"Arya...What did you do?"

Arya gawked open-mouthed, insulted by Jon's question. She glanced up to Beric and then back to Jon, a shocked frown scowling her young face.

"I had to try!" she shouted, her small voice shaking in either rage or embarrassment. It didn't matter. Jon didn't wait to hear her explanation. He rushed forward, shoving her aside to run up the steps of the tower.

She was going to be alone - like him. He wasn't going to let her be alone.

"It didn't work, Jon!" Arya called after him, hot on his footsteps. She ran fast but he was already halfway up the stairs when he heard her.

He didn't want to listen to her. He knew… He knew that it didn't work instantly.

The steps upward were a dream, and they seemed to slide under him so quickly he could hardly remember moving his legs. In the dark halls he waited for a sound, a signal, a clatter - anything - ahead. He pleaded silently, but his prayers stuck on a single word. Please… He couldn't figure out the end of his prayer.

He reached the dark room quickly and he shoved the heavy wooden door open. With a clamor he burst in, nearly falling to his knees, expecting to see Sansa's blue eyes staring back at him - more alive with fear than they had ever been before.

But Sansa lay still - just as lifeless as she had hours earlier.

Arya came running in after him, already pleading. "Jon, listen to me! I-"

"You don't know what you've done, Arya!" he shouted, spinning around to catch her arm. "What life you might have cursed your sister to!"

She froze for a moment, wide eyes shocked at him. At first he expected her to cry, but his little sister - cousin, he had to remind himself, the truth still a distant echo in his already chaotic head - was not the girl he had left in Winterfell so long ago. Her eyes were dark, and they turned angry instead.

"What have I done?" she hissed. She yanked her arm from his grasp. "What have you done? This is who you pledged to!" She pointed to her dead sister's body on the floor. "This is what you allied with!"

Her accusation was a cold reminder. He knew she was right, but he did not want to admit it out loud. He did not know this was going to happen. He had not foreseen Daenerys' true nature. He had worried, yes, but never in his wildest dreams could he have known this was the outcome. He never would have bent the knee if he did. Never. How dare Arya accuse him so. He had sworn to protect Sansa. Arya could not know just how much he had tried to keep her safe. She had no idea of the decisions he had struggled with in the dead of night - all for Sansa's safety.

"You're a fool," he snapped. Arya's fists balled at her sides and right when she looked ready to shout at him again, to lash at him with more anger and rage, she turned and ran from the room without a word.

Damn her! Jon's hands were quivering in anger. Arya didn't know what she had done. Jon did not want to follow her. He had little else to say to her right now, and he worried what else he might say in anger. Instead he only turned to look at Sansa's body on the floor. She still lay so peacefully...so still.

Jon watched intently for any sign. He had awoken alone in an empty room with no one. Davos had told him that Melisandre had given up, and that they were sure he was gone for good before he eventually awoke alone. When had the Witch performed the ritual? How long had he laid there before she gave up? He didn't know. He didn't ask. He had never wanted to know.

In the silence his mind raced with possibilities. The moments felt like years. How long would he wait? Perhaps Arya was speaking the truth and it had not worked. He felt a pang of sadness at the thought. As much as he dreaded Sansa having to live like he did, with the knowledge that there was nothing beyond, the feeling of not belonging, the everlasting doubt of what was worthy and truly honorable, he also missed her. She had died before he truly knew just how much he loved her. Everything was over before he could fulfill his promise to her fully. If he could have her back, just this once, his life would have light again. But he knew that his inner desire to have her back was wrong. People die. It's what you do with your life that matters.

His breath hitched in his chest and as the seconds passed the small hopeful part of his heart quieted. Maybe Arya was right. Just as he was ready to release a sigh of relief, and he turned to leave her yet again, he heard a gasp behind him in the empty room.

Sansa gasped awake, her back arching and her arms tensing and seizing as if on fire. Her tongue choked on clots and bile that had formed in her throat. Jon, a man who had seen battle and wars, who had killed men with his bare hands and seen the true horror awaiting all of humanity, found himself frozen in fear. Sansa's eyes were wild as her mouth twisted into creaking screams - only there was no sound. He could only hear the wheezing and choking deep in her chest as she struggled for air.

