Ma, Ma--look what I did, Ma. Look what I did to my hands, I broke 'em. You gave me the stone, gave me the chisel, didn't say how to hold 'em. Didn't say to give away every piece of the puzzle 'til I was left with nothin'. Look it, mom! No hands. I built this suit of armor with wooden arms.
Re: ASOIAF/Game of ThroneshalighfataliterApril 13 2012, 11:32:34 UTC
I had to write this, if only because I've been obsessing over this song lately... This is an AU. Hope that's what you were looking for :s
The clamour of the crowd is like thunder to Robb’s ears. He blinks against the sudden glare of the sun and staggers forward, chains heavy at his feet. Before him the Great Place is teemed with people, angry fists and angry eyes in an endless sea of faces. They cry for murder, traitor, traitor. Silence comes and goes. Time is a fiddle thing.
Robb longs for the fiery burn of anger. But the fight is over, burning battlegrounds and pools of blood shining under the sun. His Northern lords swing low along the battlements bestowed to the winds and the ravens. The air stinks of death.
A strong hand closes on his shoulder. It bends his back gently and Robb lays his cheek upon the dented block. Under the rush of his blood, his breath is loud and shallow and Robb counts every one of them. A gleam of red catches his eyes, Sansa, and then his gaze falls on the kneeling figure next to him. Her hands are
( ... )
Sea Lion - Sage Francis
Ma, Ma--look what I did, Ma. Look what I did to my hands, I broke 'em. You gave me the stone, gave me the chisel, didn't say how to hold 'em. Didn't say to give away every piece of the puzzle 'til I was left with nothin'. Look it, mom! No hands. I built this suit of armor with wooden arms.
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The clamour of the crowd is like thunder to Robb’s ears. He blinks against the sudden glare of the sun and staggers forward, chains heavy at his feet. Before him the Great Place is teemed with people, angry fists and angry eyes in an endless sea of faces. They cry for murder, traitor, traitor. Silence comes and goes. Time is a fiddle thing.
Robb longs for the fiery burn of anger. But the fight is over, burning battlegrounds and pools of blood shining under the sun. His Northern lords swing low along the battlements bestowed to the winds and the ravens. The air stinks of death.
A strong hand closes on his shoulder. It bends his back gently and Robb lays his cheek upon the dented block. Under the rush of his blood, his breath is loud and shallow and Robb counts every one of them. A gleam of red catches his eyes, Sansa, and then his gaze falls on the kneeling figure next to him. Her hands are ( ... )
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