"The Hound?" Sansa asked curiously, with a playful arch of her brow. "I have half a mind to pry further."

"I thought he was dead…" was all Arya could say.

She didn't want to tell her sister that he was on her list, or that she was the one who had left him for dead. As much as she had fought with Sansa in the past, she didn't think she could bear anymore judgement from her. It would have drawn an even bigger wedge between them - she knew it.

And deep down, Arya struggled with a small surprising feeling that nagged at the back of her mind - she was glad he was not dead. She was glad he had managed to survive...somehow. Was this wrong? Had she made a mistake in the past? So many lives. So many names. She did not know how to feel about this newfound relief.

Sansa placed a hand on Arya's arm, noticing the hesitation in her sisters tone. She changed the subject, and Arya was glad for it.

"Brienne said Davos went to Eastwatch to gather the men they left there. He doesn't know about…"

"The Queen in the North," Arya teased. Sansa smiled bitterly, a rare moment in the last few weeks, and let her guard down for a moment.

"I know," she said. "It takes some getting used to. I remember how strange it felt when Jon was crowned."

Arya grew quiet, suddenly solemn again. He had been so close to her - so close to coming home. The thought of what Jon had done, and even what Sansa had done, filled her with regret. Arya had once scoffed at the idea of Sansa being Queen. She had believed Sansa to be too weak and vain to be a good ruler. She had hurt her sister in horrible ways following that mindset. For which she didn't know if she could ever forgive herself.

Of course, Arya still disliked Sansa in tense moments - still hated her pompous tone sometimes. But Sansa had been loyal to Jon while he was gone. She had done everything for him to come back. Arya could still clearly remember when the Northern Lords rose up and declared Sansa as their Queen. She remembered the sheer fear in Sansa's eyes. Sansa didn't want power. Not long ago, Arya could have believed Sansa would have cast Jon away quickly and easily. Sansa merely swallowed back her fear and tried to reason with the court. It was a good hour before Sansa finally conceded. Arya had first been furious, lashing out at her older sister, calling her horrible names. Sansa had locked herself in her solar for hours.

Family was important. Arya knew that now. Father had tried to tell her in the past. Now Sansa and Bran and she were all together again in their home, and these last few weeks had been the happiest she could remember in a long time. They were home, and they were together. Jon was the only missing piece left. He was still her family, and everything in her body wanted to drag him off his horse and bring him back to Winterfell herself. But Starks stick together, and Arya knew painfully well what happens when Stark men kneel. Her father had knelt, and a sword followed swiftly after. Jon was still her family, and she only wished she wasn't forced to choose between her blood, and her heart.

"Do you think that was a stupid idea?" Arya asked quietly, referring to the early morning events. Sansa looked away, casting her eyes down to the parchments again, her smile slowly fading.

"I didn't really have any other choice," Sansa said defensively. "But Jon will come back eventually. He promised he would."

Arya wrinkled her nose sadly. She didn't know if she could believe as strongly as her sister did. She knew that hope could be a painful thing. She sighed and fiddled with the hilt of her sword, Needle. "I miss him…"

"I miss him, too," Sansa murmured. Her eyes stayed fixed on the papers in front of her, but Arya noticed them blinking faster; struggling to hold back tears.

Suddenly the tower shook, vibrating as the air filled with an inhuman screech around them. Sansa and Arya jumped to their feet, looking to each other in confusion. There was another roar from outside and Sansa hurriedly reached to pull back the tapestry covering the window. The night sky was dark and moonless, shielding any sight beyond the torches of the castle grounds.

The men below started shouting. Guards ran from their posts and Arya heard women screaming. Then, a brilliant stream of light lit up the night sky just outside the castle walls, leaving a path of fire and ash like a moat around the grounds.

Arya swore under her breath. A dragon. Daenerys had come back with a dragon.

"Arya, go to the Crypts," Sansa ordered, outstretching her arm to show Arya the way. Her tone reminded Arya of their mother's, filled with worry and love.

"What?" she asked. "Come with me!"

"I have to find Bran." Of course , Arya realized. Bran needed help with his chair. Sansa had taken it upon herself to push him whenever possible. Almost as an excuse to spend more time with him. He wouldn't be able to make it out of the tower by himself.

"I'll come too," Arya started, and went to pass Sansa into the halls.

"No!" Sansa blocked her with an arm. "Arya. Get the others. Find Brienne - she'll help." And with that Sansa leaned down to give her sister a quick hug before pushing her towards the exit. "Don't do anything stupid."

