Him

Where was the Night King? It would have been quicker to head straight for Winterfell, but he could fell more Northerners by clinging to the coast going South, before making a sharp turn inland. Queen Daenerys suggested that they fortify the castle on all sides in the event of a surprise attack.

Jon Snow should have been sleeping beside his wife. Seated at a table and plotting the best point of encampment for each of their gathered armies, he could hear her quiet rhythmic breathing from the bed behind him. He would be forgiven for thinking all was right with the world.

A knock on the closed door chiseled through his concentration. He quickly checked to make sure his wife was still asleep before crossing to pull open the door. Gendry Waters stood a good distance away. "Your Grace, I don't mean to disturb you."

"No disruption. I needed a bit of time away from maps and plans. I'm not sure it was doing much good, anyway." The two men had hardly spoken since Waters had made it back from Eastwatch.

"Well then, Your Grace, do you have a moment? There's something I'd like to show you down at the forge."

A long, silent walk through the castle later and Jon Snow found himself staring in disbelief at something sleek and shining, lying flush against an anvil.

"What is this?"

"Tobho Mott raised me, Your Grace. I was his apprentice most of my life."

"I don't understand."

"He was the only blacksmith in Westeros who could rework Valyrian steel, Your Grace. When I got to Winterfell –''

"I'm sorry we haven't been able to speak before now, Gendry – ''

"It's all right, Your Grace, truly. I spoke with Ser Davos as soon as I got here, so I know most of what's happened."

It was then that Jon Snow realized there were four newly-cooled swords standing upright against the wall. Robert Baratheon's son stood with his head bowed, undercutting the shock and surprise of this moment. "It isn't Valyrian steel, but they're quality swords. I'll make as many as I can, before."

"There isn't much I can give you but my gratitude. Our armory is still recovering from the Boltons."

"No need, Your Grace. I told you I wanted to help. I might be a good fighter, but I'm better at this." The two men shook hands. The King had never been a man of pretty words. "Ser Davos told me the other news. I suppose we weren't meant to fight side by side after all."

The blacksmith hardly looked like the bloated king Jon Snow remembered. He looked much more like the Robert Baratheon who'd struck down his own father at the Trident. Gendry Waters, though, had a particular set to his shoulders that grew from years of reminders of his fatherlessness. Jon Snow recognized it well.

"I'm starting to think that being a father has less to do with anatomy and more to do with responsibility. Ned Stark raised me, like your Tobho Mott. That's what matters." Gendry smiled sadly, rubbing a spot of soot from his cheek. "I'll leave you to your work, Waters. Don't hesitate to come find me if you need anything." Jon Snow turned to leave.

"One more thing, Your Grace. Maybe I should have told you before, but it seemed an awkward conversation to have. I knew your sister. Before."

"Sansa?" It would make sense, considering all the time the man had spent in King's Landing.

"No Your Grace. Arya. We left the city together with a group of recruits for the Night's Watch. She was on her way to you. I hate to say it, but I left her when I joined the Brotherhood. I never knew what happened to her. I was happy to see she'd finally found you."He swallowed thickly before returning to his work.

Half-formed questions floated through the King in the North's head, but the answers could wait until morning. He had a Queen waiting for him.

Her

"Your Grace, we have a dynasty to protect now. You realize this?" Tyrion Lannister was looking at her the way he always did when he thought she was about to do something inadvisable. Her hands rested on her stomach as she paced back and forth in front of her roaring hearth.

"I came here to save the North. How can I ask them to pledge themselves to me if I stay in my chambers when the Night King attacks?"

"Because you are with child. The future heir to the Iron Throne. The first child of the last two Targaryens in the world. You must see how foolish it would be for you to ride into combat, Your Grace."

"No one else can ride Drogon or Rhaegal. We need them." She eased herself into a chair, tilted her head at her Hand, and stared at him with an expression she hoped was one of placation. "I won't be fighting on foot."

The chair opposite her stood empty and inviting and Tyrion Lannister practically threw himself into it. "I hate to sound repetitive, but you realize all will be lost if something happens to you? Especially now."

