I. Fern

The shop's front windows were hard to look through due to the worst weather to spread across Westeros in hundreds of years, but that didn't stop Fern from trying. She knew that the royal party would be arriving sometime soon, and she wasn't going to let her young age stop her from watching the king and queen pass through her very own road.

Eight is a small number. It becomes an even smaller number when it is used to describe a person's age. Eight years is not a terribly long time, but it's certainly not enough time to experience all of the world's wonders. That is precisely why Fern, the cobbler of Wintertown's daughter, decided that she was going to take in all of the royal immaculateness with her friend, Blythe.

The two young girls scaled the sides of the old stone building that housed Fern's family's business, which at the moment, was filled to the brim with orders to fill before the coming war. Fern reflected back to earlier in the morning when her father was discussing Winterfell's future guests.

"The King will be appreciative of all the extra hours we have worked for him, Fern. I know what it is to have a sound pair of shoes to wear to battle. These that we're repairing here," he said as he held up a pair of shoes, "these are trusty and ready for wear now. Even though my name won't be written in the history book that will surely be written about this war, I'm still proud to be able to do my part. The king was always kind when he came in as a young lad doin' business for his father. An honorable man, Ned Stark, right to the very end. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, Fern."

As she turned her attention back to the side of the building, she grasped the last stone needed to pull herself up onto the shop's roof. She looked over the hillside as her friend made her way to her side, yet she saw nothing. Minutes of wait brought bone chilling temperatures to the two girls' tiny bodies. However, just as they were about to admit defeat, opting to watch the festivities from the small holes visible through the ice on the shops windows, a horn sounded.

Excitement rippled through the two young friends as they turned their gazes to the ribbon of men falling swiftly into the town's gates.

"I thought the queen would be up front! I told you she was going to fly in on her dragon!" sighed Blythe in a huff of desperation. Fern knew that she too, had never seen a queen. Let alone a queen that had two dragons.

"Mother says when Queen Cersei arrived in Winterfell the last time, before I was born, that she rode in last. Maybe they save the best for last." Fern explained.

After the army of men with spears passed, Fern laid her eyes on the most curious army she had ever seen. These soldiers were unlike any others that she had seen. Some even had hair that fell down past the stomachs of their horses. The soft chime of bells scattered through the town when the men past, as the wind whipped into their braids.

Riding on a horse as silver as her hair sat the woman that brought much talk to a little town. Daenerys Targaryen exuded other-worldly beauty, that much was for sure. As she and the king in the North weaved their way through the narrow street that was nestled between droves of people, Fern could not make sense of some of the things that she had heard in recent weeks. Although her parents remained steadfast in their support for their Northern leader and his chosen queen, others who came into their shop were not so apt to agree.

Just two days ago, old woman Hertha, five doors down, talked of the Queen and her brother. "I was a supporta' ov Rhaegar. Aye, I was, ya know. Thought there was no betta chance for us northern folk than 'avin him rule down south! But… Rhaegar fell at tha Trident, an ova twenty years 'ave come an gone. The girl ain't been raised 'ere. She brings wiva nothin' but trouble, may I say. If it's true what they say, three dragons sure as 'ell won't help. Our little world ain't seen the likes of 'em in years. 'Nd dragons helped conquer the Norf before. I bet they ain't lost the ability to do so ta tha likes of us again."

The woman riding before Fern looked upon Westeros and its people with kind eyes, as far as she, a girl of eight could tell. Fern wished that she had the beauty that the queen had. She wished she had a king she could ride into Winterfell with. Fern was sure that if she wished hard enough, perhaps she would meet Queen Daenerys one day by the time she was older. That way she, like her mother, could tell her children tales of the time the last Targaryen heir rode into Winterfell.

Just as Fern knew it would, the magic came to an end, leaving in its path the back of the Queen. Her braids rested upon the most magnificent winter coat Fern had ever laid her eyes upon. It was the deepest shade of red imaginable, with a scaled looking pattern that reflected the sun, giving off a pearlescent glow to those in its' wake. The train of it, which partially flowed onto the tail of the white horse, was lined with ruby colored gemstones which peaked from beneath the lining of the warm looking fur.

