Wapun Meadow dripping in rot

my hero ancelin

it takes all his strength to muster a glare at the two who reveal themselves from the brush. he had wondered when they would come. come to take his life. like the final toll of a bell; stark would face it with the due he was owed.

a strong, revered knight of evenspire. the prince regent. the son who would never be king. cursed to live in the shadow of his sister, who's reign he had always upheld steadfast. and here, she remains that he be sent to his death.

a snarl on his lips. cut short by the sudden appearance of a ghost. the small woman who's heat he had claimed; situating herself before him, between he and gjalla and her shadow. he is too tired to curse her, to proclaim he could fight. he knew he could not.

there comes more people. strangers piling from the woodworks. those who's scents mingled with this region. pack wolves. a strong voice comes, but it is smothered by a more authoritative voice. a snarl in the winter chill. stark, drowsily, weakly, turns yellow eye onto the man; he goes to speak, but all that comes is a dry cough and blood to splatter on the snow beneath.

a hoarse inhale. a dying exhale. they— he groans. they would see me dead. it is not his life which he pleads for, but for justice. for crimes i did not commit.