Love is the Death of Duty

Finale

The moonlight was silver, breaking up the fog that drifted in from nowhere in particular. Jon Snow was neither hot, nor cold; there was no breeze, no grass, no water. The blackness stretched out in front of him, wreathed in silky mist. A man stood in front of Jon, his back to him. Tall and lithe, he was dressed in enamored black armor, his shoulder length hair the same brilliant silver as the moon. On his hip, a sword scabbard hung, devoid of any weaponry. Jon began to move towards the man, his limbs seemingly taken over by an invisible force. His footsteps made no sound, and he could not actually feel the ground under his feet: it was as if he was floating. When he reached the man in front of him, the silver haired man turned to face him. His features were regal, yet kind: his nose thin and long, his cheekbones high. Jon knew who he was as soon as his gaze met a pair of brilliant lilac eyes, set deep in the man's face in front of him. Rhaegar Targaryen stood tall and proud, a dragon wrought in rubies emblazoned on his black breastplate, a flowing crimson cape trailing out behind him.

The two men stood in silence, facing one another. The Targaryen Princes expression was that of barely repressed joy, his purple eyes glistening with unshed tears and Jon stared at the man in front on him. It was Jon who spoke first.

"You're dead," he said, and Rhaegar burst out laughing. It was a wonderful, bright sound: Jon felt as though he was close to this man, that he could trust and confide in him. "I am," Rhaegar said, an irrepressible grin now spread wide across his kingly features. "Am I dead too, then?", Jon asked, the beginnings of a smile creeping onto his face. The Targaryens happiness was infectious, and even thought Jon had a lot to worry about at that currently moment, he felt as joyous as he had in a long time. "No, Jon Snow," Rhaegar said, his voice deep and soothing, "you are not dead. This place," he gestured around him at the moonlit fog and the wide expanse of blackness, "It isn't death. It's something else entirely." He paused, looking appraisingly at Jon. "You've become a man," he said, looking Jon up and down, seeing the confused look on his scarred, bearded face, "and you must have so many questions. Do you know who I am?"

Jon smiled half-heartedly, "I do. Why am I talking to Rhaegar Targaryen in a room, filled with fog and no roof to block the moonlight? Where are we?", he gestured while he talked, using his arms to indicate the massive expansive of nothingness that rolled out on every side of them. Rhaegar turned his back to Jon, staring into the inky expanses that encapsulated them. "This place is born from our connection, Jon Snow," the dead prince said, his tone still lighthearted, "perhaps soon I can explain more. For now," he said, slowly shifting as he moved to face Jon, "there is only so much that I can say. There is still one more thing for you to do yet." Jon nodded; the battle for the dawn was upon them, he remembered with a start. Daenerys. Images of her flooded his mind, he had to get back to her.

"I need to return," Jon said, panic beginning to creep into the edges of his voice, "my people need me. How do I leave this place?" Rhaegar looked closely at the man who stood before him, the northerner exuding anxiousness and he looked around for a way out of this dream like state. "You will return soon enough, Jon," Rhaegar said, "you will be the difference in this fight. I have seen it." Rhaegar paused, his gaze catching Jons: he could see himself in the man that stood before him. The resemblance was subtle; you would have to be looking for the similarities in order to pick them out, yet they were there to be sure. He takes after his mother then, Rhaegar thought, Lyanna would be proud. "My sister is enamored with you, Jon," the Targaryen continued, his tone taking on the slightest defensive edge, "You need to protect her; now, and always."

Jons heart thudded quickly in his chest. The mere mention of Daenerys set his pulse racing, but to hear her brother confirm what he himself had known for quite some time now: that was something else entirely. He stared quietly into the eyes of the man before him, his mouth settling into a determined line. "Now and always."

Rhaegar nodded, seemingly satisfied with their conversation. "We will speak again soon, Jon: I promise to be less vague."

The room flooded with light.

….