The voices of the crowd grew quieter into mixed whispers, and just as everyone had made the decision to begin the walks back to their homes, a loud, snow-filled breeze breathed its' way through the town. Carrying that breeze underneath of their large wings were the largest creatures Fern had only ever dreamed of her eyes beholding. Tales of Aegon and his three dragons were told around the fires of people's homes, but with so many years past, some had even begun to wonder if that part of history had been stretched as no living soul had ever seen one, and Valyria and its' magic seemed to be long dead.

Blythe glanced at Fern, with each mirroring the others face almost perfectly. It was an unspoken moment shared between the two. This was one of those rare times in a child's life where there were no words to describe what their young eyes had seen. Some might have chalked it up to a still growing vocabulary if it weren't for the fact that the men and women grown were speechless as well.

II. Daenerys

As her dragon flew overhead, Daenerys was filled with a sense of pride. Even still, it did little to settle the sense of dread that had remained with her since she stepped off the boat at White Harbor. As she eyed her way through a crowd full of strange people, her people now, Daenerys recognized little that she had seen before. The comparable differences to back east, even south, were not hard to miss. She saw a hard country, with people that looked at her with even harder looking expressions.

"Well, this is a warmer welcome than I had expected from the northerners," Ser Jorah admitted, quietly. "We're getting closer to the castle, but still ride close, Your Grace. Even though the crowds look to be cordial, it only takes one hero with one arrow," he grunted disdainfully.

"Are you saying that a man with an arrow aimed at me would be a hero, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys asked with a light tone.

"No, no, no… that is not what I meant for you to-," he exclaimed.

"Ser Jorah, I am only jesting. I suppose I shouldn't have assumed that a man who has survived having greyscale removed from his entire body and is presently riding into yet another war, would be quick to joke anymore." The two rode in a familiar silence for a moment. Daenerys loosened the grip on her reins slightly, saying, "I can't tell you how happy I am that it is you still riding by my side to this day. We have come a long way since the green of the Dothraki Sea. I am thankful for your friendship. More than you will ever know, Ser Jorah."

Daenerys glanced slightly to the side, but she caught enough of the pain in Jorah's eyes to know that she had said too much. She knew that these were words that pained him more than exile or greyscale ever had, as these were words that promised friendship and nothing ever more. As these thoughts settled with her, Daenerys shifted uncomfortably on her saddle as she pondered what might have been if she could have been content with Jorah's love and nothing more all those years ago.

She felt Jon's leg brush against hers as they rode alongside each other. She knew that this was his way of sensing her discomfort, while trying to ease it the best that he could, in the company they were in. She thought to herself how strange it was that he, a man she had only known for a few moons, was able to see her in a way that no man before ever had. Of course, she did have to remind herself of the conversation they had during one of the long nights they spent sailing together. Jon had told her of a past love he felt he had betrayed, and in turn, Daenerys told him of the guilt she had felt for years towards Jorah. She knew that by his small gesture, Jon hadn't forgot their conversation, either.

"It's just a couple minutes more, Your Grace. I can promise that although it's cold now, a southerner like you will warm right up once you're within the walls of the castle. That is if the heat from the hot springs beneath it hasn't frozen over since I left," Jon, said.

As the snowy terrain passed them by, Daenerys thought to herself that it would be hard for anyone to deny the North its' beauty. While she never learned about the North at length as a child, she imagined it to be a very free and idyllic place to grow up.

Trotting through the snow covered hillsides, with the sun slowly making its' way down, Daenerys looked at Jon and knew that she had been right.

III. Arya

The castle at Winterfell was filled to the brim with people walking and running every which way, trying to create more space where there was none. In just the past three days alone, people had arrived from Last Hearth, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, and the Dreadfort. These people only joined the thousands of other refugees that had slowly been trickling in over the past few weeks.

Arya played with the point of Needle as she leaned against the doorway, watching Sansa work herself up into a tizzy trying to perfect everything.

"Sansa, it's Jon. He's our brother. He grew up here, and this is his home. He knows this isn't the Red Keep. I'm sure that the Queen is aware of that fact, as well. And if she wasn't before she got to the North, she sure as hell is now," Arya scoffed. "You've made sure that the food supplies are plenty, you've made sure that the forgers have started their work like Jon asked, you've readied everything you can. Hell, today alone, I've seen you triple check things."

