Jon

"Our Queen?"

"The same." It comforted him to know that the Half-Man shared his reverence for Daenerys, providing him an assurance he could not even receive from his own family. Grey Worm and Missandei were dedicated to her too, but they were never ones for conversation, much less the Dothraki.

"That's good, in a way." Ever since the Great War, Tyrion Lannister seemed to have taken to the drink more, reminding him of when he first met the Imp on that chilly night, outside another feast, so many years before.

"Her bruises are healing. Cuts...disappearing."

"She's mending. That gives me hope." He took a large swig of the wine, squinting at the map of the Seven Kingdoms laid before them. "It ought to give the entire realm hope."

"We march tomorrow," Ser Davos remarked. "Should take us a week to reach Moat Cailin, provided the weather stays fair." It wasn't an official war council, considering it comprised of just them three. There was little need for Grey Worm or the new Khal, Madri, Jon thought his name was, as they were staying at Winterfell alongside their Queen. They were brave fighters, all whom Dany had brought over from Essos, but the Unsullied and the Dothraki knew little of the politics involved with the ride south. To be honest, Jon himself knew little of it either. He hoped Ser Davos would be of help. Tyrion too, though as much as he genuinely enjoyed the company of Dany's Hand, even his mind tended to wander when the Half-Man started rambling on about some esoteric subject tangential to whatever subject matter was actually at hand.

"Howland Reed was my father's," again a pause, again the instinct to correct himself, again the reminder that this was his secret to keep, "...bannerman. They fought together in Robert's Rebellion..."

He stopped, forgetting what he was about to say, if he ever knew in the first place. It was a good thing this wasn't an official council, because his head was clearly not in the details. Gods, he was so tired, his body still aching from the fight days before, his head still pounding from the successive nights of celebration for a North suddenly delirious with relief and joy, but it was his soul that wearied the most. The thought of the fighting, the wars to come, filled him with ever encompassing dread. He bent the knee to Dany. He pledged his sword. And though he knew what that meant when he did so, the waiting now only served to remind him how sweet peace was, how good home felt...and how fleeting this feeling would likely be for the rest of his days.

"Howland Reed will march for Ned Stark's son," a deep, feminine voice said, interrupting all three of them. It was Sansa, of course, and the glint in her eye made it clear that she structured her words purely for Jon's benefit, as if each moment she did not reveal his secret was a personal favor from her to him. "But will he march for the Dragon Queen?"

"My Lady," Tyrion acknowledged. They had been married once. Neither one of them chose to speak much to Jon about the matter, though both made sure to stress only that it had been brief. And unconsummated. "Howland Reed is pledged to the North. Jon Snow, as King in the North, pledged his fealty to Queen Daenerys. That makes Howland Reed sworn to Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen."

"Spare me the children's lecture," Sansa said dismissively, not bothering to hide her scorn. "Howland Reed is honorable, I'll grant you that. They will answer the call, unlike other houses sworn to us." It did not escape anyone's notice the pointed look she gave at Deepwood Motte on the map as she spoke. "Have you met my uncle Edmure?"

Jon shook his head, trying to remember if Catelyn's brother ever bothered visiting Winterfell. He could recall no specific occurrence, and he was certain it was the same for Sansa.

"I haven't either. From what I hear though, it will take all your willpower at times not to bash his head against a wall when you do march with him."

Jon laughed. His sister's contempt for deserving targets did make him laugh...when it wasn't directed towards himself, or Daenarys. "That bad?"

To his surprise, it was Tyrion who replied. "That bad, I'm afraid. I do recall my late father remarking more than once that if it wasn't Edmure's incompetence that won the war for him, it was still enough to keep House Lannister from losing the war outright to your brother."

"No," Sansa said, rediscovering this odd, newfound interest of hers in maps and all military matters. She looked wistful, almost sad, as she scanned the towns and houses dotting the realm between the North and the Riverlands. "Ned Stark may be your father, but Edmure is not your uncle, and Robin Arryn not your cousin."

She looked up, staring directly into his soul, and there was an indecipherable intensity in her blue eyes. "What are you saying," Jon asked, the other two at the table suddenly forgotten.

"It's wrong, you know. To push you back into the thick of things so soon after defeating the dead. You need rest. You deserve it."