Arya nodded quickly before darting down the corridor as Sansa turned to run deeper into the tower.

Jon

The night sky was finally starting to break. With morning light creeping through the darkness, the air sickly blue and quiet, Jon believed he might get to the castle gates just as dawn was breaking if he were fast enough. He left the two men behind him, urging his horse faster with each passing minute until he was strides in front of them. He could not wait for them. He would not falter.

The pain from his wound ached in his bones, and with each fall on his saddle the pain shot through him like lightning. But he could not slow. He needed to get to Winterfell.

The air was silent and still. He could not see or hear Daenerys' dragon fly overhead. In the cold fog, he looked for the castle to appear on the horizon in the low light. Surely he would be there soon. He would find his family safe and unharmed, and they could all flee before the Dragon Queen returned. He would never let this happen again. He wouldn't dare gamble with their lives again.

Hope was his only strength now, as his horse continued faster, his thoughts never leaving his family.

Bran. Bran was there. He had survived the sack of Winterfell, survived beyond the wall, and had come home. He had helped them. When Sansa and the Maester had written and said Bran was...different, Jon did not know how to process it. He had witnessed stranger things. But little Bran… what had happened to you? Father would never have left Bran so alone. Bran had used these mysterious new abilities to help Daenerys and him look beyond the Wall in this fight against the Night King. Bran had tried to save them, to help them, and Daenerys had attacked anyway. Where was the humility in that? Where was the honor? How could he have been so blind? Jon prayed that he was safe.

Arya. He had seen her with his own two eyes and yet he had not touched her. He had not hugged her after so many years. She thought he was a traitor - an enemy to their father's memory. He had let her down. That thought ripped at his heart. He would never have betrayed her. He would have never left Winterfell had he known she was only days from his grasp. And now... he did not know if she were even alive. The hope that she was safe was his only driving force forward.

And Sansa… He could not bear the thought.

When he left Winterfell for Dragonstone, he was sure Sansa and he were all that was left. It was them against the world - together. He knew Sansa was strong. She was home. She would be safe. But his damn short sightedness - his damn mind for believing the worst. He swore to protect Sansa and he swore to protect his people. But he had brought a new enemy to their gates instead. He had failed. He had broken his promise. Sansa… He pleaded to the old gods and the new, whoever was there to hear him. I should have listened sooner.

Suddenly, the gates appeared through the morning haze. First, Jon felt the wave of relief. Almost there. I'm almost there. I promise. Then, to his horror, Jon eyes adjusted to see the wisps of black smoke swirling high into the air. He was too late. She had been here. Winterfell was covered in smoke and ash.

There was no one at the gates. In fact, there were no gates left to guard. They had been splintered to pieces, the stone walls around them crumbled. Scarred with the unmistakable mark of giant claws ripping them down. Daenerys signature showed all around him. He had seen it before - in the ancient stone of the Dragon Pit in King's Landing. But he had never seen the fire before - the ash and destruction. He dismounted and ran through the opening with no one there to stop him.

The courtyard was chaotic, but this chaos was different than battle. This chaos was quiet. He heard a woman wailing in the distance. A man moaned as the last dregs of life drained from him. But the battle was over. People wandered around, dazed and confused, their eyes far. It was as if he were a ghost walking through the frey. Others scrambled to find supplies and help. The early morning light casting an eerie picture of the night before. The sky was raining ash. Snow and ash swirling together so as you could not discern between the two. Ash falling like snow...

He could hardly believe it himself. His home - attacked. His people - injured. This was not peace.

He stumbled through the maze of people, searching the ground for a familiar glimpse of auburn. Where was she? Is she here? Did Daenerys get what she wanted?

Off in the distance Jon heard a faint, yet desperate, " JON !" It was the first he had heard his name in what felt like ages. Someone recognized him. Someone saw him in the disarray. Someone who knew him . He swung around, searching through the ash.

Jon cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes. "Sam?" he whispered. Surely he must be imagining it. Sam was here? In Winterfell? The round man came stumbling towards him, his arms waving madly by his sides to catch Jon's attention. "Sam!" he finally shouted. Sam's plump face lacked his usual smile and laugh - instead he was yelling.

"Jon!" Sam yelled again as soon as he came close. "I didn't think I'd see you!" The two clasped each other in a strong embrace for a moment before Jon pulled back. He didn't let him go, maybe he wasn't strong enough to let him go, and he searched Sam's eyes desperately.

