A/N: Just in case you've somehow survived this fandom without learning the details of the notorious R + L = J theory, turn back now if you want to stay unspoiled!

Once Rhaegar left, Sansa closed her eyes and concentrated. Her head still ached. Taking a deep breath and holding onto the leg of a nearby chair, she at last succeeded in hoisting herself up on her feet.

She gripped the chair tightly as she fought dizziness.

She had to focus.

She looked around the lair for anything, anything. The sword on the floor and the ones that lined the walls were too big and cumbersome; there was no place she could conceal them. He must have a kitchen. Surely there are smaller knives there that I could hide on me. Get him close and then -

She swayed again, this time from nausea at the thought of killing someone.

Maybe I can just injure him, disarm him until I can get away.

Stumbling, she headed toward the lair's small hallway. After searching fruitlessly for a few minutes, she at last found some sort of pantry and eagerly rifled through the boxes and cupboards inside.

"Nothing, nothing!" She murmured aloud, losing patience.

Knowing him, he probably predicted she'd make such an attempt and so removed all smaller weapons. But where would he hide them...?

Sansa straightened and looked behind her at the wide wall with a deep red curtain covering it.

Behind the wall was his library.

Below the library was that isolated chamber he always kept hidden from her.

Where else would he stow away forbidden objects? In there!

She hurried to the pipe organ. Hanging on a peg at the side was a silk pouch.

She quickly searched the keys inside. She remembered the one to the library was a rusted brown color and smaller than the rest.

There - she held it in her palm.

Biting her lip, she craned her neck and squinted her eyes, trying to see past the dark beyond the portcullis.

There was no sound, no sign of him.

She wished she could stop shivering.

Not giving herself time to think, she ran to the wall and stabbed the key into the lock. Turning it, she entered the library.

Leaving the wall open afforded her enough light to find a torch and head to the trapdoor located at the center of the room, hidden underneath a Lyseni rug. Unlike her first time here, she did not stop to gape at the endless shelves of books lined to the tip of the ceiling.

She knelt down and pulled off the rug and tugged desperately at the trapdoor, coughing at the dust she upset. "Come on, come on!" She urged.

At last it gave. She smiled ecstatically. She prepared to climb down into the darkness -

A slender hand seized her arm and yanked her out, causing her to scream and release the torch, which went out immediately.

She could just make out Rhaegar's burning indigo eyes in the darkness.

Sandor's hopes raised once he detected the blue light against the walls Sansa had spoken of. He hurried his pace and felt a cold triumph. He'd reached the lake.

He forced himself to dispassionately study the terrain before him. It was dismally dark down here, but the blue light still cast against the walls, silhouetting the far off cells Varys mentioned.

Beyond them was Sansa, Sansa.

He hastily unbuttoned his vest and let it fall to the ground. He removed his thick boots then rolled up his slacks to his knees.

He ignored the irate, far off cries of the mob above him. From the sounds of it, they too were trapped behind the iron gates.

Trapped like her.

The little wounded bird beating her clipped wings against the monster's cage.

He would have laughed at himself for his uncharacteristically romantic imagery had it not been so painful, and if he allowed any emotion besides determination to rescue her penetrate him now.

The silly fair maiden had succeeded in molding him into her damned knight in shining armor, but he couldn't think of that now. He couldn't think of anything but plunging into the dark waters, his hand against the wall -

One other emotion raced unwillingly into his breast: panic as he collided with a bobbing body.

Sandor's head was still above the water. He could just make out from the blue light the dark head face down in the waves.

He yanked the head by the hair and his breath stopped as he recognized through the wet bloat of drowned death the features of his employer, Lord Petyr Baelish.

And despite himself, a harsh laugh escaped him.

With a wolfish, malicious grin, he addressed whom he sought as his eyes scanned the darkness around him. "You can't scare me off, Phantom bastard." He removed a dagger from a holster secured to his waist. "Just come and try it," he growled.

Snickering again, he dove into the waters once more and resumed his pursuit, uncaring of Petyr's body behind him.

"Little sneak!" Rhaegar hissed.

He pulled Sansa out of the library and threw her on the floor near his pipe organ again.

"Must you deceive me at every turn?"