Dany looked down at Jon's sleeping form, tucked neatly into the covers by the men who had carried him up to his chambers. A thick bandage was wrapped around his waist, yet a few spots of blood had managed to permeate the linen that was wreathed around his midriff. He looked so peaceful, she thought, his curly black hair falling loose on the white pillow: he was a person who maintained a demeanor of taught control and attempted to show as little emotion as possible. His resolve was stronger than the purest of steel, yet he looked peaceful now, radiating an almost childlike sense of innocence. Her eyes wound their way down his chest, finding the scars that riddled his muscular abdomen for what must have been the fiftieth time. No man could have survived wounds like that. Dany shuddered to imagine the horrors that the man in front of her must have gone through, and made a silent oath to take revenge on all those who had wronged Jon.

As these thoughts whizzed through her head at the speed of light, and her heart pounded in her chest, fanciful thoughts that she knew didn't have a place in this situation flashed infront of her eyes, making her blush and stirring something inside of her. It was a warm, soft feeling: Dany had rarely ever felt it, and she almost didn't know what it was: now, she wished that she didn't. It was a slow burn, one that had been consuming her from the minute that she had set eyes on the King in the North: she knew that she loved him. She loved his northern accent, she loved his black curly hair: she loved the fact that he stood up for what he believed in, for what he thought was right, even if it meant spiting her. She knew that she was in love with Jon Snow, yet to admit it to herself, even now, was as exhilarating as was it was terrifying. She knew that when the war was over, she had to have him for herself: no other man had ever captivated her heart like this rebellious northern man, and she knew that she would have to scour each of the seven kingdoms to find a person who she loved half as much. She also knew that by admitting her love, she was risking heartbreak: there was no guarantee that she would survive, much less Jon.

Jon's voice wrestled her from her thoughts, "Daenerys," he whispered, his voice faint and raspy. Her breath hitched as his grey eyes met her violet ones, her lips forming into words that she couldn't bring herself to say. They sat like that, bathing in each other's presence, eyes locked in an intense conversation, trying to convey to one another how much they cared. For a brief, shimmering instant, Dany thought that she could bring herself to admit to Jon how much she cared for him: she was so close to spilling out her heart, to tell him that she loved him. She opened her mouth to do so, when Davos Seaworth burst into the room, a face splitting grin plastered on his visage. Ignorant to the moment he had just interrupted, he shouted with joy and strode confidently towards his king, stopping at the foot of his bed, and suddenly seemed rather unsure what he had intended to do. Clearing his throat, he straightened up with an heir of embarrassment, his smile still broad.

"Your Grace," Davos said, "I thought we'd lost you. When they brought you back, unconscious and all bloody…I thought the worst, I'm afraid to say." Davos looked intently at Jon, his gaze flickering back to Daenerys every so often. Suddenly, the former smuggler seemed to grow aware that he had stumbled into the middle of an important conversation. "Erm…I suppose the rest of my news can wait," he said, "I will come to you again in an hours' time," Davos pulled the door closed as he left through it, the harsh sound of wood slamming into stone ringing in Jon's ears. In truth, Jon wished Davos would have stayed: the end of the War for the Long Night was nigh, and the King in the North needed to remain whole heartedly focused for the battles that were to come. Jon Snow knew that he couldn't be wholeheartedly focused around the beautiful woman who stood before him. Dany moved towards him, taking a seat at the foot of the bed, looking down towards him with a sad smile.

"Jon, I—", she began to say, before the words seemed to catch in her throat. Her eyes flickered upwards from the sheets, meeting his. Jon felt a fire roaring in his chest as he stared deeply into the violet pools that looked back at him. "Dany," he said, his voice scratchy and tired, "I know what you're going to say." The Targaryen woman's gaze was unwavering, yet Jon didn't miss the visible nervousness that she began to exude. "I feel the same way," Jon continued, not knowing how to stop: if he looked back now, he was lost, "but we can't be together now. There is too much at stake, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you." Her lips parted, her breathing heavier than it was a moment ago. Jon held her eyes with his, looked into their depths: their he found such raw emotion, such raw want that it scared him. "My duty is to my people, Daenerys. That's why I was brought back," he said, gesturing at his scar riddled chest, "this isn't about what I want: what I want is you, more than I've ever wanted any person."