"My sisters," he said. My heart, Sam. Where is she? Where is my heart? Sam struggled for breath and quickly shook his head.

"I don't know," he panted. "Arya was in the courtyard. Said Sansa was going to get Bran...but Bran was with me, Jon! He was with me!" The rising panic in Sam's voice shook Jon to his bones. At least Bran is safe , Jon forced himself to accept. Sam continued to ramble, the shock of it all causing the explanations to tumble out quickly. "I'm sorry, Jon. I'm so sorry, I didn't know." Jon swallowed back a scream, pushing down his growing fear - for Sam's sake.

"Gilly?" Jon asked absently. "And the baby?"

"They're fine!" Sam answered, finally with a dim smile. "They're here." As glad as he was for Sam's sake, Jon sighed, his mind elsewhere.

"I have to find my sisters," he repeated. "Sansa was the one she was after. I need your help here. Can you take care of the wounded?" Sam nodded quickly, taking a deep breath before running off to the injured.

"SANSA!" He screamed amongst the chaos, shoveling his way through the crowd of dazed men. "ARYA!" The destruction was all around him. Women were weeping. Men were stumbling and bloody. Charred smoke rose from the towers that he had once run in during his childhood. Winterfell was ashes yet again.

He needed to find Sansa. He needed to know she was alright.

"JON!" He heard a call to his left, and he swung instinctively to search for the voice. "JON!"

A body crashed into him before he could blink. Arya. Oh, Arya! She's safe. He frantically grabbed her, sweeping his hands over her hair and face, feverishly kissing the top of her head, thanking the old gods that she was here. Thank the gods his little sister was alive. She had wrapped her arms so tightly around him he could barely breathe.

She was crying, and she had buried her face into his dirtied tunic but he could feel her body shaking horribly. " She's dead! " Arya wailed, digging her fingers deep into his back. "She killed her!"

All the noise around them ceased. Arya's sobs faded out and all Jon could hear was his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears. No… His legs felt weak, and he didn't think about holding the little girl in his arms anymore. He collapsed onto the ground, his knees planting firmly in the mud. No. Arya fell with him, refusing to let him go. No.

"Are you sure?" he whispered. She only cried. "Are you sure, Arya!" She wailed louder. For a moment, it was only the two of them. Everything around them didn't exist. He held his sister against him as she screamed.

In the tower, Arya had said. Jon felt as if he were floating up the stairs, his feet carrying him as fast as he could. Part of him was terrified. He found himself wanting to call out her name, hoping to hear her voice in response. To hear her call out to him again.

As Jon entered the room, he froze. He heard Brienne's cries first. She was wailing, on her knees, her sword cast several feet away from her. Sansa lay on the floor, a bookcase on the floor beside her, books and scrolls scattered everywhere. Her face was ice.

His knees went weak. She looked too peaceful to be dead. Maybe she was only sleeping. By gods, where were the healers? Why was no one trying to wake her?

Brienne glanced up as he approached and her tear-stained face turned feral. " You ," she snarled.

Podrick rushed to the door. "My Lord," he said, grabbing Jon's arm to pull him away. Brienne rose from where she kneeled to glare.

Jon struggled to find his voice. He feared if he dare open it to speak, a scream might burst out instead.

"You did this!" she shouted.

"My Lord!" Podrick urged again, louder this time. He yanked Jon's arm to try to drag him from the room.

"She's my sister," Jon said, fighting the young boys pull. Brienne didn't move, only stood, towering over him, as if to protect Sansa even in death. Podrick jerked him again and caught Jon's eyes knowingly.

"Please," he insisted. Jon saw the frantic urgency in Podricks eyes, and decided against his better judgement to let Podrick pull him from the room.

Podrick led them several steps away and down the corridor, Brienne's shouts fading as they went. The walls started spinning in his vision, and he could feel the stone walls closing in on him. There was his heartbeat again, pounding in his throat. Podrick seemed to notice and held Jon up against the wall.

"Where are the healers?" Jon mumbled. Podrick ignored him.

"What are you doing here?" The usually shy and quiet boy's sharp tone took Jon off guard. What am I doing here? His mind was fuzzy. This is my home.

"I came as soon as I could," Jon breathed. "Varys and Beric helped me. I didn't know Daenerys would do this. I swear I had no idea-"

"And Lord Tyrion?" Podrick asked. His grip tightened on Jon's shoulder as he dipped his head to meet Jon's eye.