For a moment, Arya thought that Sansa had ignored her as she never stopped fiddling with the candlesticks that she had been counting. Arya pivoted to turn away, opting to find company that could match her own joy about the "King in the North" returning. Before she could leave, she heard a nearly inaudible noise come from her older sister.

"She's not our Queen." Sansa lifted her heard with a newfound confidence that she seemed to be short of only moments ago when they spoke of war preparations.

"I wouldn't say that to her face, you know. I haven't heard much about the Dragon Queen, but I am familiar with the basic idea of a ruler, and it's generally considered smart to not deny them to their faces. Besides, Jon bent the knee. If I know him, he must have faith that she is the leader to get us through this." Arya insisted.

"That's just it, Arya! You don't know him. Not anymore. You weren't with us!" Sansa's face softened as she looked down towards her sister. "I just meant that you can't exactly expect him to be the same boy he was when he left. He still cares about us, I know he does. But that's the problem… he cares too much. He sacrificed a large portion of our army when he decided to run after Rickon. If he had listened to me when I told him that saving Rickon was a lost cause, many men would still be alive today. Jon's weakness as a commander in war is that he cares too much about things that are out of his control." A deep silence fell between the two sisters before it was broken by Sansa, whose voice was barely above a whisper. "He cared too much to let the wildings get killed beyond the wall, and because of it he got himself killed instead. If he's started to care for the dragon queen in a time of war, it explains why he's bent the knee."

Arya's faced pinched inwards, causing it to turn her considerably more red. "Jon wouldn't let himself be manipulated by her! If he's bent the knee, there must be a good reason. A good reason that I suspect he will inform us of once he's here. You're speaking for him, making assumptions when he's been gone for months. You haven't a clue as to what has taken place. Nobody does."

"Exactly! No one knows anything. For months while Jon's been gone, I've been here alerting all our people to the coming storm. I've been gathering all the able bodies that I can to fight alongside us. I've been harvesting food in the event of shortages. I've been here in our home with our people, while Jon's been down south giving that very same home away." Sansa grabbed a sack of grain off of the ancient wooden floorboards and walked away.

Several minutes later, Arya still stood against the doorway, with only her thoughts to keep her company.

IV. Sansa

Snow trickled softly down from the sky before resting on the ground. Sansa heard the crunch of it under her feet as she walked into the courtyard. A feeling of melancholy washed over her as she stood in the same exact place that she stood with her family, all those years before. In many ways, standing here left Sansa with a bittersweet sensation. The last time a southern king or queen visited Winterfell, Sansa stood here in the company of her entire family. Her father had still been the Lord of Winterfell, her mother was still around to comfort her as only a mother could, Robb was still a boy that liked sparing with their brothers, and Rickon was still so very tiny. That day was among the last that they would spend together, and she frequently admonished herself for not appreciating the warmth of her childhood while it still was around her.

She felt her brother, Bran, roll himself quietly to her side. She wondered if this was as emotional for him as it was for her. She supposed not. It would be too much to hope otherwise, this she knew. Even still, she didn't fault him. They all were far from the children they once were, and even further from the adults they would have turned into, had nothing ever changed. Sansa wasn't sure if she felt peace with that, or not.

As the last of the queen's men took their places outside of the gate, the queen herself was crossing through it on a horse as white as the snow. Sansa looked to her brother Jon, who while sitting on his horse, only had his eyes focused on Bran. It wasn't a second's dismount before he was crouched in front of their little brother, searching for anything remaining of the boy he had to leave behind in his sickbed all those years ago.

"Bran?" Jon choked out. "You're grown. A man compared to the day I left. Where have the years taken you brother?" Jon looked as relieved to see Bran as he had not long ago when Sansa had her own reunion with him.

"Brandon Stark has been all over the realm. Where he isn't or hasn't been would be the true question." Bran replied. It was just as she had thought. She liked it when she proved herself right, but not this time. This time all it did was make her heart ache.

She knew the look that Jon was giving Bran, all too well. She had seen him receive it many times since his return from those who knew him before. She supposed she too had given it to him herself, though she'd like to think she had better self-control.