"I want it," Jon said, "but we need to defend ourselves against Cersei. You know that better than anyone."

She stood up straight, rigidly, and it was hard to ignore her composure when her pose served to consciously remind whomever present that she was the trueborn daughter of Eddard of House Stark, one of only seven Great Houses in the land. "Ser Davos," she said, summoning his name as if he were a Northern lord and she seated at the head of the Great Hall.

"Lady Sansa," Davos answered, looking at Jon, just as confused as he.

"I will march south with my people. I will march alongside Lord Royce, who helped Jon and I take back the North. Will you march south with us, at the head of the Northern armies alongside Ser Brienne, in Jon's place?"

"My lady," Davos began, not sure how to answer.

"Lady Sansa..."

"You can't be serious," Jon gasped, wondering if this was all a sudden dream. Out of all things, having seen and defeated the dead, this was absolutely the last thing he ever expected to hear. If he were a betting man, he would have put a good amount of coin that his sister would never again step foot outside Winterfell. "Sansa...I know you're not a little girl anymore, but you're not a...warlord."

"No," she said, her features softening, and Jon was relieved that she did not take his words as an insult. It was tough to tell with her sometimes. "And I'm no southerner, either. But I do know the South. Sometimes it feels like I've spent more years there than even Ser Davos..."

"Another old joke," the Onion Knight grumbled bemusedly.

"Stay here with your Queen," Sansa said softly, so that it seemed that her words were loud enough only for the two of them to hear. "Take care of her. She needs you. You need her."

"I can't let you go off on your own, Sansa," Jon forced himself to say, even as he marveled that he never realized how selfless Sansa was, that she would go this far out of her way for him. "It's not safe."

"No, it's not," she agreed, and for a splitting second he could see it in her eyes, the fear, the dread. She did not want to go either. But something was compelling her. Then, they were stone again. "It's not Winterfell. But I'll be at the back of two great armies. Failing that, I have two of the most impregnable castles in Westeros to fall back to. If Cersei is foolish enough to send her armies north, I trust Ser Davos will be able to hold his own. This is not his first battle, you know."

Davos shook his head. "I'm afraid if it's the first battle where I'll actually have to do something useful, then I'd advise you to stay in Winterfell."

Jon stepped forward towards his sister. "I am Warden of the North, you know. I decide who marches with whom."

"And I am the Lady Paramount of the North," Sansa argued back, and it was clear now that this would not be something she gave easily on, "so I believe I have just the same amount of say."

"Not quite," Tyrion interrupted for the first time. "Our Queen has not appointed you Lady Paramount of anything, as she's appointed Jon Warden. In fact, she hasn't even appointed you Lady of Winterfell, for the matter."

"No," Sansa countered, her voice getting more impatient by the second. "The Knights of the Vale appointed me Lady of Winterfell by right of force, just as Daenerys seeks to appoint herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with the Unsullied and the Dothraki by right of force." Turning to ignore whatever Tyrion wanted to retort with, she looked to address Jon directly again. "The Lords of the North are loyal to me. And also to you. This isn't about who's more powerful between us, Jon. Please, don't make this a thing."

Her words softened as she spoke, cooling the fire in his chest, leaving only doubt. "What should I make of it then?"

A smile crept upon her lips. A reminder of the kind woman she had become, despite all the horrible things that had happened to her. Despite all the shields and defenses she had to wear day after day as a result.

"Consider it a gift. You've had to bear the burden for far too long, Jon. For once, let someone else do so."

"She's not doing this out of generosity, you know."

"Aye, I get that," Jon snapped, then instantly regretting raising his voice at the Imp. "I don't get what she gets of out of leaving Winterfell though."

He had fervently wanted to say no to Sansa, but she clearly hinted during that entire conversation that if it came to that, while the loyalties of the North may be split evenly between the two, she had far more influence over the Vale than he, and she would not hesitate to use that if she had to. Of course, there were the Unsullied and Dothraki too, who could be easily be convinced to distrust Sansa, but their ire was the last thing he wanted to turn upon his own sister. His concern was for her safety, above all other things, though he had to admit that both his sisters knew how to take care of themselves by now. And though Sansa was clearly not the fighter Arya was, she was smart enough not to put herself in obvious danger, or so he hoped.

