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Chapter Text

Ch 1 First Bet

Shrugging his cloak further over his shoulders, Jon tightened his grip on the reins, his eyes catching the first glimpse of Winterfell along the horizon.

“Do you think they’ll like me?” Dany asked as she rode up next to him.

“Of course they will, how could they not,” Jon replied, turning to face her, they locked eyes and stared at each other as their mounts continued forward.

A few feet behind them Tyrion scoffed and took another swig from his wineskin, anxiety setting in due to the thought of seeing his former wife.Davos chuckled next to him, seemingly ignorant of the Lord of Lannister’s fears.

“How long do you think it will take for the Starks to figure it out,” he asked, gesturing over to Jon and Dany.

“If they’re half as observant as they were when I last saw them, within minutes,” Tyrion replied.
“Care to make a wager?” Davos smirked as Tyrion raised an eyebrow at him and saluted him with his wineskin.

“Thirty gold dragons.”

“Fifteen, and it’ll take them a week, the Lady Stark isn’t that close to her half-brother.”

“No, but Sansa is smart, a lot smarter than any of the fools in Kings Landing could see.”

“Ah, that is true,” the conversation stalled as they continued to watch the lovestruck couple make mooneyes at each other. The rough pounding of hoofbeats interrupted their vigil as Gendry Waters rode up to the head of the column.

“I couldn’t take riding in the back with Mormont anymore, he keeps making comments about the King--I mean Jon,” Gendry sighed, shivering under his borrowed cloak.

“Well lad, he does seem to have an unnatural fixation on the Dragon Queen,” Davos replied.

“If you think that’s bad, try being stuck on a boat with just him for a companion. For weeks it was Khaleesi this and Khaleesi that.” Tyrion snapped, then pitching his voice deeper he grunted, “Oh her hair is so beautiful like diamonds in the moonlight and she’s so brave and wise, she’s a wonderful queen.”
The other two men laughed, Jorah Mormont’s obsession with Daenerys Targaryen well known after joining up with the bulk of her army at White Harbor. His very loud and very rude protestations about her riding at the front of the column with the ‘Ned Stark’s Bastard’ putting him at the back of the army with only the Dothraki for company.

“Yeah Mormont’s a lost cause, but then I suppose we all are for those we love,” Davos said, his voice drawing to a whisper as he thought of his beloved wife.

“Ah for the love of women,” Tyrion drank again, “Say, Waters you ever love a woman?”

“Uh… Well, no. I mean yes, I mean… it’s complicated,” Gendry stuttered, sweat peeking at his brow despite the freezing temperatures.

“Well there’s a story there, who is she?” Tyrion prompted.

“Ah..” Gendry flailed about in his seat, the horse underneath him snorting at his movements. Just ahead the column a fast paced blur saved him from answering Tyrion’s question by distracting the other men, as the gates of Winterfell came into view and with them, the quickly approaching and now recognizable Arya Stark.

Chapter Text

Ch2 Double or Nothing

Jon caught sight of his youngest sister and spurred his horse forward into a full gallop. A few hundred feet away from running into her, he jerked the reins back and pulled his mount to a halt before vaulting off and running the final distance. Arya screamed his name as she let her face break into a smile and launched herself at her older brother, her arms wrapping around his body in a viselike grip.

“Jon,” she tried to hold back the tears but after not seeing her brother for so long she couldn’t. Burying her face in his furs she clung to him, barely hearing his constant murmuring of “You’re alive. Gods Arya you’re alive and okay.”

A few feet behind them, Dany pulled her horse to a stop and watched the siblings reunion, her throat suddenly tight as she tried to swallow back her envy, if only Viserys had been so loving in the end. The rest of Dany’s forces came to a slow halt behind her as Tyrion, Davos, and Gendry rode up to her side.

“That’s really sweet, makes me think there’s still good in the world, eh?” Davos said gesturing over to the still hugging siblings.

“Meep,” Gendry made a squeaking noise as he stared at Arya in Jon’s arms, his thoughts centering on Arry the Orphan and Arya Stark now that he saw her again, in the arms of her brother, a King, he was fucked.

“Well let’s hope the rest of us get such a warm welcome,” Tyrion added as he gestured Dany on, his mismatched eyes looking longingly at the gates of Winterfell.

“It’s good to see such strong bonds between siblings,” Dany said as she came up to Jon’s side, her lips turned up in a slight smile.

Pulling away from Arya, Jon felt a light heat creep up the back of his neck as he coughed.

“Right, um this is Arya, Stark, my sister,” looking down at Arya he jerked his head over to Dany hoping against hope that she would follow the courtesies of her station, “Arya this is Dany, uh I mean Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons...do I have to say all the others?” Looking over at Dany he widened his eyes, trying to pull on his memories of Bran as a child to convey beseeching innocence.

Laughing, Dany threw back her head, her hair tumbling back in waves, her ornate silvery braids fluttering in the icy breeze. Arya looked over at the Dragon Queen and grinned, her teeth pulled back in a feral, bloodless smile as she let her eyes flick up and down the Queen’s diminutive form.
“Nice to meet you,” she jerked her head down in the slightest of bows, “Your Grace,” she added as she lifted her head to meet Dany’s lilac gaze.

“Charming to meet you as well, Lady Stark,” Dany replied.

“Ugh, no. Sansa is Lady Stark, I’m just Arya.”

“Duly noted.”

Tyrion burst into laughter as he watched the informal introductions, his shaking body causing his horse to whinny in annoyance. Davos and Gendry dismounted and Gendry reached over to help Tyrion down when he heard the soft gasp.

“Gendry,” Arya flinched back as she took in the broad shouldered armorer, taking in his extra few inches, mop of shaggy black hair and his rapidly widening blue eyes.

Whirling on his heel, Jon glared over at Gendry, “You know my sister?” As he straightened his spine and placed a hand on Longclaw, Arya recovered from her shock and launched herself at Gendry full tilt, stopping short of tackling him as she had Jon. She tilted her head to look up at the bastard Baratheon. Staring down at her, Gendry felt his throat dry and any further meeps shrivel up and die, before lunging forward and pulling her into his arms. Blinking Dany looked from Jon to his sister, and back to Jon, and a grin slid over her face, this was going to be fun.

“Well it seems we’ve discovered what was so complicated,” Tyrion snickered, his mirth bubbling over until he caught sight of flame red hair at the front of the gates.

Jon growled as Gendry and Arya clung to each other, trying to emulate Ned Stark’s Stare of Disapproval. As he narrowed his eyes at the couple, Dany placed a hand on his arm, keeping a steady pressure to keep him from unsheathing Longclaw.

Horns trumpeted along the gates, as Stark banners began to ride out alongside the flame red, Sansa as she came to meet the oncoming party. As Tyrion stared open-mouthed at the mature Lady Stark. His breath caught in his throat and he reflected on how much she had changed since the last time he had seen her at her family’s home. She had been a naive girl wishing for her gallant knights only to be betrothed to his vile nephew.

The two parties met in the yard Lady Sansa curtsied to the Dragon Queen, always being the proper lady, and offered a polite welcome.

“A pleasure to meet you Lady Stark. I would like to introduce you to my advisors, this is Jorah Mormont and my hand--”

“Good to see you again Just Tyrion,” Sansa interrupted Daenerys and turned to her former husband bringing back the memory of their wedding night. Tyrion himself stared at his former wife, her beauty he’d seen hints of years before now outshining anything he thought possible. Sansa’s cheeks blushed a light rose as she curtsied before him.

“A pleasure to see you again Lady Stark,” Tyrion bowed to reciprocate the curtsey. “To think the last time we saw each other we were man and wife.” The light blush on Sansa’s cheeks grew and spread to her hairline, her skin almost the same shade as her hair.

“That feels like almost a lifetime ago, My Lord,” Sansa tried to steady her breathing and regain her composure.

Arya had finally released Gendry from her bear hug, the pair approached the rest of the group with Jon lurking closely behind them. Sansa had to stifle a laugh as she saw the expression on Jon’s face, a cross between confusion and anger. His hand had not left Longclaw since the initial embrace of the pair. Sensing the glare, Gendry attempted to distance himself from Arya only to have her reappear next to him.

“Your Grace, I am sure you and the rest of your party are tired please allow us to show you to your chambers. Unfortunately we do not have room for the entire party though your army is welcome to set up tents outside the walls,” Jon gestured the queen into Winterfell proper.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Dany follow Jon through the main doors.

“I will show you to your chambers, My Lord Hand,” Sansa smiled at Tyrion. “I will have the stewards escort the rest of the council to their respective chambers.

“Lead the way, Lady Sansa. As before I will follow you,” Tyrion said hoping to get Sansa to blush again.

Much to his surprise Sansa shortened her long strides as to match Tyrion’s shorter gait. It was as if they were back in King’s Landing walking through the gardens. Breaking the silence Tyrion asked if his chamber was to be up steps. Sansa replied, “No, of course not I remember how much you loathed climbing the stairs of the Hand’s Tower in the Red Keep.”

“You are too kind, Lady Sansa. Some used to say that you were too kind. When in fact it was your armour in the lions pit that was the Red Keep.”
Sansa stopped dead in her tracks and turns to face Tyrion, her sudden stop surprised him and he almost bumped into her.

“I’m sorry that I fled after Joffrey's wedding. It was not fair to have left you to face your family alone,” Sansa lowered her head in shame.

“Oh sweet lady,” Tyrion reached out and grasped Sansa’s hand. “The past is the past. We both made mistakes during our marriage. I am just happy that we have been given the chance to meet again.”
Taking a deep breath Sansa turned and continued on her way. Finally, reaching the door of Tyrion’s chambers. She stopped and opened the door for him. “Here is your chambers for your stay, my lord. I shall leave you so you may settle. There shall be a feast to welcome Daenerys later this evening.” Sansa curtsied and walked back the way they had came.

Watching her form shrink Tyrion couldn’t help but smile at the woman who had now taken the place of the girl he had once known. It wasn’t until he had turned around that he saw that Jon had been watching the entire interaction. Tyrion quickly ducked into his room and paced in attempts to ease his mind.

Jon wasn’t happy. Well, he was actually very happy, Sansa and Arya had met Dany and both seemed to get along well with the Dragon Queen, and now they were all together in Winterfell, it looked like they might finally have a chance against the Long Night. But he still wasn’t happy. Seeing Arya jump into Gendry’s arms reminded him of how much of her life he’d missed, she wasn’t his little sister anymore, she was a woman grown, and from the comments Sansa had made, one who had seen a lot, and done even more. Tapping his hand on the table in the back of the hall, he wondered what his father might have done in his position, sitting in the high seat of the Lord of Winterfell wearing the furs Sansa had made him, he never felt closer to his late father. Gendry was a good lad, he’d run all the way to Castle Black to get help when they needed him, and it seemed Arya liked him, a lot, though she’d taken to snarling at anyone who mentioned it. Shaking his head, Jon thought that at least one part of her would stay the same, the wolf’s blood in her was strong. But he still didn’t like the idea of her and Gendry, together, doing--things.

Looking out into the hall he watched as people began to enter, Lords and Ladies, peasants and former slaves, it was truly humbling to see them all together, united.

“Looks like you’re having some deep thoughts Jon,” Bran’s soft voice startled him, and he turned to look at his younger brother. Meera Reed had pushed his chair up to the head table, then quickly disappeared to find her father Lord Howland Reed. Jon watched Bran as he reached over and picked up a mug to drink from, gone was the flighty little boy who used to climb towers and dream of being a knight, in his place was something quite, different.

“We need to talk Jon, before the night is over, in private preferably,” Bran said, his grey eyes taking in Jon’s silent perusal, “There is much for us to discuss.”

“Yes, I’m sure there is,” Jon took a drink from his own mug, savoring the bitter taste of Wintertown’s finest ale, it’d been a long time since he’d been able to appreciate it. Setting the mug down he blinked as he watched Arya enter the hall, with Gendry following, he looked like a dog eager to please his master, his blue eyes wide and earnest as he trailed after Arya who prowled around in eerie remembrance of Nymeria. “That looks to be one of the first topics, you’re the greenseer Bran, what do you think of Arya, she’s not the little sister we once knew.”

“No, she is not, she’s been through much, and I have only seen very little of it,” Bran nodded his head, but a smirk crept over his lips and for the first time in months he looked like the Bran Stark of before, “How long do you think it takes for her to realize she cares for him?”

“Ha, don’t you mean how long before she does anything about it? Arya’s always been more about acting before thinking,” Jon replied.

“True,” Bran said.

“I give it six months,” Jon added, “She’s always been rather bad about being a girl, and he doesn’t seem likely to push,” pausing Jon muttered under his breath “Thank the gods, Old and New.”

“I’ll take that bet, but…” Jon cut him off before he could finish, “And no Three-Eyed Raven I see all greenseer cheating, it’s not fair, nor is it as fun.” Bran nodded his consent, privately wondering if Jon had gotten into the ale a bit sooner than he had originally noted. “Ten gold dragons?” he asked.

“Seems fair,” Jon reached over and they shook on it, twin expressions of glee on their faces that made anyone who remembered the young Stark children and their pranks grimace in fear.

“What are you two talking about?” Sansa walked up, her hair done in twin braids to frame the sides of her head in an ornate pattern, leaving the rest of her fiery tresses to flow down the back of her traditional black dress, this one done in a mixture of silks and velvets.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 Up the Ante

Sitting down on Jon’s other side, Sansa tilted her head to look at her older brother, waiting for him to answer her question. A light flush crept up Jon’s neck as he coughed and took another drink of ale. Bran snickered, and decided to answer for him.

“We were betting on how long it takes for Arya to act on her feelings for Gendry,” Bran stated, taking far too much glee at meddling in his sister’s love life than Jon that was necessary.

“Oh, well in that case 30 gold dragons says she’ll do something impulsive, like say kiss him, in the next week, and then ignore his existence and her feelings for the next three months,” Sansa paused as she thought about her past relationship with her sister, “Another ten gold if Gendry proposes to her right after Queen Daenerys legitimizes him and makes him Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

“Oh I’ll take that bet,” Tyrion chuckled as he walked up to stand in front of the head table, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “Five gold says she punches him, she has little room for decorum, I remember her calling me Imp within minutes of meeting me.”

Sansa flushed at the memory of her sister’s impertinence, before inclining her head to acknowledge her former husband’s bet, “You’re right, though she’d be more likely to stab him, or sheep shift him depending on her immediate mood.”

Chuckling Jon agreed with his half-sister, raising a mock toast to her as she sat down next to Bran.

“Is anyone keeping track of these bets, I think they’d make a marvelous distraction from our impending deaths,” Tyrion smirked as he helped himself to a glass of Arbor Gold, the last of Catelyn Stark’s private stash unearthed weeks before.

“No, but if you want to, I’m sure you’d make a pretty penny on keeping track of it for everyone,” Jon replied before coughing as he choked on a swallow of ale as Dany walked into the hall, her silver hair gleaming in the torchlight.

“Ten gold says he proposes to her by next week,” Tyrion said as they watched Jon jerk to his feet to pull out the chair next to him for Dany, and then stand there waiting as she meandered through the hall talking to Missandei next to her.

“Nah, it’ll be a bit longer than that, he’s got an honorable heart, but he’s also stuck on being a bastard who can’t offer her anything,” Davos said as he appeared from behind.

“Well…” Bran started to talk but was quickly shushed by Sam who had walked up to pay his respects to Jon with Gilly before heading to sit at one of the lower tables.

“If we’re betting on Jon acting on his feelings, I’d say he already has proposed out of fear of creating a child out of marriage, he loathes being a bastard, he’d hate to do that to any child of his,” Sam said.

“Perhaps,” Sansa started to talk before pausing to think, “But Jon is also incredibly, uptight about things such as love and emotions, I don’t think he’d be the first to initiate marriage. He would start a relationship, but his own lack of self-worth would never let him commit, I agree with Ser Davos, Queen Daenerys would make the first move.”

Pulling parchment, a quill, and ink out of seemingly nowhere Tyrion began to jot down the bets and place them into categories. Scratching down Sansa’s last comment, he looked over at Jon who was still staring soppily at Dany, “Do you think we should open the betting to everyone? We could probably raise enough money to finance the campaign in the south after we deal with the Others...if we survive that is.”

Davos rolled his eyes and muttered “Children, I work with children,” as Sansa and Bran eagerly agree with Tyrion, before gesturing for Lyanna Mormont and Grey Worm to come over and talk with them. The unlikely duo walked over, their conversation on the merits of spears over maces halting as Sansa explains the two relationships on the table and Tyrion sets up his hastily made parameters for the bets.

“King Jon would definitely propose if he thought the Dragon Queen was pregnant,” Lyanna said, her normally stern mein breaking out into a wide grin as she added, “Ten gold on Arya punching the Bastard Baratheon if he proposes though, I know I would.”

“Queen Daenerys would act first I think,” Grey Worm stated, his lips twitching into a light smile, “She is most impulsive when it comes to matters of the heart. Missandei would be a good help to this new plan, she has much knowledge of organizing such things.”

“What things would Missandei be good at?” Dany asked as she finally made her way to her seat next to Jon whose ecstatic grin made everyone on his other side burst into laughter.

“We’re organizing a pleasant diversion from the oncoming war with the Others by creating a rich pool of sophisticated inquiries in the relationships of our fellows, starting with the younger Lady Stark,” Tyrion replied, rolling up the preliminary chart and downing a goblet of wine.

“Ah, so we’re betting,” Dany stated.

“Well if you must put it so inelegantly, yes.” Jon chuckled as he broke into a meat pie a servant set in front of him, Tyrion’s disgruntled response to Dany’s bluntness was always amusing, and seeing it day in and day out on the trip to White Harbor had thoroughly entertained him.

Missandei looked intrigued as she took the papers from Tyrion and scanned them, her eyes roving over the bets and who put money down on them.

“I think it could work, especially if we reach out and include other nobles and perhaps even the Dothraki and Unsullied. Including everyone could draw them tighter together in this alliance and create an enjoyable pastime for them to take part in. We could even broaden this and introduce stories that we observe about the couples they weigh in on, it was something I noticed the Meereenese did at times with the Great Masters.” Missandei paused as she looked up and saw Tyrion, Sansa, and Davos starting at her in shock.