As she wrestled with her inner-thoughts, the queen stepped in line with Jon before them. She had heard tales of the dragon queen's beauty, but none of them truly did her any justice. She looked exactly like the Targaryen queens that Sansa had read about as a child. As Sansa looked towards her, she spotted Lord Tyrion in the background's commotion. It had been a few years since she had seen her husband. Although that hardly seemed like the proper title for him, Sansa knew of little else to call their situation. While theirs' certainly hadn't been a long marriage, it would leave them much to discuss in the coming days, she was sure.

Sansa stepped forward to embrace her brother. As she tightened her grip around his shoulders, the fur of his jacket brushed up against her cheek, for a short time shielding her face from the harsh winds of winter that had finally made its' way to Winterfell. Once she had stepped back, her brother greeted her with a warm smile. "Lady Sansa, this is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. Your Grace, this is my sister Lady Stark."

"Lady Stark, I have heard tales of the North's beauty. However…" she paused, "it doesn't begin to compare to what you have accomplished here in such a short time. It's a beautiful thing to be able to witness the people of our realm gathering together to fight a common enemy. We have Winterfell and the Starks to thank for giving us safe shelter in the war to come." A diplomatic answer, Sansa would give her that. She knows because it is precisely the one she would have given, had the roles been reversed.

"There is no need to thank us, Your Grace. The North has long been a protector of its' people. It would be nice if the Seven Kingdoms could say the same," Sansa replied. The statement had left her mouth. Whether it was the most diplomatic answer was certainly to be debated. However, she felt that she had to let the queen know where she stood from the beginning. Sansa would not rest until the North had its' independence. Her family had lost too much fighting for it for her to stop their cause now.

"Yes, and we can thank Cersei for that. I'm sure that is something we can both agree on," the queen replied, as she stood straighter. "Lord Tyrion tells me you spent many years in the capital. I don't think I have to explain to you the many reasons that I have made my long journey home to unseat her."

"Very little time is needed with Cersei to know the person she is. No one knows that more than I do," Sansa paused. "The North welcomes you, Your Grace."

The queen looked vexed as she turned to Bran to begin the rest of the introductions. This left Sansa with a feeling of satisfaction. The feeling, however, had already begun to fade. As Sansa stood with a pretty Lady smile on her face, tuning out the rest of the chatter, she began to wonder why she didn't feel more joy. By all accounts, she had accomplished all she hoped she would have in their first conversation. She had relayed her feelings, albeit subdued, on matters concerning the queen's journey north. She hadn't muttered pretty little words to the queen, unlike her mother to Cersei all those years ago. On top of it all, they remained cordial throughout the whole ordeal. Sansa had a feeling it remained that way, mainly for Jon's sake. However, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.

V. Davos

The Great Hall, from wall to wall, was crammed full of people. There wasn't an inch free down below the main table that wasn't occupied by citizens. People from far and wide had gathered into the space to air their concerns, or to just join in the hubbub. Ser Davos hadn't been back long, but already he noted how much the place felt like home to him. He was a far cry from a green boy, and his days of middle-age, too, were behind him. He spent the majority of his years as a smuggler in Flea Bottom, afterwards coming to advise Stannis Baratheon in his quest for the crown. Even still, neither Flea Bottom nor Dragonstone, ever felt as comforting as Winterfell at the moment.

Comfort was an odd feeling to behold at that particular point in time, as one could expect if they, too, were biding their time against an undead army. As Davos looked out into the hordes of people, in their faces he saw many things. He saw worry, he saw fear, anger, and love, but no matter where he looked, he saw no other person keeping comfort. He wondered if this current state of temporary bliss was a result of his growing age.

Suddenly, his attention was drawn back to the conversation at hand.

"Your Grace… My Lord… whatever it is that you wish for us to call you on this day, let me remind you that we sent you south to retrieve dragonglass. We wanted nothing more, and expected even less. We did not, however, send you to pledge fealty to another's cause," Lord Glover paused, and Davos saw that he thought hard before he spoke next. "My Lady of House Targaryen, while we are thankful that you would bring us your armies and your dragons, the North is a strong fortress. If using your resources means that we have to bend the knee to your cause, then I speak on behalf of House Glover when I say, that we prefer to take our chances on the battlefield."

The room erupted into shouts of "Aye!", while the sounds of cups beating off the tables vibrated off the walls. Tyrion turned his head to exchange an unapproving glance with Davos, who at the moment was feeling a lot less at home. A little ways away, Davos saw that Queen Daenerys was feeling similarly.