"You do not know me, sir, if you think I'd let anything happen to my child."

There was a pitcher of wine on the table, mostly for Lord Tyrion's sake, and he didn't hesitate to reach for it and pour some into his cup. She knew she frustrated him often, but she imagined he fit neatly into a long history of frustrated Hands.

"I suppose," he started, smiling darkly into his cup, "it would be beside the point to congratulate myself on being correct about Lord Snow?" It took a lot of nerve to tease a Queen, and she'd chosen her Hand specifically for the height of his nerve. Maybe the eve of war wasn't the time to throw her head back and laugh, but she did it anyway.

"You were right all along. About everything. And I was being stubborn."

"It's a good match. I don't think I could have arranged anything better," he declared with triumphant finality, slamming his cup on the table.

"This isn't some politically advantageous match, Lord Tyrion." Even now, married and growing with child, the Mother of Dragons feared admitting just how important the White Wolf had become to her. Things she cared for could be lost or taken away, after all.

Tyrion Lannister pushed himself from his chair and walked around to place his hands on his Queen's shoulders, her eyes and head following him. "He's a good man. If anyone deserves you, it would be Jon Snow." He patted her reassuringly, a gesture strangely like something a father would do, before walking over to the hearth. His arm just reached the mantel. "The timing of it is rather miraculous, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Your Grace, you were rather firmly convinced that you couldn't bear children. Then you lose a dragon and gain a wolf and now here we are."

"Jon Snow thought the witch might have lied to me."

"Perhaps, Your Grace, or perhaps you had to lose one of your children to be able to bear a natural one." Only death may pay for life.

If the loss of Viscerion allowed her to be able to feel the twinges of life inside her – an impossibility she'd long since made peace with – then perhaps her past mistakes were worth their weight in gold.

"Has the King considered a sigil yet, Your Grace?" The firelight illuminated the scarred ridges of his face and he starred at her with inquisitive anticipation.

"I don't see why we wouldn't both keep the Targaryen sigil, Lord Tyrion."

"Of course, Your Grace. It would be a formidable sight to see. Only…" he paused, although his words were clearly rehearsed. "I only thought it might suit the two of you better if you adopted a new sigil. For a new Targaryen reign. A white dragon and a white wolf. With reds eyes on a black background. It would certainly indicate a strong alliance with the Stark family, and the North as a whole."

The dragon and the wolf. "You've certainly given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

Him

Watching his youngest sister rip apart a hard loaf of bread with her teeth, and then watching her wash it down with breathless chugs of ale, Jon Snow was reminded of a half-starved wild animal. Arya was never going to be a lady, but he still found it hard to calculate in his head just exactly how she had ended up becoming the creature sitting across from him. He'd quit his meal ages ago, fascinated by watching his sister's every feral movement. For her part, she either hardly noticed or else enjoyed the audience.

"What happened to you?" I should have been there for you.

There was more concern in his voice than he'd meant for there to be. There were others eating in the Great Hall. Part of him was afraid of what she'd say. Part of him didn't want anyone else to hear. She wiped her mouth clumsily, with the back of her hand.

"I became acquainted with death. Same as you, I expect."

"I should have come looking for you. You were so young when Father died." She tilted her head at him as he said this. The King in the North could've sworn she pitied him.

"You couldn't leave, Jon. The Night's Watch would have beheaded you. Besides, I wasn't alone. There were others."

"Like Gendry Waters?" he asked, and for the first time since they reunited he could see underneath her cold armor to a blushing little sister.

"For a time, yes, Gendry Waters." Arya began stacking her plates and utensils in a pile, something he was sure she'd picked up at inns along her travels. "The Hound too, for a while."

"I wish you'd made it to the Wall. I would've protected you." Before the words had even escaped his lips, Jon Snow anticipated the offended narrowing of her brown eyes.

"I've missed you Jon, more than anyone else, but I don't need anyone's protection now." He had to cover his mouth with his gloved hand to hide his smile. No, he suspected Arya didn't need anyone's protection anymore. "I don't care who you are, you know? You'll always be my brother. It doesn't matter who your father was."

