Hi guys I wanted to do a slightly longer Author's Note today as like an "inside the episode" if you will, hope you don't mind :D Also just thank you so much for your reviews, they were a HUGE relief! I was very worried about how this chapter would go over so it was very encouraging to hear back from you guys, I loved each one! WatchHeart, I'm so sorry I broke your heart with Jaime, lol, I broke mine a little as well. There's a few reasons I allowed him to die, one is that this wouldn't be as true to the show if we didn't lose people that we're not "okay" with losing. I mean I'm not going to permanently kill our couple because this IS fanfiction and I'm not into tragedy endings with lovers. But since this is not primarily a Jaime/Brienne love fanfic, I've allowed him to die because I believe that's where his arc is going, both in the books and the show.

Jaime was raised very selfishly, very much with the focus on self-preservation. It was all about them, the Lannisters, and making sure their legacy and their power and money lasted. I think that became part of who he was, especially with his incestual relationship at such a young age, it was more of that selfish "us and no one else" kind of thinking. Still, he did have honor, and Jaime's whole story throughout ASOIAF is this remembering that he is a man of honor, finding what it means for him personally-that it doesn't mean you need to be a stick-up-your-butt, more self-righteous kind of person like Ned Stark, but that you can still do the right thing. I really think that Brienne was the catalyst that allowed him to break past his selfish nature-her and being maimed. So bringing this story around to him seeking redemption, first in trying to keep his oath to Catelyn, then leaving Cersei, and ultimately dying for the boy that he'd selfishly tried to kill in the first place felt like it was right for his character. I honestly think the show is going to go the same route, bringing his character arc to an end by him sacrificing himself in some way for the Starks (probably Bran). His story and the fact that the show already is fine with killing people we love is just begging for an ending like that, as tragic as it is. It felt right to write, even if it did break my heart.

This chapter will get a little more into what happened with Daenerys, and it's going to have a very predestination feel. I allowed Dany and her dragons to die because really I believe their purpose all along was this. Dragons are terrifying, destructive creatures of death, alpha-predators that we don't want roaming Westeros in a time of peace. The Targaryens were terrible conquerors, hell-bent on domination above everything else, and Dany has that in her as well. She fights it, much more than some of her ancestors, but it's still there. I think it was all there for a reason, all of her drive to conquer Westeros was necessary to get her all of the armies and actually get across the Narrow Sea to Westeros so that she could be in the right place at the right time for when she needed to fight in the war for the living. It was always her purpose. If you haven't checked out some of the popular fan theories on how ASOIAF will end on youtube, I recommend doing so, they may make the way I've gone with this make a bit more sense.

You guys are the best readers ever! There's still more to come with picking up the pieces in Westeros, bringing an end to Cersei, and settling our favorite couple with their new family addition on the way. Thank you, thank you!

Chapter 26

"It is over." Bran's pupils rolled back into place and he raised his head, looking about him at the terrified faces flickering in the torchlight. They were holding their breaths for the outcome—Varys, Missandei, Rain and Moss, Sansa and Tyrion and so many others—all white faced and waiting. Bran allowed himself a smile, "We have won."

Like a wave the faces before him broke with emotion, each in their own unique way. Some shouted in victory, others wept, releasing all of the pent-up feelings that had been torturing them inside since the battle had begun. Some laughed and embraced those around them, and some just sat and stared in wonder. Tyrion was one of the latter. There was no doubt he was grateful—the relief had shot through him like a drug, immediately relaxing his nerves. Yet he'd suffered loss, had paid so dearly for the victory. He swallowed and forced a smile at those around him who were celebrating. This, he thought, is what the singers and the poets mean by "bittersweet." It is such a sweet, sweet ending, and yet the bitterness fills my mouth.

The doors were being pushed open and daylight flooded the dim passageway of the crypts. Those who'd been lying in anxious wait were now shuffling out into the courtyard, embracing those they'd been agonizing over during their long and terrifying morning beneath the earth.

