Eight Years Later: Game of Thrones Contest
Eight Years Later: Game of Thrones Contest

Alone on the Throne

How 'Game of Thrones' lives in my bones #VocalGOT

Alone on the Throne

I was born in the winter; since then it has been coming. Ever so cunning, it is as quiet as the humming of the drumming hearts. The first chapter of change began with a beheading fit of rage, all on the stage of life. We were right next to him when the wolf lost the first fight. We screamed as lion hearts beamed and it all seemed like it could grow no worse. It carried my trust off like a hearse, and my heart burst like a balloon as the script continued to unleash all the doom and the story’s bloom continued to swoon and loom.

Distinctly I recall, the chapters continued to sprawl all around my neurons like a shawl comforting a widow. The spider spun the web of it all, and as houses arise and fall, we questioned our own devotions and ourselves. Just like a Khal, it was a swirled bit of emotions accepting a foreign queen. Except for me, it became a virus that was mean and one that I could not wean.

I listened as the gears sang. New journeys began as we treaded along. Devotion stood strong like the House of the Undying, and music banged and it left my head hanged. But signals blew and I knew that as the changes in them grew, I would, too. It has been a path of discovery, recovery, and most of all, and undoubtedly, a reflection of our souls. As beautiful as the gold that melted the brains of a bitter king under smoldering coal.

It became a crescendo of momentum, like an innuendo clashing with an addendums and a tone that refuses to swing alone. Like the melody of the Rains of Castamere, it became clear that we would be forced to explore our fears. The tunes played like a man who has been flayed. It was more than a show, from the surface and below; our eyes knew that it was a story that would unfold, reminding us of ourselves; and those truths that sit on the highest shelves.

Yearning and burning, twisting and turning, with stomachs churning, the words danced and left us without warning. Fire and blood, there is no love. Through this tangled pace, she won’t take my face. Make no mistake; we are going and growing headstrong to the last place we belong.

Hold the door, we are running for more, there is an ugly past behind us that we cannot ignore. Through eyes that were blurry, I watched the swirling flurries, and realized we are the fury. And though the future surely brings death, we must break the ever-revolving cycle. It all comes around, or so we have found, and breaking the wheel is sublime; despite the icicle of winter that surrounds leaving us blind.

It seeped into my bones. I weep for the ones I chose, for an empty Iron Throne. Whether we breathe fire, warship the liars, build the gruesome pyre, the desire has always been the underlying power—on top of the highest garden or tower. It is the last hour.

A mirror of humanity, an unraveling of sanity, hidden glances of vanity, and torn stories of calamity, it is we in that show—for the show is reality and winter is coming. As sure as tragedy always goes.

It changes you in every way a person can be changed, breaking your chains, paying debts to promises, leaving the sense of the Eyrie and the ominous.

Discovering the word is insane and the throne is a game. The loop of history is a stain on our brains. The goal of the Night King—who lingered for erasing the pacing of progression and our obsession to hold on; a song of ice and fire he could not sing. While a mad king is laughing, leaving us with ashes of the gone.

And so, our hearts wail. The truth was as hidden as a beautiful bride under a Vale. Before we grow more asunder, the spinning of the wheel feels as stale as wine gone sour. What is dead may never die, knowing nothing is the biggest lie.

We mourn the scorned and step into shoes of whom we choose. The empathy of the psychopathy and the mad king is laughing at me, but the characters are not in my head, they are as real as the army of the dead. Come and gone, just like the kings in Jenny’s hall, and through it all, there is a great hiraeth and nostalgia, but no right belonging for this overwhelming longing.

Now the bells have rang, and it’s a potent twang of duality and cyclicality of gears that spun so many years ago as it unraveled before my younger eyes. Much to my demise I am no longer hypnotized, but enthralled with the ending of it all. The chapter of this time is closing, as forbidden as an imposing boy in a window watching hidden lust; curiosity always turns to dust.

Taunting how all great kings and queens eventually come to be, alone on the throne. Chilling to the bone that all the wishes and woes float away with power that turns to stone. Truth as bitter as a thorn, every living thing dies alone.

So you see, that is how it changed every ounce of me. It left me depraved and I still crave the characters I enslaved in my own head—latching on because I dread the end, maybe we all sit on our own thrones, as intertwined as this tale capstone. Forevermore, melting our swords as the crow continues belting sorrowful words. Tomorrow always brings the worst. He and she who bend the knee are really just you and me, in our Game society. Yes, we all sit on our own thrones—surely just the clones of those that have come to know.

fact or fiction
Christina Brucker
Christina Brucker
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Christina Brucker

Writer, painter, truth seeker, and beauty finder. Diving into psyches and living inside stories.

Instagram: Christina.mb

Twitter: @et_verum

See all posts by Christina Brucker