Jon broke from his shock to rush towards her just as she attempted another cry. Only more gasps for air. Her fingernails clawed at everything around her in a panic - scratching her skin, squeezing her neck, pulling at her mouth, and then clawing at Jon's cloak. Once her fingers found the fabric she pulled blindly, yanking him into her. He stumbled over, catching himself before crashing into her, but in his own shock he did not know what to do in this moment to calm her.

Her eyes gazed up at him, wide and disbelieving, as she struggled for air. They were glassy with a haze of milky-white clouding the beautiful blue. Slowly, he saw the milkiness fade. No one else would see the death leave her eyes - but he did. He didn't think he would forget that sight for the rest of his borrowed life.

Slowly, her choking turned into breathy sobs. As heavenly a sound as a newborn babe's first cry. They were shaky and breathless at first, as her entire body trembled under his arms. Had it been this slow with him? He couldn't remember. He only knew there was nothing, and then suddenly...life. Or what could substitute for it.

He quickly removed his cloak to cover her shoulders, wrapping her up tightly as if to stop her shivering. But he knew all too well it was not the cold that made her shake. It was the shock. The sudden brightness the world seemed to have that you never thought possible before. The feeling of a million senses in your body awaking back to life. The fire that traveled from limb to limb. He knew it was not the cold.

"Forgive me," he whispered. He should never have let this happen.

Sansa shook more, glancing wildly around the room as she realized where she was. Jon could see the realization finally hit her. She had not simply passed out. The chunks she had coughed out of her throat. The sharpness to her nerve endings. The disarray all around her. She knew. She had died.

Short gasps of air built in her lungs like a rolling stampede before Sansa let out a horrid cry. The noise sent a shiver down Jon's spine, but he had a dark and guilty thought in the back of his mind that accompanied it; thank the gods she could.

He grabbed her arms to quiet her. "It's all right," he said quickly. "You're all right." Sansa looked at him, her brow wilted with frantic and bewildered questions. How? Why? No. This is not all right. "I know," he said. "Forgive me."

Slowly, she rose her hand, inspecting her blackened and charred fingers. He could barely believe it himself. She was moving. She was breathing. The image of her body on the floor still burned in his mind whenever he closed his eyes...but she was alive.

Her hair had freed itself from her braids and draped down her face and her shoulders like a waterfall of fire against her skin. He found himself twisting a lock absently between his fingers, savoring it's wildness. Just hours earlier he had said goodbye to her - resigned himself to never touching her again. Now it felt like merely a dream as her chest heaved with renewed breath and her eyes searched for answers. He did not have to accept that truth anymore.

The need overwhelmed him. He pulled her body into his desperately and hugged her tight against him. He felt the warmth come back into her body. He could hear her breathing even. He held her against him as tight as he could, and did not want to let her go ever again.

Even he had not considered asking Beric to help bring her back when he had cradled her lifeless body. He knew this was not a life he wanted her to live. It was hollow, dark, and not the same as it once was. But his own hollow life would be only that much darker if she were truly gone. His life only had meaning when Sansa had given it to him again. If Sansa's second life would be hollow, he dare not imagine how hollow his own would have been without her. He was glad, if only for a moment, that she was here. He was selfish and wicked in his relief. He wanted to take this moment and never give it back if it meant he had the woman he loved in his arms again. He hated himself for that.

Sansa's cries faded into erratic breathing then into something that could somewhat resemble sighs. She struggled to form words, but the first sound off her lips was a melody to him.

"J-Jon…?" She touched her cheek, leaving a streak of black ash down her face. "What... How...What?" Each word a draining heave of her chest.

Jon could barely breathe. His closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. He did not think he could answer her questions right now. Most important to him was for her to know she was not alone - that she would never be alone again. He held her at arm's length and met her eye to assure her solemnly, "It doesn't matter now."

There was a long moment of silence between them as Sansa's face twisted and contorted with every emotion he would expect. She turned her hands in front of her, inspecting the stains on her fingers. She admired the way her hands looked like her own, but no longer felt like they belonged to her. Jon knew this feeling. It was unlike anything else in the world. In a perfect world, she never would have had to experience it. But he knew so painfully well now, that this was not a perfect world.