She shuddered again, unwillingly repulsed by his appearance.

He'd been underwater, that much was clear. He was soaking wet from head to toe. Because of his descent into the lake, he'd taken off his mask.

The water pouring down his skull-like face made it look eerily like he was melting all over again.

He saw her wince and turn away.

Heartbreak stole into his rage. "Damn you, damn you."

Sansa unwillingly felt a stab at his low, anguished tone. She forced herself to look him over again.

"What have you done?"

He laughed shortly. "How quickly the little lady tries to take the spotlight off her by changing the subject! If you must know, my dear, I have clipped the mockingbird's wings for good."

She frowned, confused. "Mockingbird?" Her face whitened as she remembered some crew member or another referring to Lord Baelish that way - "No."

"Yes. And one day you'll thank me for it. But now, madame, you must answer for your actions." He barked his words out in a clipped voice. "What were you doing trying to sneak into the secret parts of my domain? Are you that curious?"

Frightened by the electric violence in his voice, she hastened to play her actions off as humorous. "Yes, it was...woman's curiosity!" She attempted a winning smile. She could charm him. She knew she could.

His gravelly muttering was proof he did not buy her front. "You were trying to escape. That's all."

"Why should I? I know that's impossible."

"Yes, you should! You should know that!"

He saw her wince again at his harsh voice.

The sight caused a pang. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for several moments. He forced himself to stamp down on his rising anger. He opened his eyes and studied her as she cowered on the floor. She was so lovely, so young. Her dear sweet face. Within was Lyanna. He...he shouldn't frighten her so. A girl like her must be won and wooed.

She turned away as he spoke with the voice of the Angel again.

"We will forget this, my dear. You will see how forgiving I can be. After all, I haven't killed you yet, have I? I said I would if you saw that man, that Hound again. But I didn't. I've given you another chance instead."

He bent down and just barely stroked her hair, his hand hovering in the air above her head. "I'm not bad. Not truly. In my heart I am good. Love me and you'll see."

She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. He sounded like Lady when she whined for a treat.

She heard him hiss and she peeked over her shoulder. He was grimacing, massaging his chest.

She remembered what he'd said about the close air down here affecting his chest. He was panting.

She was about to reach out and inquire when he seemed to gain control again. A mad, soft fervor blazed in his eyes. "Listen, dear. I know I'm fearful. I know I'm violent. But that is because I am touched by R'hllor. It is because I am the great red dragon. Blood of dragons, of fire, race through my veins. Dragons are magnificent and powerful - and terrible. That is the price of fire made flesh. But - with you I will be gentle. If you choose me, if you choose life, I will take you below and show you my secrets, prove to you that I am the dragon. We will hide there until the mob above leaves. You and I will fulfill a prophecy poets will sing about for ages to come, Lyanna."

He stroked her hair more firmly, a condescending smile playing about his ruined face. "My sweet Lyanna."

An unholy light inflamed his eyes, his melted features.

An odd fury grew in Sansa's soul. She meant nothing to him. All this mayhem that he claimed was for her, and it was instead for her aunt, long dead. Not only were his actions mad, they were pointless. His talk of dragons and prophecies...

Dragons do not survive the winter. Only wolves. And winter is coming.

She did not know where that thought came from, but it lent her a burst of wild courage.

There was the distant howling of a direwolf in her low voice as she asked him, "What of Elia Martell? Was she not worth singing about?"

She regretted her words the instant she saw his pupils dilate, his face go empty. The very roar of a dragon escaped him.

He lunged at her, his hands twisting in her hair again. He was practically nose to nose with her. "Never mention her or my lost family again. You don't understand my pain, you can't understand my pain."

So saying, he seized her wrist and twisted it painfully.

She cried out.

Her cry was answered by a blood-cold threat from another source.

"Let her go or I'll tear off what's left of your sorry face, Targaryen."

Sansa never felt such paralyzing fear and hope and hysteria in her life.

Sandor stood behind the portcullis, his hands around the bars. Like Rhaegar, he was drenched by the lake's waters. His hair and white shirt were plastered against his skin. The dark hair on his broad chest glistened in the dim candlelight.

"No," she whispered. Go back. Go back.

