three sentence ficathon: recipient

[communi_kate]

This is great! I love fic challenges, but tend not to prompt myself, so I'm getting into it. None of these are what I would have written, and that is wonderful!

Game of Thrones, Daenerys, I am a lighthouse in a desert and I stand alone, filled by silvr_dagger 

She sees it while crossing the Waste, a stone tower standing on the crest of a hill, overlooking a cracked and barren plain. A lighthouse, Jorah tells, relic of oceans long gone dry; the khalasar mutters of haunted ground, and she leads them quickly onward, unwilling to disturb this land's ghosts - but she looks back as she passes and shivers to see it keeping its vigil there, stern and lonely and entirely useless.
It strikes her as a cruel fate, for something meant to light the way, and it seems then as though she cannot put it behind her soon enough - but in the desert of Mereen, she dreams that she stands on a promontory above receding waters to watch the world change beyond reckoning, crowns cast down and empires toppled, and she wakes alone to dust in her throat and the knowledge that she cannot put it behind her at all.

 

Dragon Age, Varric, writers are liars, my dear, filled by classicslover 

Some people never learned not to play Wicked Grace for actual money when Varric was getting ready to publish. Those in the know avoided his legendary poker face. When it was brought to his attention, usually by Aveline, complaining that he had cheated them, Varric simple laughed and explained that fiction was in his blood.

The Hobbit, Thorin Oakenshield, by night all cats are grey, filled by nessaniel

Glory has died here, long ago, he had seen it go up in brash gold flames and some ashes are probably best left for the wind to scatter across the lands.
There is no king under the mountain anymore, Thorin thinks, as he looks at his fellowship of lost souls, tinkers, toy makers and strays.
This is all he has, this is all he is: a king of cats.

Assassin's Creed, Altair, scandent, filled by backland

Altaïr climbs, as he was born and bred to; trained and honed and disciplined enough that he reached the Master class sooner than anyone else before him, though it never felt like a grand achievement, just another step in the ladder, and maybe that's why when it all came crashing down and he was a novice again it never felt like that much of a shock, because Altaïr knows how to climb down too, knows all the ways that your foothold can slip and sending you tumbling down.
He climbs so that he may bring people with him, clutching at his back, kicking and screaming in their fear of the unknown, of breaking away from the common denominator that keeps them chained to the muck and inequalities and utter unfairness of it all, because it's all they've ever known, yet still Altaïr climbs, because he has risen above and seen what awaits at the uppermost point of humanities potential.
Altaïr changes lives, changes history, and to do so he steps over himself, his hopes and dreams and desires, digs his fingers and the soles of his feet into them and pushes them down so that he may keep going, getting just that much higher, and with each centimeter gained he gets farther and farther away from them until he is so high up that he can no longer see them at all.