"Bran-" she suddenly said, her chin jutting up. She made to move but her arms gave out from under her and she tumbled like a newborn foul. "Where's Bran?"

"He's safe," Jon assured her, reaching out to calm her and hold her steady.

"And Arya?"

"She's alive," Jon answered, though he couldn't hold the contempt from his voice. He was still quite angry with her. Arya had given him Sansa back - yes. He was at least glad for that. But she had done so behind his back. He knew he had some choice words for her when he saw her again.

Sansa moved to stand again but she wobbled and collapsed in a heap. Her legs were still weak. He remembered the feeling well. She needed help, just as he had once. But they were alone. No one would have thought to come back up into the tower now. There was no need and much more important matters down below. A shout would not be heard in the courtyard.

"We need to find Sam," he said, sliding his arms underneath her legs. Sansa wrapped her shaking arms around his neck as Jon lifted her up.

He carried her through the charred hall and down the stairs. His cloak was still wrapped around her thin and frail frame, and her blackened feet dangled helplessly as he tried to hurry. As they traveled down the hall, he noticed her gazing at the walls and the disarray around them. Winterfell was in ruins yet again. Halfway down the stairs, he heard a soft and sad sob just once, and then nothing more.

What had he done?

In the cold of the courtyard, he held Sansa tighter to his chest to shield her from the wind and snow. Quickly he ducked into the Great Hall. He rushed down one of the connected halls, shouting for help as he went. Shouting for Sam, for Bran, or even Brienne - for any face he would know. He had last left Bran and Sam in the Maester Solar. Surely they were still there.

"Jon?" Sam appeared at the end of the hallway, peeking out from behind a door.

"Help me!" Jon shouted back. Sam's face went white at the sight of him and the girl in his arms. He scrambled to hold the door open as Jon rushed inside, still clinging Sansa to his chest. Bran was no longer there, but Gilly and the baby were, and she leapt from her chair.

"Get some blankets," Jon said quickly, placing Sansa into a chair. He knelt in front of her and wrapped his cloak tighter around her shoulders as Gilly ran to the edge of the room to grab a woolen blanket. Did she need air? Did she need space? Or heat? He could not decide.

"How is this possible?" Sam asked. "She was dead, Jon. You said so yourself!"

"Not anymore," Jon answered. Jon desperately wanted Ser Davos here. He would know what to say, he always did. He had been through this before. But he was at Eastwatch, just as Jon had asked him to. Damn his short sightedness. What had he done?

"That's not possible," Sam mumbled. He stuttered nervously, his Maester mind unable to grasp what was plainly before him. "Unless she is…" His words trailed off, his unspoken question loud enough for another man of the Night's Watch.

"No," Jon assured him. "A lot has happened since I saw you last, Sam. Death appears to not be as permanent as we once believed."

Jaime

Jaime's back was aching and his ass was sore. He had traveled on horseback many times, but never alone. The Kingsroad was lonely and harsh, and the further he traveled north the harder it was to find a safe place to sleep or an inn still open to provide warm food or rest. Many a night he lay awake on the frost covered ground considering his choice, wondering if he should turn back and admit he was wrong. He could no longer tell if it was spite or honor that kept him going forward.

It seemed he was always one step behind the Dothraki. He could see their tracks all along the journey north. They sucked all the resources out of the air and the land like a forest fire and left little for him to scavenge after them. Even then he could not urge his horse faster to catch up to them. Although they were supposedly his ally now, he preferred to stay a few paces back - just in case.

When he drew nearer to Winterfell, the snow and winds were so strong he was forced to cover every inch of skin but his eyes. Just enough to see the path in front of him or any dangers that might lurk ahead. He wondered how King's Landing would handle the snows once they reached the city. How Cersei would muster up food and shelter for the many who would flee their homes. Would she even try? he wondered darkly. He was forced to admit he did not know. He could not predict his sister anymore. She seemed lost, even to him.

It was the babe he thought of. The one growing in her belly that might inherit this world. If Cersei had her way, there might not be anything left. Those...monsters would wipe them all out and leave nothing but death and despair in their path. There would be no Lannister legacy to protect. King's Landing would be ruins. He had lost so much already. He could not in good conscious sit by and do nothing.