"I know that."

"And I like the Queen. She's scary and she doesn't need you, but anyone with eyes can tell she loves you."

"She is a little scary, isn't she?"

"It makes a lot more sense now, though, doesn't it?" He frowned in confusion at her question. "We were always closer than the others, right? Everyone always said I reminded them of Aunt Lyanna." She beamed at him now, nearly childlike and proud of the distinction. Taking one last draining gulp from her cup, she stood from the bench, gathered her things, and looked down at her brother, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "I won't call you 'King Aegon,' you know."

His bark of laughter drew the attention of everyone in the room.

"Please, Arya. Don't ever call me that."

Her

The chill in the air was deepening. It didn't abate, even at the peak of noon, and daylight was growing scarce. And that said nothing about the atmosphere around the castle. People had stopped meeting each other's eyes in passing, even their Queen's. Daenerys Targaryen had noticed it growing for days, and now she knew it had nothing to do with modesty in the presence of the First of her Name. She could read the same shadowy, clouded message creeping around in their averted eyes.

Why hasn't it happened yet?

She'd begun to think the same thing, but it wouldn't do anyone any good to voice that opinion. She'd discussed it the night before, with Jon Snow. Her husband. She wasn't used to calling him that yet. Wasn't used to falling asleep next to him, talking into the night, wasn't used to waking up still smelling him on her pillow, and seeing him turn around to smile at her from his chair by the fire.

They'd kept the news of their wedding to their closest advisors, and now she feared they might never get the chance to share the news with anyone else.

It was as safe here, in Winterfell, as it would get for the Last Targaryens, but she still made the conscious effort not to hold her stomach while she walked across the ramparts for a burst of fresh air. Jon Snow had become increasingly busy with battle plans and Daenerys had become increasingly frantic being left indoors. Since the revelation of her quickened womb – her secret miracle kicking her softly from the inside out – everyone from Lord Snow to Ser Davos Seaworth had insisted she be kept safe. In all her life she'd never felt more cared for, or more smothered. The sharp winter wind, laced with frost, made her feel significantly less trapped.

By the time she'd made it to them, their long necks were raised and dangling chains, outstretched for her. They'd been pinned here, stuck to the earth ever since it had occurred to Lord Tyrion that letting them fly might leave them vulnerable to attack. Both her arms lifted out to them. The brittle whiskers of their snouts brushed against her fingertips and she heard their rumbled purring, until a shouting voice jolted her.

"Your Grace!" It was feminine and strong, and it sent the Queen whipping away from her breathing children. Sansa Stark was stalking briskly toward her, cowed beneath a heavy fur hood and leaning into the wind. When she caught up to Daenerys Targaryen, she stood noticeably away from the dragons. "I saw you walking and I thought you might like some company."

The Queen thought a moment before realizing that yes, she did indeed want company. Even her beloved Missandei had betrayed her – their every interaction now embodying less that of a friendship or trusted counselor and more that of a harried nurse. "Lady Sansa, I would actually love that." But Sansa didn't come any closer and she didn't say anymore. Balancing back and forth on her heels, she looked supremely uncomfortable. "You know," offered the Queen, "for a long time I thought that these would be my only children. I have your brother to thank for changing that. Although, I must admit I couldn't stand him when I met him."

At that, the line of a smile curved upward on Sansa's face and she snuck a glance at Daenerys Targaryen from under her hood. "He's always so noble, isn't he?" The women laughed together then, perhaps for the first time, because Jon Snow's goodness could, in fact, be frustrating. "My whole life I only ever wanted a sister," she said, and Daenerys raised her dark eyebrows in question. "Arya and I were hardly sisterly."

"I certainly would have traded the brother I had for a sister."

"It must seem strange, Your Grace, to find yourself with so many siblings."

"Yes, Lady Sansa, I do seem to find myself suddenly with a very large family."

"Jon will treat you well, Your Grace," she suddenly interjected, seemingly out of nowhere. "He's a good person, even if he is a little serious. He loves you."

