BLOODLINES ↠ JON SNOW

XXVI. GLORY

XXVI.    GLORY
[ 8x03 // 8x04 ]

"WE WON."

The words rang in Jon's ears like wedding bells; echoing of a day he never thought would come. The Long Night was over, the Dead could rest and the Great War had been won. Alas, there was no rest for the wicked. They may have survived, they may have won -- but at what cost? How many had given their lives; sacrificed themselves for the Living? Jon vowed to remember them all for as long as he lived, to honour them in his memory. He would not be breathing free air if not for their sacrifice.

Jon turned to Amodera, a weary smile working it's way across his face as he pulled her into his arms. Even with the smell of blood and dirt upon her skin, she was his home; his refuge. As much as he wanted to shelter in her warmth forever, he knew he had a job to do. "I need to find Bran; find my family." He mumbled, his voice low and filled with unencumbered fatigue.

Amodera closed her eyes for a moment before pulling back, nodding her head in understanding. Leaning up to softly kiss his lips, she embraced their victory as much as she could in the surrounding chaos. Winterfell had been torn apart, armies shredded, and yet they'd won. The cruelty of the Gods was never lost on her. "Go." Amodera stated calmly, pulling back and returning his smile. "I'll find as many survivors as I can."

Jon kissed the top of her head softly before running for the Godswood, his heart half-filled with fear over what he would find.

Amodera swiped the sweat from her brow as she watched him go; her gaze falling upon the pile of bones that, just minutes ago, had been a dragon hellbent on killing her husband. The world did not make sense, and yet she knew she would not change it. After all, everything that had happened had brought her to Jon and that was all she could ever ask for.

As she started through the courtyard, Amodera's gaze fell upon a figure in the midst of the battlefield -- seemingly alone amongst the now truly dead bodies. The ivory hair of Daenerys Targaryen lit up the field like a beacon. Amodera paused for a moment before grabbing an abandoned horse and beginning to ride out towards the young queen. Whether she was alone or not, she may need help, and as much as Amodera had her suspicions, she knew she had to help.

As the young Commander grew closer, the sound of weeping filled the cold, dead silence of the night. The largest of Daenerys dragon's had curled around her -- half from of exhaustion and half, Amodera was sure, from a wish to comfort it's grieving mother.
Amodera pulled the horse to a stop before climbing off and walking towards where Daenerys sat -- never once taking her gaze off the dragon before her. As she passed, the Wildling allowed her gaze to fall to the ground. A wave of sadness hit her as she saw Daenerys clinging to the body of Ser Jorah -- the light in his eyes faded for good. Without a word, she knelt beside his body as Daenerys looked over at her; a desperation in her usually strong demeanour that made Amodera's skin crawl. It felt unnatural to be there, witnessing such a private outburst of emotion from a woman she had only ever perceived as cold and calculating.

Amodera reached across and let her fingers land upon his eyelids, pulling them down to make it seem as if he were resting; a man at peace. The tears escaping the young queen has stemmed slightly; replaced instead with a wary silence as she watched Amodera lift Ser Jorah's body and lay him upon the back of her horse to return him to Winterfell.

As she finished, Amodera turned and walked back to Daenerys -- offering her a hand. No words were exchanged between the two as Daenerys took her hand, nor as they rode back to the growing life of Winterfell. It was only when she felt Daenerys stiffen as the survivors watched her with beady, unwavering eyes, that any words parted her lips.