BLOODLINES ↠ JON SNOW

VI. VALAR MORGHULIS

VI.  VALAR MORGHULIS

HE DID NOT LOOK AT PEACE. Amodera had seen many dead bodies in her life -- more than she could count -- and people would always say they were peaceful. But Jon Snow did not look at peace. He had the same look on his face that she expected he'd had when he died: a mixture of fear, anger, and pain. There was no peace in death.

"You are the Commander of the Wildlings," A voice trailed off from behind her, more stating than asking. Amodera turned, coming face to face with a woman of fair skin and burnished copper hair. The Red Woman, they called her.

"And you are the witch Ser Davos believes can save him." She replied coldly, turning back to the reality lying lifeless on a table before her. He should be burnt, she knew, but part of her could not deny the hope that this witch could bring him back. Amodera had not known Jon long, but he was a warrior; they needed him if they were to survive the Long Night. "Can you? Can you bring a man back from the dead?"

The witch's fierce complexion faltered, giving way to her deepest fears. That the God she had worshipped for many years was just another false hope in a cruel world. "It is not I who decides. Only the Lord of Light has power over life and death."

Amodera stifled a scoff, closing her eyes for a moment. Fuck the Gods. She'd seen too much pain in the world to believe in Gods anymore. Death followed her like a dog, always there but never quite catching her. Melisandre stepped up beside the wildling woman, gazing at the corpse of the man she'd grown to believe was Azor Ahai. "You care about him, don't you?"

Amodera opened her sage eyes once again, facing the truth. She supposed she did care about him; it pained her to see his lifeless body in front of her, and yet she could not leave. Was that what it meant to care? She didn't know anymore. It was hard to trust with the dangerous life they lived, but she had trusted Jon Snow. And now he was dead, like everyone else.

"Just....bring him back." She replied, before their conversation was broken by the door opening behind them. Tormund, Edd, and Ser Davos stepped into the room, forming a circle around the table.

"My Lady, are you ready?" Davos questioned, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

The Red Woman nodded softly. Picking up a wet cloth, she began cleaning the dried blood from his body -- leaving only the deep crimson scars across his chest. The Night's Watch had butchered him: wounds by his heart, his ribs, his abdomen. A quiet rage burned inside Amodera. The men had sent him like a pig to the slaughter; the same men supposed to fight on his side. Jon Snow had not deserved to die like that. He had not deserved to die.

After trimming his hair, Melisandre tossed it in the flames, before turning back to the body and placing her hands across his chest. "We ask the Lord to shine his light, and lead a soul out of darkness. We beg the Lord to share his fire, and light a candle that has gone out." She uttered the words in Valyrian, the eyes of each person in the room watching her every move. "From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life."

Silence laid heavy in the air, and Jon's body remained still. The group looked back and forth; the same himt of sorrow etched across each of their faces. Melisandre sighed, squeezing her eyes shut as the cold sting of tears pressed against her eyelids. "Please..."

Amodera watched him: her hope slowly turning numb. Part of her had actually believed that the witch could bring him back, but it was just another lie in a cruel world. Only death would win, she realised solemnly.

The Red Woman stepped back, her arms falling limp at her sides in despair. The God she had devoted her life too was just another false hope. It dawned on Melisandre now that all the sacrifices and mistakes she had made meant nothing. She had no power; she had just been another devout believer in a sea of people.

Tormund let out a scoff, but Amodera noticed a pain in his eyes. She believed he had seen Jon Snow as a friend -- though he would never admit it. The Wildling man turned and stormed from the room, swiftly followed by Melisandre. Edd paused, a hand resting on his friend's arm before he too strode from the room.

Ser Davos glanced up at Amodera, sharing a solemn smile with the Wildling in their mutual disappointment. His gaze lingered on Jon Snow for a few minutes more, like a father looking at his son, but eventually he too left.

Amodera felt as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders in that moment. White Walkers and Southern Kings and oncoming winter, but death was the only true victor -- now and always. The Wildling Commander knelt down, stretching her hand to the direwolf sitting underneath the table. The beast sniffed at her hand warily; it's wet nose brushing her fingertips, before it nestled it's head against her hand. She realised now that the wolf had sad eyes -- it knew what had happened to Jon. They were smart creatures, and fierce, but she had never expected one to be so devoted to it's owner.

"Come on, Ghost." Amodera mumbled, standing and walking towards the door. The direwolf let out a soft wine from behind her; staring at the body on the desk. Suddenly, she heard a sharp gasp and, spinning round, the Wildling woman was bewildered by what she saw. Jon Snow: sitting upright, naked, and alive.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE;
Jon's like "guess who's back bitches".

Another quite short chapter; though I think I'm going to do lots of smallish chapters instead of a few long ones c:

Comment what you thought of this chapter! Thank you for reading and all your lovely comments and votes so far! - CAT

02 / 09 / 2017