The heroes in songs always did something, he would console himself. They always did something. He had made a promise to that Targaryan girl and Jon Snow. In the past he might have let that slide to stand beside his sister, his queen, his lover - but he could not now. If the world was indeed to turn to ice, he would rather keep his word and die honorable than a coward. He still had a page to fill.

It was barely turning night when he reached the lands of Winterfell. He could have stopped early for the night and left at first light, but the hopeful thought of sleeping in a warm bed kept him going. Just a few more hours ride and he might make it after nightfall. He could afford a few hours night ride.

As he drew nearer, he was perplexed to find no lights ahead on his way. He knew Winterfell was close, but the horizon was dark and nothing but shadows. It was the smell that reached him first. Fire, smoke, and ash - bitter and twisted in the night. He did not see the walls of Winterfell in the dark until he was already upon them.

The stone walls were blackened and the gate was gone. The fortress was open and vulnerable to any who approached. White snow had melted and frozen again into crystal clear ice. Ashes and dust laid around the walls like a moat, but the walls still stood. Stone doesn't burn, he thought dimly. He knew this damage. He had seen it before. Dragonfire.

He kicked his horse onward quickly, renewed with a sense of dread. He did not want to think of who might have been inside. Shortly beyond the entrance, the sea of bodies and debris forced him to dismount and search on foot. Very few torches were lit, and the air was quiet and somber. Had those things made it to Winterfell already? He could think of no other reason for dragonfire.

Those still standing were filling carts and horse packs with provisions and items, preparing to leave. No one paid him mind and he walked freely through the grounds. He had seen fields of war and the aftermath of massacres, and oddly to him this appeared to be neither. What had happened here?

In the dark gleam of the torches, he spotted a familiar head of blonde as he walked closer. Brienne was seated on a stone step, her face hidden in her hands. Her towering frame was still except for small, faint breathes that rocked her shoulders. Thank the gods… He could not describe the relief he felt at her safety. It seemed this woman was invincible.

He walked faster, calling out her name as he rushed to where she sat.

Brienne glanced up, her face stained wet from tears she had not bothered to brush away. Brienne's brow knit together once she recognized him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, though her eyes were already showing her realization. He was here too soon. He was alone. He had not come with Cersei's army. Jaime could not find the words to answer her. She stood sharply and towered over him. Reaching out she grabbed the edge of his cloak and yanked him closer to her. "What are you doing here?" she asked again.

There were no words to calm her outburst. He merely glanced at her hand that was twisted around his cloak and then back to her face. "I think you already know why," he said. Brienne's eyes flared wild.

"She's not coming." Her tone lacked any question.

"No," he answered.

Brienne released her hold on him and stepped back, defeated. "Of course." She fell onto the step again, her eyes at her feet. She started mumbling darkly. "I wasn't there." She glanced back up at him. "Sansa was crowned Queen in the North, you know. In my absence. In Jon's absence. The North didn't approve of our agreement. She sent me to King's Landing in her stead and I wasn't there."

The Stark girl had been placed as queen? Jaime's first thought was 'This will not please Cersei,' but he had to shoo that particular voice away. Nothing would please Cersei anymore besides perhaps complete control. But when he realized what this meant, in the grand scheme of things, he was left speechless. That Stark girl...Queen of the North? She must had inspired more loyalty than he could have ever imagined. She was simply a soft spoken, crying girl last he saw her. But why would that fact displease Brienne so?

"You're not to blame for that, Brienne," he attempted to comfort her, though he was not sure why he felt the desire to. "You went at her behest."

"You do not understand-" she began to say, but there was sudden noise that took her attention. A huge shadowy figure emerged in the darkness, stumbling slightly and grasping onto a nearby wall lightly for support. It was not until the nearby torch illuminated the scars across his face that Jaime recognized who it was.

"Clegane?" he asked. He felt like he was in a terrible walking dream. How many more reunions would he have today? It was oddly surreal after weeks of traveling with no one but himself for company. The Hound was sunken and his forehead shined with a sheen of sweat despite the cold. He wasn't known for smiling, but his face seemed extra long in the dark light, even for him. "You look like you've seen the seven hells."