“If we did that, which is a brilliant idea Missandei, why stop at spreading it amongst us in the North, if we started to disseminate in the South among the small folk, we could curry favor for the campaign after the Long Night,” Sansa replied, “We make Jon and Dany, Arya and Gendry the new Jonquil and Florian, we spread stories of them and songs of their deeds, we make them the lovable heroes coming to free Westeros from Cersei’s tyranny.”

Tyrion stared at Sansa, she had blossomed from the shy girl he’d known in the Red Keep, no longer was she Cersei’s little dove, she was the Cunning Wolf, and he’d never been more proud. Sam nodded his head fervently at Sansa and Missandei’s plan, it was something he would expect from the Maester’s in Oldtown with their extensive training and vicious politics.

Jon and Dany were oblivious to the conversations next to them, having tuned everything out after Tyrion replied to Dany’s original statement. Quietly giggling and discussing the welcome warmth of the Great Hall compared to the cold of the long march from White Harbor to Winterfell, the royal couple took turns sneaking bites of food from each others plates while trying to maintain their aloof and regal dispositions to whoever walked up to talk with them.

Rolling his eyes at their inability to be subtle, Bran announced that he needed to talk with Jon again in front of the newly crowned Betting Commission. Jon distractedly agreed, before declaring that Dany and her advisors should be there as well, as anything said to him could be said before her seeing as she was now their Queen since he’d bent the knee in King’s Landing.

Scoffing, Bran agreed even as Sansa hissed “We haven’t shared that with the lords yet Jon, do try to keep your submission quiet until we can.”

Nodding his head in response to Sansa’s comment, Jon tried to look chagrined, and failed as Dany smiled sweetly at his declarations of trust. Conversation flowed as everyone settled into their seats and dove into the meal, the bets and parchment tabled for then. Across the hall, Arya felt a tingle go down her spine and the thought that something significant had taken place occurred to her, but she quickly ignored it in favor of grilling Gendry for details of what happened after the Red Woman took him. Gendry blushed and stammered his way through his account of what happened with Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone, carefully avoiding the Red Woman’s more carnal actions for fear of Arya’s explosive temper.

“So The Onion Knight helped you escape and you went straight back to King’s Landing, the one place you were trying to avoid after you ran two years before?” Arya looked over at Gendry in shock at his sheer idiocy, how had he stayed alive after leaving her.

“Well when you put it like that,” Gendry tugged on his ear and took a long drink from his mug, “Honestly I didn’t know where else to go, I didn’t know where you were and I didn’t want to return to the Brotherhood, and being a smith was what I knew, so it made sense at the time to go back to it.”

“Yeah okay, I still think you’re an idiot,” she replied, shrugging at him as she stabbed a piece of venison on her plate.

“Well where’d you go after I left?”

“The Hound took me to the Twins to give me to my brother, but then the bloody Frey’s betrayed him, so we went to the Eyrie to my aunt, but that failed too. Brienne, the Lady Knight that serves Sansa, found us and nearly killed the Hound, and so I ran, and went to Braavos.”

Silence followed her words as she kept stabbing at the venison, memories of the House of White and Black and the Waif consuming her. “What happened in Braavos?” Gendry’s question sent a jolt of something she couldn’t quite discern up her spine. Dropping the knife, she fidgeted in her seat and looked up at him, debating on what she should tell him.

“I lived in Braavos for awhile where I learned to be a better water dancer and to be no one. I learned a lot there. But eventually I couldn’t be no one, I am Arya Stark of Winterfell.” Arya had been bunching and flattening the edge of her tunic while she talked, avoiding his piercing blue eyes. How would he react if she told him what really happened, that she trained to be no one, that she took faces as naturally as he forged steel. Her fidgeting stopped as Gendry bumped her shoulder, a small grin on his face.

“Sounds like you had quite the journey, milady,” his boon let her exhale softly, before she reached out and punched him muttering, “I’m not a lady.”

Watching the interaction from the high table, Sansa squealed internally, her inner child delighted at seeing a love story enacted right in front of her, even more so in the form of her obstinate younger sister. With the Long Night coming, any chance of happiness that any of them could seize would be worth it. Taking a sip from her goblet he smirked as her late husband plotted out the betting arrangements, Ser Davos’s expression quickly souring as Tyrion became more and more animated. It was good to see him alive, and happy, she felt guilt churn in the pit of her stomach as she remembered their last moments together at Joffrey’s wedding. She wished she could go back, and keep her younger self from running off on him and leaving him to Cersei’s manipulations, it was wrong of her to do so, especially after he’d been so kind. He’d been in many ways the perfect husband, kind and considerate of her wishes, and protective when others threatened her. She scoffed at her younger self’s fears that he would force himself on her, Tyrion was nothing like Ramsay, he was a true monster.

“Deep thoughts little sister?” Jon echoed her earlier statement, his eyes crinkling with a grin as he was well deep into his cups.

“Just thinking of the past, and how stupid I was,” Sansa brushed off his comment, her cheeks flushing as Tyrion looked over at her, his brow furrowed in concern.

Dany caught the looks between the former couple and gasped, what if they married again? It would tie House Stark even closer to her reign, as she’d already planned on marrying Jon after the Long Night was finished, and it would make her Hand happy. Long nights in Meereen after the Harpies were dealt with saw them drinking together over plans to return to Westeros, and he would often speak wistfully of his former wife, a firebrand hidden in the guise of a wilting flower.

She wasn’t the only one who caught the lingering gazes between the Lord of Lannister and Lady Stark however, as Brienne seated next to Missandei and Lady Mormont in a lower table kept a watchful eye on her lady. Seeing the tension between the two, she pondered over the potential relationship, Pod spoke often of how kind and just a Lord Tyrion was to him, and Sansa deserved happiness after what happened with the Bolton Bastard.

“Ah you see it too, the Lord Tyrion and the Lady Stark,” Missandei let a small smirk cross her face as she thought of the implications the pairing could have, and the rewards, “I think they would be a fine match.”

“Perhaps,” Brienne paused, her doubt over Sansa’s desires rising, would she ever want to marry again after what happened with her former husband, “But I think it would be a long road to marriage, if it ever came to that.”

“I do not know, Lord Tyrion seems to be a rather impulsive sort when it comes to the matters of the heart,” Missandei replied, thinking of his responses to her queen’s relationship with the King in the North.

“If anything, it’ll be the Lady Stark who acts first,” little Lady Lyanna interrupted, her mouth quirking into a small smile, “The Starks may be stoic but their passions run deep, look at the King and his obvious desires for the Dragon Queen, I say it’ll be a toss up of who marries first, the King or his sister.”

“Really?” Missandei turned to look at Lyanna, “Care to make a wager on that and add it to the chart Lord Tyrion is setting up? I believe more relationships to support would greatly boost morale, and the coffers.”

Lyanna let out a deep raucous laugh, her whole body shaking as her chuckles boomed across the hall. A shiver went down Jorah’s spine as he heard the laugh, so eerily reminiscent of his aunt Maege.

A whisper went up the hall as a massive white form walked through the middle of the tables. Ghost, done hunting for the day decided to join his human. Padding softly along the stone floors he walked towards the high table, his red eyes fixated on Jon and the shining silver woman next to him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four- Doubling Down

Ghost wound around the tables and people scattered through the hall. Was this woman his human’s new mate? Reaching them, he leaned over the table and sniffed, her scent completely alien, a mix of heat and sand, horses and something sulphuric with scales and claws and fire. Walking around the table he stood behind her and buried his nose in the long fur coming from her head inhaling deeply. His human was stiff next to him as he smelled his mate, the subtle hints of Jon under all the fire that wrapped around the woman. Pulling back, he gave her trembling hand that reached towards his face a soft lick, she was strong, stronger than the one who caused his human so much pain before, hurting him with the pointy sticks. This one with the fire scent was gentler, more pack than the other. Turning to his human he snorted before lowering his head ever slightly for pets until Jon obliged, yes it would be good for his human to mate with the fire woman. A second hand ran along his back as she joined Jon in petting him, yes she was a good choice indeed.

A smile broke out across his face as Ghost licked Dany’s hand, yet another sign that she was perfect. Jon leaned back to watch the Northern Lords as Dany ran her hand through Ghost’s fur, the range of amusement to sheer horror that crossed their faces made Jon feel certain that his choice to ally with her (and more) was the right one, even if his bannermen didn’t think so.

Arya watched the Lords and Ladies around the hall gasp with shock as Ghost accepted the Dragon Queen with a smug smile. Of course Ghost would approve, she was a warrior woman who Jon obviously adored. Twirling a knife in her hand she looked over at Gendry and wondered if Nymeria would approve of him. She’d been so wild when they met on the road, with a new pack of her own. A pang of longing hit Arya’s heart as she remembered her goodbyes to Nymeria all those years ago, seeing her again had been a sign that coming home was the right thing to do, but she was afraid that she’d never see her beloved direwolf again. Starks and their wolves were bonded, that’s what Bran had said, they had the blood of the First Men, of the Children of the Forest, they were wargs and greenseers. Gendry shifted in his seat as she stared off into in the distance playing with her blade, and laid a hand on her shoulder, trying to provide support for whatever issue she was grappling with. Arya stiffened at the hand on her shoulder, before relaxing as she saw it was Gendry.

Sansa looked up from her conversation with Tyrion to take in Ghost’s interaction with the Dragon Queen, her lips twitched but she forced the smirk down as she turned back to her former husband. While she approved of Daenerys now, she still couldn’t shake her dislike of queens, Cersei had poisoned her mind against the rank. Running a finger along her goblet, she traced the ornate pattern, she’d brought out the fancier dining ware for the guests, but seeing the Dragon Queen go to toe with Jon for drinking ale she second guessed her decision.

“Yes I didn’t think that would go over very well but she seems to be holding her own,” Tyrion commented, raising his own goblet for a sip as his mismatched eyes focused in on the couple across from them interacting with the massive albino direwolf.

“It seems there are a great many things that have happened that we could not anticipate Lord Tyrion,” Sansa smirked, her eyes meeting her former husband’s, the warmth of the Dornish red she’d been sipping throughout the night flooding through her cheeks.

“Sansa, can you gather everyone in Jon’s solar, we have important matters to discuss,” Bran asked, his speech slurring a bit over the s’s in discuss making Tyrion raise his eyebrow ever so slightly.

Nodding her head, Sansa began to gather the Dragon Queen’s advisor’s while Tyrion gathered Jon’s.

The fires in Jon’s solar crackled as Brienne added another log before turning back towards the more than slightly inebriated War Council thankful once again that she never quite picked up Jaime’s drinking habits from their travels together. She felt a blush creep up her neck though, as Tyrion began to loudly describe a bet regarding Missandei and Grey Worm, as he vigorously waved around a cylindrical carving in a thrusting motion. Staring up at the ceiling Brienne begged the gods old and new to end her suffering, as Sansa’s sworn sword she understood why she was there, but the increasingly perverted atmosphere was getting to her. Tyrion stopped his gestures after a stern glare from Sansa, that immediately turned into giggles as he started to wax poetic about the best plans for world domination involving the propaganda and betting pools he and Missandei had conceived of hours before. Rolling her eyes, Brienne tried to tune out the Imp’s drunken rant about how detailed drawings of the King in the North’s melting the heart of the Dragon Queen-naked would win the war and watched as said King in the North tried to lean over and whisper in his sister’s ear only to end up with a mouthful of her fiery hair. They were definitely all going to die.

Spitting out Sansa’s hair, Jon sent a glare at everyone who dared to laugh before sinking back into his chair into his patented Brood Slump.

“Thank you all for gathering,” Bran paused for dramatic effect before deepening his voice, “I have some very important new to share with you--Jon.”

Grabbing Bran’s arm, Sam tugged him to the side, wincing as one the wheels on the chair rammed his shin. “Don’t you think we should wait until he--they are sober? And in a smaller, family only setting?”

Locking eyes with Sam, Bran tilted his head in imitation of the three eyed raven before slowly shaking it, “No. It is better to do it now,” a smile crept along his face as he let out a wicked little chuckle, “Besides, this will make it, far more interesting, something that my life of late as a greenseer has lacked.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Sam muttered as he sat down across from Job, the old Maester’s book on his lap.

“I thought we were here to finalize Tyrion’s insane battle plans of betting and ridiculous love stories,” Jorah grumbled from the corner, glaring over his tankard of ale as Dany scooted closer to Jon.

“No,” Bran cut Tyrion off before he could say anything, “We’ll do that later, I have important things to tell Jon… and all of you.”

“Bran have you been drinking?” Arya arched an eyebrow at her younger brother.

“No. As I was saying,” Bran wheeled his chair around to face Jon as he affected a lofty voice, “Jon, you have long wanted to know who your mother was. The last time you spoke to Eddard Stark he told you he would tell you when you met again. As the Three Eyed Raven--”

A loud crunch interrupted Bran’s speech as Tyrion smacked a walnut against the arm of his chair, cracking it open to eat the nut inside, chewing loudly with his mouth open, mismatched eyes twinkling. With a snarl, Bran warged into the Lord of Lannister as he went to crack open another walnut, forcing him to toss the small pile he had gathered in his lap to the ground. Warging back into himself, Bran cleared his throat and leveled a glare worthy of Catelyn Stark at everyone.

“As I was saying, as the Three Eyed Raven I have the power to see the past, and I have. Jon, your mother is not who you think. In fact, it’s not so much a question of who your mother is so much as who your father...isn’t.”

Varys let out a small gasp as his mind worked overtime to piece together the clues from that ever so simple statement. Eddard Stark a man who held honor and truth above all things, even unto his death, if he wasn’t the King in the North’s father, then…

“Your father is Rhaegar Targaryen, the Uncrowned King, the Silver Prince, and your mother was Lyanna Stark, the Wild Wolf. You are the song of fire and ice, the culmination of a union of love between two houses, the product of a pact fulfilled, the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne, Jaehaerys Targaryen.”

Silence filled the room for a split second before everyone burst out into conversation. Jon’s eyes wide and no longer clouded as he stared his brother-cousin down as Arya blurted out, "What did you just say?"

Jon kept his eyes on Bran as Tormund shrugged in the corner and drank more ale while Jorah did a fantastic rendition of a mummer by falling out of his seat. Rhaegar Targaryen-his father? Eddard Stark a liar? It made no sense and yet... his thoughts still muddled by drink began to fly, Drogon's reaction to him, his “father’s” reluctance to tell him who his mother was, his connection to Dany... it made, sense. But where did it leave him and Dany? She was his-aunt. Shuddering at the thought, he turned to face his Queen, disgust and love and confusion, with an undercurrent of betrayal flooding through him.

"Blood of my blood," Dany whispered as she looked over at Jon her hands trembling in her lap, her lover was her nephew. Well it wasn't all that strange for Targaryen's. And it wasn’t as if they’d grown up together knowing they were family, though knowing now that she wasn’t alone, that she wasn’t the last Targaryen in the world, well that was worth any disgust at the nature of their relationship. She could imagine their future now, ruling side by side in Kings Landing, though they would have to do away with the Iron Throne, but not before they had a few, memorable moments on it.

Sansa's mind was spiraling, if Jon was actually a Targaryen then he had a claim to the Iron throne, meaning if he married Dany... they could reclaim it for the dragon's, popular opinion in the south would be towards them, but the Northerners, they were fickle enough as it is, would they back him as a Targaryen? Not to mention the Faith of the Seven and their attitude toward incest, while nephew/aunt wasn’t as bad as siblings, it wasn’t great either.

Tyrion took a sip of wine, the revelation startling him but ultimately changing nothing, as long as the King in the North still married Daenerys, his new plan to win the minds and hearts of the people through rapid propaganda would work. He could definitely spin the doomed love story of the Wild Wolf and the Silver Prince, yes this would work out. And the honorable Eddard Stark keeping such a secret for so long, protecting his nephew to the death, taking on the scorn of his wife and public for fathering a bastard, valuing family above all else, well that was a definite selling point for the Northern Lords.

Varys fell back into his seat, for all his little birds, for all his plots and machinations to get a Targaryen back on the throne, he had not foreseen this. Ned Stark's honor, it was never questioned, and now he felt the biggest fool of the seven kingdoms.

Davos wanted to go home, of course something else had to go bottoms up, of course his new king had to be a Targaryen. All his work getting the Northern lords behind Jon, would they still follow him after learning this?

Brienne sagged against the wall, the news was startling but ultimately she served Sansa, and as long as it did nothing to harm her, she would not interfere. But perhaps she should retire soon for the night, the constant babble was making her head ache.

Bran sat back and cackled, he'd finally been able to show how far sighted he was as the Three-Eyed Raven, and pay Jon back for the prank he pulled all those years ago, convincing Bran to stay a night in the crypts to catch 'the ghost of night'.

Arya was working over what Bran said, he was the Three Eyed Raven, she knew he could see the past as proven with Baelish, but if what he said was true, then Jon wasn’t her brother-no. No, he would always be her brother, even if not fully by blood, she chose him, he was a Stark and he was hers, her pack, this revelation meant nothing.

Gendry curled further into the back corner, wondering even more why he was there when the horrifying thought hit him, his father wasn’t friends with Jon’s. No his father had killed Jon’s.

Jorah felt vindicated, his love for the Khaleesi now stood a chance. There was no way a Stark, let alone one raised by Ned Fucking Honorable Stark would marry his aunt. While it happened occasionally in the North, it was still frowned upon. Jon Snow would pull away from Daenerys in disgust and she would come to him for comfort, him her first friend and most loyal Knight.

Ghost yawned pointedly, showing his sharp fangs at everyone as they shouted around him. He would never understand humans desire to be so loud, stealth and quiet was a much better way to go about life.

Lyanna shrugged and went back to polishing her daggers. She’d said it before and she’d say it again, House Mormont knew no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark, so what if this one was also Targaryen, being the son of her namesake made him a Stark.

The room fell silent after the arguments and yells grew to a lull, the only sound permeating the thick fog of confusion being the crackling of the fire or the sloshing of wine in Tyrion’s cup. Jon looked over at Dany, blushed and looked away, while Arya and Sansa both shrugged and made kissy faces at the couple, he may not be their blood brother but they could still embarrass him. Jorah stood up to talk to his Khaleesi but before he could step around Sam to reach her, Missandei had grabbed her queen’s arm and pulled her from the room. Groaning at his lost chance, Jorah grabbed a tankard of ale from Tormund and stormed off to drink in peace, he’d try again tomorrow once the dust settled and his Khaleesi was calmer, with the White Wolf as her nephew there was no way their romantic relationship would continue, the boy was too Stark for that.