She smiled now, a brilliant, sad gesture pulled at Jon's heartstrings. "You're the best man I've ever met, Jon Snow." She stood now, and took a step closer to him. "And when this is done," she continued, "when we defeat the night king, and avenge all those who he has taken from you, and from me." Another Step. "Then we will be together." Another Step. "I want you to swear to me, that should we both survive, that you will be mine," she stood over him now, staring down into his stormy, grey eyes. He looked up at her now, his heart pounding in his chest. "I promise," he whispered, as she leaned down towards him. She smelled of cinnamon, and other spices that Jon couldn't place. Her hair was as soft as spun moonlight, and no less blinding. Her tan skin was as soft as a child's: her lips, the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

….

Jon could feel it in his chest. The Cold buried into his core, the frigid wind nipping at his exposed skin. A distant rumbling brought the promise of death, and Jon could see the massive snowstorm that masked the army of the dead. Soon, he knew, this would all be over. Next to him stood Sansa, wrapped tightly in dark furs, a dragon glass dagger swaying at her hip. Beside her was Ser Davos, fingers nervously tapping at his obsidian sword. Jon continued to look down the line: so many people who he cared for. How many of them were about to die? Drogon and Rhaegal roared overhead: when Jon had learned of Viserion's untimely demise, he had been horrified. A dark thought had been permeating his mind since he had heard the news, yet he refused to acknowledge it, lest he give it wings. The hollow sound of boots hitting the cobblestone reached Jon's ears: Daenerys Targaryen took her place next to him, dressed all in white, a silver Dragon Brooch shining from her chest. He glanced at her, his expression all stony, before casting his eyes back to the horizon, and the coming of death. The sound of braziers burning all along Winterfell's walls was accompanied only by the wind. The Northmen, the unsullied, and the Dothraki watched, and waited, as their doom drew ever closer.

Jon had never seen something more horrifying, more soul chilling than the blue fire. When the torrent of blue flames pierced the cloud cover, and the undead form of Viserion latched its claws around Rhaegals neck and tore through the scales that covered it, Jon was sure that every living man, woman and child would die that day. Dany's green child fell from the sky, fire spewing from his mouth and the gaping wound in the side of his neck, desperately trying to confine Viserion to a similar fate. Drogon roared: a deep chilling note that surely would have instilled fear into the hearts of a living enemy. The men around Jon were calling out in horror, their eyes fixed on the sky above as Viserion disappeared into the clouds. Rhaegal fell from the sky, plummeting towards the frozen ground like a living comet, enwreathed in his own flame as he burned from the inside out. A cloud of snow rocketed fifty feet into the air when he slammed into the ground, his form broken, his blood coating the ice and snow that encapsulated him. Jon turned to Dany to find silent tears slipping down her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, her expression one of futile resistance. Glancing at Missandei, he clenched his jaw and nodded. She looked at him, and returned his gesture: he knew Dany would be safe. There was work to be done. Climbing down from Winterfell's ramparts, Jon headed for the gate.

Jon stepped into the courtyard, the mud pulling at his boots as he strode with purpose towards the entrance to Winterfell. He walked in silence, the sounds of the wind and the crackling fire breathing life into the tension that hung in the air. Death closed in on the North, and the North rose to meet it. The North was ready.

….

Rhaegal, Viserion. Daenerys had once hoped that she would never have to see her children die. Dragons could live far longer lives than those which were sustainable by men, and Dany had always anticipated that she would pass away before any of her children did. Now, in the past day, Dany had lost two, and one at the claws of the other. Standing atop the stony walls of Winterfell, surrounded by Northern men-at-arms, she felt helpless now to stop yet another person she loved from going to their demise. Jon Snow appeared on the battlefield in front of her, men rallying behind him as he took his place next to her unsullied and Dothraki forces. The Dothraki had been forced to dismount, rendering them half as effective as they would've been on horseback: the snow drifts were far too deep for any horse to gallops through. Dany watched as Jon said something to Thoros of Myr, who nodded at began to walk towards his death.

