Hollow Crown ↬ Daenerys Targaryen

35

The bitter pinch of frosted wind nips at the skin of the many Lords and Ladies, Nobles and Common Folk that stand in wait. Smoke-like fog coils around the landscape in various depths, though all dwindling by the passing minutes. The winds of winter whispering their last songs of death as the Long Night departs for the final time.

Stone and board are placed in patterns reminiscent of pyramids, each level lined with straw and wood, weighed down by neatly placed rocks at their edges. Makeshift resting places for the fallen heroes being laid to rest atop each level, limbs folded coldly over the weapons they had wielded in their last moments. Hundreds of pyres, thousands of bodies, countless names and faces forever lost to history as casualties of humanity's great victory over destruction.

A victory not felt by those that mourn them now, but one that will be felt by their descendants for generations to come, whose lives they've made possible in defeating the great evil.

Percy stands atop the walls lining the gates to Winterfell, eyes raking over each and every corpse with a cold sorrow that makes him ache to his core. He hadn't known all of them, or even many, not personally or in passing. But each and every single one of them had died for the greater good, for the people of Westeros whom could not fight themselves, so that humanity could live on even in their own destructive ways. In his eyes, they are those whose names should be revered in the history books, whose sacrifices should be honored instead of forgotten with time. Not the names of the liars and corrupters who've reigned over the realm since humanity took power from the magical creatures who had ruled it before the First Men.

Not names like Baratheon or Lannister.

His breath escapes in shallow, harsh pants that echo defeat more than the sorrow of his thoughts. A victory not felt, indeed.

"Dusk is fast approaching." Daenerys' voice is like a silk blanket that silences his thoughts and snuffs the raging fires of his emotions. He turns ever so slightly, catching a glimpse of her own tired eyes before gazing back to the graveyard in front of him. "We should light the pyres soon."

"Is this right?" His voice is hardy composed, and were it anyone else hearing him now, he'd scold himself internally for appearing so weak. But his Queen is not one who bears the ability to judge one's emotions as weakness, and so the scornful voice in his head, the one that reminds him much of his mother, is silent as he continues anyways. "We won. The Night King is dead and his army vanquished. Yet it feels all wrong. This cost...is it not too great?"

"For humanity to live on, for the continuation of life as a whole and to not damn humanity to enslavement by an endless, soulless death, I don't believe so." She doesn't miss even a heartbeat in response, and it prompts him to finally drag his eyes to meet her own, but hers too are now focused on the scene in front of them. "Their sacrifices are not in vain. It's as you said, the great threat is no more, and it's all thanks to their courage and their willingness to fight for humanity. Even in all its ugliness. To contemplate whether this is the best outcome, is a dishonor to them, I think. But not unfounded."

Her words cut him deeper than the blade that had been embedded in his chest only hours before, and it takes everything in him not to flinch, nor let the tears clouding his vision escape. But she didn't speak or intend her words unkindly, it's clear in the way she meets his gaze with understanding still in her eyes, and in the way she takes his hand in her own and brushes his cheek with the other, smiling faintly.

"They are the greatest heroes that history will ever know. Tragic as their lives may have ended, noble is the purpose that they served in that end. And I swear that when we take our throne and end the war, once and for all, our descendants to come will know the same. You and I will make sure of it."