Jon couldn't respond. Tyrion was surely dead by now. Once Daenerys returned to camp and saw him gone, the dwarf had no chance. Jon diverted his gaze, his silence answering the boys question. Podrick's face fell, and he didn't speak again.

"You leave him alone!" Arya barked, running swiftly down the hall towards them. Podrick let Jon go and silently left to return to the charred chambers.

"Where have you been?" Jon asked, reaching and arm out to draw Arya to him. He didn't want to let her go ever again.

"Nowhere," she answered quickly.

"Where's the Maester?" Jon asked.

Arya's answer carried a cold meaning. "He's busy."

One cannot heal the dead, Jon thought darkly. Even a Queen. His stomach lurched.

"It was the smoke." Arya said with a whimper. "She was all alone."

Trying to find Bran , Jon repeated in his head, thinking back on what Sam had told him in the courtyard. How could he have left his family alone? He didn't think he would ever be able to forgive himself.

"You're hurt," Arya noticed.

"It's nothing," Jon lied.

"It's not nothing," Arya protested, taking a step back to fully inspect the gash on his middle. The bleeding had stopped, at least, but the loose flesh stung with every move.

Just as Jon was about to quiet his sister's protests, there was a great noise from the room. He had been too distracted with Arya to notice the shouting had stopped. There was a flurry of movement down the corridor and Podrick approached again, but stopped several steps away from them.

"Is Brienne gone?" he asked. Podrick nodded his head quickly. "I want to see her." Jon caught Arya's eye and added regretfully, "Alone."

Arya reluctantly let him, and as he entered the cold room he could feel her eyes on his back. He understood, but he didn't think he could handle having anyone else there to see him break. He wasn't strong enough for two.

Sansa's skin was pale - paler than her usual complexion. She looked peaceful, as if she were sleeping. Her hands rested intertwined on her stomach. Someone had laid her down gently, but Jon saw the charred smoke and ash that stained her delicate fingers.

He dropped to his knees, his strength gone from him.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed. He found himself repeating it over and over through choked up whispers. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry...

He had failed. She had died. The Queen in the North had died. The shortest reign in history, he guessed. She was gone. She had not wanted this.

He realized now, too late, that he had loved her. Not as a sister. In his childhood he said he had hated her. Hated her elegant walk, her airy hair and the way she could spurn him with a single word. But he always had envied her. He envied her confidence in who she was.

She was always beautiful. In his dreams he always imagined loving a woman with brilliant red hair… kissed by fire like radiant Sansa's. His children had red hair like Robb and Rickon. He had always wanted what she had.

But when she had arrived at Castle Black, a broken soul just like he, he realized he was wrong. She wasn't the spoiled girl from his childhood. She had grown kinder. She had supported him. She had been there and given him a reason to live again. His conflicted feelings about his cold half-sister had shifted.

He had started to love her then. And no amount of distance, no amount of lovers in his bed could erase her from his mind. She was wonderful. She was strong. She was beautiful. And for a moment in his life, when he was at his weakest, all they had was each other.

He didn't dream of a faceless red haired woman anymore. He didn't dream of Ygritte. He dreamt of Sansa.

He cried. Silent, shaking, shivering sobs. She was gone and he was left alone again. He had done this to her. This was his fault. He had tried to run. To hide his feelings. But the moment he realized that she was in danger, that she might leave him for good, he felt them fully. He loved her. And because of him - she was dead. He would never again see her smile. Never again feel her hand on his. She never wanted this. She died trying to protect her family. She had endured when he had abandoned her.

He had always loved her.

If loving a sister was wrong, then how could her be dead be any better? He would have fled Westeros to keep her safe and loved rather than have her cease to exist at all. That would have been a better option. Do you hear me? he pleaded silently. How is this any better? How is this right?

She didn't deserve to die. He did - time and time again. He should have stayed dead at Castle Black. He should have never seen her sweet face again. He should have stayed far away from her. He should have listened to her and not left Winterfell.

He was cursed. Everyone he loved died. He carried the mark of the Stranger. A dark omen to those around him. He was selfish to think Sansa would be safe from that fate. He cursed her the moment he swore to protect her. She had been bewitched the very moment he laid eyes on her.

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Her face stayed still and unmoving as he confessed his soul. Her skin white as ice, her lips purple from the suffocating smoke. Her beauty frozen in time.