The silver queen hadn't heard all the details regarding Sansa's last marriage, but she knew it had been torturous. "I know what it's like to be afraid of a man. I've come to learn the difference."

Sansa took a small step closer to the dragons. "We do what we must to survive." Her voice came out a stuttered whisper. Stepping closer still, she reached out her hand and Daenerys knew she must have felt a shot to the flesh of Drogon's hot smoky breath.

Him

Something about blacksmithing had always made him uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the idea of being able to wield a sword while still being ignorant to the skills that forged it. Jon Snow could admit that he was more than fair with a sword. He'd only fought alongside Gendry Waters the once, but from what he'd been able to observe, he'd noticed that Gendry fought like his life depended on it. His movements had not been smooth or graceful – no one would have mistaken Waters for a man raised by a master-at-arms. On the other hand, the bastard son of a king forged a sword like it was his life, one that stretched out long and cloudless before him.

To the left of him stood Ser Davos, and it wasn't hard to see that that old Onion Knight cared for the blacksmith. Although he didn't mention it often, the King knew that his Hand still felt a fair amount of grief over the loss of his son, and the Princess Shireen. Some men needed to be fathers.

"I don't know what we would've done without this, Ser Davos," he said, loudly trying to be heard over the hammering. Davos, with his arms clasped behind his back, dipped his head humbly.

"It's no small thing, Your Grace, but it's the least I can do. I won't be much help when the fight arrives."

"You're always more help than you realize, Ser Davos."

It had been a few days since Jon Snow and his Hand had conversed about anything other than the task before them, much the worse he felt because of it. Davos had been chosen for his counsel, both politically and personally, and so many times he just felt better after voicing all his jumbled thoughts to the Knight. But here they were, waiting on the next Valyrian sword, waiting on the Queen to meet them at the forge. "It seems strange, Ser Davos, to still be called 'Your Grace.'"

He shook his head at the insanity of it, turning to look at his Hand. Waves of uncertainty washed over him at the title. All he could see in his mind's eye was the Iron Throne, and all he could feel was the unforgiving steel of that seat.

"I've called you 'Your Grace' before, Your Grace, when you were the King in the North. A crown sits heavy, no matter the kingdom."

"How did we get here, Ser Davos?" He laughed a little, and so did the Knight. "I think about it so much, and I cannot see it. It makes no sense. I was never meant to be a King."

"Technically, Your Grace…" Davos trailed off. They hadn't really discussed the fact that yes, in fact, Jon Snow had been meant to be a King. A beat of a moment passed before they two men chuckled together.

"I suppose you're right. But I didn't know that growing up. At best, I hoped people might think me honorable. Forget I was a bastard."

The pounding of Gendry's blacksmithing hammer drowned out the embarrassed quiver in Lord Snow's voice. Davos took a step closer to him, placing his mutilated hand on his shoulder.

"Most men follow kings because that's what they're told to do. I chose my King, and it wasn't because of his name. It was because I knewStannis would be a good king, a just king. The kind a man could be proud to serve. In the end I wasn't proud. I lost my son and my King. And then I found you, Your Grace." His misshapen fingers patted his shoulder for emphasis, for reassurance. "King in the North or King of the Andals, I'll follow you. And you've got some woman by your side, Your Grace. If we all make it through this, it'll be thanks to the two of you."

There was a rustle behind them. It wasn't loud by any means, but all three men stopped, suspended in time and space. Gendry lowered his hammer and the words flowing between the King and his Hand suddenly stopped, like a river dammed half-way through its downward slope.

Hooded and cloaked all in wolfish white, she looked like a spirit standing in the doorway of the sun-stained twilight sky. When she lowered her hood, Jon Snow could see her hair was only braided two or three times, most of it loose and curling, dappled with melting snowflakes. She shook out the moisture, carelessly flicking her head and her tresses from one side to the other as she approached. To his eyes, the Queen was glowing. When she got close enough, he had to remind himself that he was a King first and a husband after that. He couldn't just sweep her up and carry her off.

"Good evening. I believe you two have something miraculous to show me?"