The next morning found Sansa trailing after Tyrion as he sought to relieve his hangover and find Bran for clarifying details in the early morning crisp chill of the Godswood. Walking behind her former husband Sansa pursed her lips, holding in a laugh at his intermittent groans of pain, after all these years he still acted like a child when hungover. She wondered if he had changed at all, seeing him plotting with Missandei and joking with Varys showed her a much more canny side to him than she’d seen before and she was interested to see if her own skills could match, or even surpass his. A battle of wits would be an intriguing way to pass the time as they waited for Cersei’s forces to arrive and supplement their own in the battle for the Dawn. Brushing a hand along her skirts, she gathered them up to step over a half frozen mud puddle before the trees cleared in front of the Heart Tree, but before she could take the step Tyrion stopped in front of her causing her to stumble. Righting herself with a huff Sansa looked down at her former husband with a questioning brow raised. Smirking Tyrion’s mismatched eyes seemed to twinkle in the pale light of the sun as he gestured over to the base of the Heart Tree. There passed out along the roots with a mug of ale sloshed all over his armor was Jorah Mormont. Sansa let out a soft giggle as Tyrion shook with laughter, his chuckles barely held in as they watched the bear knight snore impudently along the base of the Heart Tree, the seat of the Old Gods in the North.

Sansa leaned down so her lips brushed Tyrion’s ear, “What is he doing out here? Has he been out here all night?”

Tyrion shrugged and pushed the Lady of Winterfell away from himself. He knew if she was too close for too long is would bring up old desires, desires that he didn’t like to admit to involving the northern lady writhing beneath him or on top of him, he wasn’t picky in the fantasy world. Sansa Stark was no longer a child like she’d been when they first wed, but she’d been through too much, and would never love a dwarf like him.

“Should we do something? If he were not snoring I would have sworn the black frost had claimed him,” Sansa spoke softly, respecting Tyrion’s space.

“The black frost?”

“It’s when you get so cold that you get ice in your blood and your limbs start to turn black and if it gets too far you can die.”

“Probably at least in his toes. Those boots do not seem designed for the cold of the north. They are probably the same boots he was wearing when he first met the Queen,” Tyrion never understood why the disgraced knight felt such a sense of duty to that young woman.

The Dragon Queen was beautiful and had the ability to inspire those around her, but she was often quick to anger and her rage frightened him. The knight in question began to groan as he shifted further beneath the heart tree, his boots perilously close to the water’s edge.

Jorah moaned as his head pounded, his mouth tasted like the back of a horse after a long ride across the Dothraki plains. Shifting into a kneeling position he let out a sob as the events of the previous night came back to him. Leaning over he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the roots of the Heart Tree until he was left dry heaving in the snow.

He’d been so sure that the crippled Stark boy’s revelation that the King in the North was a Targaryen would be the death knell for the budding relationship between him and his Khaleesi. There was no way the boy raised by the ever honorable Eddard Stark, and he was a boy not a man, would ever continue such a relationship with his own aunt. He’d been so sure of this, that after he’d fortified himself with several quaffs of ale, he’d made his way to the Khaleesi’s rooms determined to show her his loyalty and devotion after the boy-king broke her heart. The old stone work of the halls of Winterfell made him miss his own childhood home, the happiness he had been searching for when he found the young beggar prince and princess.

He knocked once on her door, the solid wood smooth against his palms, but after a minute of no answer he didn’t bother knocking again, as he knew his Khaleesi would always welcome his visits. When he entered he couldn’t see into the bed chamber but heard noises that he had heard many time while traveling with the khalasar. He finally walked all the way to the doors leading to the bed-chamber to find Dany sitting on her knees on her bed, naked. His Khaleesi, beauty personified with her pale golden-white hair and smooth curves, head thrown back in ecstasy, she must have been pleasuring herself, like her handmaid's taught her after she lost Drogo. It was a thought that kept him company many long nights in her service, her pleasuring herself until he could step in and do it for her, his hands sliding down her nubile body. A grin slid across his face as he thought of her desperation in doing it now, the boy-king surely had left her.

It was not until a hand reached up to cup Dany’s backside that Jorah realized there was a second person in the bed. Who could possibly be worthy of queen Daenerys, Mother of Dragons? It couldn’t have been the boy king, he was barely a man and was raised by Ned Stark to boot, he wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like her. He refused to believe it, to believe that Jon Snow could cause that expression, that he would be with his newly discovered aunt in such a way, it defied all knowledge he had of the Starks. And yet, when the man sat up to kiss Daenerys and Jorah’s heart sunk to the pit of his stomach, there was no denying the wild black mane of Jon Snow. The bastard Stark pulled his sweet and golden Khaleesi down on his lap, now undoubtedly he was fucking her.
His queen had chosen the boy king. They were there in her bed, in a castle full of people, laying together as if they were married. It appeared the bastard Jon Snow (for the truth of his birth notwithstanding he was raised a bastard) might be making his own bastards with Jorah’s Khaleesi.

By some miracle he remained unseen to the newly joined couple and rushed out of the castle after stopping to grab a cask of ale and found the GodsWood. He had not prayed to the Old Gods in many years but perhaps they would be able to offer some advice; if not he could always drown himself in the pools.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five- New Players-New Actions

    Dany woke to a pounding head and quickly ran over to the chamber pot, her stomach roiling at the amount of alcohol she’d had the night before. As she retched over the chamber pot, she heard a groaning from the bed behind her. Pulling her hair out of the way she tried to keep her nausea to a minimum as she tried to remember what exactly happened to leave her in such a state. Sitting back against the legs of a chair, she finger combed her tangled hair and it hit her, blood of her blood, Jon was her nephew. And, he didn’t seem to opposed to their relationship after learning about it last night. Remembering his hands on her body she had the vaguest sense that she had missed something the night before, but quickly dismissed it.

    Jon rolled over on the bed, instinctively seeking out warmth and groaning when he didn't find any. The furs had slipped down to his ankles, letting the cool rush of the winter air freeze his bared skin. Flipping over, he looked at the ceiling and cursed the gods old and new for the aching pain in his head, he remembered Ghost’s approval of Dany at the feast the night before, he remembered Bran’s revelation (and wasn’t that a startling surprise), and he remembered seeking Dany out after everyone went their separate ways, desperate to talk with her about how-how it didn’t change anything he felt for her. Ned Stark wasn’t his father, he was his uncle. Rhaegar Targaryen was his father. Lyanna Stark was his mother. Dany was his aunt. But with all of that, he was still Jon Snow, and Winter was still here. The Night King and his hordes of wights and White Walkers were on the march and the Long Night had come. His blood meant nothing if they were all going to die.

He’d died once, he knew what there was after death and that emptiness, he couldn’t deal with that right now. He’d been going through life in a fog since the Red Woman resurrected him, but when he met Dany, his world seemed to ignite. She truly brought him back to life, and being with her and being back in Winterfell with his family around him, he couldn’t bring himself to brood or angst over anything. Sitting up as he heard the continued sound of retching, he moaned as his head swum and nausea rose in him. Seeing Dany’s pale blonde head hanging over the chamber pot, he felt something other than nausea rise in him, he was going to marry that woman.

    “The ale not agree with you my queen?” he asked.

    “You laugh now, but I heard you groaning, you’ll soon be just like me,” Dany retorted, her violet eyes flashing even as she sank back in an inelegant slump on the ground.

    “Perhaps, though I am of the North, we know how to hold our ale up here,” immediately regretting his words, Jon threw himself off his bed and barely made it to the pot. Dany tried not to laugh at the pitiful expression on his face, but it was difficult not to, his wild curls and pale expression made him look so miserable. But even getting sick and looking like a wildman, he was still beautiful. Her heart got caught in her throat, he was hers, and she was his.

    Bran rolled his chair over to the table in the great hall, after emptying his stomach of drink that morning he was filled with ravenous hunger. Tearing into a piece of bread he hoped it would quickly soak up what was left of the alcohol, his head was still spinning. For the most part, the reactions of everyone last night were what he expected. Jon hadn’t been too angry though, which surprised him, Jon was usually quick to anger and to brood, so his easy acceptance of his true parentage was rather startling. So caught in his head he didn’t notice he had company until they spoke.

    “Brandon Stark, I have to admit, your knowledge is something my little birds never could have given me, how do you see so much?” Varys questioned the crippled young man, his eyes boring into his skull.

    “I am the Three-Eyed Raven, I am a greenseer. I have a connection to the Old Gods, and their presence in the North is strong, but they also exist in the South. Greenseers are rare, but we exist in the old lines of the North, and we can see visions of the past, present, and sometimes even the future. We can enhance our powers by looking through the connections that the Old Gods keep within weirwoods. Their seeds have spread far beyond the North, and what the weirwood trees see, so do the Old Gods, and so do I.” Bran took a drink of water and nibbled on a piece of bread. “Lyanna Stark  and Rhaegar Targaryen were married in front of a Heart Tree in a grove of weirwoods on the Isle of Faces. They were married by a Septon, in the face of the Old Gods. Their marriage was true and born of love.”

    “Interesting, such powers would make you a very valuable commodity in King’s Landing, Lord Stark.”

    “I am not a Lord, I am the Three-Eyed Raven, I can’t be the Lord of Winterfell. The title passes to Sansa as the eldest legitimate heir.”

    Varys was quiet as he processed Bran’s words, the things he could do with someone who could see everything, it would revolutionize the way spycraft. Of course with the knowledge that the Queen he served wasn’t the true heir, that there was another, well...it changed things. Jon Snow was the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, but was he what was best for them? He knew so little about the White Wolf, and the man’s relationship with Daenerys was troublesome. Would he abdicate in her favor, would she step down for him, would they fight? Or would they decide to rule together? So many questions, and with the Long Night here, and Cersei to deal with in the South, he didn’t know where to start.

    Tyrion walked with Sansa into the Great Hall, grateful that they could be so amicable in spite of their past. His former wife had turned into a shrewd and beautiful woman, and walking next to her after their early morning stroll, he felt the stirrings of old feelings he thought long quashed. Shaking his head, he banished the thoughts, he needed to be on top of his game after all the revelations last night, his plans for mass propaganda needed to change a bit. He wondered if the small folk would be bothered by the relationship between Daenerys and Jon, but then they hadn’t been too bothered with the Targaryen’s practices before now. And with Cersei destroying the Sept of Balor, the New Gods had far fewer septons to raise an outcry about the incestuous relations. Perhaps if he highlighted they only knew after they fell in love, any dissenters would be hard pressed to judge then, love was something most could relate to after all.

    As Tyrion plotted and pondered his plans, Sansa sat down next to Arya and began to discuss the previous night’s revelations.

    “So Jon is our cousin,” she started, reaching over for a lemon cake.

    “Brother. So what if father wasn’t his father, he raised him, he’s our brother,” Arya replied, glaring at her older sister.

    “Of course, I just meant it changes things. Jon’s heir to the Iron Throne now, he’s not just King in the North. If we win this war against the Others, he’ll go to King’s Landing, which means one of us is the Lady of Winterfell, Bran’s abdicated his position.”

    “You can have it. I’m no lady,” Arya dunked a piece of bread in her porridge, Sansa was still stupid if she thought Arya would ever want to be a lady.

    “Yes well I had to ask,” Sansa replied, smirking as Arya bumped her, a smile creeping across her face, the old Arya shining through the terrifying mask she’d been wearing since she returned to Winterfell.

    Horns sounded out, disrupting the quiet breakfast of those in the hall. Dany and Jon who had just entered turned on their heels, worry over what the horns could mean driving them to front gates. A guard ran up to them as they ran out into the light dusting of morning snow, his face panicked as he exclaimed, “Lannisters, your Grace, it’s Lannisters with the Kingslayer, they’re claiming to be allies.” Locking eyes with one another, Jon and Dany nodded as one and turned to the guard as they called out, “Let them in.”

    Dany reached for her bond with Drogon and Rhaegal, calling to them to be ready at a moment’s notice, just in case. Standing side by side with Jon, she straightened her back and drew on her Mother of Dragons mask as the gates opened and men wearing the gold and red of the Lannister lion rode in. At their head was the Kingslayer, but instead of wearing the golden armor of the Kingsguard he was wearing red leather armor and a thick black cloak over his shoulders.

    Sansa and Arya ran up to join the two Targaryen royals, the various advisors and friends gathering behind them. Brienne stood behind her lady, hand on the pommel of her sword as she watched Jaime ride up and dismount before the queen. She feared for him, she knew the Dragon Queen was fickle in her moods and he didn’t have the best track record of keeping his comments to herself. Twitching, she felt Tormund’s presence behind her, the wildling leaning down to sniff at her hair. She wasn’t sure how she felt about his attentions, especially after seeing Jaime once more.

    Handing his reins to Bronn who rode up next to him as he dismounted, Jaime took a few steps towards the Targaryen Queen. Looking at her, he felt a twinge of pain at how much like her mother she looked, the same round face and diminutive height. His eyes went past her and stopped on Brienne, the woman’s fearsome height and ready stance behind her lady a sharp contrast to the vision of beauty in the Dragon Queen. But her piercing blue eyes and strength, gods she was beautiful. Blinking, he turned away from her and focused his attention back on Daenerys and quickly knelt before her.

    “My queen, I am afraid to say that Cersei has reneged on the truce, well…” he stopped and shook his head, “She never intended on keeping the truce in the first place. But I did, and am. I left King’s Landing, with a price on my head. I’ve gathered what men I could, mostly those still in the Riverlands, and made my way here.” Dany clenched her fist and looked over to Jon, his grey eyes were focused on the Kingslayer at their feet. He wasn’t sure if he could trust the man before him, he’d attacked his uncle, pushed his brother off the Broken Tower, and broken nearly all his oaths as a knight, but he was here, he had come and answered their call.

    “Ser Jaime,” Dany started then stopped, looking to Jon to continue. Turning his fierce gaze on the Kingslayer, Jon picked up where she left off, “Ser Jaime, thank you for coming all this way. It doesn’t surprise me Cersei betrayed us, I should have known a Lannister’s selfishness knows no bounds.”

    “Ah, yes well… we Lannister are rather self-motivated, but survival against the dead, that’s important. I agreed with what you said in King’s Landing, we’ll only survive this if we fight together, and so here I am,” Jaime gestured out to the grounds of Winterfell with his golden hand. This was it, they would either accept him, or execute him, all he could hope was that they wouldn’t hold it against his men.

    “Ah get up you useless cunt,” the harsh voice of the Blackfish startled many of those gathered as he pushed out from the crowd of Lannister’s.

    Looking over at the grizzled Brynden Tully, Sansa broke out into a grin, his red beard speckled with grey, but altogether recognizable. “Uncle Brynden!” she cried, and Arya startled next to her.

    “This lump of Lannister shit helped me and my men retake Riverrun on the way here, your Uncle Edmure is around somewhere with his pretty wife and babe. If what he says about the dead is true, one-handed or not, you’ll need him.” Brynden’s words rang in everyone’s ears and Dany nodded her head in acquiescence.

“Prepare Ser Jaime and his men some rooms. We’ll decide his fate after the Long Night is won.” Her words set everyone in motion and the courtyard became a mess of flurried movements as people hurried to follow her bidding. The wind suddenly picked up, snow swirling in the air as a large shape descended from the sky. Red scales lit up the pale white snow as Drogon roared down from the skies to land on the Broken Tower, his head focused on his mother in the courtyard. Brynden recoiled for a moment as he looked at the massive dragon, his blood freezing in his veins as Rhaegal appeared over the other side of Winterfell and banked sharply, landing in a space quickly cleared by people.

Growling low in his throat, Rhaegal moved towards Jon who took a step back, partly in shock, partly to keep from raising suspicions amongst the new arrivals. Rhaegal huffed, a plume of smoke curling out from his nose and mouth and he turned away from the newly revealed Targaryen, obviously offended by the rebuff.

Jaime felt his heart jump to his throat as he saw the beast he’d tried to kill months before so close and stumbled as Brienne stepped before him.

“Follow me Ser, the Lady Sansa has people preparing rooms for you and your,” she paused and looked over at Bronn, her face twitching in distaste, “friends.” Inwardly, Brienne was pushing down her excitement at seeing Jaime so healthy and away from Cersei, hearing he’d finally left her loosened something in her heart she didn’t want to examine.

“Brienne, how good to see you again, you look more fearsome than ever,” Jaime grinned over at the warrior woman, his green eyes sparkling at her sharp glare.

“Yes, well follow me,” turning on her heel she headed back into the castle, but stopped as Tormund stood in her path. Looking at the fire headed wildling, Brienne wondered once more what his problem was, he kept insisting she was beautiful and bringing her gifts, and while part of her wanted to believe his interest was true, that he wanted her, she knew it was false. She was no prize, men had been telling her that for years.

Tormund wasn’t stupid, he knew he unsettled the woman with his constant attentions. But after crossing the wall and befriending the Crow Jon Snow and fighting against the Others, he cared little for any southerner pleasantries. The Long Night was here and he’d rather die after burying himself in such a magnificent woman. But seeing her stutter and stare at the one-handed pretty-boy lord made something boil in him. He’d just wanted a quick fuck with the gorgeous woman, he didn’t want to have feelings for her. But it was too late, and over the past week he’d been contemplating how to steal her.

“Who’s the pretty boy?” he grunted as Brienne blushed, the rosy tinting of her cheeks making his heart clench in his chest.

“This is Ser Jaime Lannister, he’s come to help in the fight against the Others,” Brienne responded, trying not to jump as the red haired wildling took a step closer to her.

“Ahh another prissy little southerner who thinks he’s a fighter,” Tormund sent a glare over at Jaime who took a step back, confused at the ire from a man he didn’t even know.

“Yep, he is that,” Bronn stepped forward and clapped a hand on Jaime’s shoulder before turning to Brienne, “So about those rooms? It’s been a long journey and I’ve been yearning for a bed and a wench, in that order.”

Jorah groaned as he woke up, his head pounding from the roar of drink and one of his queens’ dragons. Blinking at the light around him, he jerked fully awake, the last thing he remembered was going to the Godswood so how did he end up in the stables?