He stopped in front of a hastily dug trench. Dany knew from Jon that it was five feet wide and four feet deep, and that it spanned the length of the Northern wall of Winterfell. The Red Priest unsheathed his sword and thrust it into the snowy ground in front of him, raising his hands and cupping them together as he bowed his head. Even from her view atop the wall, Daenerys knew he was praying. Men began to shout around her, shifting nervously as they did so. The pale grey cloud was getting closer, a furious snowstorm that promised destruction to all that it touched. Squinting her eyes, Daenerys could make out vague shapes within the gale. The cold dried her eyes out, making it almost impossible to see at any sort of great distance. When the first Wight burst from its snowy shroud, Daenerys almost screamed. It was a man, or had been, its jaw hanging onto a skeletal head by the few strands of muscle that had not been eaten away by rot. A woman followed him, her breasts exposed, though the right one was torn to shreds, a gash clearly visible in her neck. More and more poured out of the cloud that continued to roll towards them, so many that Daenerys couldn't possible hope to look at each one. They moved closer and closer to Thoros, who remained still, his head bowed. When the first Wight reached him, a hundred more on him just moments after. Thoros raised his head to the sky, unsheathing his sword in one smooth action, pulling it free of the ice. Fire sprung out of the frozen ground in the trench, incinerating the Wights as they lept unthinkingly towards the living. The fire, however, came seconds too late for Thoros himself: three Wights that had made it across closed in on him, their blades biting into his skin. The Red Priest dropped into the snow, his blood soaking into the ground. Hundreds of Wights were pouring into the trench in front of her, their rotting bodies turning to ash as the hungry flames consumed them: above her, Drogon roared as he joined the fray, spewing dragonfire upon the undead men as they tore towards the living in an endless onslaught. It wasn't enough: the bodies of the wights that didn't instantly burn away began to stack up across the trench, a morbid bridge forming across the fire. Soon, the dead would be upon them. Jon was shouting below her, the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and the Northmen rallying behind him as they prepared themselves for what could be the end.

Time seemed to slow down around Daenerys. She noticed the cold blueish hue of the clouds: the wind seemed to move in slow motion, tousling her silver hair. The snow fell cold on her face, her hands, and into her eyes as she looked to the sky. Below her, the wights poured over the trench, their quick, uncoordinated movements seeming impossibly slow and smooth. The jarring sound of the two forces slamming into one another shook her from her dazed state, as fiery arrows began to rain down on the Wights who were still crossing the trench. The sounds of swords clashing and men screaming could barely be heard above the wind, the snow falling thick and fast. Suddenly, above her, Drogon cried out as a blast of blue fire caught him on the underside of his left wing. As the shadowy shape of Viserion dipped in and out of the clouds, Dany caught a glimpse of someone riding on the undead Dragons back. The Night King, Dany thought, cold fury gripping at her heart as she stared up at the sky helplessly.

Drogon had abandoned the fight down below, circling in the sky as he searched for Viserion. His presence was duly missed: the Dothraki, while still skilled warriors on foot, were a shadow of the killing force that Dany knew they could be on horseback, and they were being cut to shreds. The unsullied were definitely fairing better: they were lined up in smooth columns, the men at the front using their shields to defend themselves and those behind them. The men in the second row had long spears that they were jabbing through the holes in the shield wall, the obsidian tipped weapons shearing through the Wights. The Northmen were holding their own as well, as one could expect: She could see Jon from here, twirling his bastard sword in an arc of death as he ducked, weaved and parried, defeating each opponent that came his way. A king that leads from the front. Daenerys's attention was wrested from the king in the north by another cry from Drogon: this one, however, was not of pain. As Viserion stooped down from the clouds, Drogon appeared directly behind him, and lashed out, his jaw tearing through what was left of Viserion's left wing. Viserion didn't give any indication of pain if he felt any: instead, he and his rider plummeted towards the snowy ground below them, where they landed with a plume of snow.

