Arya
Not trusting Jon to look out for himself, Arya follows her brother throughout the day, keeping him in her sights while staying out of his. When she realizes he has gone to confront Daenerys, she quickens her pace, determined to end the queen's life if he cannot bring himself to do so. She watches from the shadows as he approaches the queen. Sees him alternate between rage and desperate pleas. Watches as his resolve falters and knows the moment he regains it. She wants to look away when he lowers his mouth to Daenerys' lips. Wants to afford him a moment's privacy.
She longs to step out of the shadows and stop him when his hand lowers to the dagger at his hip. Yearns to spare him. To take this grisly task from his hands and into her own. Though she wishes to turn her eyes away, she braces a hand against the stone wall and bears witness to the moment when her brother sacrifices his honor and love for duty.
Arya cannot remember the last time she has truly, truly cried, but tears course unchecked down her cheeks as she sees Jon cradle Daenerys in his arms and she knows then that he truly had loved the silver-haired queen. The floor is blanketed in white and a curious hush that only snow can bring falls over the room. Her own chest heaves in concert with her brother's hitching sobs and so fixated is she on the tragic tableau playing out before her, she is only dimly aware of the screeching dragon call coming from below.
She is frozen in horror as the entire tower shudders under the weight of the dragon clawing its way through the ruined walls and she wants to call out to Jon who seems unaware of the danger behind him. She sees his gaze flick to one side as he gently lowers Daenerys' head to the floor and even as the hot breath of the dragon bears down on him, he is visibly reluctant to be parted from her.
Run!
Arya wants to scream. Wants to dart out and grab her brother by the hand, to pull him to safety and instead she is forced to watch Jon rise to his feet, moving aside to allow the dragon access to its mother.
Arya realizes that even she is not so hardened as to be unmoved by the dragon's display of grief as it nudges the queen's lifeless body and makes odd chittering noises as if trying to awaken her. She clamps her hands over her ears when the creature rises on its legs and stretches to its full height, its anguished shrieks deafening and shaking the damaged walls of the keep.
Terror thickens her throat and freezes her feet in place when the dragon turns its menacing attention to the man standing near its mother's body. She wants to call out to Jon as he stands tall, ready to face the creature's judgment and in that moment, Arya knows that part of him would welcome the oblivion of death.
"No!" The sounds of her screams are lost in the dragon's furious growls and suddenly the room is awash in flame. She collapses to her knees, believing her brother to be consumed by the dragon's fiery breath. She dashes her knuckles against her eyes and instead she sees that the dragon is directing its ire toward the throne as if it understands its mother's craving for the iron seat was the source of all her sorrows.
Sweat trickles down Arya's face, for even from her distance she can feel the heat of the dragon's breath. She does not know how Jon, so close to the flames can survive it, but though he repeatedly ducks away from the fiery blast, he seems unharmed.
It is only when the throne is a molten mass of steel that the dragon backs away. It stares at Jon for a long moment before it tenderly curls one huge talon around its mother's still form. Gently lifting her, the creature launches itself from the edge of the ruined keep, the fallen queen's limp body cradled in its grasp, her hair a silver banner streaming behind them as they disappear into the clouds.
She hurries from her hiding spot when Jon collapses to his hands and knees next to the place where Daenerys had lain.
"Jon."
Though she calls his name softly and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, he startles, his fingers reaching for Longclaw. The blade is halfway drawn from its scabbard when she sees recognition come into his eyes.
"Arya," he gasps. "What are you doing here?"
"I've been following you all day."
He slumps back onto his knees and she steps closer.
"Are you alright?" she asks softly.
His breath hitches once. Twice. And then they are lunging for one another. He buries his face against her stomach and she curls her torso protectively over him. Beneath her fingers, the leather of his armor is warm and bubbled in places from the heat of the dragon's fire but she ignores that in favor of crooning wordless sounds of comfort into her brother's ear. He sobs, an incoherent litany of guilt and grief, and she tightens her arms fiercely around him.
She allows him a moment or two and as the initial storm of tears begins to subside, she cups her hands around his damp cheeks, tilting his face up to meet hers. "We have to go, Jon." She can hear the distant sounds of footsteps marching up the stone stairs and knows there is not much time before Daenerys' men arrive to investigate.
"I..." Dazedly, he turns his head toward the bloody patch of snow and stretches a hand out as if to touch the last remaining bit of his queen in this place. "I... cannot..."
"Jon." Arya tightens her grip on his jaw and forces him to look at her. "We have to go. Now. Or do you want them to take us both?" She unflinchingly wields the best weapon in her arsenal, knowing that his desire to protect her will outweigh his belief that he deserves whatever punishment may be coming his way. She wraps her fingers around his arms and as he stumbles to his feet, she looks wildly around the remains of the throne room. Once upon a time, she had known this keep and its secrets well.
She guides him around the molten steel of the throne and into a darkened hall. Grasping his fingers in hers, she breaks into a silent trot, wending her way down one hall and into another. They are forced at times to turn back whenever they encounter a passageway blocked with debris until finally she finds what she is looking for and slips into a hidden passageway that runs behind the walls.