"My Lords, when I spoke of a great enemy, I meant the worst kind. The unknowable enemy that was so terrifying as children, we all thought it was only in the stories. The impending threat from the dead is real and our chance of survival is already questionable at best." Davos watched as Jon stepped down from his chair, and into the crowd. "Listen, I can't promise you that Queen Daenerys' dragons are going to keep the dead at bay. I can't promise you that her armies are going to keep your children alive. I can promise you," he paused, "that they're the best chance we have in this fight. Let us not dwell on past animosities. For the sake of those who come after us, let us be better than those that have come before us. We fight together or we die together, there is no other way friends," the former King in the North, begged.

While his speech seemed to tame flaring tempers for the time being, Davos knew it was only a temporary fix. It seemed as if Sansa Stark was also aware of this, as she made her way up from her chair.

"Jon, our people are wanting answers. All they are asking is that they will not have to fight for the queen when she takes King's Landing. They're not asking too much." Sansa stated with her hands in the air.

Before Davos had even realized what he was doing, he was looking directly into the eyes of hundreds of strangers. Strangers, who, were simply being shuffled around and all they wanted was answers.

"Ladies and Gentleman, I can't speak to the future. Wouldn't that be the day, if I could. I'd tell you if all the squabbling that's happening amongst ourselves would be worth it in the end. But, be that as it may, I can only speak to the things I am positive of. You sent Jon Snow south because you trusted him to lead you. Queen Daenerys lost a dragon saving your chosen king, sacrificing its' life for the good of everyone standing here today. Jon Snow trusts her judgement, and you trust him. The fate of the North doesn't need to be ironed out in a night." Davos stepped back, and hoped that he didn't say too much out of turn. By the appreciative look on Jon's face, he assumed not. By the bitter look on Sansa's face, he's feared so.

With a period of peace reached, at least for the night, everyone decided that sleep would be better enjoyed after a nice hot meal and good company. As Davos looked around the slowly emptying room, he thought to himself what an odd thing life was. Here he was, getting ready to embark in a battle alongside several past enemies. However in the end, Davos surmised that Jon Snow was right; nothing else mattered, as they were all breathing.

VI. Jaime

Jaime's face was chapped from the violent winds that had reigned down in a constant rush since he'd left King's Landing. He'd been on the King's Road for weeks now, and even though the grueling journey was almost over, Jaime found himself wishing that he had weeks left to ride.

What would the honorable Jon Snow say when he tells him that Cersei would not be marching her army north? Would the Mad Queen's daughter burn him on the spot? As much as he had tried, for weeks to keep his fears at bay, Jaime was finally starting to crack. However, if he was ever sure of one thing, it was that he couldn't sit out another life-altering war. The Mad King had forced him to stay back as a hostage in the Red Keep, refusing to allow him to fight alongside Rhaegar, while Robert and his heathens tore their way through the Kingdom. He had never felt as useless as he had back then. Even as a Kingsguard in the Red Keep, he couldn't stop Elia Martell's or their children's brutal fates. In the end, he was made to be the biggest monster of them all, the dreadful Kingslayer, with shit for honor.

Now, many years and another war later, he was nearly finished with his journey North to beg the Mad King's daughter for forgiveness. The irony of the situation certainly had occurred to him several times throughout his journey. Currently, he was riding toward the physical evidence of all his life's treachery. The most surprising factor in all of it being, that if he somehow made it out of their first meeting alive, that evidence would be his allies. Eight years ago, Bran Stark and Daenerys Targaryen would have seemed like the most unbelievable of allies. If only his father could see them now. The almighty Lannisters at opposite sides of a war, with one son serving as Hand of the Queen to the last Targaryen. The thought brought a smirk to his face, but it quickly dissipated as the expression stung his frozen skin and cracked lips.

And yet, that was never how he wanted to leave Cersei. It was true that the woman he'd left behind was a shell of the young girl he had once fallen in love with, but how could she be? What mother could watch all of her children die throughout the years and not be emotionally decimated? What made Cersei unique, however, was her ability to turn her pain into other people's greater suffering. Since her tenure as Queen in the Red Keep, she had single-handedly murdered hundreds in an explosion of wildfire at the Great Sept of Baelor, and quietly devised many other atrocities resulting In the deaths of others. Yet, who knew all it would take for him to finally leave her, was her not leaving with him?