"She hasn't made much of a secret to me how much she distrusts our Queen," Tyrion remarked sadly, and immediately Jon understood how much Tyrion wanted Sansa to accept Daeneyrs, almost as much as he did. "I doubt she's kept that from you, considering her nature."

"She's stubborn, and she's not quiet about it." He respected Sansa's willpower, an unbreakable spine that allowed her to suffer through countless horrors through the years. But why was he always on the receiving end of her displeasure? "You think she's trying to plot against our Queen behind her back?"

"I don't know," Tyrion admitted. "I don't know what she wants. Maybe she does feel a genuine sense of obligation to the Vale. Maybe she wants to honor her mother's memory by protecting the Riverlands from my sister." He took a hard swig of his wine before continuing, and Jon could guess that he would not like what Tyrion was about to say. "Maybe she is looking to build her own influence in three kingdoms where Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully's names carries her the furthest. Maybe it's all of that, and more."

"My sister Sansa wants to be Lady Paramount of the North and Vale and Riverlands?" Jon laughed, taking a glass of ale alongside Tyrion. "Sansa isn't blind to power, I'll admit that. But she was ready to give me Winterfell until I pushed it on her. I can hardly see her going so out of her way to become the next Cersei of the North."

"Gods help us if that's the case," Tyrion remarked with an exaggerated shutter. "But you're right. She is going really far out of her way. And not for nothing."

"If she wanted to hurt Dany," Jon started, remembering the secret that he shared with Sansa, regretting now that he did so. But she kept it so far, had she not? "She'd have a..."

"What," Tyrion asked, eyes suddenly alert.

Jon shook his head. "Nothing." He took a deep breath. "Sansa is my sister. She may not agree with me all the time, but she respects me. And I made clear my allegiance."

Tyrion shook his head in turn. "Incorrect."

Jon glared at him, but the Half Man continued.

"She loves you as a brother. She respected you as a king. But you're no longer a king. And you heard her, she respects your position as Warden only so much as she respects our Queen's authority to appoint you to that position. And I suspect she's not alone in thinking that way, here in the North." He stood, barely standing taller than Jon crouched down on his chair. "Allow me to ride south."

"I definitely have no authority over you, my Lord Hand," Jon muttered.

"If my worst fears are but for naught, at least I can help your sister in her efforts on behalf of our Queen." His sarcasm was apparent with his first remark. "If it's anything more than that, I will also make sure I represent our Queen's interests with the Lords of the Vale and Riverlands."

"I...," Jon stopped, trying to discern between what he actually believed and what he was willing to admit to Tyrion. "I don't believe that she'd actually go behind my back. But promise me, Tyrion...anything that happens, you tell me first. Before you tell Grey Worm, or Varys, or Missandei, or..."

"I will," Tyrion agreed, then paused. "Only if it's not the worst."

Jaime

Some things never changed. Eight years ago when he first visited, Jaime Lannister had found Winterfell to be so terribly, tediously boring. Now that the dead was no longer at its doors, all memories concerning the sheer mundaneness of the North returned to him. That's not to say all the people here were boring, though most of them were, save a few. Spending time with Tyrion was a blessing he never imagined he could enjoy again. He had forgotten his pleasant his wit was, and his fundamental sweetness as a person, under that cynical facade. Only, Tyrion seemed less cynical these days. That could be attributed to the Dragon Queen, he supposed, and Jaime still had yet to decide that was an improvement or not on his brother.

Jon Snow was even less interesting as a former king and, if the whispers were true, a man who had passed through the shadow of death and back, than he was as a disgruntled, angry bastard off to join the Night's Watch all those years back. He may have saved the world, but that did not make him good company. Besides, the man seemed little interested in doing anything these days, now that his Great War was won, beside brood and probably cry behind closed doors over his fallen Queen. The Stark sisters were surprisingly interesting. He had never given them a second thought in King's Landing, even when the older one was married to his brother. Now that they were older, and certainly changed, he supposed he saw in them now what only Catelyn Stark had when she risked everything, even her own son's war, to set him free in order to save them.

