I Am Not a Woman, I'm a God - Jonerys [18+]

This is the final hour, the silence hovers where dark and light devour

The battle draws to a close. The fate of the world rests on Jon's shoulders as Daenerys protects in the only way she can.
~*~

Daenerys

The battlefield was a macabre tapestry of death and desolation. Reaching a boiling point as living and dead still waged war to bring the dawn. She left it all behind. Blood and the acrid scent of burning flesh drenched the air as she followed Rhaegal into the wailing storm.

White vaporous clouds enveloped her frozen form, cold and as flimsy as the grip she had on her emotions. Her heart was a firestorm in her chest as she and her rageous son swept higher, trying to clear the storm and catch their bearings. It only seemed to grow more turbulent. Her heavy braid sliced through the air with each wicked gust. She winced every time it slashed into her sore back.

She focused instead on the dull, throbbing ache in her shoulder. Her fear for Jon was a snarling thing, its sharpened teeth tearing through the gossamer string holding her together as the storm raged. The shadows seemed to cling to her, seeping through her skin to settle deep into her bones.

None of it mattered. Drogon cleared a nasty-looking bank of clouds, breaking out of the shroud of fog and snow right into the eye of the storm. She leaned to her left to see down to the ground, eyes darting around as she hunted for Jon and wished she hadn't.

Bodies lay strewn across the frozen land, mounds of them piled up like crude, smashed children's toys, eerily bathed in pale light and darkness. A realm of destruction and sacrifice, she thought. She couldn't look away despite her sorrow. Drogon growled impatiently as they soared overhead.

Rhaegal answered it with a roar, and she dug in her knees to follow the sound. Her pulse jumped in her neck, her sore body tensing until she thought she'd disintegrate, and she felt as if she was fighting against time itself as they flew toward the squirming mass of dead, racing toward something she couldn't yet see.

Her eyes bounced restlessly as they flew, drawn like a moth to the flame, to a ghastly spectacle. A mountain made of lifeless bodies, some withered and some fresh, loomed ominously. Her attention locked on it, gaze hungrily devouring every detail she could from her lofty perch. Amid the grotesque amalgamation of twisted limbs, shattered armor, and fragmented weapons, she spotted Jon.

He stood tall and resolute, a solitary figure of unwavering determination to defy the darkness, preparing to engulf them all if he failed. Rhaegal circled above him and the Night King.

Ice water trickled down her spine. Frozen tendrils of fear snaked their way through her very core as a foreboding sense of dread washed over her. Jon's countenance remained unforgiving, his moon-pale skin marred by the grime of battle, mud, and ash, a stark war paint. His features, undeniably handsome, were now carved with an indomitable resolve that mirrored the frozen wasteland surrounding them all.