Even as he pondered it several weeks on, he couldn't understand why she would be willing to risk the fate of her kingdom, and their child's life on the North alone. Even out of all of the things Cersei no longer was, she was still a mother. Wasn't it always she who had said that you should never test a mother's love as there was no way to measure how deep it went?

As he continued on the snow covered road, his thoughts flashed to another mother he remembered that would have done anything for her children. How strange, Jaime thought, that it was her home he was headed to all these years later.

VII. Bran

As Bran sat by the crackling fire, he felt another presence hovering by the doorway of his chambers.

"Come in."

Samwell Tarly shuffled in the door with several books in his hand. Throughout the books, papers were scattered throughout the pages, sticking out in all directions. In the process of trying to set his books down, Sam knocked over a table, scattering all of his things onto the floor.

As Sam bent down to gather everything, Bran said, "Leave them. The answers you seek aren't in them anyway."

Although he couldn't be sure, Bran thought that the look Sam was giving him meant that something had made him uneasy.

"W-Well, if that's the case, I-I'm not sure where else to look," he paused. "It feels as if I've read every book in the b-bloody Seven Kingdoms," stammered Sam. "If that's not all, I-I've been avoiding an old friend the whole day since he's been back because I feel as if I'm l-lying to him. I'm holding onto a secret that isn't m-mine. A bloody massive one at that."

As Bran sat in a comfortable silence, he noticed that Sam fidgeted in his chair.

"I… I have to tell him Bran. If you didn't want me to, then you never should have told me. But I have a feeling you knew that already."

"You can tell him Sam, but not until the time is right. I will tell you when the moment reaches us." With that, Bran relaxed back into his wheelchair, grey clouds in place of where he had been just been staring at the fire moments before.

IIX. Jon

"I assume you were off attending to important business, earlier." Jon stated simply as he walked into Arya's chambers.

The room still looked the same as it had the last time he'd been there. As he slowly paced around the room taking in all of his surroundings, Jon wondered if Arya would remember the flimsy little sword he had given to her as children. He hoped that she had at least gotten some use out of it before Father found it, and undoubtedly took it from her.

"Urgent. We have a queen visiting, you know?" Arya turned on her heels to face her brother, on her face the cheeky grin he knew she would have.

As the two embraced, Jon realized that now, he truly felt at home. Growing up, he was close with his siblings. At least the closest a bastard could hope to get to their trueborn siblings. However, the bond that he had shared with his youngest sister, the other outsider of the family, had always been the closest.

"We thought you were dead, kid." Jon said, as he loosened his grip.

"Last I heard, you were dead, and I'm not a kid anymore. I'm a woman." She bragged confidently.

As Jon stared at his sister, it didn't take him long to notice the considerable difference in her appearance since the last time he had seen her. In place of the little sister on her way to King's Landing, stood a woman that was clearly all Stark. Jon softly rejoiced for that fact.

"Aye, you're not. My mistake, it's just that I'm having a hard time not picturing the little girl I gave that flimsy little sword to all those years ago."

"Needle isn't flimsy. It's the best gift I've ever been given, and you didn't answer my question," she said as she punched his arm.

As Jon smiled and rubbed his surprisingly sore arm, he questioned whether or not this was a conversation he wanted to get into this late at night, when they'd only just been reunited. Although he knew it was no longer a secret, his premature death wasn't necessarily something that he wanted to discuss with his little sister. Having to explain a series of choices that he had made, that in turn got him killed, generally took all of the life out of whatever room he was in. For just once, Jon wanted to pretend that the whole ordeal never happened, and that death wasn't knocking on all of their doors. But that wasn't Jon.

"Ask me about it after this is all finished. I promise to tell you everything some other time, but first I'd like to know how you got home," he wondered.

Arya made her way across the room to sit on the bed. As she traced the grain of wood that made up her bed, Jon thought that he could see a glint of sadness seeping through her hard exterior. However, with Arya, one could never be too sure what she was going to do.

"Ask me about it after this is all finished," she copied. Although Jon was eager to hear of her travels, he could tell that, like him, it was perhaps information better shared at another time.

"That's fair," he smirked. "I, however, do need to ask something else of you."

