(So, this is just a short little something that came to me while re-watching and contemplating the last decent episode. And after much contemplation, it will sadly be my last contribution to this fandom. Thanks for welcoming me with open arms. The experience was fun while it lasted.)
Fatigue cloaks her like a second skin, yet the tremors do not cease.
From the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair; it comes in intermittent waves as if mocking her attempts to block out the harrowing moments of a night she won’t soon forget.
In the presence of others, she managed to keep her composure, forming tight fists within bloodied and ripped gloves while barely able to stand and hoping her knees wouldn’t give way. She’s sure she was able to say the right things at the right time, but she can no longer remember them or their significance in the grand scheme of things.
Sympathetic nods. Empty smiles. Sobs of relief. Tears of bittersweet happiness at some kind of victory, yet unbridled terrors still etched upon blood and soot-stained features. Once cold Northern eyes no longer hold contempt and wariness. They are no longer able to muster the strength to level their distrust her way. They have all seen enough of the horrors from Beyond the Wall and the grave. The time for petty squabbles was over.
She gasps as it comes again; another wave causing her knees to pull up to her chest. She tightens her arms around them, the tepid water unable to soothe the gnawing ache now welling within. This is the third tub of bath water, the first two darkening with the layers of dust, smoke, and blood she had scrubbed manically from her skin.
And still I see it…I feel it, she thinks as she peels her hands away from quaking limbs to stare at them. These were the hands that had latched onto Drogon for dear life as she sailed through the clouds in panicked desperation; fearful she had lost both of them with their wounds. These were the hands that had grabbed onto a sword of dragonglass; adrenaline and fear forcing her to do things she never thought possible. She couldn’t tell you where the strength had come from or how she was able to drive the blade into the undead without thinking twice about it.
It had to be done. We were both going to die.
Her breath hitched in pain.
Through a vision now blurred, she stares at hands again drenched in blood; hands that clutched desperately at a man’s face she was never to behold again. How she had shaken him; the dawning realization that a once familiar warmth in those eyes of pure azure, was quickly fading as Death claimed yet another dearest to her.
His name was a hiccupped sob from her lips; a torn wail from a parched throat echoed by Drogon’s sonorous cry of mourning.
Oh, how cruel the gods could be.
Never would she feel his comforting presence at her side; always somehow one step behind and a welcome face to turn to when the world around her felt strange and unwelcoming. Never would she be called ‘Khaleesi’ in that special way of his, the word rolling off his tongue in that blend of a northern Westerosi and Dothraki twang she appreciated. Never would she watch him fight for her honor and for his place in her world; her heart lurching at the memory of his desperate melee in the dastard pits of Meereen. How could she forget the icy claws of fear at the news of his contraction of the dreaded greyscale, how she had prayed every night that he would find a cure, and the joy in her heart with his glorious return back in her arms?
Yes, he had betrayed her trust by being a spy of The Usurper. Yes, he had driven a dagger into her heart at the truth of his presence in her life. Yet, he had treated her with nothing but respect, showering her with an attention and devotion no other man could brag of. She wasn’t blind to his love for her, and though a small part had wished she could reciprocate in kind, she hoped – oh, how she hoped – she had managed to convey a different kind of love for him.
She prayed he had seen how important he was. Of how she cherished his gifts of knowledge from a continent that was supposed to be home. Of how he had defended and protected her from not just a brother who had become a shadow of his former self, but from even more harm and abuse from a clan of warriors she would eventually conquer.
“Blood of my blood,” he had whispered in reverence on the day her dragons were born.
“Blood of my blood,” she whispers now into the empty chamber.
Yet her sorrow is not just reserved for the man who loved her the most, but for the many thousands of brave men who had dared to cross a cursed sea just to be at her side.
In the aftermath of the battle, she had dared to walk amongst the dead – the real dead – seeking familiar faces amongst the bloodied or mangled masks that remained. She would find an abandoned arakh here and there, either coated with the entrails of an enemy or still charred from the fires of the Red Priestess. There were long braids no longer glistening with the rich oils from Vaes Dothrak, and rings of gold or tiny golden bells no longer tinkling with pride as they rode upon their steeds. An entire khalasar snuffed out like a candle’s flame.
She would whisper their names as she stumbled amongst them, “Qhono, Haggo, Cohollo…” perhaps imagining they would sit up and laugh in jest at their khaleesi assuming they’d fall prey to such an unbeatable foe.
Once unbeatable, she thinks bitterly.
She would caress the steel helms of her Unsullied. “White Snake, Brave Heart, Black Fist…”
She would rub off the blood from some of their spears to make a neat row of them – they did always like to be organized – in their honor. She would barely acknowledge the silent Grey Worm who marched after her; never knowing what thoughts went through his grim countenance.
He was in pain. He had to be in pain. Why else would Missandei beg to be allowed to spend the morning with him? And how could she deny her beloved sister’s request?
Go. Go be with the one you love, my dearest. He needs you so much more than ever before.
She closes her eyes and rests her chin upon her knees. Outside the narrow windows, she can hear the survivors prepare the bodies for the burning. It is a monumental task, but they are determined to get it done by the end of the day. Though they no longer have to fear the Night King, it is only just and noble to give them a befitting farewell.
They will mourn, Jon had said to her. But we are resilient. We will rise again, Dany. And besides…we’ve got one more war ahead of us.
You need not remind me of that, she wishes she could have said in response, but the words had remained stubbornly lodged in her throat. Her grief, weariness, and emptiness too overwhelming at the time.
Still she had seen the look on his haggard features; the silent plea for her comfort…for his need to comfort her, and oh, how she wishes she could have pulled him into her arms and wept all over again. She would settle for squeezing his hand and managing a tremulous smile before excusing herself with the hope that he would understand her need to be alone.
After all, he was now…family.
One taken away and another given to me. The gods do have a wicked sense of humor, she thinks with a wan smile as she lifts her lashes with the groaning of the heavy door being opened.
It is not Missandei, but a servant sent by the Lady of Winterfell to check on Her Grace’s needs.
She feels her lips curving into a practiced smile. She finds them parting to respond to the shy request. Yes, Her Grace would be glad to come join them for a late afternoon meal, for Her Grace is more than aware of the role she still has to play. She will be the face of victory for her kingdom, no matter how bittersweet it was. She will pick up the scrappy pieces left and rebuild her army as best she can. She will have to rely on those who have survived the Long Night for advice and support as they prepare to face the darkness in the South.
For when that foe is vanquished, it will be her final gift to those brave men and women, whose selfless sacrifices were not in vain.