Dany had hoped against hope that the fall would kill them both, yet she was surprised to see Viserion come charging out of the storm, his blue eyes full of cold rage. His fury found the Unsullied first, and Daenerys could do nothing but watch as his jaw unhinged, the blue dragon fire rolling over their neat ranks. She could hear the screaming from here: men dropped their shields and their spears, throwing themselves into the snow in a desperate bid to save themselves, only to be set upon by a vicious new wave of wights. The Unsullied line broke, the undead pushing their advantage as Viserion continued to spew icy blue fire on her men. Dany knew that if Viserion wasn't killed, no man on that field would survive. Luckily, it seemed as though Jon had realized the same thing: a volley of arrows appeared in the sky, raining down on Viserion, the obsidian tips finding their mark. The undead dragon staggered, but stayed on its feet as it took an unsullied soldier in its mouth, viciously shaking its head as it tore him asunder. Another volley of arrows came down onto Viserion, with most of the arrows finding their mark again. Viserion swung his attention towards Jon, and began loping towards him, abandoning its attack of the unsullied.

As Drogon swooped down out of the sky, his fangs tearing through the scales that lined Viserions neck and into the undead flesh below, the air around Dany seemed to freeze. Her eyes scanned the Horizon, searching for the cause amongst the chaos and the bloodshed. When her gaze met its, her heart stopped. There, in the breach of the unsullied line, stood the Night King, flanked on both sides by at least a dozen white walkers. It stood there, It's icy blue orbs staring deep into Dany, freezing her mind and body with the purest sensation of terror that she had ever felt. Then, without warning, the eight Walkers split away from the group, going to join the fray. Panic gripped her heart, as heat returned to her body, her eyes seeking out the man she loved.

Jon.

….

Death surrounded Jon. The wind pushed against him, the snow falling so fast that it stung his exposed skin, and still he fought, his blade weaving in and out the bodies of the Wights that challenged him. His mind was numb, the action far too fast to comprehend: he was being kept alive off of instincts alone. When Viserion had opened a gap in the line of Unsullied, Jon had realized that that was where he was needed most: he had tried to muster a group of northerners to go and reinforce the right flank, but the wights seemed to be attempting to stop their progress as much as they could, overloading the left side as they began to push numbers through the middle. The Night King. Jon knew that he had to cover the breach in their lines, or they would be reared by the undead who made it through the middle. Sloshing through the powder, Longclaw cut down two wights, splitting them in two at the waist as they charged aimlessly towards him. Flanking him on the right was Beric Dondarrion, his brilliant flaming sword dispatching foe after foe, and Gendry on his left, whose warhammer's iron spike had been replaced with one made of Dragonglass. The three of them fought on, backed by two hundred Northerners who Jon had ordered to fill the breach in the unsullied line, though Jon knew that number had dwindled as their progress had been halted.

"KEEP PUSHING," Jon yelled at the top of his lungs, attempting to be heard over the snow storm. A redheaded woman with a gash in her neck ran at Jon, a rusting hatched clutched in her cold hand. Longclaw flashed through the air, and the woman fell. The air seemed to blur in front of Jon, and he barely had time to raise his bastard blade again to block the Others sword. The Walker had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, his frosty spear grating against Jon's Valyrian blade as two more Others materialized out of the snow, engaging Gendry and Beric. Jon stared into blue eyes, and saw naught but cold hatred. The Other swung at him again, a furious blow that was almost too fast to react to, but Jon sidestepped and thrust Longclaw through its icy form. As the Walker dissolved, blown away in the Northern wind, Jon turned to see Beric Dondarrion fall, a long gash opening his body from neck to waist. The Walker he had been fighting turned to Jon, who let out a cry of rage and swung his sword in a deadly arc. The walker met his blow, and responded with one of his own, jabbing his spear towards Jon's midriff. Jon twisted his body, trying to dodge the strike, but the blade caught him and sheared through his leather armor, opening his skin underneath. Crying out in pain, Jon swung longclaw with all his strength at the Walkers neck, the valyrian steel biting through its icy skin. As it dissolved into the Northern Wind, Jon doubled over, clutching the wound in his side. Weakly, Jon turned to see Gendry strike down the Other he was fighting, delivering a devastating overhand blow, driving the Dragonglass point through the Walker's head. Gendry looked exhausted, but sprinted over to Jon when he met his eyes. "Don't die yet," Gendry smiled grimly, hauling Jon too his feet, "this isn't over." Gendry pointed with his hammer to the gap in the unsullied line. "There," he said.