Deadly silence followed his reply, Rhaegar seemingly unbreathing.

Slowly a ghastly smile stretched his burnt face.

"It looks as if we have a guest, my dear," came Rhaegar's cool elegant voice.

All angry passion seemed vanished as he released her and stood gracefully. He bowed to Sandor. "I bid you welcome, sir."

She almost cried at how detached he sounded. He'd never been so dangerous before.

Neither was Sandor as he replied in his deep rasping voice, "I'm no sir."

"Sandor, please leave, please," she begged from where she knelt on the ground. Rhaegar was too calm, Sandor too furious. Something terrible would happen. Something -

Sandor only growled at the hideous man before him.

This man laughed pleasantly. "Nonsense, nonsense! Come in, my friend! Come in!"

The Phantom raised his arms like a priest does at a conversion.

The portcullis lifted.

Once Sandor stormed in, the gate came back down.

The Hound's face was hot and murderous compared to Rhaegar's cold and courteous countenance. Fire and ice, ice and fire. Only this time it was the dragon that embraced ice.

Both faces kissed greedily by fire, looking each other in the eye. The victims of Gregor's flames were ready to destroy each other.

Sandor had watched silently for a few moments once he reached the bank to the lair. He hadn't planned to be so rash. He'd meant to quietly study the domain from the shadows, search for any weakness. But when he saw his bruised little bird huddled on the ground, he couldn't breathe or focus for the painful rage racking his body. He'd shivered at the steely words about Elia Martell that came out of her voice, in contrast to her weak appearance.

When Rhaegar answered her by hurting her, and Sandor heard her cry, all rational thought fled him.

No one hurts my little bird no one hurts my little bird -

The Hound bared his teeth at the dragon now. "All right, let's see how tough you are man to man when you're not dropping chandeliers and drowning people in darkness." He brandished his knife and advanced.

Sansa frantically took in his posture and Rhaegar's odd air of serenity. She remembered -

"Sandor! Your hand at the level" -

All at once like a snake striking, Rhaegar raised his hand again. Sandor had only the chance to look up and see the noose come flying at him, catching him around the neck. His breath knocked out of him, he was defenseless as the weight of the rope pulled him back to the portcullis, pinning him there. He dropped his knife. "- Of your eyes," Rhaegar finished for Sansa in his calm voice. He laughed lightly.

He pulled the rope tight, trapping Sandor more securely against the bars.

All Rhaegar would have to do is raise the massive gate again and Sandor would strangle to death.

Sansa cried out like a wolf shot.

Sandor growled and struggled to free himself. The fool he was, the fucking fool...

Sansa. He stared at the little bird he'd failed.

She looked undone.

Rhaegar, still oddly serene, picked up Sandor's knife. He turned it over in his hand, holding it up to the light. "You know, I was thinking of plunging the sword of my ancestors into Nissa Nissa's breast. But maybe Lightbringer wouldn't be forged from such an obvious source. Yes, maybe this - the knife of the man she betrayed me with - ah, yes. How beautifully poetic. The knife dipped into fire, plunged into her heart" -

Sandor's eyes widened until Rhaegar could see the whites surrounding the irises. "Don't. Don't." He was close to hyperventilating. "Don't do it. Please. Carve me up, hang me, I don't care. Don't burn her, don't burn her." The breath chugged out of his nostrils. He was a picture of primitive panic. "Please. Please."

Rhaegar's smile was like a rictus on a ghoul's skull. "I believe I shall. In front of you."

"Rhaegar," Sansa called.

Rhaegar ignored her. "Then I shall hang you, watch you struggle in the air as you watch her burn and die with your last breath."

"Rhaegar."

The Phantom noticed the strangely soft, melancholy note to her voice.

He turned.

Her face was so gentle and mild as she held up the crown to him. "I choose the crown. I choose to bear the prince that was promised. I choose you. On condition you let him go."

He studied her closely.

She was pale and still. Her blue, Tully-river eyes never left his.

For the first time, he saw no fright in those glorious eyes. For the first time, he saw clear honesty.

Before he'd only seen his dead bride in the tears of her sorrowing eyes.

Now he saw his living bride.