He would love to talk to the younger one. Brienne swore she would be a match for him even when he had his good hand. Where did she learn how to fight, he and everyone else in the castle all wondered. Hearsay varied, but most agreed that Arya Stark had somehow made her way to Essos for some time, after Ned Stark died and before the meeting in the Dragonpit. He heard one serving girl say Volantis, a horse boy claim she learned magic all the way out in Asshai, and even the Maester here he overheard say something about Braavos and the Faceless Men. It would be a good place for himself to visit, once the wars died down. If this band of assassins could take in a runaway highborn girl and turn her into an assassin who could literally kill death itself, sure they could do a thing or two for an above average swordsman with one hand. If only he could track her down, but Jaime knew that Ned Stark's daughter would never answer any question from him, even if he were able to corner her.

The older sister was another matter. He had not spoken to her since the morning immediately after the battle, but he found himself under her wing now, his continued stay at Winterfell dependent upon his place beside Lady Sansa's most dedicated protector. They shared something in common, he thought, something he could not name. Perhaps it was just disillusionment at a world that failed both of them at such a young age. In another world, a different history, they may have been friends.

No. Jaime Lannister does not have friends.

But even Cersei had admitted to him, before Joffrey's death, a grudging admiration for the girl, that she could endure so much and still be so...perfect, Cersei had said. Contemptuously of course. Afterwards, she believed firmly that Sansa had a hand in their son's murder for a time, though even then, he had his doubts and even then, he could not begrudge her. Not after what his family had done to hers. There was no honor with traitors like the Freys, he had seen that firsthand, no satisfaction from a battle evenly fought and fairly won...the only battles men like Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy ever knew.

And the Lady Olenna had been right, after all. Joffrey was a cunt. He cried for Myrcella, alone in that boat with his lovely daughter's body. His innocent daughter. Tommen was innocent too, but there had never been any warmth between them, the young king too prematurely lost as a pawn for every Great House in the hideous game both his sister and the Dragon Queen were determined to win. But Joffrey...he wouldn't doubt it if Joffrey would have ordered Ser Ilyn Payne to behead him if he ever told him the truth of his parentage. He thought he loved his oldest son then, but looking back, he realized he actually cared little for him, the only emotion he still felt from that day being what her firstborn's death did to Cersei.

It was a blessing then, that they were never close. Perhaps in a perfect world he and Cersei could have raised him differently, had they the chance to do so without suffering fat Robert's wrath. Three children born, three children dead, and he a father for merely a second or two during Myrcella's last moments. There was still a chance, he remembered, and he felt his heart physically ache.

"Lady Sansa is ready to see you."

It was the littlest Stark. He didn't even hear her approach, then all of a sudden she was there, standing still as though she had always been there on the other side of his periphery.

"Lady Arya..."

"Don't," was all she bothered to say to him, before turning abruptly to walk into the solar where her older sister awaited. Lady Sansa stood at her full height, tall enough to look down on many men, including her own bastard brother, and though she did not loom over Jaime, her cold demeanor would still be enough to intimate many other men, knights, his own size. But not Jaime Lannister.

"Ser Jaime," she said neutrally, gesturing for him to sit across from her. She sat too, and Arya took her place next to her sister, standing and looking at him as if she couldn't wait to cut out his throat as she did to Petyr Baelish not long before he arrived.

"Lady Sansa. I..."

"Sandor Clegane is here," she interrupted, an annoying habit from these Stark girls of late. "You both stood guard over my beloved Joffrey before. Have you seen him?"

"I caught a few glimpses, lurking during the battle," Jaime said, not failing to notice the sheer hatred in her voice when she brought up the former king. "Saw him during the feast too, but he didn't look like he wanted to talk."

"He talked to me," Sansa said simply. "He used to call me a little bird, you know. Back in the capital."

"I'm sure he did," Jaime replied back, wondering where she was leading this conversation, and how it would inevitably lead to his own execution.

"I'm not a little bird any more. I have little birds now. Little birds that tell me you've been spending many a night in Ser Brienne's chambers. Little birds that tell me you and Lord Tyrion had a visitor from the capital the other night."

Jaime sighed, wondering if this was going to be what he was going to have to deal with his entire life, or as long as he stayed in Winterfell. The constant suspicion, mistrust, questioning no matter how much Brienne vouched for him. "If you're going to accuse me of treason, stop playing around and just do it."

