Rather short, and the ending might not be the best, but the show's wasn't either so whatever. Writing this to say goodbye to one of if not the highest rated show of all time that inspired many to read the books, try their own hands at writing, actually learn something about medieval times, and so much more... Still, that ending, what the hell? Anyway, here's my eulogy for Game of Thrones. Enjoy.

Watching the Northern Gates of Castle Black close for what he knew was the last time Jon Snow- Aegon Targarian- heaved a heavy sigh. It was truly over, finally, it was done. When he had left Winterfell for the first time all those years ago to join the Night's Watch he had wanted to be of use in maintaining peace and stability, things he was always a threat to as the supposed bastard of one of the Lord Paramounts. Then King Robert died. He didn't know if it was orchestrated by Cerci or if the fat drunk had fallen because of his own faults but he knew that was the day that everything in the world seemed to go to shit.

His Uncle had done what honor demanded and lost his head. His cousin had marched south in righteous fury to seek justice and was betrayed. Sansa was abused and tormented until her once soft demeanor became cold steal. Arya became a leaf in the wind that ended up cutting the throats of many who had stood against her and their family. Rickon had found freedom in exile only to be captured and shot down like a rabid dog. Bran had to sit practically helpless for years, always seeing but never being able to do anything. Jon himself had earned the respect and comradery he had always desired as a brother of the Watch and later as the King in the North, only to lose his heart twice, thrice, because of his duty and honor.

The second time, when he lost it to the knives of his sworn brothers, was by far the least painful.

All that chaos, all those journies and trials, failures and triumphs, was just from his family alone. Who knew what the rest of Westeros had to deal with during the Song of Ice and Fire or whatever Sam had said those ten years were being called now.

The Seven Kingdoms were now Six. The Iron Throne was worthless slag. The King was a crippled second son. The North had a Queen that at one point hated living there. A lone wolf chased the sun toward the horizon. And a kingdomless, crownless king was leaving the lands he had once sworn himself to behind so that he may find peace in the one place he had ever felt true love and happiness. All his sorrow laid south of the Wall, and that is where it would stay.

The world was at peace, or whatever passed as peace in the shithole they lived in. He had played his part as a bastard, king, lord, and oathbreaker to bring it about. He would be remembered, or at least the results of his deeds would be. So while his heart may never again feel the warmth of love- from family or from his soul- he was content.

This is where he belonged. Not on a throne or in a Hall or on the Wall. No. He was the White Wolf. A Direwolf with a dragon's claws and scales. He was of the North and he was Free.