"You don't look any better," Sandor replied. Jaime tried to ignore the slight. It was true he was unshaven, unwashed and frozen to the bone. But a warm bath didn't look to be in his future anymore, to his irritation. "And what brought you here at this fine hour?" Sandor asked. "You brought that army with you?"

"There's no one else coming," Jaime admitted. "It was all a lie," he said. "Even to me."

"Figures," the Hound grumbled. He stumbled around, his back hunched and his eyes to the ground, picking up discarded weapons and inspecting them before throwing them aside. "Everything's going to shit."

Sandor's words didn't make much sense to him, and Jaime continued anyway, ignoring the old brute. "I came to help. Cersei will not speak for me. Not anymore."

"Alone?" Brienne scoffed.

"You honored your vow. You kept the Stark girl safe. I promised to help in this fight. Now it's time I honor mine. " Brienne mouth twisted and she jumped to her feet only to shove him away with a hard fist. He was shocked at the sudden change in mood. "What? Was it something I said?"

"The girls dead." Sandor answered for her, his voice oddly quiet.

"Dead?" Jaime repeated, but he didn't need a response. Deep down, he already knew the answer. The dragonfire. The stillness. The empty lands for miles. He knew. "Daenerys? Why would she attack Winterfell?"

Sandor shrugged lazily. "You'd have to ask her. Or Snow."

In the distance, Jaime heard a faint yet frantic call for help. It could easily be another cry for an injured soldier or man, but the voice was carrying away. It faded until he could hear it no longer, echoing against cold stone. He ignored it and turned back to Clegane, but the Hound's eyes were far away, staring intently off towards the Great Hall.

Jaime tried to continue what he was saying, but realized no one was listening to him anymore. Without a word, Sandor began to walk away from their grouping. His pace started off slow and fumbling, but slowly it grew into a run. He was running towards the Keep. Jaime looked to Brienne, but she appeared just as confused as he. They shared a glance and suddenly they were both running after him.

They followed him into the Great Hall and down an adjacent hallway. The shouting had stopped but the Hound continued running, looking into each door as he passed. Jaime and Brienne's armor clanged and echoed with each of their steps, and it was all he could hear inside the walls. Suddenly Sandor's massive frame disappeared into one of the rooms and Jaime and Brienne quickly followed behind him.

They were not alone. There were others standing around inside the chambers, deathly silently. No one moved and the Hound stood still as a statue, not even heaving in breath. Jaime heard Brienne lightly gasp behind him. In the center of the room sat Sansa Stark, eyes wide open and very much alive.

Jon Snow was knelt beside her, his cloak wrapped tightly around Sansa's shoulders. At first his was the only other face Jaime recognized in the chamber. The Stark girl looked pale and shaken, but alive nonetheless. Why had Brienne and Sandor lied to him about her fate? Or had they been mistaken? Everyone seemed too shocked to speak of it. Then suddenly without warning, Sandor dropped to his knees.

"Forgive me," he pleaded, and Jaime heard the quiver in his voice. Sandor's shoulders began to shake violently with sobs. "I beg you! Forgive me," he cried. The brute of a man was transformed into a weeping puddle on the floor.

It seemed the Hound had a few secrets of his own.

Jon

Jon's heart raced faster once Brienne appeared in the doorway. He didn't know if he could face her wrath again. Sandor Clegane and Jaime Lannister joined her. When had the Lannister arrived? he thought. With Sansa by his side, Jon could only wait in dread for their reaction.

Everyone was silent when the Hound fell to his knees. "Forgive me. I beg you! Forgive me!" No one spoke as the man shook with sobs. Sansa stayed still in her chair, and shared a worried look with Jon.

"Why do you need forgiveness?" she asked softly.

"For all I did. For all I thought. And for all I did not do." He would not meet her eye. "Please, forgive me."

Sansa could not respond. The Hound's cryptic words were left to fade into the air as the others in the room struggled to come to grips with what had happened. Brienne took a threatening step forward.

"What did you do?" she asked. Her eyes were wild and frightened, aimed at Jon and Jon alone.

"Nothing, I swear," Jon insisted. It was true. He had done nothing. Brienne scoffed but knelt down beside Sansa anyway, placing a hand on her arm. As Brienne inquired Sansa on her state, Jon took the chance to look to Ser Jaime.

