༿ີ۪۪ 𝑂𝖠ᵀᴴ𝕭͟𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚁 ; ८.

⠀ jaime sits himself upon his own gravestone with a ragged sigh that rips through the roaring wind . gods . what he’d give for wine . ⠀

⠀ you can hardly pass blame , sister . winter is coming . ⠀ robb stark wants the king’s head . ⠀

the vines of her house would wrap around her . jaime would stand , 𖬺͟. freeze , 𖬺͟. it’s not a death he thinks he would mind . 〝 take little consideration to her . 〞 he speaks in a soft monotone . aches . phantom pain —-

as she becomes colder , so too does he . it reminds him of the very love he never desired ﹔ where two bodies stand 𖬺͟. a cold front as bitter as winterfell’s sweeps through . he wouldn’t have need to undo a cloak for coren .

at the loss of the heat of her , jaime turns . he stares at the iron door with ire , 𖬺͟. thinks he would quite like to ram his golden hand into it . the phantom aches of missing appendage , it would feel like mercy .