I feel like Jon Snow.
To be more specific, when it is after the main wildling attack on the wall. The night’s watch has fought valiantly, and they fended off the initial attack of scouts. Jon snow has returned to the nights watch, run from the wildlings, escaped to warn his brothers of the impeding wilding invasion to Westeros.
He has always been a crow, even when he was with the wilding, even when he was with Yigrette, even though he loved her.
The men are patrolling the wall and castle black and the tunnels, surveying for their dead, and a damage report. John snow was in the battle as well, firing his bow into the wildlings scaling the wall and ramparts and towers.
Much like Yigrette fired arrows into him as he sped off on his horse, her screaming and tears and arrows following him off as far as they could reach.
Jon Snow walks among dead crows and wildlings alike, praying to the old gods for her to not be there. He walks and looks even though he’d rather not see. He walks and carries fear and regret and guilt with him in his heart.
And among the snow and black cloaks he sees a glimpse of red hair, and there she lay, kissed with fire and an arrow in her chest. Dead.
And so is he. Dead in the anguish of losing her. Weighed down and nearly killed with the guilt of not knowing is it was someone else’s arrow, or his own, which pierced her heart and lay her beautiful and lifeless upon the snow.
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