"You brought men with you?" he asked, hopeful. "Are the forces outside?" Perhaps some luck had smiled on them, after all. The Crown's forces were here to help them after the attack. They had not lost all of their strength.

Jaime looked uncomfortable as he struggled to answer. "I'm afraid I've come alone. There's no one else."

Jon's heart sank again. "No one?" Jaime shook his head.

Before Jon could respond, many more came running. Podrick came with Bran in his chair, and Sansa's eyes lit up.

"Bran!" she gasped. She reached a hand out for her brother, too weak to stand, but Podrick brought him close so Sansa could grasp his hand in her own. "I'm so relieved to see you safe."

Then Varys and Beric came toe in toe, and suddenly Yohn Royce was also there. Jon worried the entire castle would soon fill the hall.

"Your Grace," Lord Royce breathed once he saw Sansa. "I am so pleased to see you are well. There were grave whispers…" He was unable to finish his sentence. He had either believed a lie, or the truth was much stranger than whispers.

Sansa, panicked, looked to Jon at a loss for words. Quickly Jon cut in, answering for her, "She is still injured, my lord. Though alive, that she is."

Royce's face turned. "Why are you here? You are not welcome. That woman-"

"I'm not here as your King," Jon interrupted, feeling a slow fire in his veins at the accusation. "I'm here as …" The words halted in his throat. Cousin? Brother? He dare not say Targaryan. At this moment he was glad Bran had kept his lineage a secret. They would not act warmer to him if they knew. "I came to help my family."

This did not seem to please him. "You're a traitor. This attack was from this foreign woman you choose to bend to-"

"He is my brother, Lord Royce, and he is here. That is all that matters right now," Sansa spoke. Jon felt a punch to the gut at her words. "Thank you, my lord. I wish I could say I was in good health, but I am rather injured."

Sansa's eyes scanned the room, searching for something...or someone. She turned to Jon and asked, "Where's Arya?"

Jon didn't want to answer. He had chased her out with harsh words.

"She's gone," Sandor answered. He stayed on his knees, seemingly too weak to stand, and he bowed his head so deeply that one could not see his eyes.

"What do you mean she's gone?" Brienne asked.

"I saw her leave through the East Gate," he answered. "She was alone." Jon's mind prickled. Oh no…

"And you just let her leave?" Brienne shouted.

"She's going after Daenerys," Bran said suddenly. He voice was so soft that it was almost like he didn't understand the magnitude of his words. His sister was running after the Mother of Dragons - alone!

"We need to stop her-" Sansa choked, and Jon knew she was not fully thinking it through. She wanted her sister back, true, but running towards the Dragon Queen was impulsive, especially for the Queen in the North.

"We can't," Jon whispered.

"I'll go get her," Sandor announced. He stood up and his height was suddenly towering above them all. He kept his eyes fixed on Sansa as he spoke. "Allow me this. I'll go get her for you, little bird."

Sansa gazed up, and her mouth tightened into a grim line. Slowly, she nodded. "Brienne-" she said, and the woman turned and gripped the hilt of her sword. "Brienne, can you accompany him? Find my sister. Protect her." Brienne nodded gravely.

"We all should be leaving," Jon reminded the room. "Soon." They had already stayed in Winterfell's charred walls long enough. It was only a matter of time before Daenerys returned. "Daenerys wanted to only kill you, Sansa. Who knows what she might decide to do next." Sansa's head whipped around as if he had struck her across the face.

"No," Sansa muttered. "No. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. This is our home. I'm not leaving!"

"Sansa," Jon stressed, dropping his chin to catch her eye seriously. "The gates are gone and half the castle is burned. You cannot stay."

"Where else would you have me go?"

Jon had barely a plan for he, Bran, and Arya, let alone the North's new queen. His mind quickly scanned their options, and he didn't like what was left. Winterfell was gone, but the Night King and the dragons still loomed overhead.

"The people are ready to leave for White Harbor. We can split and go to Eastwatch. Davos is there, and-"

"It's too late," Bran interrupted. Jon's blood ran cold at the words.

"What do you mean it's too late?"