Sansa stepped forth, blinking as her eyes adjusted and swallowed hard. She knew it was selfish to only care about whether her Sandor had made it through or not, yet she could not help it. She had to know. The Lord of Light is not done with him yet. That's what Beric said, he said he needed to live for a purpose. It gave her courage to begin searching the sea of dirty, exhausted, and blood-stained faces which greeted her. Unless, her stomach flipped inside of her, sending a shock of horror through her body. Unless he fulfilled his purpose and then died. Gods, don't let it be so. Her whole body was shaking as she stepped around the side of the doors, looking for the face of the man she loved.

She knew he'd be standing a head above the others, and when she didn't see his large form she placed a hand on her stomach, forcing her eyelids closed—forcing the ragged breaths to come evenly, and her mind to keep calm. The ache in her throat was becoming unbearable and she desperately tried not to believe the worst.

"Sansa." She whirled, the relief in hearing his deep voice rushing over her like a wave as she looked up at him. It clouded her mind, sent chills all through her body—tingles that made her want to shudder all over. She felt nauseated suddenly and her skin went cold. Her vision narrowed into a tunnel of black as all her strength left her body.

He caught her before she fell, gently hoisted her into his arms and began walking toward the hall which had been untouched by the breeched wall. Sandor looked down at her pale face, tiny beads of sweat forming on the ivory skin that was still scratched and blood-stained from her fight with the dead. His heart gave a queer little ache as he thought of how she'd fought monsters for him, his little lady Sansa, and he held her closer.

He pushed the heavy doors in and laid her on the nearest table, removing his gauntlets. He gently lifted her upper body as he stroked the hair back from her face. "Sansa," he breathed softly, rasping. "Little bird, come back." He knew there was no danger—she'd passed out, likely from nerves—and he was taking the moment to revel in being safe with her. Finally safe.

He suddenly remembered what she'd revealed to him, and his hands moved down to her waist, gently settling on her stomach. Our child will be safe. My child. The thrill that went through his body as he finally allowed it to sink in was something he'd never experienced before. He'd never thought he'd have children or a family. Of course he'd wanted it, in his moments of weakness when he'd allowed his walls to come down. Of course he'd wanted love and a life of peace—he'd just never thought it was possible for him. His life had been nothing but terror and cruelty—there had been no place for love.

Until her. He looked back up at her face, her delicate features framed in her tousled red hair. "Sansa," he whispered, near her face. He couldn't bring himself to finish his thought aloud, I never dared to hope that I could be as happy as I am in this moment. You have given me everything that I never thought I could have, everything I never believed I deserved. He stroked her hair away from her face and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. She began to stir, her brow furrowing and a slight moan coming from her lips. Her eyes blinked slowly open and finally focused on his face.

"Oh, Sandor…" she paused, concern etched in her features as she saw that there were tears in his eyes—something she'd never before seen. She remembered that night, long ago during the Battle of the Blackwater when she'd felt the tears on his face, but she'd tried to convince herself that she'd just imagined it. Yet now she knew they were there, and they fell silently down his cheeks as he reached out and stroked her face gently. "My love—I'm all right…" She didn't know what had prompted the emotion, yet her heart ached to make it better.

He smiled and shook his head, trying to bring the gruffness back to his exterior. "No, it's not that." His voice cracked a little and he cleared his throat. Sansa sat up on the table and gently reached out to wipe the tear from his cheek. She searched his eyes as he looked up at her, his hands on her waist, hoping he would explain.

Sandor reached up around her neck, holding her head gently in his hands as his thumb stroked the side of her face. "I just—you're everything to me, Little Bird..." he looked down for a moment, but he wanted her to know. She was the one person who knew his true self, the one person with whom he could share his deepest feelings. He met her eyes again and continued, his voice low and hoarse. "You've given me everything, did you know that? Everything." His eyes looked back and forth between hers, and he smiled. There was only Sandor—not a single vestige of the Hound was present in that silent hall with her. "I love you more than I could ever tell you. And this?" He moved his hand down to her stomach, shaking his head with incredulity. "I can't…" He didn't have the words to express himself and paused before sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her into him tightly. He held his face close to hers, silent for a moment, before whispering, "I've never felt like this before, Sansa. So happy, I mean. I'm—I'm not very good at it." He chuckled and squeezed her tighter, kissing her softly on her temple.