Jon followed his gaze, his eyes settling on the vague form of the Night King, flanked on both sides by two walkers. To their left, Drogon was breathing an undulating stream of fire onto Viserion's undead form, which lay still, smoldering in the snow. Daenerys's black dragon let out a bone rattling roar, and swung its head towards the Night King. Jon's attention was wrestled back to the battle in front of him, as a wight charge him, scampering across the frozen ground on all fours. Longclaw ended its second life, and Jon watched in awe as Drogon's dragonfire melted three Others where they stood. Jon searched for the Night King, who had moved so fast that it had been almost imperceptible. Drogon turned, searching for the Walkers, and found two more of them, shattering them into the wind with a sweep of his talons. Jon's heart beat with renewed hope, and despite the pain in his chest and the exhaustion in his limbs, he fought towards Dany's Dragon with renewed vigor.

Drogon's cry of pain seemed to freeze all of the living men left on the battlefield. As two more wights fell at Jon's feet, he looked up to see the Night King, standing on Drogon's back, a spear of ice clutched in his hands, the point buried in the Dragon's spine. Drogon thrashed, but the Night King hung on with inhuman strength, driving the spear deeper and deeper. Drogon let out another cry, fire spewing from his mouth, setting both the living and the dead alight as death rows racked his body before his gave one last roar, and collapsed into the snow. Jon stared in horror as the Night King wrenched his weapon out of the Dragons body, and turned to stare straight at him, his blue eyes full of mocking. Nothing can stop us, it seemed to say, its gaze unflinching, Your death is merely an inevitability. Letting out a yell of rage, Jon cut his way through the Wights in front of him. Slash, parry, duck, slash, thrust. Longclaw was a blur of destruction, dozens of bodies hitting the ground behind him as he hacked his way through the crowd of wights until, at last, he stood not but ten feet from the Night King. Jon clutched the leather wrapped hilt of his sword, breathing heavily. The wound in his side burned, and Jon thought that he had never been so tired in either of his lives. The Night King didn't wait for Jon to catch his breath. It launched itself at him, spear still wet with Drogon's blood. The blows rained down so quickly that Jon feared that should he blink, it would mean the end for him. Overhead cuts, side swipes and jabs: Jon couldn't gain a foothold in the fight. The Night King pressed its advantage, keeping Jon on the defensive with an undulating torrent of powerful attacks. All around them, the dead began to overwhelm the living, pushing through the cracks in the lines, the bodies piling up into mounds. The Night King swung its spear at Jon's head, who ducked and jabbed, Longclaw catching the undead king in its side, shearing through its armor. Jon tried to press his advantage, but his hit barely seemed to faze his opponent, who struck now with twice the strength, at twice the speed.

The frozen spear shot out towards Jons chest, and he desperately tried to turn his body to get out of the way: he was a fraction too slow. The Spear tore through his leather armor, splintering the steel plate below, and buried itself in his lung. Jon gasped for breath, his body shuddering in pain as the cold swept through every fiber of his being. The Night King pulled the spear out and ran it through him again, this time finding his gut as the Other twisted the blade, rupturing Jon's internal organs. Blood began to leak out of the corner of his mouth, dribbling down into his black beard. He could feel the life leaving his body as he collapsed onto his knees, looking down numbly at the icy blade that pierced him. He raised his head to meet the Night Kings gaze: The Other stared down at him, a look of satisfaction filling its cold blue eyes. In that moment, Jon could see the future in its eyes: a future of a snow covered world. He saw Winterfell buried under mountains of powder, the bodies of his sister and friends lying amongst the ruin. He saw Drogon and Rhaegal's undead forms flying above Kings Landing as Wights poured over the walls and the gates, slaughtering thousands of innocents. He saw Daenerys, lying broken and cold on the frozen ground, blood pooling around her as her violet eyes stared blankly at the cloudy sky above her. The Night Kings eyes were full of mockery and laughter: it knew it had won, it knew that there was nothing that could stop it now, it knew-

Longclaw cut through the Other's neck, and suddenly, the Night King knew very little at all. Slowly, its eyes still locked on Jon's, the Walkers head dropped off of its shoulders, and down onto the snow next to him. Slowly, oh so slowly, it began to dissolve, chunks of ice blowing away on the wind, its body falling to the ground. Longclaw fell from Jon's hands as he sank into the snow, his eyes heavy as his life left his body. Daenerys, he thought weakly, I never told her how I-.