It was too late. Perhaps he did this, if not by his actions then by his thoughts. All the nights he prayed for the gods, any god, to take these desires from him. He wished he would not have to live with the torment. Begged to not have to live the lie he was forced to live. He wanted free of his feelings towards his own half-sister. Perhaps the gods had answered him, in their own cruel way.

Deep down he longed to see her smile once again. To see her glance at him knowingly as he made another foolish plan. He never knew how much he had loved it until it was gone.

If he were too much of a coward when she was alive, he would not call himself a coward in her death. I will kill her for this, he vowed silently. I will stop her.

He stroked a hand over her red hair, smoothing it back behind her neck. He hoped she found peace in the beyond, unlike him. Deep down he knew there was nothing. But, for her sake, he hoped she was with her mother. In farewell, he took what he was too cowardly to take before. He leaned down and stole a kiss from her lips.

Arya

No matter how angry she had been at her sister in the past, Arya knew that this was wrong. Just as wrong as her father beheaded. Just as unjust as her mother slaughtered during guest right and her brother's body defiled.

She had treated her sister horribly. She had threatened her, scared her and thought the worst of her. But Sansa had proved her wrong. Sansa was not hungry for power. She had not betrayed their brother. Sansa had still loved her despite all of her horrible words. She had shown that in her actions in the last few weeks clearly. Sansa had loved her anyway.

Is that how she would remember me? Arya thought. Were her last thoughts of how her sister abandoned her? Would her last memories be the image of me running away?

Arya was ashamed of herself. Father would have been ashamed. Two Starks, fighting amongst themselves. The last memories of her older sister would be forever tainted by her own stupid judgements. She had never considered Sansa would die without time for Arya to properly say 'I'm sorry'.

The Hound was still in the crypts, cowering. The flames had pushed him underground, and now he refused to come out or even speak a word. Arya had yelled at him. Stood at the entrance and screamed at him and cursed his name. What help was he? Why was he here? He was useless.

She knew him. Knew him better than anyone else here, she guessed, and yelling at him had felt wrong. But she had liked it.

Then she saw them. The two men, standing near the Sept, who stuck out like sore thumbs. The bald one, Spider , Arya remembered, looked lost. Arya was not a proper lady, but she at least knew that if Sansa were still alive some sort of courtesy would be offered to them. They would have been swept to a room and away from the chaos of the courtyard. Courtesy be damned.

The other was unmistakable. Beric. He was kneeling with an injured man. She remembered him well. She had once thought him honorable, but not anymore. Gendry. He had sold off Gendry to that Red Woman. He had taken him from her.

Arya gripped the Valyrian dagger at her waist. The fire of bitterness in her heart still burned for him. For what his group had done to her. But her fire now burned for vengeance.

"You," she called.

She stomped over to them, Varys' face as white as stone. Beric stood slowly, his uncovered eye lighting up in recognition.

"Remember me?" she asked. Beric didn't answer quick enough for Arya's taste. She spoke louder, her anger boiling. "You served my father. You knew my mother. You sold Gendry to the Red Woman. You sold Hot Pie to the Inn," she prompted.

"Yes, little one," he answered her calmly. "I know you."

She stood up straight, yet still only met the crest his his chest. He did not scare her. She had little else left to lose. She narrowed her eyes and spoke low, "You owe me a life."

Jon

"I had hoped to see you sooner," Bran said, as Jon winced as Sam continued smearing the poultice over Jon's stomach.

"I'm sorry, Bran," Jon said weakly. He could ask for forgiveness the rest of his life and still not feel satisfied. Bran didn't react, his face as blank as fresh snow. Jon glanced to Sam, and Sam innocently drew his lips back as if to say 'yes, he is always like this.'

Bran carried on, undisturbed. "I could not tell you with a raven, as the information is too sensitive to be seen by anyone else. I hope you understand that what I'm about to say is rather important."

"Spit it out, then," Jon groaned. He was too tired for formalities.

"Jon," Sam added cautiously. "He means it."

"I know who your mother is." Jon's breath caught in his throat, but to his surprise, Bran continued. " And your father."

"What do you mean my father?" Jon asked hotly. "He was Eddard Stark, same as yours."

"No, Jon. My father was not your father. He raised you, but he was not your father. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen, and your mother was my aunt Lyanna. They were in love. They married. She was not kidnapped like we always believed."