Watching Brienne dance between Tormund and Ser Jaime as she led them into the Great Hall for supper, Bronn leaned over to Tyrion who he’d sought out moments after settling into his new room.

“What’d you want to bet they start fighting over her before the war is won?” Tyrion taking a sip of wine spluttered at the sellswords words and turned to watch his brother circle the large woman, alternating between cow eyes at her and venomous glares at the wildling.

“Oh I don’t think they’ll last the night, I haven’t seen my brother that enchanted since Cersei first spread her legs for him over twenty years ago,” Tyrion replied, shaking his head as his brother tried to pull a tray over for the woman, stumbling as the wildling beat him to it.

“The standard bet?” Bronn asked, his eyes gleaming at the thought of swindling more gold from a Lannister.

“Agreed.”

Tearing off a chunk of meat from plate in front of him, Bronn looked over at Tyrion and smirked asking, “So you fucked the Stark girl yet?”

“What?” Arya choked on her drink as she heard the sellswords comment. Turning to the Imp she leveled a glare at him as she snarled, “Have you fucked my sister?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Calling Bluffs and Moving Forward

    Stuttering, Tyrion tried to find the words as Bronn let out a snort into his mug. Staring him down, Arya lifted a single eyebrow at the Lannister Lords sudden inability to talk.

    “Well, you see my lady…”

    “Eh, she’s had worse, at least you’re nothing like the Bolton Bastard, I would have loved to introduce him to Needle,” turning back to her meal Arya stifled her giggles as Tyrion sputtered even more into his wine, his small frame shaking with what she assumed was fear and relief in equal measure.

    Bronn laughed so hard the ale he had been drinking came out his nose. Quickly mopping it up, he reached over and clapped the younger Lady Stark on the back. “Well never have I seen the little man shut the hell up that fast without there being tits out.”

    Pod having forgotten how obtuse Bronn could be and was in physical pain as he tried his best not to laugh, until finally he succumbing to the laughter inside himself, doubling over and hyperventilating.

    Having successfully perturbed the Lannister Lord, Arya finished her meal and stood to leave, she was planning on meeting Gendry in the forge before going and training with Brienne. Straightening her leather jerkin, Arya walked off, her hands jumping from fixing her hair to lay flat and fingering the handle of Needle as she walked.

    Watching her walk out of the hall, Jon felt a smirk creep along his face, he knew she was off to spend time with Gendry and wondered if Bran still held to their arrangement of no cheating using his greenseer abilities. Setting down his mug of morning ale, he decided he better go and supervise Arya, just in case Gendry got any ideas about his little sister, he told himself as he followed her from a safe distance, nevermind the fact that he knew it would be Arya who made the first move out of the two of them, the Baratheon bastard was far too timid. So stuck in his thoughts, he didn’t notice a stumbling Jorah Mormont, covered in mud and ale walk past him, headed towards Dany’s chambers.

    Dany was having a long needed girl time with Missandei and Sansa, the former gushing about Grey Worm, while the latter was still wrapping her head around the new developments in her family tree. Sipping on the Dornish red she’d commandeered from her Hand’s quarters, Dany smiled indulgently as Missandei effused on and on about how thoughtful Grey Worm was. Sansa meanwhile, was diligently sewing together what looked like a Stark maiden cloak, the light greys and whites blending together beautifully. Little did Dany know however, it wasn’t strictly a Stark maiden cloak, but rather a Starkaryen one.

    Upon getting the first raven from her brother now cousin that he’d bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen after her actions over the Wall, Sansa had pulled out her sewing kit and begun the cloak, knowing a wedding was imminent. After Bran’s shocking announcement several days ago, she’d adjusted her plans for the cloak and started adding in subtle hints to Jon’s Targaryen ancestry, mainly red and black threads along the direwolf so far. So caught up in her project, Sansa hadn’t heard Dany’s question the first time round, and so when the queen repeated it, she was so startled she ended up stabbing herself with the needle.

    “So Sansa, when are you going to remarry my Hand and make an honest man out of him?” Dany smirked as the redheaded woman flushed crimson and yelped, her hands fluttering about as drops of blood fell on the cloak in her lap.

    “I have no idea what you mean, Your Grace,” Sansa replied as she tried to pull herself together, channeling all her lessons from Littlefinger and Cersei to perfect her emotionless mask, but the damage was done.

    Missandei giggled as Dany nibbled at the corner of a lemon cake before grinning sharply at the Stark woman. Her Khaleesi was never very delicate when it came to such matters, always preferring the blunt and brash approach, citing her family words ‘Fire and Blood’.

    “I’ve seen the two of you, always walking together along the halls, whispering with your heads together. You turn to one another first whenever something is raised. And Tyrion hasn’t even looked at another woman since he heard you were still alive, or at least that is what Varys has relayed to me.”

    Sansa’s heart fluttered at the thought that Tyrion hadn’t bedded anyone upon hearing of her, but she ruthlessly quashed that emotion. She couldn’t afford to get caught up in matters of the heart, not with the Long Night looming over them and Cersei plotting against them in the south. She wasn’t the naïve little girl with a head full of fantasies about knights and love anymore either. Summoning her inner Lady, she folded up the cloak and turned to the Targaryen woman across from her.

    “While I can understand your misconception, Lord Tyrion and I are just friends, we often discuss strategies together that is all. Now if you will excuse me, I have to see Arya about some archery training,” Sansa stood and walked off, her thick grey sleeves covering her trembling hands as she left.

    Turning to Missandei as the door closed, Dany shook her head. Sansa’s stubbornness in admitting feelings was a failing of hers, though she understood part of that stemmed from her time in King’s Landing.

    “With all the darkness surrounding us, one would think now would be the time to embrace love in all its forms,” Dany mused.

    “Yes Khaleesi, but I think the Lady Stark has been through much, she will not be the one to make the first move,” Missandei shook her head, her black curls bouncing as she did.

    “I doubt that, Sansa Stark has a core of steel within her, and I think under the right circumstances, she would make the first move. In fact,” placing her cup down Dany leaned towards Missandei, a sharp grin on her face, “care to make a wager?”

    “I would, but much of my gold has gone into the production of the pamphlets with Lord Tyrion,” Missandei demurred, she knew she had gold leftover, but that’s not what she wanted out of this.

    “Fine, how about…” Dany pondered what she could put up for a wager, “My blue Mereense gown. If I win, you can make something similar for my wedding with Jon, whenever that happens, and if you win, you can have the original gown. I know how much you like it, and Grey Worm will not know what to do when he sees you in it.”

    Missandei nodded her acceptance, inwardly thrilled Dany had picked up on the thread she desired, while also pleased that her queen too saw the inevitability of her marriage to the King in the North.

    The two women were sitting there giggling as they went over Missandei’s loose draft of Dany and Jon’s love story. She had a small sketch along with it, of Dany her hair braided and in curls with a crown of blue roses nestled on her head, Jon was cloaked in grey and white, a snarling direwolf in the center of a three-headed dragon on his breastplate. As Dany snickered over Missandei’s description of Dany and Jon’s first meeting as troubled, with tension and subtext rife between the two, the door to her solar swung open and Jorah stepped through.

    He looked like the Seven Hells had grabbed ahold of him, and dragged him through the muck and grime and filth of humanity. His hair was caked with mud, his cheeks streaked with mud,a bright red underneath from the cold. He was wearing the same clothes from the big reveal, two nights before and the smell of ale preceded him. Dany winced as he stepped further into the room, his eyes visibly bloodshot as he staggered towards her.

   “Khaleesi, I beseech you. Can we please talk?”

   Missandei looked at Dany and widened her eyes, the question implicit. Dany nodded ever so slightly, and held her breath as her translator left, and her longest serving knight knelt before her. Before she could say anything, the door was pushed open once more, and Ghost padded in the room, his red eyes fixed on Jorah as he made his way to sit behind Dany, placing his head in her lap as he curled around her. Jorah gulped as Ghost yawned towards him, his fangs gleaming as he did.

   “Khaleesi, my queen. Long have I served you, with loyalty and love in my heart, even in my actions in regards to the Usurper. I have crossed the ruins of Old Valyria, stole into the heart of Vaes Dothrak, and been the first person to recover from greyscale, all for you. I love you...Daenerys. I love you with all my being. I love you as much as an Old Bear can love. I know I am not a young knight, handsome and in his prime. But I am entirely devoted to you. Please my Khaleesi,” he reached for her, his mud caked hand trembling as her violet eyes widened, “Do not join with the Stark boy, even if he is as the cripple says, your nephew, your claim to the throne is challenged by him. He will ruin you. Do not trust him. He is young and naive and easily swayed, a boy. He does not deserve you. He does not know you. He does not love you, as I do.”

   As Jorah poured his heart out, Dany was trying to keep the rising well of panic from erupting from within her. Long had she known that Jorah harbored feelings of a more amorous nature towards her, but she had been content to ignore them as long as he didn’t say anything. She’d met him when she was fifteen, barely out of childhood. She’d viewed him as a friend, a mentor knowledgeable of Westeros. And after everything with Drogo, she’d begun to view him as the father figure she’d always longed for. When she’d dallied with Daario, she knew that Jorah had disapproved, but she hadn’t cared too much. But his disapproval of Jon, hurt. She had hoped that he would have cared for her enough to support her. Jon was the first man since Drogo. On their original meeting in Dragonstone, she’d been prepared to hate him, this northern dog, bastard son of Eddard Stark. But as he’d walked in, his steps soft and sure, dark grey eyes stern, but somehow, endearing, and with that scar over his eye. She’d felt something. Attraction for sure, but something deeper too.

   Their consecutive meetings strengthened that tie, a bond forming upon his meeting Drogon that she knew instinctively would never be broken. After Viserion’s death and his miraculous survival, she knew she could never leave his side. And when he pledged himself to her in front of Cersei Lannister, her blood sang. Knowing now that he was blood of her blood, a Targaryen and a Stark. He was hers and she was his. His actions that first night on the ship, coming to her in the dark, she would fight tooth and nails, with fire and blood to keep him.

   As she sat there, she started to run her fingers through Ghost’s fur, carding through the knots and he began a slow rumble of pleasure. Jorah looked, unnerved at her continued silence. He shifted as his knees began to creak and shake beneath him, his old joints not able to handle the position for much longer.

  “Khaleesi?”

  “Jorah. You have been my sword for years...but I cannot. I cannot, return your feelings. You are my dear friend, my mentor, my Bear. But you are not my love, and you will never be. And even if you were, you have no right to tell me what to do or feel. If I marry him, we will rule the Seven Kingdoms together, for he is the King in the North.” Her words stole the breath from Jorah as he reeled back, each word like a small thorny barb to his hopes and dreams.

  Standing, he tried to step towards her, his mind fixed on getting her to see reason. She was his light and love, all that what pure and right with the world. He served her, for life. And even if she didn’t love him, she needed to listen to him. He knew that the Stark boy would be her ruin.

  Before he could take another step, Ghost had lunged forward from behind Dany, saliva dripping from his mouth as he snarled at Jorah before snapping at his outstretched hand. Jorah barely manages to pull it back before the direwolf can bite it.

   “I think, you should go cool off. We shall talk tomorrow after the war council.” Dany’s voice went cold, her words clipped as she stood and placed her hand on Ghost’s shoulders. As Jorah sputtered and tried to respond, Dany walked out of the room, Ghost following with his huge bulk, making Jorah sidestep so he wouldn’t get run into.

   Meanwhile, Brienne was in the training yard running drills with Pod. Driving her sword at him, she barked out directions, trying to correct his footwork. Pod shuddered under the weight of her blows, before returning them with equal force. The last few months being an intensive yet ultimately productive as he gained muscles and actual technique. Landing a quick blow on the side of her breastplate, he spun around to dodge her retaliating swing. Stumbling over his feet, he tried to right himself but ended up ass over teakettle in a snowbank on the side of the yard.

   Great booming laughs echoed across the yard as Tormund appeared from the snow, his fiery hair a wild mess as he shook with laughter at Pod’s misfortune. Brienne glared over at the wildling, his mockery of her squire doing nothing to endear him to her.

   “With moves like that boy, you’ll be more dangerous to us than those white fuckers,” Tormund chuckled as he hefted his axe over his shoulder, “Ye ever consider that the sword, isn’t your weapon?”

   Brienne bristled at his denigration of Pod while the boy-man in question stood and brushed snow off himself. But as he bent to pick up his sword, Brienne noted the slight discomfort on his face, and she began to wonder if the wildling was partially correct. While Pod had been improving, it was mainly with the spear and surprisingly with the axe. Narrowing her blue eyes at Tormund, she jerked her head at her squire and barked at him to get his axe. Running over to the pile of weapons in a wheelbarrow off to the side, Pod hurried to do her bidding. Turning to face Tormund, Brienne sheathed her sword.

   “He’s had some training with the axe, but it’s not my area of expertise. Why don’t you have a go, maybe you can teach him something,” Brienne said before walking off the yard to the spectator area.

   Tormund grunted his assent, pleased that the giant woman had acknowledged his words and was paying him attention. But his pleasure disappeared as he watched the cocky, one-handed Lannister    fuck walk up and stand next to her.

   Jaime Lannister leaned over Brienne’s shoulder as she settled into a leaning squat against some wooden posts used for archery. Smirking as she jumped at his sudden close proximity, he leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, “Passing on the reins already, though to be honest I am surprised you kept Pod as long as you did, he was hopeless back in King’s Landing.”

   “Pod has proven his mettle as a squire many times over since then, and while he may not be a swordsman, he has skill with the spear and the axe,” Brienne’s reply was clipped as she tried not to inhale, Jaime’s scent pervasive as he leaned in closer, placing a hand on her opposite shoulder. He was too alluring for his own good, she swore internally, and damn hard to resist.

   “Well well, high praise coming from you,” Jaime’s voice suddenly dropped it’s lilting and mocking tone, “I’m glad he’s been with you. I wish I could have been, I wish many things could have happened differently.”

   Shocked by the sudden turn of events, Brienne turned around to face him, pinning his green eyes with her gaze.

   “You are here now, and that’s what matters. What happened in the past is in the past, and while we can use it to inform what actions we take now, we cannot let it rule us,” her words came flooding out, and Jaime blinked at them, he knew that her opinion of him had long changed from resentment and disgust to something more pleasant, but this held an edge of, could he even hope to think? Leaning forward again, he flicked his eyes up to hers then down to her lips before slowly moving in, giving her time to pull away, but before he could reach her lips, she moved forward and kissed him. Her lips were rough and chapped, but so were his as they moved together, hers unsure, his hopeful. He carded his hand through her short hair as the other moved to hold her, cursing slightly at how the golden hand impaired his movements. Brienne stepped into his embrace more fully and deepened the kiss, her unsure movements growing bolder as she licked along his lips until parted them. Then it just became a game of dominance, each pushing and pulling the other until they were suddenly waist deep in snow having falling into a snowbank much like Pod had.

   While they were busy dusting each other off laughing and mooning into each others eyes, Tormund was venting his aggression with Pod. Swinging his axe, he let out a bellow as it struck Pod’s, the metal sparking at the force of the blow. Pod barely managed to keep ahold of his weapon as the wildling wheeled around and struck again and again. Pod’s eyes flickered over to his mentor and he saw her and Jaime cuddling into one another as they laughed, and he immediately understood Tormund’s rage, and was enraged himself.

   Snarling, he lunged forward on the offensive and barely missed nicking Tormund’s cheek as the wildling recoiled in surprise. Driving him back with another blow as he twirled the axe upward with his wrist, Pod started to berate the presumptive man, “How dare you. Lady Brienne is worth ten times you if you can be jealous of her happiness. She deserves everything. She deserves to be happy, and if you don’t like it that’s your own problem.”

   Tormund was having a hard time keeping up with the smaller man’s blows as the axe began to whirl faster and faster, Pod’s feet sure and steady as he weaved around the larger man’s stature, nicking the leathers that Tormund wore every so often. He was careful enough to pull the blows so he didn’t eviscerate the man if he didn’t block fast enough, but Pod had had it with the wildling’s infatuation with his mistress. He was either going to back off, or become more civil about it if Pod had anything to say.

   Standing several feet off to the side: Sansa, Tyrion, Jon, Arya, Gendry and several others were frozen in complete shock at the vicious display of the younger man. Pod’s rage and sudden accuracy and force were unheard of for the young man, and Tyrion especially was proud of his former squire. But it was hard to accept meek and quiet Pod as the snarling warrior on the training grounds in front of them.

   “Don’t act so surprised, the boy’s got a lot of hidden depths,” Bronn said walking up before biting into an apple, the crunch startling the crowd from their watch, “I mean look at what happened with the  whore’s. The boy’s got passion, he just needs to find the outlet, and he did here.”

   Murmuring, everyone nodded their heads at Bronn’s eerily accurate analysis of the squire before dispersing, they had to prepare for the War Council later that day. An event that would prove mind numbing and challenging to all those in attendance.

    The Stark women were in the younger’s chambers trying fully comprehend all of the preparations that would need to be made in order to get all of forces moving to their respective posts. The council had went long into the evening before they begged for a recess. Arya had stopped paying attention after the first argument between Jon and Davos over supplies. She’d only tuned back in when it came to her specific role in the coming war.

    “Warging is getting easier the more I do it. Sometimes it is hard to come out of it. Bran said that if I’m not careful I can get lost in warging.” Arya fiddled with the cup that held the hot water with lemon; one of the few things she had picked up from her time as cupbearer.

    “I wish I could let myself go and do it, but after Lady, I can’t seem to connect to any animal, let alone in that way,” Sansa replied as she leaned across the table to pour herself a glass of wine, she’d taken to drinking it more after her late night discussions with Tyrion.

    “It’s hard, but my training in Braavos helped. You just need to embrace the Stark within,” Arya paused and leveled a look at her older sister, “I heard about what you did to the Bolton bastard, you’re capable of wildness Sansa, you just need to admit it to yourself.”

    Sansa thought about it for a moment, she knew she could be ruthless and wild, she was fiercely devoted to her family, her pack, and she knew that even as she denied, it there was a deep well of passion within her for a certain Lannister...why shouldn’t she tap into all of it. She knew she’d never have a bond like she had with Lady but perhaps, perhaps she could try warging. Arya and Jon were both good at it, and at levels where they could teach her unlike Bran. And it would help the war effort to have as many wargs on their side as possible. Bran and Arya could only cover so much distance as ravens, and Jon was to focus his time on bonding with Rhaegal.