The two sisters exchanged an imperceptible look, but said nothing.

"It was Bronn," he grumbled. "And for what it's worth, he was there to kill us on behalf of my sister."

"Tyrion's man," Sansa asked, clearly upset from having to recall her time in King's Landing.

"Not after Joffrey's death, Cersei made sure of that."

"Why didn't he kill you," the little one asked coldly.

Jaime shook his head. Was there a reason why he shouldn't say? Tyrion was the political one. Why couldn't she interrogate him instead?

"Tyrion promised him Highgarden."

This seemed to surprise even Sansa, though she brushed off whatever she felt about the news immediately.

"That promise can only be fulfilled after the Dragon Queen kills your sister."

Jaime nodded. It was an unpleasant truth, but it was still the truth.

"And what do you think about that?"

He sighed again. He was not ready for this. These were questions he still struggled with every day, and these girls had no right to interrogate him like this. Except they did, he was their guest after all. And prisoner, possibly, depending on their whims.

"You still love her," Sansa continued, "even after she tried to kill you?"

He didn't respond, but he knew his face gave away the answer.

"Do you love Brienne?"

"I do."

"More than Cersei?"

He didn't answer once more, and didn't fail to note the disappointed look on Sansa's face.

"You know she is dead, don't you? Once the Dragon Queen awakes, and it will not be pleasant for her when Fire and Blood arrives upon her doorsteps."

"But she's knocked out, isn't she," Jaime snapped back, feeling his defiance returning. "I'm already a Kingslayer. Say the word, and I'll gladly act as your Queenslayer right now."

He thought he imagined a smile from Arya, but it was gone before he could tell. Her older sister was completely unreadable now, the subject of Daenerys clearly more troubling for her than even Cersei.

"House Frey betrayed guests under their roof," Sansa asked, finally. "You heard what happened to them?"

"They're dead," Jaime said, remembering how puzzled he was riding past Riverrun, hearing of the absolute chaos and dozens of contradicting stories about what happened to the wretched family he had so recently installed there.

"I killed them," Arya said coldly, sending a chill even down his spine. "Every last one of them."

"How," he managed to bring himself to ask.

Arya shrugged. "Different ways. I made sure old Walder got it worst though. I fed him his sons before I slit his throat."

She may look like a little girl, but her eyes were colder than the Night King she slew, and Jaime knew he must have looked ridiculous right about now, staring at little Arya Stark slack jawed.

"Unlike the Freys," Sansa said, interrupting his foolish paralysis, "the Starks will honor our obligations to those we shelter under our roofs. If you hurt Brienne, however, I will allow her to do with you as she wishes."

He wanted to say he would never hurt Brienne, but he knew that would be a lie. He didn't want to hurt her. She was the best person he knew, and everything he didn't deserve, but there were some things outside his control.

"Cersei's pregnant," he blurted out.

"Yours?"

Jaime nodded.

The Lady of Winterfell stood and gathered the scrolls on her desk. He stood as well, wondering if he was being dismissed now.

"Our armies are prepared to march, as I'm sure you've noticed. I hope you haven't sent word to Cersei."

"I haven't," Jaime said. It was true. A small part of him still wanted Cersei to somehow survive this mess. He may not be the good man Brienne may believe he was now, but even the Jaime Lannister of old had his lines. Betraying his hosts was not one he believed he would have crossed in the past.

And pushing their son off a tower is?

"My brother stays at Winterfell. I will march south myself."

This took him by surprise. "You plan on taking King's Landing yourself," he asked incredulously.

"No. But I have no intention of letting your sister get a stranglehold over North. We will march to the Trident." Speaking as she studied her scrolls, she looked up at him. "The weaker Cersei's position is when the Dragon Queen wakes, the less impulse she may feel towards burning your sister and her unborn child alive."

"Since when do you care about the welfare of my sister," Jaime asked. He felt lost once more, like he did in King's Landing, when the rest of his family made their plots and conspiracies around him and his only role was to mutely follow their lead.

"You are an experienced commander, Ser Jaime. Perhaps the best we have left after almost ten years of war. March south with Brienne and I. I'm not asking you to fight your sister, but I ask your help in protecting the kingdoms of Westeros from a foreign army."