"The Wall is gone. Eastwatch is gone. There is a dragon that breathes blue fire." Seven buggering hells...Viserion. He had hoped, prayed, that it would not happen, but deep down he knew it was true. The Night King had taken Daenerys' dragon for his own - and now he knew Bran was speaking the truth that the Wall was down, as well.

The War was here. Much sooner than he had feared.

He couldn't help but think of Davos and Tormund and all of the Wildlings that he had sent there...What had he done?

"The Wall is gone…" he heard Sansa breathe next to him. "That means…"

"Aye," Jon struggled to answer her. "They're coming."

"Dreadfort," Sansa gasped. "We still have Dreadfort. It's walls are thick."

"You cannot go more north-"

"You said she wanted to kill only me," Sansa argued. "If she follows me, we can lead her north and towards the real threat. Away from those traveling to White Harbor."

As much as Jon wanted to send Sansa to safety, and to keep her as far away from the monsters as possible, he knew her plan might work. It might just be crazy enough to continue this war. A sad smile pained him, and he nodded once. It was worth a shot. Oh, his sweet Sansa...

Lord Royce had an offer for his Queen. "The Knights of the Vale will ride with you, Your Grace."

Sansa struggled for a moment before answering. "No," she murmured. "Any army sent with me will surely die as soon as a dragon comes. The fewer with me, the better." Jon sighed in relief. She had learned. In a horrible way, but she had learned. "Protect the people on their way south. I want them to arrive safely."

"But who will protect you, Your Grace?" Royce asked.

"I'll stay with you," Jaime suddenly said, and even he seemed surprised by the announcement. "Wherever you go, I will follow." Brienne mouth dropped open, but Jaime stared ahead, seemingly trying to avoid her eye.

"We must leave quickly, under cover of night," Sansa said. "Lord Royce, I am entrusting you to lead everyone safely. Please instruct the other lords to hurry."

"Everyone, pack lightly," Jon ordered, and for a moment he forgot he was not their leader anymore. "We'll leave within the hour."

And with that, body after body left the chamber to prepare. Lord Royce hurried out, solemn in his duty. Brienne, Jaime and Sandor all left together, huddled as a towering trio. Sam wheeled Bran out the door, promising to help the Lord gather his belongings. Podrick gracefully offered to help Gilly and the baby. Beric and Varys left slower, with Varys leaning close to catch Beric's ear, whispering.

"I'll fetch a handmaid," Jon said. "To help you dress."

"Jon-" Sansa spoke. "Please stay."

Jon was suddenly aware of Sansa's fingers, slender and cold, wrapped tightly around his hand. She had not let go of him this whole time. He swallowed a lump in his throat and wondered if she would hold him so tightly if she knew the truth. It was another odd feeling to add to the pot that was today. She was unaware of who he truly was, that he was not her brother but instead her cousin, and she was unaware of how he truly felt about her. She had no idea that he loved her, body and soul.

He found himself a coward once again. He could not tell her. Not now. There were much more important matters than his own silly heart to attend to. He dare not burden her with this.

"Everything in my body is screaming," she said. "We need to get her back. I don't know what I'll do if Arya is hurt." Her voice was so quiet and weak. The strong regalness he had heard on the field and moments ago a memory.

He gripped her hand back, trying to ignore how much he enjoyed the feeling of her soft skin, and assured her, "We will. I promise." Though he didn't like making promises very much anymore.

Sansa pressed her palm deep against her chest between her bosom, and held it there for a long moment. "Is this what it feels like?" she asked, the words squeaking out of her throat.

His heart broke at her quiet question. "Yes," was all he could say. Jon didn't need any further questions. He and Beric were perhaps the only people here who knew what it felt like. To die and be reborn amongst flames.

He watched her glance painfully around, trying to take it all in, and his heart shattered for her. He would not have wished this on her. It was a hollow feeling - like a piece of your soul was left behind. Your limbs looked like they used to, but felt different. As if they had been cut off and thrown to sea.

She stared at him, her ice blue eyes melting into streams. "How did this happen?"

He dare not tell her. He dare not tell her what Arya had done and he dare not tell her he was in love with her. "You're here now. That's all the matters." It did nothing to dwell on the past now. They needed to hurry.

Her eyes were sad, but she bid him on with a soft nod and finally let his hand go. He let her fingers slip from his like water droplets, and actually found himself wanting to find an excuse to stay longer. But he could not.