Arya's cheerful face straightened. Jon wasn't quite sure what made it happen, as he didn't feel his tone had been as serious as it seemed to be. In fact, he tried to make it not so. As if seeming that their present situation was a comfortable one to be in. Here he was, a man crowned King in the North, sitting in a castle in which he was only previously recognized as the resident bastard. His life was never dull, he was sure of that.

"I need to ask something of you. Not as a king, but as a brother." The conversation was clearly uncomfortable for him, as he lowered his head before he spoke next. "I… I need you to be the bridge between Sansa and Daenerys. I'm not asking you to kneel before her or to kiss her ass, but I am asking that you extend certain hospitalities to her that I feel certain Sansa will fall short on. I'm not asking you to be the Lady of Winterfell, but I would appreciate it if you were to just extend a kindness to her."

"Extend a certain kindness to her," Arya mocked. "How much time did you spend south, again?" She let out a light laugh and turned to Jon, who was feeling his muscles tighten by the second. He wasn't feeling too surprised. He knew that he would face extreme opposition once he returned home with a "foreign invader," he just never guessed that much of that opposition would come from his own blood.

"Jon, relax." Suddenly her smile had disappeared, and she made her face show the same sincerity that she was feeling. "I know the pressure that has been placed on you. Frankly, I don't begrudge you for giving up your crown. It was practical. I'm sure that the queen's beauty didn't make it harder for her to persuade you, at least. She seems lovely. At least from a far." At that, Jon stood up from the bed and walked to stand in front of Arya.

"I didn't give up my crown. It was never really my crown, I was just the next best thing they had to Robb. I don't fault them for it, or their anger." There was a long pause. "I know this is going to sound ungrateful, but if I'm being honest with myself, I don't miss it at all."

"You don't sound ungrateful," Arya said as she motioned him to sit back down beside of her. "It wasn't you."

At that, Jon let out a soft grin. "No, it wasn't me."

For the next several minutes the two sat in a familiar silence. If Jon thought hard enough, he could almost hear Old Nan telling stories to them as children. How unbelievable they all seemed to him at the time, with stories of the Others seeming the least probable. Jon wondered what he would say as a child if he was to see himself now. He never imagined he would lay his eyes on a dragon, much less an army of the undead, but Jon had seen them both.

"It wasn't her beauty that convinced me to bend the knee," Jon paused. "It was just her."

IX. Tyrion

As Tyrion walked through the grounds of Winterfell, he felt a feeling of peace wash over him. This was a strange feeling for him as of late due to many situations at hand. The most obvious one being an army of the dead. Although, he felt that it was the lesser known situation brewing that was going to decimate all means of progress that they had made over the last few years.

In his experience, love was the downfall of every great leader. That or pride. Love had destroyed Rhaegar just as pride had destroyed Robert in the form of an angry boar. Unfortunately for him, his chosen leader was exhibiting signs of both. If only, he thought to himself, he could make her see what he did. He blamed himself really. The queen chose him to advise her due to his vast knowledge of Westerosi politics; politics that at the moment were being controlled by his own blood. He should have been able to foresee the outcome of summoning Jon Snow to Dragonstone, he thought as he berated himself.

How long he walked, Tyrion couldn't say. He wasn't sure if it was how many thoughts that he had racing around in his mind, or if it was the copious amounts of wine that he had consumed since their arrival. In his case, it was seldom the wine. Just as Tyrion had made the rare decision to turn into bed early, he was confronted with the face from a lifetime past.

"I was wondering when we might have the chance to speak," she said.

"You don't have to lie to me for my benefit, Lady Sansa. " he quipped, as he made his way toward her.

Sansa Stark sat at an empty table nursing her own glass of wine. Several glasses of wine, it seemed to him, if the welcoming look on her face was anything to go off of. "I'm being sincere, Lord Tyrion. In fact, I've wondered about your whereabouts many times since…," she trailed off. Although Sansa didn't finish, Tyrion could surmise what she would have said next.

"That I believe. It's not every day a woman has the prospect of reuniting with an ex-husband."

"I wouldn't know. All of my other ex-husbands are dead," she stated plainly.

As he searched for a delicate response, Sansa filled the silence once more, saying, "Why are you here?"