Their chests are heaving with exertion as they make their way down, down through the tower. Arya is frantically trying to visualize the layout of the grounds surrounding the keep, knowing that it is likely to be much altered in the aftermath of yesterday's firestorm. The godswood is closest to where they will exit the keep, but she knows that it is not the densely wooded sacred place of Winterfell and there are few places to hide within it. They burst through a door and into the daylight and she sees the Tower of the Hand. The uppermost portion of the tower, including the Hand's apartments, has been destroyed by dragon fire, but the lower portion seems to be mostly intact. More to the point, it is the place she knows best in the Red Keep, its hidden passages having been her playground for all those weeks she lived there with her father and Sansa.
She has long ago stopped praying to the gods and instead she offers a prayer to her father, that he will look over them and protect them. She glances for signs of Daenerys' troops and sees a few Dothraki milling about in the distance, their attention turned in another direction. Looking up at Jon, she explains her plan with hand gestures. Drawing Needle from its scabbard, she watches him unsheathe Longclaw and they dart across the open area and into the tower.
Rubble from the upper portion of the tower covers the floor and they allow a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Arya scans the area and then closes her eyes, using her memories to re-familiarize herself with her surroundings.
"There." She opens her eyes and twists her torso to point toward one curving wall of the tower. Picking their way across the debris, Arya trails a hand over the smooth stone of the wall until she finds what she is looking for. She squeezes her way through a small, hidden entrance and tugs on Jon's hand in a bid for him to follow. He ducks and grunts as he pushes his larger frame through the barely noticeable gap in the stone and then follows her down the sloping stairs until they settle on a landing to catch their breath.
"We cannot stay here forever." Jon leans his head against the stone of the wall behind him and looks at her through weary eyes in the dim light filtering through the ruins of what had once been the tower high above them.
"I'm going to get help," she tells him. "You stay here."
"Arya." He shakes his head and lays one large hand over the back of hers. She twists her wrist and weaves her fingers through his.
"I murdered the queen," he tells her. "I cannot avoid judgment forever."
"No," she rebuts fiercely. "You saved the world from her and her dragon. You did what had to be done."
He shakes his head in denial of her words.
"Jon." She tightens her fingers on his. "Do you think that I will allow you to sacrifice yourself for doing the right thing?"
"I don't... gods, Arya. I don't know that what I did was right."
"I don't speak Valyrian, but even I understood the words 'Winterfell' and 'Dorne' when she spoke this morning," Arya ground out. "And so did you."
He nods wordlessly and lowers his head to his knees.
"She would have gone to Winterfell next," Arya pressed. "She would have done it to put you in your place. She would have done it to teach Sansa a lesson."
She sees his shoulders flinch and hates that she is hurting him. But she needs to make him see. Needs him to pick himself back up again. This time, she needs him to fight for his own life instead of fighting for others. She just got him back. She cannot, will not, lose him again. And she needs him to fight for his crown. The realm needs a good man to restore order to the chaos that has brought them to the brink of utter destruction.
"Jamie Lannister killed Aerys and did not face judgment. Robert Baratheon killed Rhaegar and took the throne. Why should you face execution when they did not?"
She shifts onto her knees and rests her cheek against the crown of his head, runs her fingers through the curls escaping the knot he wears, as she does, in tribute to their father.
"Jon," she whispers. "You are my brother. The brother I've always loved best. The one who always understood me and loved me for who I was. Please. Please don't give up on me now."
He swallows thickly and bobs his head in acknowledgment of her words. She slips down one step and ducks her head, waiting patiently for him to raise his gaze to hers.
"I want you to stay here," she instructs him.
"I should go with you. It's dangerous out there."
"More dangerous for you than for me," she reminds him. "I can move without anyone noticing. Just... promise me you will stay right here."
"Where are you going?"
"I have a plan. But first I need to find Davos."
TBC
A/N: Apropos of nothing, about three-quarters of the way through the final season, I realized that what I wished for Jon was that he could go North to live in peace with the Free Folk and his wolf. Which is ultimately what I got so I don't wholly hate Jon's ending. But Sansa becomes Queen in the North. Arya goes off exploring on her brand new ship tricked out with the Stark sigil on the sail and figurehead at the bow (and who knew the Starks were rolling in that kind of money to be able to afford such a ship...). Bran becomes King and does whatever it is that Bran does and Tyrion returns to the second most powerful position in Westeros.
But Jon is forever to be known as a criminal and expected to pay for his crimes by serving at a now-useless Wall? No. I was thrilled to see him just shrug off the punishment and head North to live his life as he see fit. I wanted all the build-up of Jon's parentage to actually mean something. D&D called the knowledge of who he actually was to be the most incendiary thing to happen. GRRM reportedly settled on turning his baby over to them to film based on their knowledge of who Jon's parents were and in the end I wanted it to mean something; to be as important as it had been built up to be. And that's where the idea of this fic was born.