    As Sansa pondered over her options, Arya smirked inwardly, her prim and proper sister wasn’t nearly as stiff and proper as she liked others to think, she was a Stark after all. And in the Council meeting, though she’d barely paid attention, she knew that Sansa was a power player. And warging was important, even more so as the direwolves and shadowcats were coming down from beyond the wall, fleeing the horde of the undead. She could sense them whenever she slept, a wild rush of fear and desperation that would soon be on their doorstep. They would need every available warg to help corral them, and she hoped that Ghost’s presence as an alpha would help. Nymeria’s presence would also be helpful, but her wild wolf was still in the Riverlands, she dreamt of her every other night, their bond renewing as they became used to one another once more.

    “Do you think,” Sansa paused as she ran a finger around the rim of her glass, “Do you think we have a chance? To win this against Them?”

    Arya looked at her sister, studying Sansa’s clear blue eyes, once so fresh and near sparkling, now darker, like the waters in the godswood before the Heart tree. Seeing the age in her sister’s eyes now, the world weary sheen Arya knew her own eyes held, she couldn’t help but remember one of the last times they were together like this, before they’d left for King’s Landing all those years ago. In a rare moment of vulnerability, Arya had turned to Sansa and asked, “Do you think everything's going to work out? With us leaving and Bran still asleep?” Sansa’s response came to her now as she looked at her older sister, “We’re Starks, we weather the storm, and we come out on top.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: The Game Has Changed

    Several weeks passed as the Northern contingents readied themselves for the oncoming horde of wights, training, prepping, and stockpiling dragonglass weapons. Outposts along the North had been divided between the host, and manned by a mix of Northern and Southern lords.

    Tormund Giantsbane, Brienne of Tarth, and Jaime Lannister took Last Hearth, bolstering the forces that survived the attack by the wights. Young Ned Umber was all that was left of the lords of House Umber, and Tormund quickly took the young boy under his wing, claiming he would make a warrior of him in no time.

    The Hound and Lord Manderly joined together to clean out and make safe the Dreadfort, while Lyanna Mormont and her uncle Jorah led a host of the Unsullied with Grey Worm to develop traps and pits lined with dragonglass along the Kingsroad near Long Lake.

    The bulk of the Dothraki were left at Winterfell, their fighting style would be severely hindered in the snow, making them rather difficult to use in fighting the wights. Following Tyrion’s suggestion, Jon had decided to keep most of them back and keep them warm and well-fed in preparation for the Southern war yet to come.

    Bran kept a watchful eye on the slow approach of the Night King and his forces, helped by Arya who quickly learned how to warg into ravens like her younger brother, her lessons at the House of White and Black helping her do so. The Night King was driving his forces along the Kingsroad, but they were a slow moving mass that were just passing Queenscrown. Dany was just grateful Viserion had yet to be spotted, she didn’t know what she would do when she had to face him. The Night King had perverted her son.

    Jon meanwhile, was focusing on his final battle plans, plagued by nightly visions of his family falling to the Night King and rising as White Walkers. He had the library at Winterfell scoured for information and was entertaining the prophecy of Azor Ahai, though it worried him. He didn’t like the implications of sacrifice the past hinted towards. Dany also had him training daily on Rhaegal, while she learned how to shoot arrows from Drogon’s back, the blacksmith’s forge in constant use as arrows tipped with dragonglass were added to the growing pile of spear heads and daggers Gendry had started.  

    The war preparations weren’t all that was happening though, as Tyrion and Sansa worked together to create and distribute the propaganda along the Southern kingdoms, while also spreading information about the importance of dragonglass in the battle for the Dawn. Their letters went to the Reach, Dorne, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, and had even begun to be disseminated and copied in the Crownlands, though they’d yet to send any into the capital itself. It was through these communiques and propaganda that the Long Night’s end was furthered, as allies known and unknown began to move in the South.

The Reach:

    Willas Tyrell sat at his desk, he’d been pouring over document after document of grain distribution as the first biting chill of winter settled over Highgarden. The Lannister sack of the castle that ended in the death of his grandmother, the formidable Queen of Thornes Olenna Tyrell had been devastating to the Reach, but not so devastating that they could not survive the coming winter. Even before her death, Olenna Tyrell was more cunning than a fox. She’d hidden much of the resources, anticipating an attack, she’d even sent him the heir to the Fossoway’s to stay with his brother Garlan and his wife Leonette. The Lannister’s seemed to have forgotten that other Tyrell’s existed, though he couldn’t blame them, Willas wasn’t talked about outside the Reach, and even Lord Tarly’s rebellion had been on the premise Willas was dead. He was not however, though he may soon be if the rumors coming from the capitol that the Queen had contracted the Golden Company were true. Cersei was truly a Mad Queen, consorting with Greyjoys and sellswords, using wildfire as her champion. Willas slammed his hand against the table as he thought of his youngest siblings, sweet Margaery and brave Loras. He’d begged their grandmother to take them from the city, to smuggle them out when the Faith grabbed them, but his oaf of a father was convinced he had it in hand. And so they burned in the Sept.

    Pushing away those dark memories, Willas sifted through the paperwork on his desk before uncovering a thick embossed scroll, deposited by the Maester earlier. A scroll with the seal of a three-headed dragon and a snarling direwolf, side by side. Sliding a dagger under the seal, he gently pried the scroll open, only to reveal several leaves of parchment, all decorated with the three-headed dragon and direwolf. A message was included on the inside of the foremost paper.

    Lord Tyrell,

    It is with a sad heart that we write to you, your grandmother was a venerable woman and a valued ally. We thought to visit after our routing of the Lannister’s but she’d sworn us to secrecy of your survival, she suspected the Tarly plot. Know that Randall Tarly died a traitor. But that is not why I write to you know. I Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Lady of Dragonstone, secede my right to the throne to the eldest living son of my brother, Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, Jaeherys (Jon Snow) Targaryen-Stark, King in the North, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.Together we are fighting the Others in the North to protect the realm, as we stated we would in Kings Landing. Once we succeed, we hope to look to you as our friend an ally, much as your grandmother was. Included in this message are a series of propaganda pamphlets, my Hand Tyrion Lannister has developed with the help of Lady Sansa Stark and others. We ask that you make copies and disseminate them among your people, so that they know the true story of the Dragon Queen and the White Wolf, whom Cersei is villainizing. We invite you to read them, and share your opinions with your peers as well. Once this war in the North is over, we shall send correspondence over our plans for the Southern campaign. We hope you will join with us to end the tyranny of the Mad Queen and the Lannister subjugation of the South.

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen , Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Lady of Dragonstone

And

Jaeherys (Jon Snow) Targaryen-Stark, King in the North, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm

Post-script: Willas, do recall our bet from the Tourney of Lannisport several years ago, you’ve yet to pay up, and I’m calling in my debt. Disseminate copies of these articles for the people, the illustrated for the poor and illiterate, and the annotated for the rest. My sister needs to be put down, and we’re going to do it. But we need the people on our side, and that includes you.

-Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand to the Queen

    Laying his head down on the desk, Willas pondered his options. The armies of the Reach were mostly intact, Tarly hadn’t had near the support he thought he did. And though the Lannister sack demolished much of their stores, they still had what they’d saved up for winter, and the remaining crops they were quickly pulling in. And with the Dragon Queen came trade from Essos. And supporting Queen Daenerys and this Jaeherys Targaryen-Stark, the former Jon Snow meant getting rid of Cersei, the woman behind over half his family’s murders. Yes, he nodded his head, reaching for a glass of Arbor Gold, he’d back the Targaryen’s as his family had done in the past. Leafing through the remaining papers, he looked through the drawings Tyrion said to disseminate. Several depicted the fair haired Dragon Queen hand in hand with the dark hidden Targaryen, they were encircled by blue winter roses and three dragons bordered the corners, the last corner filled in by a white direwolf with red eyes. Another drawing depicted a dark haired maiden in misshapen armor with a shield depicting the Knight of the Laughing Tree, she was confronting none other than the Silver Prince with a sword drawn. More and more sketches and drawings filled the pages, but it was the last that caught his attention. Daenerys Targaryen was standing before a weirwood tree, the red face along the white tree obvious, next to her was the King in the North, and King of Westeros, his hair long and black and curled. They stood hand in hand before the tree, ribbon covering their entwined fingers, joining the ceremony of the Seven with that of the Old Gods. If Willas was a superstitious man, he’d say that that drawing was an omen, a sign of something to come.

Dorne:

    “Elia, Loreza, get down from there,” Arianne Martell called as she watched her young cousins climb along the trees lining the pathway to the water gardens. She’d been heading to her father’s office, he’d finally recovered from the attack by Ellaria and the older Sand Snakes. Though she knew logically that the attack had been planned by them all to fool the Lannister spies within Sunspear and the Water Gardens, it had hurt to see her father so still, near death. They’d been estranged for years, him keeping her away from his plots and schemes, playing with her future by engaging her to old men. But then he’d been attacked, and she saw him gasping for breath on his deathbed. Of course, Sarella had pulled her aside as she left his sickroom and confessed the plan to her, but it still hadn’t stopped that jarring pain seeing him so prone had ignited. Her younger brother Trystane came back from his trip to Kings Landing solemn and quiet, Ellaria’s spur of the moment decision to kill Myrcella had broken the young man as much as it’s intended target, the Mad Queen.

    Her young cousins clambered down the trees and scampered over to her, their eyes wide and guileless as they danced around her, asking questions.

    “When are mamma and Tyene coming home? Wasn’t Sari and Ser Daemon going to go get them?” Elia asked, her lisp making Arianne smile.

    The truth was she wasn’t sure if the rescuers were going to have anything to rescue, she doubted Ellaria or Tyene would be able to survive the brutal tortures the Mad Queen no doubt had in store for them. But Sarella had insisted on going, and Daemon wanted to as well, out of love for Oberyn he claimed. But she didn’t tell the young ones that, instead she made up a fanciful story.

    “Oh my little snakes, you know your sister and Daemon are on their way, but who know what sort of sea beast they’ve had to fight to save the damsels in distress,” clawing her fingers out she mock growled and chased the two little girls until their Septa caught up with them and pulled them along to join their sisters in lessons.

    Shaking her head, Arianne continued on to her father’s solar, her thoughts clouded as she thought of what might have become of Ellaria and Tyene. While she had little love for Ellaria, the woman had snapped after Uncle Oberyn’s death, Tyene was her cousin and they were close growing up. Nymeria and Obara were gone, and that left an aching hole in her heart. She wasn’t sure what she would do if Tyene turned up to be dead as well. Pushing aside the pain, she opened the doors to her father’s solar and greeted his guards. Her father was seated at his large desk, parchments and scrolls scattered across the surface. His skin was a chalky pallor, and he still looked like he should be abed, but he’d bullied the Maester into letting him up.

    Bowing before him, Arianne stepped up to stand beside him at his desk and go over the documents he’d mentioned he wanted her opinion on. Handing over a scroll with the broken seal of a three-headed dragon and a direwolf, Doran leaned back in his seat to watch her reactions.

    “Tell me Arianne, what do you make of this?”

    Looking over the dual seals, Arianne unfurled the scroll and gasped at the message within.

Prince Doran Martell,

    When Ellaria Sand and the daughters of your late brother informed me that the coup over you and the ruling house of Martell had been staged, I must admit I did not believe them. I write this letter even now with doubt in my mind, but hope in my heart. You once promised your son Quentyn to me, though I did not know of this until years after his death. I ask you now that you honor that alliance and join me and my kin as we stand against the Mad Queen. I am in the North facing down the Others and the Long Night now, but when we win, my nephew, Jaeherys Targaryen-Stark, formerly known as Jon Snow, will join me in taking back Kings Landing and the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. She poisons the realm with her every breath and we hope that you will unite with us against her, a common ally. We have included a series of pamphlets for you to read and make copies of and disseminate amongst your people. We hope to stem the tide of lies Cersei spreads from the capitol. We know Dorne has not had the best relationship with either House Targaryen or House Stark, but we hope to forge a new relationship, one that is different than those in the past, and better for the future of us all.

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen , Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Lady of Dragonstone

My nephew, Jaeherys has added his own note for you.

Prince Doran Martell and Princess Arianne Martell,

I am Jon Snow, the bastard son of Ned Stark, or so everyone, including myself had thought these last years. In truth, my brother uncovered my real parentage some weeks ago, and though I know it will be offensive to you, I wished to be honest and share it with you. I am the true-born son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, born after Septon Maynard dissolved his marriage with your sister, the Princess Elia Martell. I do not know why my father did as such, nor do I know why he even married my mother, but I do know that they both did great misservice to House Martell. In the coming years once we’ve won the Long Night and slain the Night King, I hope to mend the wounds left behind by my parents so long ago. Princess Elia and her children did not deserve to be cast aside, and their fate’s at the hands of the Mountain torment me. My aunt tells me that you have long plotted revenge against the Lannister’s for this and I will not begrudge it of you if that’s what you wish. But the foul resurrection of the Mountain may not be easy to destroy, and I offer you my blade and service in that quest. Daenerys and I wish to take the Iron Throne together, and remake the Seven Kingdoms into something unified and strong. She often says she wants to break the wheel, the imbalance of power between Kings and nobles and the small folk, and I agree with her ambitions. I hope that regardless of our pasts, we can work together in this goal. And as such, regardless of whether Dorne aids us in taking back the throne, I Jaeherys (Jon Snow) Targaryen-Stark, King in the North, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm , offer Dorne a seat on the Council of Westeros that we are planning to institute. Unlike the small council, our new plan offers checks and balances to the power of the king, but also the power of the nobility. The Council will be comprised of Lords and Ladies of each land, as well as merchants and citizens, so that every voice is heard. I know that this may seem like a poor gesture in light of past sins, and so I can only hope that you see it as it is, a step forward, and the first move to make amends from House Targaryen and House Stark.

Jaeherys Targaryen-Stark

    Arianne felt her legs shake under her as her palms began to sweat, the words of the Dragon Queen and her nephew-her nephew a man that was born of the union that destroyed her aunt, were startling. Blinking, she steeled herself and straightened her back as she turned to her father.

    “Do you believe them?” she asked, her voice soft in contrast to the fire in her eyes.

    “Strangely enough, I do,” Doran inclined his head towards a series of drawings on the desk, depicting the fair haired Targaryen Queen and the dark King in the North, “There is a touch of honesty in each of their letters, though the Stark boy’s is a bit more blunt. And my spies in the North tell me they are just and honest rulers, they’d be good for the realm, especially considering that bitch on the Iron Throne now.”

    Arianna reeled back at the venom in her father’s voice as he discussed Cersei Lannister, it had been a long time since she’d heard such hatred, and before it had only been Tywin Lannister the vitriol had been directed towards.

    “So will we join with them then father?”

    Doran sipped at a cup of honeyed lemon water as he pulled out a sketch of the late Silver Prince standing before the Knight of the Laughing Tree. He remembered a letter from Elia during that time, he’d been incensed when he heard of what happened at the tourney, but Elia had hinted in her letter that all wasn’t what it seemed. She’d also stated how dark Kings Landing had become, and how afraid she was for her children. Staring down at the image of the supposed betrayal of his sister, he remembered her words, and decided, “Yes, we will. This is not Rhaegar we are allying with, it is his sister, and his son. They will be different, I can tell.”

    Arianne looked at the drawing her father was studying, the Knight’s uncovered head revealing long dark curls and grey Stark eyes. She’d wondered who the Knight was when her uncle Oberyn used to tell tales of the Tourney at Harrenhal, but seeing the truth before her was rather startling. The Stark’s were as surprising and mysterious as the Targaryen’s it seemed.

The Stormlands:

    The pamphlets had arrived with the first fall of snow along the ground. Ravens dropped leaflets and parchments among the small folk and among the nobles left in their castles and keeps. Artwork depicting the story of the Silver Prince and the Wild Wolf, and a love born of respect and honor that was betrayed by the villainous whoremonger Littlefinger who tricked Lady Lysa Tully into betraying Lyanna Stark and burning the letters she’d left for her family. People snarled in the streets as they remembered their former Lord, Robert Baratheon braying for dragon’s blood, claiming he’d stolen his bride, but if the drawings were to be believed, she’d run away from him, willingly. The war had been a lie. The losses could be placed on the late King’s shoulders and on the shoulders of the whoremonger who’d been executed in the North for his many vile actions.

    Women swooned as they discovered the love had born fruit in the form of a baby boy, hidden and protected by his caring uncle. That the boy grew up to be an honorable man, released from the Night’s Watch after commemorable service, to become a King in the North, was even better and had many young girls dreaming of the dark-haired Jon Snow. His union with his aunt, the barbarian queen that Cersei Lannister claimed would slaughter them in her sleep with her inhuman soldiers and barbarians, was soft, and sweet. The two stumbling towards love in awkward steps that had many young maid giggling and turning to her own love interest.

    The papers were widespread in a matter of weeks across the Stormlands, with the snows falling more and more each day there wasn’t much the small folks could do. Popular opinion was starting to sway towards the heroes in the North, especially as the Lannister Queen taxed the small folk more and more. Grains were in short supply these days, as the Riverlands had been razed by war for the past few years and the Reach had been sacked by the Lannisters months before. The people were starting to fear the oncoming winter, with the taxes and limited supply of grains, they had little to bolster their winter stores. And the Lannister’s controlled the supply trains and trade to Essos in the Stormlands after House Baratheon and many of the other noble houses were rendered extinct.

    The septons and septas of the Stormlands decided after the betrayal of the Sept of Baelor, had forsworn Cersei, though they had to do it in secret out of fear. The love story of barbarians and heathens was far preferable to such a despicable oathbreaker such as Cersei of House Lannister. And in their sermons to the people, they said as such.

Off the Coast of Dragonstone:

    Theon held the letter from Jon Snow in his hand, he was torn between absolute horror at the fact he’d tormented the King of the Seven Kingdoms over his childhood and absolute glee at the fact that the same King was Jon Snow, the boy who once fell face flat into horse shit while trying to beat Robb in a sword fight. He’d managed to free Yara from his uncles grasp the week before, though Euron escaped as the slimy bastard he was. Showing Yara the letters, she let out a huge belly deep laugh as she leafed through the papers and found a detailed picture of Daenerys and Jon in a passionate embrace.