The World went black.

Jon Snow was dead.

….

The Sun had begun to break through the grey blanket of clouds, the orange light refracting off of the bloodsoaked snow. The wind had calmed down, and the snow had stopped falling: Dany wondered how many days it had been since she had last seen a sunrise. She walked along the walls outside winterfell, staring out at the hundreds of thousands of bodies that were piled up as far as the eyes could see. When Jon had struck down the Night King, the rest of the Wights had died as well: it seemed that they were entirely controlled by who had raised them, and once their leader was defeated, they all sank to the ground, the life abandoning their bodies. When they brought him to her, she didn't cry. He looked small, and fragile: his face paler than it had been, the blood from his wounds frozen across his tunic. Drogon, Jon, Rhaegal, and Viserion. All which she cared for had been taken from her: it was all that she could do to not give in there and then.

Dany stared at the horizon, her eyes finding the pale oranges, yellows and blues. She would rule in their name: she would make sure that the world never forgot her children, nor the one man she had truly ever loved. She lingered there for a moment, staring out over the battlefield. The wind caressed her face, as her eyes stung with unshed tears. The Sun rises on a new day.

She turned away.

Epilogue

The smoke wound its way towards the pale blue sky, sifting through the leaves of the Weirwood. Sansa had been insistent that they burn Jon under the branches of the weirwood where he had taken his Nights Watch vows. The wind blew softly, dulling the sound of the cracking fire. Dany had remained, long after the others had left, looking down at what remained of the man she loved: even in death, Jon Snow looked regal. The pale morning snow around his pier glistened, crying as the heat from the fire threatened to melt it away. Dany stood there, looking down at Jon, remembering. The first time she had seen Jon on Dragonstone, the one time when they had kissed, a moment that had lasted only for an instant, but held a promise that there would be a million more like it: a promise that was now broken. Jon might be dead, but Dany's memories would live on, and through them, Jon would too. As the tongues of orange flame began to lick and Jon's hands and feet, she turned away. Soon, there was no one left as the fire began to consume the body of the once King in the North. Fire danced across flesh, a distinct rose color beginning to seep through the dead man's body.

….

The moonlight was silver, breaking up the fog that drifted in from nowhere in particular. Jon Snow was neither hot, nor cold; there was no breeze, no grass, no water. The blackness stretched out in front of him, wreathed in silky mist. Rhaegar stood in front of Jon, a sad smile etched into his features.

"Jon," he began.

….

The sky was streaked with orange. Puffy, grey clouds blew in from beyond the wall, holding the promise of snow. The last tongues of smoke dissipated into the evening air, and the birds chirped longingly in the trees. Lying on a pile of ash, Jon Snow's heat began to beat: blood coursed through his body. He could feel his strength returning with his consciousness; he could feel his fingers now as he curled them into a fist. A cool winter wind felt like a splash of cold water: gasping Jon sat up, looking around. He felt his chest: his hands slipped under his Jerkin, finding the puckered, scarred flesh from where the Night Kings spear had torn through him. Stumbling to his feet, Jon raised his eyes to look at his surroundings; night was coming fast, and he needed a place to shelter. Retrieving a robe that had been auspiciously left behind by whomever had placed him on his funeral pier, he pulled the hood over his head. Setting his eyes South, Jon Snow's journey began anew.

The vast northern countryside sprawled out before him, the light cold sunlight reflecting in his violet eyes.

6,081 words. Three times longer than my longest ever chapter. This has been a long time coming, and I sincerely hope its worth the wait for y'all. I tried my best to take my time with this chapter, and I hope everyone of you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it. I have plans to write a sequel, so I hope that excites you guys, and I hope I wrote a good ending that every one of you is satisfied with. Let me know how I did please!