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JON
Sounds of the battle still echoing through his heavy head, Jon scuffed through the hallways of Winterfell. His fingers touched the cold and ancient stones the castle was built of. He knew them all too well. No matter how bleak and dark the halls were, they only reminded him where he was- home.
After so many years, he was finally home again. A thousand different feelings overwhelmed him, and Jon sank to his knees sobbing. They had won and his hours of misery were over, knowing that his sister, his wife, and child were finally safe. But Jon didn't feel like a winner. Too many had died today, little Rickon among them. Only moments ago, he had watched the soldiers carrying his lifeless body into the yard. He had been a child still and Jon would gladly trade fates with him. It seemed like it was yesterday when Jon had chased him and Bran and Arya through the Godswood, their laughter sounding through the trees.
"M'lord?" An unfamiliar voice behind him asked. He turned around to see a young servant boy keeping a safe distance from him, his head bowed in a submissive manner. "Is there any way I can be of service?"
Jon got up on his feet again with an annoyed sigh. Every bone in his body hurt, and he needed some time to himself before he was able to face anyone else. The little patience he had regained kept him from yelling at the boy. "Run me a bath, fetch me some fresh clothes and see that my wife his brought here immediately." He replied in a harsh tone.
"You-your wife?" The boy asked, his big, fearful eyes fixed on Jon's shoulder.
"Are you deaf? Aye, my wife. The Princess Myriah Martell. If you are that slow-witted when she arrives, she will tear you into pieces. She's been terribly moody of late."
"At once, M'lord." He stuttered and showed Jon to a nearby chamber.
While he took his bath, Jon had enough time to think about his next moves. He needed to confront the remaining Lords of the North and start preparing for the war against the White Walkers. He needed to settle the quarrels between Northerners and Wildings. He needed to properly thank the Knights of the Vale for coming to his aid, they all would have been dead without them.
Jon scrubbed the sweat from his body, and the dirty water mixed with his own blood. Once he got out of the tub, he inspected his wounds. The cuts on his chest had begun to bleed again, while several of his ribs seemed bruised, if not broken. His wrists and ankles pained as like he had sprained them, and his arms and legs were just too tired of everything that has happened. In the morning, he would be sore in places he didn't even know they exist.
All he needed now was for Myriah to kiss the pain away. No doubt she would start crying when she saw him again, and Jon was unsure whether he could keep himself from shedding a tear too.