Sansa closed her eyes as he rested on her shoulder, her arms and legs wrapped around him as she sat against the edge of the table. He was here, in her arms, in her heart and they were safe. She smiled and breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods. She had never before been so grateful for life.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was so much to do, and the mood in Winterfell was exactly as Tyrion had described—bittersweet. There had been a great victory and everyone who lived was grateful for it, yet there was heartache everywhere. There were graves to be dug and bodies to burn. There was no longer the need to burn the dead out of fear that they would rise as wights, still there were so many that it was logistically the only way to deal with all of them. Those who wished to bury their dead were given the opportunity to do so, provided with the manpower and materials to take their dead beyond the castle to be given a proper burial.

Jon decided that Daenerys would rest in the crypts. She was not a Stark, but she was the true victor in the battle for the living, and he felt she deserved the honor to be buried in a place where she would be remembered. She had no true home in Westeros, after all. Her final resting place would become her home, where she could be forever remembered as a great heroine who sacrificed everything she had for life. The North would remember.

Tyrion thought at first that his brother should be buried in Casterly Rock, yet part of him wondered whether he'd have wanted that. Jaime's last years had been spent distancing himself from the mistakes of his past, from the cruelty and selfishness of his own blood. But it was not in their custom to burn their dead, either. It was decided that a portion of the crypts would be given over to the highborn warriors who had perished in the battle, a place of honor where they would be remembered for all time. These were not normal circumstance and with some castles entirely destroyed and much of the North in a state of upheaval, there would be no way to properly embalm and transport the bodies to their family keeps. Tyrion was satisfied with this arrangement, and the greater part of the next few days would be spent in caring for the dead. Reports of their victory were sent to Davos and the host of the people with him so that they could begin the journey back to their homes, and also to the maesters at Oldtown. The reconstruction of the castle would take months, but for the time being, Winterfell was doing what it could to get itself back in order.

That evening after a simple supper of bread, salt beef, and cheese, the victors gathered quietly in Sansa's solar. It was the first time that they were able to stop and reflect on the events which had occurred since the morning. The mood was solemn and no one felt exceptionally chatty, yet they still craved each other's presence. And so it happened that the remaining Starks, Daenerys' council members, Brienne and Tormund gathered in the quiet room, grateful for one another's company. The hearth crackled peacefully and all was quiet for several minutes.

When the silence was finally broken, it was no surprise to anyone that it was by Tyrion. "Did any of us actually think this moment would come?" He chuckled, only a hint of bitterness present in his voice. He looked up at Jon, "Is it too soon to ask how it happened?"

Jon shrugged, still too numb by the events of the day to really feel like discussing it. Yet he didn't want to be alone either. He wasn't ready to face his own feelings alone. Sandor cleared his throat after realizing that Jon would not be offering the information, and he gave the bare bones description of what had occurred—at least from his perspective. Eyes widened and astonished glances were exchanged during Sandor's recap—specifically about Daenerys and how the sword had truly become Lightbringer. Sansa's heart broke a little for Jon at the horror of what he'd had to do.

When Sandor finished, Bran's voice drifted over to the others from where he sat in his wheeled chair by the fire. "It was the dragon wight's flame that changed her." He spoke into the fire and not to anyone in particular. "When I was in Rhaegal I was losing. The wight didn't feel pain as we fought, yet when I am in the beasts their wounds are my wounds, their pain is my pain. I could not stop the Night King. When I cried out after being mortally wounded, Daenerys came to help." He shook his head. "I don't know why the flame changed her, though."

Missandei, to the surprise of everyone, responded. "My queen was the Unburnt—she could not be harmed by fire. This blue flame of the dragon she lost—perhaps it had some magic of the ice demon—the Night King. Instead of killing her, it changed her?" She looked to Grey Worm who sat beside her, his left arm bandaged from a wound he'd received. He nodded in agreement.

Bran continued, "You may be right. After Rhaegal fell, wounded, I moved to the mind of Drogon so that Daenerys could be returned safely. I continued fighting and burning the dead. When I saw the Walkers, I tried to take them out, but they'd been prepared." He looked around at the others then, "he threw the spear at me and I wasn't quick enough. I can still feel where it pierced me."

