It isn't a clear dream — or rather, bits and pieces of it are, like great panes of glass poorly welded together. The sunlight falling through the leaves shading the godswood, dappling his skin and making blinding crystals in the air; the grass under his feet, as soft as any carpet; the rush of the rivers, bubbling as if with laughter; the red of Tully hair, adorned with a makeshift crown of wildflowers, perpetually just out of his reach; the red of blood, the flash of a blade being swung up, the tearing of skin, his own blood bubbling up in his throat, choking him.
For the briefest of instants, he can't help but wonder if he's going to die.
—
He wakes, and there is still something in his throat.
Almost immediately, panic sends a chill down his spine. There is absolutely nothing about his circumstances that strikes him as familiar, and, suspended in blue fluid, all that he can think is that he is going to die. But even as his hands reach up to try to scrabble with the tube thrust down his throat, to pound upon the doors, they open up and he falls through, body hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Panic is a phenomenon which, for Petyr Baelish, is extremely rare and completely unwelcomed. It implies a loss of control over his surroundings, of being out of his depth, and if there is anything that he has striven not to be, it is that.
As things stand, though, he isn't given too much time to linger upon the subject, or to come up with alternate plans, as he only manages to right himself to his hands and knees before his stomach seizes, and he retches upon the floor.
no subject
It isn't a clear dream — or rather, bits and pieces of it are, like great panes of glass poorly welded together. The sunlight falling through the leaves shading the godswood, dappling his skin and making blinding crystals in the air; the grass under his feet, as soft as any carpet; the rush of the rivers, bubbling as if with laughter; the red of Tully hair, adorned with a makeshift crown of wildflowers, perpetually just out of his reach; the red of blood, the flash of a blade being swung up, the tearing of skin, his own blood bubbling up in his throat, choking him.
For the briefest of instants, he can't help but wonder if he's going to die.
—
He wakes, and there is still something in his throat.
Almost immediately, panic sends a chill down his spine. There is absolutely nothing about his circumstances that strikes him as familiar, and, suspended in blue fluid, all that he can think is that he is going to die. But even as his hands reach up to try to scrabble with the tube thrust down his throat, to pound upon the doors, they open up and he falls through, body hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Panic is a phenomenon which, for Petyr Baelish, is extremely rare and completely unwelcomed. It implies a loss of control over his surroundings, of being out of his depth, and if there is anything that he has striven not to be, it is that.
As things stand, though, he isn't given too much time to linger upon the subject, or to come up with alternate plans, as he only manages to right himself to his hands and knees before his stomach seizes, and he retches upon the floor.