There was a long moment as Jon let the words sink in. It was a joke, he thought. Bran and Sam were trying to get a reaction out of him. But Sam did not smile or snort like he used to when playing. Bran's face was unreadable...and he had been right about other things.

Jon was cautious. "And you know this how?"

"I can see things," Bran answered.

"Uh...huh," Jon sighed.

"It's true, Jon." Sam spoke up. "At the Citadel, I saw it. In Septon Maynard's records. He annulled Rhaegar and Elia Martell's marriage, and he married Rhaegar and Lyanna in Dorne." Jon was silent for a very long time.

"You're not a bastard, Jon. You're the last living son of Rhaegar Targaryan."

"We are not brothers…" Jon breathed. The pieces falling together in his head. "This whole time…"

"Don't you understand what this means, Jon?" Sam insisted. "You're the heir to the iron throne."

Jon didn't care about that. Not now. Suddenly everything he thought he knew was a lie. His father- no, his uncle... had lied to him his whole life. This meant that Daenerys was his aunt by blood. And Sansa was his…

He suddenly felt very ill.

"She named you Aegon." Bran continued while Jon struggled to keep himself upright. "Your birth name was Aegon. Father swore to protect you."

"You can see the past?" Jon asked breathlessly.

"Yes," Bran answered, matter of factly.

"Did you know…" Jon started. "Did you know Daenerys was coming?" Stopping himself from saying what he truly wanted to - of speaking of who was really on his mind.

Bran did not answer. Jon changed his question. "Could you have stopped it?"

"No."

There was a sharp pang in Jon's chest. Was there anything anyone could have done to stop this, or would he have to go back years to stop the things set into motion? Was his very birth the catalyst?

"Queen in the North..." Jon sighed under his breath.

"And a good one, too," Sam added softly. "She was really, really good at it."

That didn't make Jon feel better. Everything tasted bitter to him now. Everything he had ever known was a lie, but oddly, it made sense. Eddard had gone south to save his sister and had returned with a child. It made sense. How - how - had he not seen it before? They were cousins this entire time.

And Daenerys his aunt. His last living family. He had shared his bed with her. She had killed Sansa. She had burned his home. Would she if she had known that they were blood?

Sansa Stark. Queen in the North. He had done this to her. His own damn faults had done this to her. Now he was paying the price. What a cruel joke, indeed.

He had made a promise. He had said he would kill Daenerys and stop her from destroying more families. But now she was his blood. She was the last Targaryen no longer. Would she be happy with that news...or would she cut him down, as well?

"We have to leave," Jon suddenly said. "All of us. We have to leave Winterfell as soon as possible. Daenerys will come back and she will kill us all if she finds us."

"What about the people?" Sam asked.

"Give them fair warning. Tell them to head to The Vale, White Harbor - anywhere else but here. Quickly."

"But, it's winter. No one can travel on foot in winter," Sam objected.

"We have to try. We will come back when it is safer. I promise." Jon stood and reached for his tunic in one swift motion. Bran watched him, oddly silent. "I won't lose you as well. Sam, go tell the people to prepare to leave. Bran, Arya and I will leave through the wolfswood, alone."

Sam shuffled behind him as he paced the room, grabbing more items of clothing. "Jon, you won't make it very far with your injury!"

"I don't care. We need to hurry."

He didn't know when they would return to Winterfell. He didn't know exactly where they would be heading. As long as they were together, he would not lose them. He would not fail again. But before they left, he knew he had to do one last thing...

...He would go see her one last time.

The snow crunched under his boots, and the entire castle grounds were eerily silent. Night was falling, and he could feel the eyes of bitter men on his back. Yes. This is my fault. She's dead because of me. He struggled to raise his eyes from the ground. He navigated through debris and ruins from the onslaught. He didn't want to raise his head. He couldn't.

As he neared the entrance to the tower, he noticed two shrouded figures emerge from the darkness.

Arya… He sighed. Little sister...or little cousin, he corrected himself. Oh, little Arya. I'm so sorry. Her eyes were red and puffy, and when they locked eyes, he saw a look he had long since forgotten. A look she bore usually for her mother when she was caught misbehaving. She looked… guilty.

Jon stopped his steps when he realized who was with her. Beric. Arya was with Beric?

Arya froze, just as he did, and they stared at each other for a long moment, facing off across the distance between them.

"Arya…" Jon's voice suddenly broke. "What did you do?"