He stood and left, calling out for handmaids in the hall. No one came at first except a squire, small and agile. The boy promised to find help for the Queen and ran off. Varys and Beric were still standing there, with idle hands but busy eyes.

Varys stepped forward, his face absolutely alight. "I'm so glad to see your sister survived," he said, his voice oddly cheerful. "Now that you've seen your family is alive and well, you will keep up your end of the deal?"

Jon had made so many promises in the last day. He wished he could fully express his exhaustion with merely a look and pierce the man straight to his soul, but he settled on a sigh. "Aye." He would try to stop Daenerys from hurting anyone else, and he would try to keep the monsters from taking any more lives - but if he could not even protect his home, how good was his word? They'd be better off following Sansa.

"Such a sweet girl," Varys continued. "They seem to really love her here."

"You should be preparing to leave," Jon said, ignoring him. "And you," Jon said as he passed Beric in the passageway. "Come with me."

He went to the only place he knew to go. His chambers. He was glad to see they had not changed. He had been ousted as King but the Lord's Chambers were not his to lose. He had given them to Sansa. His chambers were smaller and more humble, and he found that his things had not been touched. Beric followed him in and Jon shut the door behind them.

"We shouldn't be here," Jon said as he began to throw various items into an old pack. "You shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. Sansa shouldn't be here."

Once his pack was full, he fell heavily into a nearby chair. He had not slept in over a day, and it seemed he would not be able to anytime soon. He rubbed his tired eyes as he asked, "Answer me truly, Beric. Do you remember dying?"

"Every time," he answered. Jon had remembered his death, too. He remembered the sickly cold feeling of steel against his insides. Sansa must have remembered her final moments as well. He had hoped she was spared that, at least.

"And what after?" Jon asked quickly. "For you - what awaited you after dying?"

Beric answered darkly, "Nothing." Jon thought so. He lowered his head and tried to ignore the pain in his heart, for it was the same for him.

He could only think of Sansa. Of what she had endured, what she might remember, and how she might continue. "Do you think it's better to be here? When there's nothing waiting for us in the afterlife?"

"The God of Light has a plan - for all of us, it seems."

"You do not get to make that decision." Jon hissed. "You should not have helped Arya. You should not have brought her back."

"I didn't."

Jon scoffed. Of course he did. How else would Sansa be alive? That wasn't a chance occurrence. People die and stay dead. That was a fact. Unless he had believed more lies than the one his uncle had told him his whole life.

"I swear it," Beric stressed. "She did beg me. She pleaded - 'Please, for the memory of my father and my brother, bring her back to me.' But I am not a priest. That is not my place. She wanted her sister returned to her, but her heart was vengeful and cold.

"I tried to explain that life is not ours to control - that choice belongs to the God of Light, if he so chooses. Tearfully, and reluctantly, she came to accept that. I offered a prayer. I prayed to the God of Light to see her soul beyond, as Thoros had done so many times before me. To help ease the little ones suffering.

"But I could not bring her back. Thoros took his secrets with him to his fate. Even if I did attempt it, it might have resulted in my own death. I only have so much light left in me. With Thoros gone, that would have been the end of me. Through Thoros the God of Light granted me life with a kiss, and each time that kiss drew a bit of his own light out of him - left him a little weaker than before." Jon's eyes slowly rose from the floor as the realization hit him. "I could not give her a kiss of life, so I only prayed. I swear it."

Jon's heartbeat quickened in his throat. A kiss of life? Was that even possible? Jon felt a sudden sickness deep in the pit of his stomach. He thought he had spent all his emotions today. Surely he had no more to be felt. But this...this topped them all.

He jumped from his chair and Beric shrank back in surprise. Jon looked down at his hands as they shook and trembled in the low light. These very hands…

He reached for the nearest item to him and threw it against the wall. The vial filled with healing herbs shattered into a million pieces, scattering across the floor.

"Forgive me," he breathed. "It was not you who revived her...It was I."

"Why do you-"

"I kissed her," he admitted, throwing his hands to intertwine through his hair and rest on the back of his head, his panic rising. "I did it. I brought her back."

Seven hells… it was me.