Jaime scoffed. Perhaps the Stark girl and Cersei shared more than either would care to admit. "You have something to offer me?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Sansa admitted. "If the Dragon Queen awakes, I have no power over her. But what little influence I have, I swear to you I will use all of it to keep your sister alive until your child is born. I will do whatever I can to protect the child until he or she is yours to raise. And if Cersei is to die, as I'm sure Daenerys will insist upon sooner or later, I will do what I can to give you a chance to bid your farewells to her in person, if that is what you wish."

It was a lot for him to take in all at once, confront all the conflicts and feelings he'd been pushing off for so long. Sansa had clearly prepared this all along, and he felt it unfair that he had to answer her at once, now.

"I have no wish to take King's Landing, Ser Jaime," Sansa continued, sensing his indecision. "If she doesn't wake, I just want to make it clear to Cersei that the northern kingdoms are no longer her domain. She can keep the rest."

"If I take arms against her," he finally found himself saying, "she will never forgive me."

"She already tried to kill you. Would fighting a few battles make things that much worse?"

He took a deep breath. He thought he crossed the line when he left her months ago. There would be no return after this. But Sansa was right, this could be the best way to save Cersei, to save their child, even if it meant she would forever hate him. He nodded.

"I'll ride south," he said, barely mumbling his words out. "On your word, I will fight on your behalf. But not anywhere within a week's ride of King's Landing."

Sansa nodded as well, then looked to Arya. "Would you trust him?"

The little Stark stared at her older sister with an intensity that seemed almost like anger to him.

"Not entirely. But more than most."

Sansa

It changed everything, yet she was thankful Bran had told her, because it gave her a chance to think. It did not escape her notice that while Bran's words were directed at Jon, he was looking at her and only her when he said them. The certainty was a blessing, even though it wasn't the certainty she preferred. Because the certainty was what allowed her, pushed her, to act now, while she still could.

"How long are you going to be angry with me?"

Her sister's eyes made little effort to hide her rage. Not when Ser Jaime was still present. Nor after he left.

"You know what Cersei means to me," Arya replied.

"You know what she means to me as well," Sansa rebutted, her voice rising. She did not want to match torments endured with her little sister, not again. "But she's not our only threat anymore. We need him. I'm doing this for the North. For Jon, even if he's going to end up hating me for it."

"He shouldn't have told her."

"He told us as well. He can't help himself. He is Ned Stark's son. To the point where he'll needlessly put himself in harm's way every chance he gets. He already died once for his mistakes, stabbed at the wall by his own men." Sansa covered her eyes with her hands, grateful for once that she was not with Jon when he was betrayed by his own sworn brothers. Had she heard the news at the time, before knowing he would return, she wasn't sure how she would have taken it. For all she knew at then, he was the last of her blood, her family, still alive. When they saw each other again, she thought they were the only survivors. Had she thought herself truly alone, could she have given up? Before she even had the chance to take her home back and rediscover her family?

"The things I'm thinking," Sansa mused quietly, "father will not be proud of me."

"It was mother that let Jaime free," Arya said, surprising her. "To save us. Some things are more important than honor."

"How'd that work out for her," Sansa said, feeling that bitterness and anger whenever she thought, truly thought, about the family they'd lost, and how they died. "Or Robb?"

"It worked out for you, in the end. Brienne found you. Saved you. Now the power is yours. It's your turn." Arya took several methodical paces around the room, swirling to face Sansa. "You have a plan in mind?"

"Nothing clear," Sansa said, frowning. It bothered her that there were so many things she couldn't control, that she would still be so dependent on others near and far. "But a few ideas, yes."

Arya laughed. "Now you sound like Bran." Her expression turned serious. "You're going to tell them about Jon, aren't you?"

Sansa nodded. "I have to. If all the lords of Westeros know who he really is, what it really means, then Daenerys will think twice before harming him. Should their thing with each other ever go bad."

"And if they do decide he's a better king, wouldn't that put Jon back in danger?"

Sansa bit her lip. Arya was right, it was a gamble. She felt good about the gamble, but she was still nevertheless playing with Jon's life. But he wasn't safe now, and it would be worse if she didn't act. "He has one dragon now. And Daenerys one less."