    Yara had no clue what had happened since the she’d last seen the Dragon Queen, but it looks like she’d caught quite the pretty boy. Of course the fact that pretty boy was part Stark did stick in her throat a bit, she knew House Stark hated House Greyjoy for their rebellions and for Theon’s actions in razing Winterfell. Theon himself shared Jon’s actions with her when they reunited. And while she had to admit her brother had changed from the cocky ass she’d met years before, he was still a coward and a self-serving bastard. He may have gone and saved her, but she held the belief he did it out of guilt for leaving her to Euron’s mercies in the first place. She growled at the thought of her one-eyed bastard of an uncle, he’d escaped Theon’s rescue attempt, jumping overboard as the Silence was demolished by Theon crashing his ship into the broadside of her uncle’s pride and joy. They were back at Dragonstone to regroup and bolster the defenses of the Dragon Queen while she fought in the North, though Yara was also using the time to heal from Euron’s attempts to break her.

    The Queen’s letter and the subsequent letter and pamphlets from her Hand that they asked to be spread among the small folk had Yara debating on fleeing overseas to Essos, she had no desire to get involved in another war. But she also knew that her uncle’s alliance with Cersei wasn’t over, and that fighting with Daenerys was the best chance she could get at destroying Euron and claiming the Driftwood crown for herself.  

    Theon was rereading the letter from Jon that had been slipped in among the drawings of Rhaegar and Lyanna at the Tower of Joy in Dorne. The former bastard’s words sent a chill down his spine, Ramsay had shown him what true fear was, and he’d held onto that, thinking no one else could match that. But when he’d run into the bastard months before at Dragonstone, he realized he never really knew fear. The dark, raging fire in Jon’s eyes as he slammed into Theon, punching him over and over again, the deep betrayal in eyes that were so dark they were black had him breaking into a cold sweat as he thought of what Jon would do to him if he saw him again. He may have saved Sansa, but he had betrayed Robb and hurt Rickon and Bran, he’d killed Maester Luwin, and there was no coming back from that. He let the letter fall from his hands, the parchment fluttering in the brisk winter breeze that whipped around him, an oncoming storm on the horizon.

Theon Turncoat,

If I see you in the North ever again, I’ll kill you. If I see you in the South again, I’ll kill you. If I see you anywhere in Westeros, I’ll kill you.

Jaeherys (Jon Snow) Targaryen-Stark, King in the North, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Robb’s True Brother

P.S. If Arya sees you, you’ll face a fate worse than any you faced with Ramsay.

King’s Landing:

    Sitting on the Iron Throne, Cersei stared down at the court beneath her, men and women from across the Seven Kingdoms, all under her domain, at last. A smirk slid across her face, lips pursing into a rictus grin that made those who still remembered Aerys cringe and take a step back. Her green eyes danced like wildfire loose in the city as she gestured for her Hand, Qyburn to bring forward the next defendant. She was holding court today to show them how she dealt with traitors to the crown.

    The monstrosity that was now the Mountain loomed next to her as the Goldcloak’s dragged a dirt covered peasant woman in front of her. The woman screamed at the sight of the Mountain and tried to scramble away.

    “What is she accused of?” Cersei held her head high as the woman who was bringing peace back to Westeros. The woman before her threw herself at the base of the throne, her brown eyes wide and watering.

    “Please Your Grace, it was just a piece of bread my children were starving. Please Your Grace, have mercy.”

    Recoiling at the gesture, Cersei motioned for the Mountain to grab her.

    “See this, this disgrace for a Westerosi. She’s what is wrong with our land. Entitled masses flooding the streets, convinced that we owe them. They flock to this barbarian queen who’s brought her hordes to our shores to steal our lands and slaughter our people,” a sneer rose across her face, twisting her green eye into a dark, mad fury. They glittered like wildfire as she nodded her head in a swift bob, and the Mountain swung his massive sword down, cleaving the woman in two. Blood and muscles and sinew sprayed across floor as the woman’s head landed at the first step of the throne.

    Leaning back in her seat, Cersei winced as her hand slipped for the umpteenth time, slicing against one of the many swords. Blood welled along the open wound, dripping down the sides of the throne. A satisfied smile rose on her face as the court fell into a dead silence, she had brought order back. She was the Queen.

    The absolute silence that held sway over the court as the woman’s dying shrieks echoed in their ears was eerily familiar to some. Not twenty years before the Mad King had sat in the same spot and smiled and laughed at the brutal death’s of the small folk. But all too soon, he turned away from them and towards the nobles. Many began to think on their futures, what would life be like in five years with Cersei Lannister as Queen, in three years, in one, in one month. Shudders rippled through the crowd as the true face of their monarch was fully revealed. Winter was on their doorsteps, and now they had another Mad King to deal with. Whispers started up, vague at first, then more and more specific as some began to wonder...maybe siding with the Targaryen Queen was a good idea.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight: What Goes Up

    Jon looked at the maps laid out across the tent, the frigid winter air swirled through the flap as Dany stepped in, her thick cloak bundled up tight under her chin. Making her way over to Jon, Dany snuggled up into his side before looking down at the map. Troop markers along the Kingsroad showed the hidden caches of men they’d littered along the North. The decision for a more guerilla style warfare suggested by Tyrion and Jaime was unnerving for the Northerners who saw it as a cowardly way to fight. Jon had stood up for the Lannisters however, pointing out the enemy they were fighting had no sense of honor, no morality, and as such any advantage they could take to cut down on the numbers fighting for the Others they should take.

    “Bran said a large force has made ready to attack Last Hearth, he suggested we take Drogon to aid them, but wouldn’t say why,” Dany’s soft whisper broke through his concentration and he turned from the battle plans to look down at her.

    “He knows what he’s talking about, I trust him. And Arya confirmed there’s a mass of wights marching up the Kingsroad. Thinning down the numbers with Drogon would be a good move,” Jon wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her pale head.

    “I just worry. None of you have seen Viserion… I fear for when the Night King brings him to the field. He is--was my son, I don’t want to see him against us,” her words were muffled as she buried her head in the crook of his shoulder taking the warmth offered from his embrace.

    “I know Dany, I know,” they stood together for a moment, the quiet of the snow falling around them enveloping the tent, isolating them from the dull rumble of the troops surrounding them.

    Ghost lifted his head from his paws to look at the couple standing across from him, their mingled scents making him snuffle and rub his nose against the furs along the tent floor. They smelled of heat and fire and frozen earth. Shaking his head, he slowly stood and padded over to them, sticking his nose in the middle of their arms.

    Laughing at Ghost’s neediness, Dany pulled away from Jon to embrace the direwolf, carding her fingers through his soft fur. Jon shook his head at the interruption while Dany giggled, Ghost always seemed to appear at those tender moments, sticking his wet nose in to beg for pets and attention. It reminded her of her youngest Viserion who had been so eager to please. Wincing at the thought of her lost child, Dany turned towards the maps once more, soon they would have to face him and she wasn’t sure if she would be able to do what was necessary to defeat the Night King. Lately, her dreams had been plagued with a vision of her fallen child, his eyes a piercing blue as the monstrosity that resurrected him drove him onward through the sky to attack his brothers. She’d woken up more times than she could count in Jon’s arms, gasping for breath as he smoothed her hair down her back, murmuring to her until she stopped crying. The quiet King in the North had been a constant presence at her side the past months, so much so that Davos had started clucking about her making an honest man of her nephew. Marrying Jon wasn’t something she wanted to rush into though, she’d married for duty and family twice already, and while she loved him, she worried that their love may not prove best for Westeros. Tyrion had vehemently disagreed when she brought her fears up to him, stating that “the brooding boy is the best king for the job and for you so just get on with already and propose, we’ve been waiting since White Harbor.” His blunt words lingered in her ears as she carded her fingers through Ghost’s fur once more, perhaps… perhaps she was waiting too long for no reason...perhaps she should ask him.

    Jon watched as Dany leaned into Ghost her pale fingers disappearing into his fur as she pet him. Gods he loved her. Ygritte had been a torment, a shadow on his mind for a long time, but he had finally learned to let her go. He’d loved her yes, but as a boy, as a man just entering the world, not yet knowing the struggles and hardships he would face. She had been loud, beautiful, rude, a force of nature that wreaked havoc on his vows to the watch. But he had chosen his brothers in black in the end, and she had chosen her own path. With Dany, things were just as complicated, but also easier than breathing. He felt it in his bones that they were meant to be. He didn’t need any prophecies or visions to tell him that they belonged together, he could tell in the way she clung to him each night for comfort after a nightmare. In how she snapped and snarled at him like an angry wolf when woken too early in the morning. In how she preferred wines and silks and pretty things to the cold simplicity of the North, but embraced his home regardless. In how she moaned his name as she rode him each night, her hair a white tangle of curls that fell down her back as she made him hers. In how she befriended Sansa and Arya, allowing the former to teach her about Westeros as the latter taught her how to fight. He loved her in all ways, and after the seventh non-subtle hint from Missandei about cementing their union before the gods, he’d decided it was time.

    Brienne shivered in her armor, the leather padding between her and the cold steel doing little to keep her warm. Jaime was out on a patrol, having just returned from Winterfell bearing supplies to last their little garrison a fortnight. While he’d been gone, the wildling Tormund sulked about Last Hearth, alternating between giving her kicked puppy glances and flinching whenever Pod appeared. She had to hand it to her squire, he took the much larger man to task effectively and brutally, she never knew Pod had such depths, though she was touched he cared so much as to defend her honor. Jaime had laughed and called him her little brother, ruffling the younger man’s hair with a playful glint in his eyes. His mischievous nature that she’d grown accustomed to during their travels so long before seemed to flare whenever Pod was around, but besides that the new and more somber Jaime intrigued her. He’d told her that night after their rather public kiss in the training ground as the huddled together under blankets before a fire that Cersei had claimed to be pregnant, that the child was his. His choked gasps as he mentioned his past children, and how monstrous his sister had become broke her heart, especially when he stated that he could never return to her, for though he loved Brienne, it was Cersei’s own darkness that finally hardened his heart against her. Breaking her word and turning her back on the war in the North was but the final straw in a cascade of poor decisions and cruelty. Seeing Cersei pace across the throne room, he’d said, her voice full of vitriol as she snarled and spit about the Northerners and how they would be slaughtered, leaving the throne to her, reminded him so strongly of the Mad King, that any veil that had once been over his eyes was permanently shattered.

    “Brienne, Lady Brienne,” a voice called out from the treeline as Pod appeared from the morning fog. His face was flushed bright red and his brown eyes were wide with panic, “They’ve been sighted coming up the main road! A couple thousand at least. And they have one of those mammoth things Tormund warned us about.” His words gripped her throat in a vise-like hold as if the Night King himself was there choking the life out of her, so it had begun.

    “Sound the alarm Pod, and get your men ready. We’ve prepared for this, we’ve trained for it. I’ll get Jaime and Tormund,” turning on her heel, Brienne felt her heart clench at the thought of this new battle. They’d stockpiled dragonglass weapons for the last two months, training every able bodied soldier they could, but would it be enough? Shaking her head at the negative thought, she banished any doubt, they were fighting for life, they would win. Her tent flap flew open before she could enter and Jaime stepped out in his black and grey armor, the three headed dragon along the shoulder in crimson. He’d forsaken House Lannister, after fleeing Cersei, leaving it once and for all to his younger brother. The white cloaks the two of them shared stood in stark contrast to the black armor, something the youngest Stark boy commented on when they were first designed, stating that the melding of ice and fire had begun.

    “So the undead bastards have finally showed their faces,” Jaime leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before wheeling back with a grin on his face, the paleness in his jade eyes the only sign of his discomfort.

    “Are you scared?” Brienne felt like kicking herself for asking him that, he’d been in far more battles than she, he was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer…

    “Yes.” The single word response stopped her train of thought.

    “You could die Brienne, you could die out there and become one of them, we all could. It would be foolish not to be afraid.”

    Before she could second guess her impulse, she gripped his armor and pulled him to her lips, kissing him gently, then more fervently. If this was to be there last moment together, then she would make it one for the stories.

    Jaime felt like he shouldn’t have been surprised, his wench was actually quite passionate in private, but ever since that first kiss in public, she’d been adamant that they keep their relationship private. This kiss was anything but. Her fingers were in his hair, the stitching in her gloves catching a bit as she moved them, her lips were sweet like the Dornish red he’d caught her drinking the night before, and as she opened her mouth to his insistent tongue and battled him for dominance, he knew he’d never really felt love like this, equal and balanced.

    “Oi, can I have a kiss before the battle too?” Tormund’s bellow effectively killed the mood, reminding them that it wasn’t the time or the place.

    “Wench.”

    “Kingslayer.”

    They looked at each other one last time, studying the lines and shadows that were ever present on each other’s faces, and then they turned, and walked away.

    “Pod, have the archers line the trees along the road. Black Rat take your men down further into the clearing along the godswood. And no, Tormund, why don’t you find a bear to kiss, I hear that’s your specialty,” Brienne barked out orders as she tightened Oathkeeper on her waist, giggling to herself at the joke she’d made at Tormund’s expense, the ginger wildling was now pouting again at her as he strapped a pair of axes to his chest.

    The Three Eyed- Raven who was once and still is Brandon Stark soared along the Kingsroad, his eyes in the sky taking in the slow moving troops of Others. Wights and all manners of creatures from the Land of Always Winter, ice spiders and mammoths to name a few populated the bulk of this force. He numbered them at 10,000 strong at least, doubling what he had counted several days prior. A secondary force must have been hidden from his sight to join with them. The part of him that was Brandon Stark wanted to return immediately to the main force in Winterfell to warn them, to let his brother know that the Others were finally making their move. But the larger part of him, the part that had joined with the Bloodraven and communed with the Old Gods urged him onward, his gaze spreading out among the flock of birds he’d warged into, searching for the Night King. The most deadly foe had to be found and eliminated quickly, their plans hinged on it. His eyes spread across the Kingsroad, flitting between trees and low hanging cloud banks, marking every new detachment from the main force of wights. Battling a fast moving storm coming in from the northwest, he finally marked the tail end of the forces, the blue tinged scales of Viserion the last thing he saw before his gaze met the piercing cold of the Night King’s and he was abruptly forced back into his body.

    Sansa paced along the floor in her solar, her eyes darting from Tyrion to Davos and then back to Tyrion. She’d been woken from her sleep by the forceful pounding on her doors and a breathless Tyrion exclaiming that her idiot brother and his wild queen had disappeared on the dragons in the early morning hours. She didn’t even have time to get dressed before an impromptu war council was arranged in her chambers, the remaining members of Jon and Dany’s councils joining her agitated former husband to discuss the abrupt exit of their leaders.

    “We received word from Lord Brandon after he awoke that a large force is marching up the Kingsroad and will reach Last Hearth within the day. He informed our wayward leaders and they geared up and flew off on Drogon and Rhaegal, informing only Grey Worm before they departed,” Tyrion ran a hand through his hair, the deep bags under his eyes belying his exhaustion.

    “What’s our next step then? Should we be alerting the other detachment of our forces and gearing up to march to their aid?” Sansa held her hastily donned cloak tighter to her throat, a chill sneaking it’s way up her spine.

    “I’ll send out ravens but to be honest my lady, I don’t think they’ll reach anyone in time,” Davos replied.

    Nodding her head, Sansa tried not to think about the ramifications of Jon and Dany’s abrupt departure. They were the last Targaryens, their king and queen respectively, and they’d just run headlong into danger with no plan in place for if they were to fall. It was just like Jon to do that though, he’d done it before when facing Ramsay all those long months ago. She didn’t know Daenerys quite well yet, but she suspected the Dragon Queen was similar. She’d spent the last month discussing future plans for the monarchs and the trajectory of the Seven Kingdoms with Tyrion. It was interesting reconnecting with the Lannister Lord after so many years apart, he’d changed. He was quieter, less brash and more prone to long moments of silent introspection. But he still maintained that humor that had drawn her to him in those dark days in Kings Landing, brightening her life. Sometimes, she wondered what life might have been like if she hadn’t fled with Littlefinger and stayed with her lord husband. Would they have been as close as they are now? They’d spent many nights burning the midnight candle pouring over books and documents detailing the ruling of Westeros and the alliances they needed to win the Iron Throne.

    “What should we do Tyrion?” her whispered question startled him as he turned to look up at her. Sansa Stark was changed from the shy girl he’d known, her core of steel made her as unyielding and unbending as the swords that made the Iron Throne, and so to hear her so hesitant, startled him. He wasn’t sure how to respond, before he might have cracked a joke about flighty rulers, but now he knew that wouldn’t be the appropriate response.

    “We prepare, as best we can, send out ravens to our allies, pull together our remaining forces and…” he paused and looked up at her, her eyes were shadowed their late nights poring over tomes in what remained of the library etched in those deep blue eyes, “We pray. To the Seven, to the Drowned God, to the Old Gods, to the Gods of Tits and Wine, whoever can hear us. Our illustrious King and Queen have decided on our next move, now we must hope they have the skill to see it out.”

    Sansa nodded, her hands worrying along the edges of her cloak, it was so cold now, even in the castle. The hot springs that warmed Winterfell were obsolete against the freezing storms that haunted the North as the oncoming army of the dead. They’d pulled the remaining citizens of Wintertown and the troops that resided in the tents for months inside the castle walls. It was packed now, far more than it had been for thousands of years. More and more people from different villages and keeps along the North came in every week. Tyrion was doing the work of ten men each day trying to keep up the peace within Winterfell’s walls. Sansa felt like she was drowning trying to keep up, accrediting her trials by fire in the Red Keep and by ice with Ramsay for her ability to keep going each day. Her scars from her ex-husband ached with the bitter cold, the ghosts of her time with him ever present in the high stress of the war. Her late nights in the library with Tyrion were the only thing keeping her going in the morning. Studying her first, former husband as he sifted through documents along their shared desk, she wondered what marriage with him would have been like, what life would have been like had she not fled with Littlefinger. Would she still have ended up here? Life was so strange, she mused as she poured a glass of Dornish red for the two of them, they were down to their last barrel, Tyrion-the man who everyone claimed to be a monster, was actually one of the kindest, and gentlest men she’d met. Offering him the glass, she suppressed a giggle as he mindlessly grasped for it, his hands missing and closing on a candlestick.