Tyrion shifted in his seat at the sudden change of conversation. Although, he considered, sudden may not be the right word to describe their current predicament. To him, this conversation had been a long time coming. Although they didn't part on the most ideal of circumstances after Joffrey's wedding, he never would have guessed that she would have believed him to be guilty of the crime that followed it. "I'm innocent, Sansa. While my family is not as nurturing as you Starks, I never would have murdered him. He was my nephew and a child, no matter how much he thought otherwise. You can't expect me to have lived in exile for a crime I didn't commit. I had to come back; it's where my home is."

"You misunderstand me, Lord Tyrion. I'm not asking why you've come back to Westeros, that much is perfectly clear. The Dragon Queen wants to get her revenge on those who have wronged her family." She stated matter-of-factly. "What I am asking, is why she and her armies didn't set sail for the Red Keep? If Cersei is her true enemy, as she says, what did she plan to gain from coming here?"

"I think a better explanation for your conundrum, is that you," he paused for clarity, "misunderstand her. The queen didn't come to the North to conquer it. It was given to her, by your brother, might I point out. She could have flown to the Red Keep months ago. In fact, she wanted to. We all assumed that by now she would be ruling from the throne that her ancestor's built. I believe you are very familiar with the chair in which I speak. That, however, cannot be done without losing the lives of thousands innocents that occupy the city. She's not here to be queen of the ashes, and she doesn't plan to be. She cares for her people. You would be lucky to have her as your queen. I don't believe I need to tell you what a massive improvement she will be from the throne's current occupant."

Once he had finished speaking, Tyrion noticed that her gaze on him was eerily exact in rigidity to much of the ice that could be found outside the castle's walls. As he took another sip of his wine, he was posed with the very same question he had asked himself only minutes ago. This time, however, he knew it to be the wine. Seldom, he contemplated, was becoming standard for him it seemed.

"Showing self-restraint and being a step-up from your sister does not make her a good ruler. Robert showed self-restraint, was gentler than Cersei, and he was still an atrocious king. You served them both, in some capacity if I recall correctly. Why should anyone trust your judgement?" Sansa looked directly into his eyes with the very same fortitude as her mother once had.

As Tyrion searched for an answer to the loaded question, it occurred to him that his answer could be found in the most simplistic of terms. "Well she's here, for one thing. She is here fighting your brother's war when she could have ignored him. Why shouldn't she have? The rest of the kingdom has done the same, and I don't see too many other people offering to help in a situation that almost certainly promises death for us all. And… I know it's not what you want to hear Sansa, but she cares for her people. While I understand and agree with your opinion that being kind and just doesn't instinctively constitute a good ruler, I've never seen empathy to be a bad thing either. After everything my family has put them through, don't you think that the citizens of the realm deserve a little empathy after all these years?" Tyrion went for another sip of wine, but found that his cup to be suddenly. "Besides, I know that you may be too youthful to recognize this fact, but compassion and suitability for the throne can be found in the same individual. Queen Daenerys resembles your brother in that respect."

Whilst Tyrion couldn't be sure, he thought that he saw the first glimmer of retreat in Sansa's eyes. "If that's all, I do have to beg your forgiveness. I believe I'll turn in now before I can pour myself another cup. I've started cutting myself off at four bottles of wine a day, you know. It seems we've both done some growing."

With that, Tyrion made his way up from the table with no objections from Sansa. "Sleep well, Lady Sansa. You'll need it tomorrow when we tell everyone that in addition to a Targaryen queen arriving, the Lannister army is also marching north to join the fight. While I've never seen anyone object to more aide on the battlefield, you Northerners are constantly defying the expected. Or, in this case I suppose it would be the unexpected."

"You truly believe that Cersei is marching her bannerman here as we speak?" Sansa said incredulously.

While Tyrion knew that Sansa had every right to doubt his sister's intentions in the past, Cersei understood, perfectly, the situation looming beyond the wall. Promised death for everyone should she choose not to fight alongside them, and possibly death even if she did. "Yes. She's with child. She has something more to live for now, I believe. Wouldn't every mother lead an army to protect their children if they could?" Tyrion asked knowingly.

"Sleep well, Lord Tyrion. I expect you'll be needing it soon, as well." With that, Sansa exited the room leaving a slightly buzzed and even more confused man behind her.