Bran's description of his skinchanging gave the others an uncomfortable feeling. How odd it must be to live inside of another creature, feeling its pain and moving with its body.

"And now there are no more dragons in the world," said Varys, dramatically, his head tilting to the side as he looked at the carpet. "It is a sad thing, how they died, and yet—," he met Tyrion's eyes knowingly, "I fear they were not truly meant to live in this world. They had a purpose and they fulfilled it, thank the Gods." He sighed, his hands characteristically tucked away in his large sleeves in front of him.

Jon finally spoke, not focusing on anything but the floor. "You're right. It was their purpose." He looked up slightly, fixing his eyes on Varys, then Tyrion. "She—Daenerys. She—showed me everything." He shook his head, knowing how foolish he sounded. He looked at Sandor, "You saw, when she touched me." Sandor nodded, remembering, and Jon continued. "I can't really explain how, but I saw everything in that moment. From her birth to the dragon breathing the blue flame over her. She knew." He swallowed and clasped his hands together. "She knew what needed to be done and she was at peace with it. She wanted to be with her husband and her son."

The others looked at him with incredulity, truly in awe. "I know how foolish it sounds, but in that moment I just—knew—everything about Daenerys Targaryen. There was a time when she was in Qarth and she visited the House of the Undying. She'd had many visions there, and they'd all suddenly made sense. She was going to come so close to the iron throne, yet just as in her vision, she never touched it. Instead she ventured beyond the wall, to the frozen North, ultimately to be with her husband and son in the afterlife." He laughed softly with the irony. "It was so beautiful, but so tragic. The Undying told her that she would light three fires: one for life, one for death, and one for love. She knew she'd already lit the first two—the pyre which brought her dragons to life, then in the temple of the Dothraki when she burned their lords to death to become the ruler of the khalasar." He looked up at Missandei whom he knew was Daenerys' oldest companion currently present, and she looked sideways at Grey Worm nervously, then nodded at Jon. He continued, "But she hadn't understood what would be the last fire that she must light until today, until the moment when she awoke from her change and knew that her own blood would give it flame. The fire she would light for love…" He sounded wistful, suddenly incredibly sad.

"It is poetic justice," Tyrion reflected quietly, before looking up at the rest of the room. "Did you know how Lightbringer was forged? Perhaps you'll remember the tale from your wet nurse?" Some of his companions looked at each other, but it was Missandei who answered.

"Yes. The legendary hero, Azor Ahai worked for thirty days and thirty nights on the sword. But when he went to temper it in water, it shattered. So he started again, working fifty days and fifty nights, but when he tried to temper it by thrusting it into a lion, again it shattered. Then, with a heavy heart, for he knew what he must do, he worked for one hundred days and nights on the sword. Then he called his wife, Nissa Nissa to him, whom he loved with all of his heart. He pressed the sword into her heart, creating Lightbringer. They say her cry left a crack on the face of the moon." Grey Worm was looking wistfully at Missandei as she told her tale, the admiration plain on his face.

Tyrion smiled sadly, "Yes, so they say. And who would have thought that reality would have been so like the myth." He sighed, as he felt the weight of all that had occurred bearing down upon him. He remembered Jon and glanced back at him, "You did the right thing, Jon. Gods know it must not have been easy. We are all indebted to you."

Jon clenched his jaw. "If you must feel indebted, let it be to her. I would not have done it if she had not—not demanded it of me. She might not have spoken, but she asked it of me all the same. Somehow I knew what she wanted me to do—what she expected me to do. It felt as if I'd always been meant to do it." He looked down at his hands, clearly at war with himself. "I hope she truly is at peace."

Everyone was silent for several moments, reflecting on all that had happened, all that had been said. Finally, Tyrion asked, "And what of my sister? When shall we be gathering the armies to prepare for her imminent attack?" His loathing was apparent in his tone.

Jon lifted his head from where he'd been holding it in his hands and sighed. He suddenly felt exhausted. "We will wait. Bury our dead, reinforce Winterfell and the North. Rest. We will wait until we've had a chance to hear from Arya."

Thank you to all of you! Review, review! :D