Wind howled, the storm beating sheets of icy rain along the ground, freezing upon impact to form thick black ice along the forest floor. Leaning against Rhaegal’s back, Jon thanked the gods for the warmth of the fire within the dragon, he would have frozen to his death ages ago without it. They’d been flying for over an hour and were nearing the encampment that Bran said was soon to be attacked. He wished he could have had more time with Dany, but they’d jumped on her children’s back as soon as his brother had given them the news. They weren’t ready, it was still too soon. Only three months, barely at that had passed since they reached Winterfell, and all too soon they had to leave, to face the Night King and his horde. A weight settled deep in his stomach, he knew that this was the beginning, and the end. Whatever happened next would shape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. He wished he could have had one more night with Dany, one more night to hold her, to tell her how he felt, how he wanted her to be his as irrevocably as he was hers.

“Jon,” he flinched as he heard the faint voice along the wind, it couldn’t be. He turned his head and watched the large dark shape of Drogon appear between the low hanging storm clouds. Dany was barely visible, a pure white form on top of the solid black of her eldest son. She called out again, his name, and then a startling question. He tried not to rear back, but it was a close thing. She couldn’t have said… that. Rhaegal tilted and swung closer to his brother, and he heard the question again.

“Marry me?”

Oathkeeper cleaved the skull from the bony shoulders of a wight as Brienne plunged through the thick of battle. Their plan to thin out the oncoming forces with arrows tipped with dragonglass and vials of wildfire Tyrion smuggled from King’s Landing had worked, for a time. But then a secondary force appeared along the Kingsroad, led by several Others atop ice spiders and quickly swept through the remains of the first detachment. A horn sounded in two short blasts and Brienne turned to find Jaime. He was clubbing a wight with his one hand, the dragonglass attachments helping kill the dead creature as he impaled another with his sword. His eyes met hers and he forced his way over to her side.

“That the signal?” his voice sounded hoarse, the long thick of the battle tiring him. Nodding her head Brienne swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry as she followed Jaime and the rest of the forces, pulling back to the secondary defenses along the trees. Ducking behind the giant spikes they’d whittled down and stuck into the ground, the two wove their way further back to the hastily constructed command center. Pod ran by them, his face streaked with mud and blood as he went.

Tormund was having a shite day, and it was only going to get worse. The wildling narrowed his eyes at the pretty Kingslayer who was leaned up against Brienne. The tactics they were employing were cowardlike, but even he had to admit they were effective. Not to mention that in the face of the wicked danger that was coming after them, just charging in with his axes wasn’t the best way to go about things.

“What happened to Black Rat?” he rasped, snatching a mug of ale from the Kingslayer before the blonde idiot could drink it.

“Dead. He was impaled by one of those ice spikes wielded by one of the White Walkers,” Brienne replied, wincing as Jaime bound a rather nasty cut along her arm.

“Great, how many more of those fuckers do ye think are out there?” Tormund wondered out loud.

“Thousands, according to the scout that just came in. I don’t think that plan will work just yet, you know the one,” Pod stuttered as he reappeared, his face clear of the muck that covered it moments before.

“We’ll have to improvise. Bronn,” Jaime turned to the sellsword turned knight, his eyes lighting with mischief, “Remember what you said that one time about raining hellfire down from the sky?”

“Yeah, I was pissed out of my mind. It won’t actually work,” Bronn shook his head as the Lannister lord just smirked back at him.

An hour later found him climbing a tree with a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows along his back. Grumbling about Lannisters and their tricks, Bronn inched his way out along a thick bow and marked the oncoming horde that marched towards him. Pulling an arrow from the quiver, he laid his bow along his lap and pulled one of the vials the Kingslayer had entrusted him with out of his inner pocket. Vibrant green liquid pooled along the edges of the arrow as he poured out the volatile substance, careful to not spill any on himself as he did. Nocking the arrow, he watched the tree tops along the road rustle as other archers readied themselves. At the signal, a sharp high pitch sounding of a trumpet, he loosed his arrow. It whistled through the air with dozens of others, wicked green drops of wildfire falling to the ground as the arrows flew. A secondary horn sounded as Bran threw himself from the tree, slingling from branch to branch as he raced against time. Another volley of arrows launched into the air, this time tinged with the orange glow of tar dipped heads lit ablaze.

The resulting explosion sent shockwaves through the woods, trees exploding outward in a concussive wave, splinters of wood and ice and green fire coating the visible world.

The Night King shifted on his seat, the reanimated dragon beneath him banking against a sharp wind. The final battle was on the horizon. He could feel his victory against the living, against those who cursed and forsook him all those years ago at hand. None could stand before the might of his forces. Viserion led out a piercing roar, as the Night King signaled his forces onward. Tens of thousands of the dead trudged onward below him, carrying with them the long, dark night.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: Must Come Down

    Arya shifted, her back ached from hours crouching along the snow banks. She’d got Bran’s message about the oncoming horde of wights the night before and spent the early hours of the morning warging between flocks of ravens to mark the enemies numbers. Over the last hour though, she’d focused more on the counterattack launched by their forces near Last Hearth. She tracked the progress of Jon and Daenerys on dragon back, her amusement at Dany’s abrupt proposal through the storm clouds had sent her into a giggling fit that had Gendry twitching from his post next to her. He’d followed her out of Winterfell that morning, stalking behind her as she made her way between the thick banks of snow to the godswood. He hadn’t said a word to her, instead maintaining a solid, quiet presence at her back. But as she snorted and giggled, failing at muffling them in her gloves, he spoke up.

    “What’s so funny milady?”

    “Don’t call me a lady,” the retort was so automatic she didn’t notice it at first, until she heard the sharp inhale of the man next to her. When she’d seen him in the company of her brother and the dragon queen all those weeks ago, she’d been ecstatic. She was so certain that he’d been killed by the red witch, that seeing him alive and well had filled her heart with a joy that she hadn’t felt since Jon had gifted her Needle those years past. She’d acted on impulse then, pulling him into a hug and sticking to him like a burr on a saddle. She didn’t want to question her feelings, her happiness at seeing him or her resentment at his choices in the past, instead choosing to focus on the present. And he seemed to agree with her, rarely touching on their past and focusing on the present and tentatively the future. But something had changed between them as the nights grew colder and longer and the Night King came closer, something that had her itching to reach out and...and well she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do, but she wanted to do something.

    “Alright, I won’t,” Gendry smirked at her kneejerk response, something’s didn’t change, and her attitude towards her station definitely hadn’t. She had though. Not that he minded, of course, but she wasn’t the young girl he’d traveled with from King’s Landing. She wasn’t Arry, but she wasn’t Lady Stark either. She was something new, cold and harsh, sharp like a newly wetted blade, but soft underneath, like supple leathers.

    “Shut up, stupid. I’m trying to watch Jon make a fool of himself with the Dragon Queen,” Arya punched his arm, wincing as her fist impacted against solid muscle, Gendry’s long days in the forge evident.

    “Aren’t you supposed to be watching for wights?”

    “Yes. No. Shut up,” Arya shot a glare at him as he snorted and shook his head, he had grown his hair and beard out over the last month or so, the locks curling around his ears, while the thick scruff made him look more Northern. She liked it, not that she wanted to admit it to him. Shaking her head, she tried to channel her power again, centering herself inward while reaching out. Her gaze broadened and she warged from bird to bird, until she reached the main force of White Walkers. She watched as Brienne and the Kingslayer fought back to back, their Valyrian steel swords cutting large swaths through the enemy as archers with dragonglass tipped arrows took down row after row of wights. Fire blazed against the cold white snow as foot soldiers with torches flitted through the battle, setting corpses of wights and humans alike, alight so they wouldn’t rise again. She watched as Brienne pulled her forces back and Tormund Giantsbane had to physically pull little Ned Umber away from a corpse he was hacking at. She watched them plot and plot, and then she watched several chosen few climb high among the trees and set the Kingsroad alight with wicked green flame.

    Pulling back to herself she felt her breath catch in her throat, “Wildfire, they’re using wildfire,” she gasped, sagging into Gendry as she did.

    Flinching, Gendry reached around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. He remembered hearing stories as a kid running around Flea Bottom of pyromancers and their experiments with the substance. That they would have some here, so far in the North, that they would even need to use it was startling, and more than a little unnerving. Arya sat in his arms, unmoving for several moments before he shifted her and asked, “Are you alright?”

    “Yeah,” shaking her head, Arya pulled away from him, already regretting it as the cold bit into her cheeks, “Yeah it was just, awful. It ripped through the wights and Others and set everything aflame. But even that wasn’t enough to stop their march, just slow it down…”

    “Chin up Arry, your brother and the Dragon Queen will make short work of the Night King,” Gendry forced a smile on his face.

    “I hope so,” Arya muttered, her mind focusing on the thousands of wights that still marched towards them, in spite of the raging inferno that blocked their path. The bulk of the Northern forces were waiting at Long Lake, and she hoped that the ones at Last Hearth were using the wildfire as a means of escape to go meet with the main forces.

    Jon leaned into Rhaegal’s back, his hand digging tightly into the spine’s along the green dragon’s neck as said dragon banked hard to the left. They were nearing their destination at Long Lake and so the dragon’s had taken to flying lower, beneath the clouds. Jon’s heart squeezed in his chest, a frantic throbbing as he felt the anticipation for the oncoming battle mix with his excitement at Dany’s proposal. His response still rang about his head, and he wondered once more why he ended up the least eloquent Stark.

    Dany let her eyes settle on the emerging treetops as Drogon flew lower and lower, her proposal had been sudden and fueled with a mix of giddy excitement being in the air, yet not alone, and fear of the outcome of the coming battle. Jon’s response though, had been a blessing and helped ease any worries that might have crept up, “I’m supposed to ask you, not the other way around!” Her resulting laughter sent him into a spluttering mess, though that may have been the sudden cloud of bugs Rhaegal had banked into. Her brooding wolf had been silent since then, alternating between shooting glances at her and patting Rhaegal on the back. She wasn’t sure what was more amusing, that he would be sulking that she proposed first, or that his response to her proposal was to sulk. Either way she knew that if they survived this, he was the only one she would marry, blood of her blood, sulking wolf and all.

    Jorah Mormont was having a spectacularly shitty day, month really, some might even say life, though they wouldn’t say that to the Old Bear’s face. His Khaleesi had sent him off with Grey Worm to tighten the security along the Kingsroad and set traps along Long Lake to keep the bulk of the Night King’s forces from advancing past there. At first, he was thrilled that she’d entrusted him with such an important duty, but when he realized that he would be leaving her alone in Winterfell with the bastard king (he refused to believe the boy was Targaryen, absolutely refused), he was desolated. His sweet Khaleesi was probably mauled by the boy every night, but he did have to marvel at her strength in putting up with him so they could face the Long Night. He was sure once the battle was over, and the boy was hopefully dead, she would reveal it had been a ruse to get the North on her side. Of course, it didn’t make his current situation any better. Digging ditch number fifty to line with wooden spikes tipped with dragonglass had his back and joints aching more than when he’d been sold into slavery or infected with greyscale. He’d tried to get out of ditch duty, but for some reason Grey Worm and his niece had teamed up and told him he had to, stating they trusted no one else to lead the men in preparing the traps. Little Lyanna had arrived at their encampment several days prior, and ever since she had, Jorah had the sinking suspicion that all her comments about forgiving him his past sins had been faked. The little she bear had done nothing but sneer at him when he approached her about reclaiming his title as Lord of Bear Island once the war was over, not that he wanted to live there of course, that would place him too far from his khaleesi, but the title would go a long way to show her his worth.

    Leaning on the shovel Grey Worm had shoved at him that morning, Jorah marveled at how even with the biting cold, the trenchwork had worked up a heavy sweat. Taking a swig of wine from his waterskin, he went to start back up again when he heard a familiar roar. A massive black shape broke through the low hanging snow clouds and Jorah marveled as Drogon landed several hundred feet away, his Khaleesi on the dragon’s back. Another roar startled him from his perusal and he flinched as Rhaegal landed much closer than his brother. The green dragon growled at him making him take a step back only to fall in the half dug pit he’d been working on. Landing in the sodden mix of mud and snow, Jorah grumbled about uptight lizards and heaved himself up to be greeted by the sight of his Khaleesi in the arms of the King in the North. Rearing back from the image of his Khaleesi devouring the boy, Jorah fell back into the pit, hitting his head on a stray rock and falling into unconsciousness.

    “Khaleesi, we did not expect you today,” Grey Worm strode forward, interrupting the passionate kiss between Jon and Dany. Projecting an outward face of calm, Grey Worm was smirking internally, he had called their relationship from the start, even before the little Lannister. He told Missandei and she had agreed, wagering with him over how long it would take post-Targaryen reveal for the two to become one. Missandei had explained the Westerosi customs of marriage to him and he would bet his spear that his queen had proposed marriage to Jon Snow, if the man’s uncharacteristic grin was anything to show for it.

    “Yes, sorry Grey Worm. We received news from Bran that the Night King and his forces were almost at Last Hearth. We,” she turned and looked at Jon with a small smile, “Decided to come here and help cover the retreat of the forces from Last Hearth. All of our strategies have the final push happening here anyways. We can’t let them get any closer to Winterfell, if they do, well….” Dany’s voice trailed off as Jon straightened his back and took over.

    “While Winterfell can weather a siege by normal means, these are not normal soldiers and to add to that the main population of the North has made its way there to hide for the Winter. That on top of the Dothraki and Unsullied forces have strained our resources to the point where if there was a siege, we would not last long. We need to strike now, hard and fast. As soon as the forces from Last Hearth arrive, we need to set out. I want to know the exact numbers and what happened before we act though. So far neither Bran nor Arya has seen Viserion near the main army and that worries me.” Jon locked eyes with Grey Worm, an unspoken communication passing between the two men, speaking of their mutual worry for Dany over the subject of her fallen son.

    “I agree,” Grey Worm nodded his head and gestured for the two Targaryen’s to follow him to the command tents to get warm, the snowfall slowly starting to pick up.

    Jaime pushed on, urging his horse forward through the thick snow, they had to make haste towards the rendezvous point at Long Lake, the Night King’s army wouldn’t be stopped for long, wildfire for all its sinister purposes could not burn forever in the constant snow of the North. He didn’t know how the Stark’s did it, living day in and day out with the constant oppressive cold, but he was dying for the warmth of the sun in Casterly Rock, he’d even settle for the humid Riverlands, he just wanted out of the snow. Brienne pulled her horse up next to his, her blue eyes rimmed with red, exhaustion seeping from her much like he assumed it seeped from him. They’d been riding hard for the last day, they’d set off as soon as Bronn had lit the wildfire and hadn’t stopped since. He hoped the sellsword turned knight had made it to the rearguard, but he wasn’t going to head back and check. Their main priority was getting the bulk of their forces to Long Lake fast and without delay.

    “Little Ned says we should be there by midday, or whatever passes for midday in this weather,” Brienne called out, her voice hoarse against the harsh winds that suddenly picked up and began to whip snow and ice around them.

    “Great, pass it on down the line. We can’t afford any breaks, the last one was bad enough,” Jaime replied, wincing as his chapped lips split open from the movement, the coppery taste of his own blood sinking into his mouth.

    “At this pace we’ll kill the horses Jaime, we have to slow down and pace ourselves at least,” Brienne shifted her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

    Jaime could feel his own mount quivering from the strain of the hard ride in thick snow beneath him, he knew they needed the horses for any cavalry maneuvers or another quick getaway, but they couldn’t afford to lag behind. And if they went any slower, they would freeze faster… but if he didn’t order a slower pace, it could kill the horses.

    “Alright, we’ll slow it down. The first company will take a rest at the next clearing, then push onward while the second company rests, and so on.”

    Brienne wheeled around to relay his orders, though she was theoretically in charge, she’d turned to his expertise in battles and warfare over the past weeks. Their budding relationship was strained by the tense atmosphere and the guerilla attacks they wielded on the Others, and she was looking to the day where the dawn would rise and the two of them could sit down and discuss their future. Passing along his orders to Pod who in turn headed down the line to tell the next in command, Brienne felt a shiver crawl up her spine, an awareness that they weren’t alone on the road. Something was watching them.

    Jon sat in the command tent his legs crossed in a meditative pose that Arya had shown him, he had wanted to question where she learned it, but a quick look from Sansa had shut him down fast. Now he was trying to reach out with his mind and warg into the nearby flock of ravens to take a look at the oncoming horde himself. He’d only managed to successfully and consciously warg with Ghost several days before and so he knew that this was a shot in the dark, unlikely to work. Slowing his breathing down, he started to slip into the blank space where he could feel his connection to the direwolf when a loud exclamation startled him to consciousness.

    “The Kingslayer’s company has been spotted along the Kingsroad, they’ll be here in under an hour. They’re riding hard, I can only assume the Night King is on their tail,” Dany gasped for breath, her rapid fire words of warning causing panic to rise in her chest. It was too soon, too soon, they weren’t ready…

    Jon stood up and pulled her trembling hands into his own, he hadn’t felt this kind of fear since he’d woken from his resurrection, life flooding into him with the cold decay of death clinging to his thoughts. Here and now though, he banished the panic, killed it and the boy it belonged to. Holding Dany’s hands in his he tried to push that strength through to her, knowing she just needed a reminder that she was Daenerys Targaryen, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons.

    Dany blinked and squeezed Jon’s hands back, his silent support and strength in the face of her fear was illuminating. She could be just Dany with him, and he would still love her. But she could also be Daenerys and he would be there for her as well. Shaking her head she felt a well of cold steel settle along her spine, she would be cold and sharp like a Valyrian blade in the face of the Others, unbreakable and unbending.

    “It’s time, isn’t it?” the question came from Grey Worm as he stood quietly behind the couple.

    Turning, they kept their hands intertwined as they faced the commander, the heavy knowledge that the battle was nigh settling over their shoulders.

    “Yes, pull everyone back to the second defenses and signal the Kingslayer to do so as well. The Others will be right behind them and I’d rather be in place and ready then caught off guard.”