"He won't do it."

"I hope he won't have to." Sansa looked around the room. She loved Winterfell. After the Battle of the Bastards, she worried that her memory of the place would always be tainted by the time she was forced to share it with the Boltons. But not even Ramsey had enough power to erase her love of her home, a love she never quite comprehended until it was taken away from her, and kept from her for so many years. "Stay with me, Arya. Please. I need you. Cersei can wait. She may be yours yet, but let me honor my vow to Ser Jaime. Besides, you spared all the Frey women and children. You're not a baby killer."

"No," Arya said, agreeing. She laughed. "A Lannister sworn to the Dragon Queen. A Lannister who might still be loyal to Cersei. I guess you do need me with you for a bit longer."

Sansa allowed herself to smile, a rare, real one without any other motives or purposes in mind. "I'm glad to have you, Arya, but as a favor to me, can you at least try to hide your displeasure in having to accompany your older sister while she secures the North?"

"Be careful, sister."

Sansa could tell that Jon was doing his best to put on a happy face for the occasion, to hide all the conflicting feelings he had about her leaving. His fear for her. His mistrust of her, worries that she was planning something he wouldn't like. His own relief at not having to fight yet another war for once. His own guilt at shirking what he felt ought to be his duty.

"Stark men don't do well down south," Sansa said, smiling as she cupped his bearded cheek in one hand, stressing her first two words. Even now, she regretted so much how she had treated him when they were younger, and if that meant overdoing it in reminding him how much he was no different than her or Arya or Bran, so be it. "Stark women do better, I think. This one didn't do too bad, all things considered."

Jon waved his head towards Arya, standing at attention behind her, and studiously ignoring the not so subtle looks coming her way from the bastard Baratheon boy, the smith. Sansa made a note to ask her about that once they were on the road.

"And she'll do fine. That I'm certain."

One last hug, and Sansa allowed herself the indulgence of admiring the walls and hallways of her home from the courtyard, hopefully not for the last time. It wasn't that she was planning to die, just the opposite, but Sansa considered herself enough of a realist to never fully deny that possibility. She was in good company: her sister, the Hound, whom Arya had somehow talked into coming along, Yohn Royce, Brienne, Podrick, Ser Davos, the Lannister brothers, and the eunuch, whom Tyrion likely dragged into their trip as well.

In a way, she felt relief in leaving, in that she could push herself to go through with what she least desired, for the sake her duty. Somewhere in those walls the Dragon Queen still slept. And that made it easier, Sansa realized. Her presence always bothered her. It could not be denied that Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons played a crucial role in destroying the Army of the Dead. But at the same time, this was the woman who could yet still destroy their family, and the North while she was at it. And there she slept, within the halls of their home, a dragon destined to wake again if Bran was right.

And there was Bran. His eyes had not left her that entire morning. That was odd, for he rarely seemed to pay much heed to her, much less anyone else, especially after the Night King was defeated. She walked to hug him.

"Goodbye, Bran. We won't be long."

"You will be," Bran said, soft enough so that no one else could hear, surprising her with his words.

"What do you mean," Sansa asked nervously. "It's a short ride to the Riverlands." She frowned. "Is Cersei sending her armies north?"

"Many things will happen before you return," Bran said, pointedly ignoring her question. "If you choose to leave."

The fear, that stinging fear reminding her of those moments before the battles, memories of Ramsey and his hounds, came rushing back, and for a moment she thought she could not bear to keep standing.

"Will I return though?"

He nodded. It was subtle, and Sansa wondered if she even saw him nod. He did, she decided.

"Things will have changed then...Sansa of House Stark."

Forcing herself to muster up a smile, she bent down to hug him again, then turned to eye the open gate, and what lay beyond. Mounting her horse, she saw Arya already upon hers, who gave her a reassuring look as they rode forward.

Notes: Thanks to those who reviewed thus far. As to whether this will be a Jonerys story...I'll just say that it'll be similar to the show. Right now, Jon is definitely still dedicated to her. And yes, Dany could have made a great ruler, had the people of Westeros embraced her. And therein lies the tragedy. As for Sansa, you can see in this story that she's already planning on doing whatever it takes to protect her family, in her mind at least, even if they may hate her for it.