hard it was becoming to smile and laugh and love. He was a flower with no sun to follow.

Excusing himself from the practice range, he returned his training sword and cleaned himself up before going off in search of his sister. He found her soon enough, sitting with her handmaids in the garden, laughing and smiling. It always came so easy for her. When she saw him approach she whispered to the ladies, who promptly stood up and walked away, extending their warm smiles to him as they passed. Once the area was clear save for the occasional patrolling guard and curious squirrel, the brother sat beside his younger sister, and tried to smile.

It did not reach his eyes.

"You're tired," she said, a small frown appearing on her innocent features.

He agreed, but told her not to worry, stroking her hair gently before letting his hand fall down to rest on the cushioned couch. She took his hand in her own and rubbed the palm, feeling the blisters gently. She brought attention to them, but he quickly shrugged it off.

She frowned again, and sighed. "You're avoiding something, dear brother. Please, tell me."

Again, he attempted to shrug it off. She should not be bothered with his inner turmoil. How did one tell their most cherished friend and little sister that you were afraid you were turning into a monster? That any feeling beyond blood lust was becoming more and more foreign? He wanted to tell her that he was afraid of what he was becoming—of what he had become that night. Instead he asked her what she thought of marrying again.

She laughed, the bitterness in it evident. She knew it was her duty, though. She knew as well as anyone else what her place was in the bid for power; it always had been, ever since their brother became a cripple and only her blood could carry out a strong line of succession. She cried, then. Not too much, just a few tears, as she clearly stated what she thought of marrying a lion.

The knight envied his sister then, as the tears came for her, but stayed locked within himself.

XX

It was starting to die down inside him. The anger and outrage he had felt was slowly disappearing, leaving him feeling numb. Another week had passed and the lord from Kings Landing arrived to deal in marriages and gold. The knight attended the meetings dutifully, and ignored the knowing glances from the man who knew too much. He played his part, sang the song of the protective brother and concerned son just as he had been raised to do. His only personal condition was that he be allowed to serve in the Kingsguard. He wanted to be there for her, to protect her from the lion cub that presumed too much and snapped its teeth at anyone who approached him with less than complete servitude.

His sister would never fully yield to the monster who strode through the halls of the Red Keep, and the knight would not watch by and let her fall. He would be a Kingsguard, but it would be the queen that he would protect.

When the meetings were over and the pacts sealed, he went to find his sister once more as the sun set and night reigned supreme. This time she was alone in her bedroom, combing her hair out while the servants flittered in and out of the room, the remnants of a bath evident. She smiled when she saw him, although there were worry lines around her eyes. She was so young, and yet she was growing up to be such a strong, intelligent woman.

"Is it done?" The knight nodded, and sat down on the edge of her bed as she finished combing her hair. His sister combed her own hair to clear her thoughts, just as he brushed the snow white coat of his mare to clear his own. Placing the comb down on the table before her, he watched as she gazed at the wall before standing up to go and sit next to him on the bed. "Father agreed to your position as well?"

"Yes," he said, smiling for her sake. He knew how nervous she was—it was hard not to listen to the tales that had been told of the boy king. But the knight would be there for her, even though he was not there for… no.

"Are you alright?" She placed her hand on his shoulder, delicate but strong in its approach. He nodded, but she narrowed her eyes, clearly displeased with his avoidance. A moment passed before she retracted her hand. "You'll protect me, won't you? In case anything were to happen before I could personally slap him across the head, of course."

He laughed softly as his little sister threatened the man who would be her king. But he grew somber once more as the words soaked in. Promises did not mean it would hold true in reality. "I will protect you with my life, my sweet sister." The words came out easily enough, and with the same conviction that he had used when telling them to his king a few short months ago. The reality of how much he had failed began to seep into his skin, and he felt slightly ill. "I should go," he said hastily, suddenly desperate to leave.

She wouldn't let him, though, and tugged down on his arm, holding down with strength. "Tell me what you're thinking." Her eyes were wide, mouth pressed tight, and hair pulled back. She looked the perfect picture of a woman in charge… but she was also his little sister—a woman who did everything and then some for her family. She was depending on him to protect her, and all he could do was avoid telling her his thoughts and worries. "Tell me," she repeated, this time softer.

And suddenly he found himself voicing his thoughts, holding back just enough as emotions he hadn't felt for some time filled him. "I'm afraid I will fail you as I failed him."

"You would never fail me, and you did not fail him. We both trusted you, and you did not disappoint, dear brother." He did not believe her words.

"If I had just been there like I always had been this wouldn't have happened. If I had done my duty I would have saved him." This was too much—this was not good at all. His voice was wavering, his vision swimming. He did not want to do this; the fear he felt of losing his humanity paled in comparison to gaining it back. He did not want to face it—not yet.

But it was time.

"You did your best. You supported him in everything he did—do not blame yourself for something you had no control over. There is so much more in this world you could destroy yourself over. Don't let it be this."

He wanted to deny it, he wanted to say she was wrong, but he knew she was right. Deep down, he knew he could not have done a thing. Shadows—they say the assassin was a shadow with the ability to cut through steel. No human could have done it, but he would not hear of it. His king was killed by those who had sworn to protect him. His king was…. His lover was…

"I could have saved him, I could have stopped him from—" and he couldn't say it. He couldn't get the words out. He was being swept away at sea and the only thing keeping him afloat was a piece of driftwood. If he let go, there was no going back. But his sister's arm was there, trying to steal the wood away in an attempt to make him let go. Release it all.

"Say it. Say those words," she urged, tears in her own eyes as she held on to him with that fierce grip of hers. "Admitting it out loud will be the only way you can begin to accept it and move on. Do not torture yourself any longer. Say it and be done with it. There is no shame in grief."

So he finally did. The knight let the words he had not allowed himself to say pass through his lips, a soft whisper but solid and true all the same.

"Renly is dead."

And Loras Tyrell wept.

Hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!