Rhaegal glided low over the wreckage of what had just the morning before been a caravan of refugee women, children, and elderly. Now the smashed remains of wagons and the strewn bodies of people and horses, where unrecognizable as the band Jon had seen off so few hours ago, though now it felt like a lifetime.

The first fingers of dawn stretched across the sky, lifting the world from pitch black to murky grays, which did nothing to lighten the grim sight below.

Jon's stomach twisted and bile burned his throat as they passed ever lower over body after body. Was one of the unrecognizable corpses Sansa? How would he possibly know from this height? Every time he caught a glimpse of red in the faint light his heart lurched in desperate panic.

He'd made his choice in the midst of battle, He'd chosen to end the fight rather than retreat in hopes of rescuing the one he held most dear. Even now, he knew it had been the right choice, perhaps even the only choice he could make. But was good was right if it was a choice he couldn't live with?

If she was gone, truly gone, how could he possibly carry on?

What good was the dawn, if it brought a lifetime of days without Sansa?

"And so the long night ends." Arya murmured close to his ear. He barely heard her over the whipping wind, but somehow the soft words cut through and sent a shiver down his spine.

"The Night King is dead?" He asked.

"He is no more." Arya agreed.

"Good." Jon said. "The dead are beaten."

"No." Arya said. "Death can never be beaten, simply held at bay."

Cold dread filled his gut. "You mean they'll be back?"

"Not today."

Not today. The words did little to comfort him, but he'd take it. Perhaps the long night had never been about victory, but simply survival. Perhaps the best anyone could ask was for was one more day, a boon which had been denied to many good men and women that night.

At the sight of commotion ahead, Jon edged the great dragon down to a clearing beside the road.

He saw a flash of red and flung himself from Rhaegal's back before the dragon's feet had touched the ground. His boots collided with the icy earth sending a jarring jolt through his body which reminded him rather brutally of the many injuries he'd been ignoring.

He didn't bother to help Arya down, trusting that she'd manage. Instead, he sprinted for the road.

His heart tightened painfully at the sight of hair he'd recognize anywhere.

Sansa knelt beside a cart, her back to him. He wanted call to her, but his voice was lodged in his throat.

He'd left Bran in the godswood. He'd let her last living brother die. He didn't know how she could forgive that or if he even wanted her. He most certainly couldn't forgive himself.

"She's quite the remarkable woman."

Jon started and looked down to find Tyrion at his side, arm tied up in a makeshift sling.

"Oh?"

"While all the rest of us fled like fowl, she stood her ground in the face of nightmares. She killed a White Walker." Tyrion said, an unreadable expression darkened his scarred face. "She didn't even know how to hold the knife and yet she killed it."

"Desperation can make ordinary people do extraordinary things." Jon said.

"I think not." Tyrion said. "It simply separates the two, like oil in water."

Jon felt that the Imp was ready to slip into a great theological debate, but he had no patience for wisdom. All he knew was that Sansa was before him, and as much as he wanted to take her into his arms, he couldn't seem to make his limbs move.

"Well, I'm glad you survived, Lord Tyrion." Jon said to end their conversation.

"Indeed." Tyrion said, and Jon couldn't help but notice the well wish was not returned. He didn't think much of it, he wasn't sure he was glad he'd survived either.

Sansa, however, he was entirely sure of. He took slow, measured steps toward her. Her attention was fixed on the work before her and as he drew closer he realized she was tending to one of the wounded. When he was close enough to recognize Ironborn armor, he knew to whom she tended without needing to see Theon Greyjoy's familiar face.

He stopped then and watched her. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd spotted her with the muck and mire that dulled her copper locks to a filthy brown. He couldn't imagine he looked any better. But he could imagine how happy she'd be to see him. Until she learned of her brother's fate and the part he'd played in it.

As he watched, he noticed her stiffen and then she looked around. Her eyes met his and she squeezed Theon's hand, murmuring something Jon couldn't hear before gathering up her skirts and rising to her feet. She stared at Jon for a moment, some inner battle waging across her expression, before sprinting across the space separating them. She flung herself into his arms and he drew her close, holding on so tight that it would take a legion to pull her from his grasp. He buried his face in her hair and felt tears sting his eyes. Her hair did not smell fresh or even pleasant, but he didn't care. Beneath the grime and blood and the heavy sent of horses was his Sansa. And with her back in his arms, nothing else mattered.

He pulled away enough to kiss her forehead, then cheeks, then lips. The worry that they might be seen and judged, the furthest thought from his mind.

Sansa left out a sob against his lips.

He knew he should have stopped before all pretext of a reunion of brother and sister was utterly lost, but the idea of not touching her was an impossibility. His lips wandered to her jaw and he closed his eyes, letting himself be lost in the feel of her skin against his own, a feeling he'd been certain was lost to him forever.

As his fevered desperation to touch her cooled to contentment at the feel of her warm and real in his arms, he let out a long, grateful breath.

He rested his forehead against hers and just held on, quite certain he would be the happiest man in the world if he never had to let go again.

"Winterfell?" She asked.

"Fallen."

She drew a sharp breath, something close to a sob.

"And the battle?"

"The dawn is ours."

He felt her fingers winding in his curls and couldn't help a little smile at the sensation.

"So it's over?" She sighed. "We can go home?"

He shook his head. "Winterfell is no longer defensible. If the Lannisters march North."

Sansa nodded in understanding. There was no going home. They may have survive the dead, but the price was steep.

"Then we push on to the Iron Islands." She said and he could tell her mind was already hard at work on formulating a new plan. "You'll go ahead with Bran. Fly him to safety and come back with supplies to replace what we've lost."

"Sansa…"

She looked into his dark eyes and her expression change at the sight of what she found there.

"Tell me."

"Bran."

"What of Bran."

"He is dead." Arya's voice interjected.

Sansa took an instinctive step away from Jon at the sound of her sister's voice. Her eyes flicked between Jon and Arya.

"No." She said. "He can't be. He said the Night King couldn't capture the three-eyed raven or all would be lost. We won. He can't be dead."

She looked to Jon for support, but he couldn't meet her gaze. He wanted more than anything to ease her pain, but his own guilt weight too heavy and he feared if she looked too close she would see it.

"He's not dead. We have to go back for him." Sansa said, her voice firm but trembling. "He's the three-eyed raven."

"I am the three-eyed raven." Arya corrected. "Bran sacrificed himself so I would endure."

Jon heard the slap before the sight registered. Sansa winced and cradled her hand, and though the one struck, Arya didn't even react.

"No." Sansa said, her voice low with rage. "If what you say is true, you can't have her. You took my brother. You won't have my sister."

"I am now the three-eyed raven, Sansa. I was once no one. But I have always been and always will be Arya Stark of Winterfell."


Sorry for the wait, but thus ends episode 3! 2020 continues to kick my butt and it's been a bit of a challenge to make myself sit down and write. But I'm still here and I'm still writing. It may be slow, but I'll continue working on this story as long as you all continue to want to read it.