    Grey Worm nodded and left them to do as the King in the North bid, but was quickly replaced by the massive white form of Ghost, who nosed his way into the tent. Dany let out a giggle as the direwolf snuffed at Jon, his countenance appearing haughty and annoyed.

    “I think he’s upset we left him behind at Winterfell when we took to the skies.”

    Kneeling down, Jon wrapped his arms around his silent companion, burying his face in the soft scruff as he muttered his apology, “Sorry boy, we had to leave fast and I didn’t think you’d take to flying well.”

    Ghost pulled back and sniffed at Jon’s face before leaning forward and dragging his tongue up the side of his human’s face, snorting as Jon recoiled, wiping at his face. Of course he didn’t want to fly with the giant flying lizards, but Jon could have at least told him they were leaving, humans were ridiculous, so uncommunicative. He wasn’t going to stay behind in the castle when his human went off to battle, especially when he was fighting the cold, dead things. Ghost would enjoy ripping them apart, they smelled foul and made his fur stand on edge. He had worked out a partnership deal with the smaller flying lizard over Jon, and he was grateful to the lizard that he had alerted him to his human’s departure. It was a long hard run to get there, but he wouldn’t be anywhere else.

    Jorah Mormont stared down the massive black beast his Khaleesi called a son. He’d been pulled out of the trench the day before and had spent the night curled up in his blankets shivering away and cursing the name Jon Snow. Now though, there had been a call to arms and they had abandoned the preliminary defenses and pulled back to a secondary site. Drogon had gone hunting hours prior and had since landed and decided to hold a staring contest with Jorah. The man in question wasn’t sure why the dragon had fixed him in its gaze, but he wasn’t comfortable with it. They were standing along the edge of a hillside overlooking Long Lake, the dragon taking up a majority of the hillside.

    “Drogon, sōvēs ,” his Khaleesi’s voice rang out from the dragon’s back and Jorah wondered when she had mounted him. Blinking he took one step back, then another as the dragon leaned forward and launched itself into the air. A roar split through the sky as Rhaegal followed his brother’s example and the two dragons tooks to the skies, flying sinuously between the other’s wings. It was beautiful, a dance of dragons. And it was terrifying, the small white spot along the deep black scales of the larger dragon was all he could see of his Khaleesi. His heart leapt to his throat as he saw a new shape enter the sky, blue scales tinged with the unearthly color of the Other, Viserion had joined the fight. Looking down to the lakeside below, Jorah felt the hair on his arms not just stand on edge, but ice over with fear. There, creeping through the woods along the lake was a massive host of the shambling wights. Trees creaked and groaned before falling to the ground as dessicated mammoths and giants forced their way through. Jorah reached down and grabbed the hilt of his sword, tightening his grip as he watched the first wave of the Others step up to the first set of traps.

    The united forces of Unsullied, Dothraki, and Northmen with the small contingents of Lannisters and Tully’s stood at the slope of the hillside, watching with bated breath as the host of the dead made its way towards them. Grey Worm lifted a hand, holding any movement from the archers as the wights began to rush towards the hill, scenting their prey. All at once the corpses rushed forward at varying speeds only to reach a certain tree and collapse into the jagged pits they’d spent the last weeks making. Lined with spears tipped with dragon glass, the footsoldiers were instantly impaled and halted.

     But the undead kept coming. They had no sense of self-preservation, no sense of cunning, no actual sense at all. They ran headfirst into the trenches over and over and over again. A low roar of pain showed that the larger pits were also working, a giant having fallen into one and impaling himself on the spikes. A mammoth fell into one next, but with half a trunk missing there was no trumpeting of pain and just the muted thud of the heavy weight hitting the earth. Row after row, score after score of wights and creatures fell into the pits that lined the lake.

     The skies weren’t quiet either, as the dragons reenacted their ancient dance. Rhaegal flew low, sliding under Viserion before swinging his spiked tail up to catch the smaller dragon in the chest. Digging his claws into what remained of his younger brother Rhaegal dodged his snarling head and bit into his neck, ripping and tearing at the wound before releasing Viserion and flying off. Drogon slammed into the creature that was his brother next, sending him flying a few feet in the air. Daenerys screamed along the back of her eldest, the pain at seeing her children fight consuming her, “ Dracarys .” White hot flames bathed the side of the smaller dragon as Drogon banked, clearing the way for Rhaegal to baptise Viserion with his own fire.

     Dany sobbed into Drogon’s back, the mutilated form of her youngest twitching in the air as it tried to fight back. They had wondered if the Night King would ride Viserion, but apparently he was shrewder than they thought, and realized how easy of a target it would have made him. Looking away from the ruined form of her child she took in the progress of the battle below, the pits were working so far at stopping the dead. But they needed to move onto phase two of the plan. Tugging on her bond with Drogon, Dany pulled him away, leaving Rhaegal to finish him off. Flying lower to the ground, but not so low or so close to be in range of the Other’s ice spears, Dany cried out the command again and the world was bathed in a blinding white as the pure flame that came from her child’s maw. Fire sprang to life in the secondary pits they lined along the road, lighting the packed together kindling and dragonglass, the heat from the flames sending the dragonglass exploding out into the oncoming horde.

    Arya knew it was too good to be true to think that the Others would have stayed together in one army. Slicing a new and improved Needle through the waist of a wight she wound her way back to back with Gendry. The blacksmith swung his warhammer tipped with dragonglass in large sweeping arcs, allowing her to dart through and around his strikes to take down those that he missed. The wights had been scrabbling up the walls of Winterfell since nightfall. A smaller host than the one Jon and Dany were facing, but still a sizeable one. The battlements of the castle were littered with the newly dead as they defended the keep. A secondary level of defense in the form of archers was sending volley after volley of dragonglass arrows into the dead. A wight swiped at Arya, its clawed fingers catching on her shoulder only to release as an arrow sprouted from its neck, severing its head from its shoulders. Arya jerked her head to see who saved her and blinked in surprise as Sansa sent a grim smirk at her, the large bow in her hands looking so out of place Arya wondered when she’d learned to shoot.

    “Eyes open Arry,” Gendry called out as he bashed the skull of a wight into the ground.

    Snorting Arya turned and slammed her valyrian steel dagger into the chest of another wight behind him, inwardly thanking the weasely Littlefinger for being so thoughtful to gift it to Bran, her little brother knew how she’d love blades and given it to her in turn.

    Davos cleaved a wight in two as he ushered Sam and Gilly further back into the library, somehow wights had made it inside the castle walls and everyone was on high alert. Torches lit each wall by the hundreds, installed in preparation for such an events. Gilly grabbed one and slammed it into a wight that tried to tackle Sam while Sam used his dragonglass dagger to stab one that was creeping up on Davos.

    Tyrion was thankful that Robert’s bastard had forged so many weapons in the time he did, but he wished he had had the foresight to ask for something more tailored to his height. Sansa was standing several feet away, a pile of arrows next to her as she picked off target after target. She’d revealed her hidden skill that morning, stating she had Brienne teach her months ago, before the Battle of the Bastards, on the off chance that the battle went south. Tyrion himself was left with a small dragonglass handaxe and dagger, the dagger being slightly more wieldy than the handaxe. Sighing, he turned and kept his eyes out, the guards that were supposed to be protecting them having long left to join the fight along the front gates. The expanse between the outer walls and the castle was empty, they’d cleared it of snow that morning and set the trap. A single horn blast alerted them to the retreat and he rushed over to help Sansa gather her weapons.

    “When this is over, I’d like to discuss the state of our marriage,” Sansa’s statement had him dropping his small armful of arrows as he looked up at her in surprise.

    “What?” before he could finish his question a pair of soft lips pressed against his. Leaning into it, Tyrion felt a wave of warmth slide over him, but it was quickly gone as Sansa pulled away to pick up her weapons. ‘

    “No time now, but we will discuss it,” her tone brokered no argument and Tyrion nodded dumbly back at her, following along as she retreated into the castle and the front grounds of Winterfell were set ablaze, the oil they’d spilled earlier easily catching alight despite the sudden snowfall that arrived with the wights.

    Jaime fell into a tree, his armor dented as a wight went flying past him, Pod’s enraged face appearing beside him. Breathing heavily he nodded at the squire, making a mental note to knight the boy if they survived this. He’d lost sight of Brienne hours ago, their short respite at the rendezvous point with the main forces separating them, and then the battle was upon them and he had no time to seek her out. Taking a moment to breathe, he watched as Pod threw himself back into the battle, the massive axe Brienne had given him slicing and dicing through the wights. A familiar head of ginger hair popped up next to him as Tormund slid against the tree trunk.

    “Sister-fucker if we get out of this I want to see that pretty little cock of yours that has all your women so enchanted.”

    Jaime burst into laughter, taken aback by the wildling’s comment. Clearing his throat he tried to respond, “What?” but the man was already gone, throwing himself into the thick of battle.

    Jon trudged through the slush of snow and mud and blood, Longclaw was dripping with the viscous fluids from the wights he’d killed. Turning on his heel, he felt Ghost lunge in their bond and was met with the gaze of his direwolf grappling with a White Walker. Breaking into a run, he joined Ghost in the battle, Longclaw sliding through the defenses of the Walker, shattering it into shards of icy glass. Running his free hand through Ghost’s fur, Jon had the momentary thought of surprise that it was still so white despite the battle going on, but was quickly drawn back into the fray as a slew of wights descended on him and Ghost. Blood and bone mixed with ice as Jon wreaked havoc on the wights. A roar from overhead had him craning his neck to watch as Rhaegal dealt a final blow to Viserion, ripping his former brother’s head from his neck. Wincing at the brutality, Jon watched as the wights kept pouring into the clearing below the hill. He could sound the call for the Dothraki to enter the battle, but he held back, the horsemen still weren’t used to the snow and so they were better off as a last resort. Pulling back from his rather open stance, Jon ducked behind a boulder and felt for his tenuous bond with Rhaegal. Tugging on the silver thread that connected him to the dragon, he called out his name.

    An answering roar echoed along the sky as the green dragon descended from the sky, landing with a dull thud on the bodies of several approaching wights. Sprinting out from his position, Jon raced to the dragon, climbing onto his back in a swift if a bit awkward motion since Longclaw was still in his hand. Settling himself in a hollow at the crook of Rhaegal’s neck and shoulders Jon winced as he landed a bit too hard on a scale, they should have had Gendry or someone make saddles or something, he walked funny for the day or so after the quick flight from Winterfell and he knew he would be again if they survived this. Clinging to a rather inconvenient spine with his free hand he emulated Dany in rather butchered valyrian, “ Sōvēs, ” and Rhaegal took to the skies. Soaring over the scrabbling horde of wights, Jon marked the danger zones where his forces were close to being overrun and directed Rhaegal towards them. Clearing his throat, he called out “ Dracarys, ” praying to the Old gods and New that Rhaegal had enough awareness not to burn their own forces in the process. Fire spewed forth from his dragon’s mouth, incinerating the wights that were overwhelming his men, blinking from the sudden smoke that filled his eyes Jon let out a bark of laughter as Tormund signaled him with a rather crude hand gesture before turning back to bisect an oncoming wight.

    Again and again he directed Rhaegal to swoop down and burn the Night King’s forces, his eyes scanning for the bastard in question. He wanted the battle over with, they’d been fighting for so long and the dark skies had him praying for an end. A sharp chill went up his spine and he barely had time to react, shouting at Rhaegal to turn in common as an ice spear went shooting up at them. Rhaegal screeched as the spear clipped his leg, narrowly missing impaling him as they veered off to the side. Jerking his head, Jon searched for where the spear came from and felt his chest tighten as he locked eyes with the cool gaze of the Night King. He was astride a dessicated and sickly looking mammoth, smaller than some of the others Jon had seen trampling through the masses. A sense of finality flooded through Jon as he stared down the Night King, it was time.

    Dany could feel the push pull of the elements, the heat from Drogon beneath her, the freezing winds of winter biting at her cheeks. Her eyes watered as she scanned the battlegrounds, her Dothraki were milling about at the top of the hill trying to stay warm as the Unsullied and Northern forces tried to push back against the tide of the undead that threatened to sweep over and consume them. Dragonfire had decimated factions of the Others, but they still kept coming. She hadn’t really believed Jon when he said the Night King had over a hundred thousand of the undead, but seeing them all now, a seemingly endless flood of corpses, she believed. A screech pierced through her thoughts and Drogon wheeled around and she watched as Jon and Rhaegal shot through the sky, making a direct descent towards the Night King who sat on top of a mammoth. She watched as several White Walkers launched spear after spear at Rhaegal, her son narrowly dodging each one, and she thanked the gods for his smaller size, the first time she’d done so, as Drogon would never have been able to do such maneuvers.

    Rhaegal let loose a torrent of flames that ripped through the snow, melting all in its path and carving a clear shot towards the Night King. Dodging the flames, the Night King launched from the back of the mammoth, landing on the ground with prenatural reflexes. He was tall, taller than Jon for sure, and even though Jon was on dragonback and had the apparent upper hand, Dany felt a cold chill grip her heart.

    Arya wove in between the spears of the Unsullied along the walls of Winterfell, her new and improved Needle biting into wight after wight and separating limb from limb. The gates were still holding but they’d set the open space between that and the walls ablaze after wights started slipping through the soldiers along the battlements. Gendry roared behind her, his warhammer slamming into the skull of a wight that was trying to sneak up behind Arya. Bone and decay went spraying in the air, and Arya let a quick grin flash across her face. It disappeared as soon as it came though, as a chilling howl gripped the air, followed by another, and another. Backing up against Gendry, Arya let out a choked gasp tears forming along her eyes as she called out, “Nymeria?”

    The snow lined trees along the road burst into a spray of powder as a massive grey direwolf lunged forward, her jaws snapping down and ripping into a wight. Smaller forms followed as wolves descended on the ranks of the undead beating against Winterfell’s walls. A howl went up from the other side of the trees and another massive form appeared along the trees, followed by another, the direwolves from beyond the Wall had come to join the fight.

    Jaime felt the deep cold biting into him down to his bones, he was tired, so very tired. Punching out the shattered jaw of a wight he whirled around searching for his next opponent. A blaze of white hot heat, so different to the chilling cold that had settled in him sent him reeling back. Searching for the source of the blaze, he blinked and then blinked again, the King in the North was launching himself off the back of the dragon to meet the long ice blade of the Night King. Cursing the predictable Stark behavior, Jaime lunged forward heading to back up the idiot.

    Brienne swore as she watched a blonde head of hair bob and weave through the scrabbling masses of the undead. Her idiot was making his way towards the bigger idiot, their King who was currently buckling under the weight of the Night King’s sword. Their enemy was nearly twice the height of Jon, and his sword reminded Brienne of her childhood when she tried to lift her father’s sword. Wincing as Jon managed to land a blow with a dragonglass dagger in the Night King’s side only to be tossed aside as the monster roared in pain.

    Tormund slammed his axe into the torso of a wight, grinning as the body exploded outward, bones flying into an oncoming corpse. Pod swooped in with a torch in one hand, his axe in the other to set the corpse alight. Laughing as the green boy tripped over an arm and gagged, Tormund wheeled around and felt the piercing bite of an ice spear as an Other appeared and ran him through the side. Grunting Tormund stumbled back, the spear head breaking off inside of him. Pod shrieked next to him and launched himself at the Other, a dragonglass dagger in hand. The Other cackled, like gravel scraping together and shoved Pod off. Pod yelped at the touch of the Other, his armor freezing and buckling together as he fell to the ground.

    Spinning and whirling around, sword in one hand, spear in another, Grey Worm was cutting through the wights like butter. His company of Unsullied and Northern soldiers were holding the dead back for now, but as he kept one eye on the King fighting their ultimate enemy, Grey Worm felt the first chill of fear seep in. What if he failed? What would happen then?

    Jorah ducked under a blow from a particularly massive wight only to trip over a femur sticking out of the snow and tumble to the ground. An ice spider clicked up over him, its beady blue eyes blinking down at him as its pincers widened and made to rip his head off. Closing his eyes, Jorah sent a prayer to the Old Gods for a quick death, grateful that no one could see him wet himself in his final moments when the oppressive weight of the spider disappeared from his chest. Cracking his eyes open he felt a wave of disgust flood through him as the albino direwolf of the King in the North ripped the spider apart, legs flying in the air. Jorah curled on his side and emptied the contents of his stomach as the realization that he now owed said King in the North settled in his bones, for certainly the Old Gods had worked through the direwolf to save him.

    Ghost recoiled at the scent of piss and fear and bile that emerged from the grizzled man the monster had trapped. He loathed ice spiders, it was part of his pack memory to hate the multi-limbed beings and so he combed the battlefield for them, the desire to rip them apart making him salivate. Shaking his head as the man sat up and started to squawk at him, Ghost turned and leapt back into the battle, he had spiders to kill.

    Dany leaned over the side of Drogon, the bile she’d tried to hold in spewing forth as she watched the Night King toss Jon aside like a rag doll. Jaime Lannister appeared and attempted to draw the monster’s attention away from Jon and Dany coughed, wiping her mouth before pulling on her bond with Drogon, urging him forward to help. Choking out “ Dracarys ,” Dany flinched as Drogon opened his maw and let loose a torrent of flames on the Night King. The flames seemed to bend off its iced form, fracturing out and dissipating in the air. Undeterred Dany urged Drogon on and soon an unending deluge of flames was pouring from him, and the Night King slowly began to stumble backward between the flames and the blows Jaime was landing on him in between the flames. Jon appeared from behind the falling form of the Night King and thrust Longclaw through the Other’s back. The Valyrian steel sword erupted through the ice armor in a spray of powder and shattered bone and the Night King let out a piercing shriek as he fell to his knees. Lunging forward, Jaime shoved a dragonglass dagger into the throat of the monstrosity, cutting off the shriek.

    The battlefield paused for a moment, every being frozen in place and the a concussive blast shot forward from the fallen form of the Night King, wind and ice and something tinged with power flooded outward and the remaining Other’s exploded into a spray of slush as the magic that embodied the wights disappeared, corpses collapsing to the ground and decaying on the spot.

    The storm clouds that had covered the skies in an unyielding darkness for the past months began to disappear and the pale light of the sun crept out along the horizon.

    They had won. The Long Night was over.