He swayed. The sharp ache was back like a knife wound in his chest. He remembered another wedding in another lifetime. A bride stood before him he barely knew. In her dark eyes, however, was the same clarity and strength in Sansa's. Life.

As if moving through a dream, he slowly and tentatively approached her. "Don't!" The Hound pleaded behind him. She did not flinch. Her only movement was to extend the crown toward Rhaegar.

He ignored it. He could only look at her.

He swore - he swore - that she put her forehead down, just a little, just a little. Toward him. As if for -

Barely breathing, barely alive himself, he very slowly pressed his black thin ruined lips to her forehead and - kissed her.

There was good-natured laughter in her voice as she spoke the formal words, 'I, Elia Martell, take Rhaegar Targaryen as my -"

His living bride.

The knife slipped out of his hands.

Sansa saw tears well in his beautiful eyes and spill onto his ravaged cheeks.

The deep well of compassion at the very center of her soul suddenly answered his tears.

She reached out and wiped one away. "Poor unhappy Rhaegar," she whispered.

He saw both the wolf and the viper in her blue eyes, both noble beasts taken over by kindness.

He fell to his knees with a low cry, cringing as he took his chest in his hands.

He shook, gasping for breath.

Sansa was alarmed. "Rhaegar...?" She crouched down, trying to rouse him, forgetting his face.

He choked words out as if they took every effort in his soul. "The knife...take the knife and free your man..."

Sansa blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then her eyes fell on Sandor's discarded knife.

Without a word more, she grabbed the knife and sped over to the tied up Sandor. She hurriedly cut the ropes binding him, savoring the warmth that radiated from his limbs.

At last he was free, and she wordlessly pressed his big hand to her lips.

The little bird saved me, Sandor thought stunned. She saved herself, too. She needed no weapon to do it. Just that damned good nature of hers.

Who was the knight in shining armor now, he thought ruefully.

He pulled her to him, burying his face in her soft mane. Oh gods, to have her here, in his arms, alive, unburned.

But they needed to get out -

"Come on," he rasped, pulling at her. He felt no need to put the ghost away. He was already done for, by the looks of him.

"No," she turned back to the man struggling for breath now on the lair's floor. "He needs help."

Before Sandor could stop her, she'd run back to Rhaegar.

"Girl!"

He ran after her and was prepared to grab her away, but it was obvious Rhaegar could do her no harm. She helped Rhaegar unbutton his cravat. "What's wrong, Rhaegar?"

His voice, always so powerful before, was painfully reedy now. "My heart...my damned heart. I've known, I've known for a long time now, but convinced myself I had time. But I've failed. I've failed...failed you...failed Lyanna...failed everyone..."

Tears filled Sansa's eyes. Her Angel. She knew, of course, all that he'd done. She would always hate him for that a little. However, she remembered everything that happened to him, everything taken from him, and how even through the madness that followed he made her song take flight. Yes, she'd always love him a little for that, as well. "Shh," she tried calming him. She turned to Sandor. "Should we get him to his bed?"

Rhaegar sobbed once. "Too late...it's too late for me, my love." He leaned back, Sansa propping his head up in her lap. His eyes were unfocused, trailing his pitiful domain. "I can't die now, I can't! The...the prophecy...the prince...oh, my Lyanna, leave now while you still can!" He grabbed Sansa's skirt, staring at her with penetrating intensity. "Go with the Hound. I know you love the man. Don't cry anymore." He took in another rattling breath. "I am not worthy of R'hllor's pity. I have not supplied the prince."

"Yes you have, Rhaegar."

All three turned their heads to the right.

Climbing out of a trapdoor in the floor was Varys, carrying a lantern.

Behind him was a young dark-haired man, a stranger to Rhaegar.

"Jon!" Sansa cried. Taking care that Rhaegar was comfortable on the ground, she leapt up and ran to her brother, throwing herself in his arms.

He held her to him. Any other time, Jon would have been puzzled but warmed by Sansa's demonstrative display. Before she'd always been torn between showing him affection and not dishonoring her mother by paying him too much attention. You've grown up, little sister. Yet now, Jon only had eyes for the miserable creature dying on the floor.

Varys stepped forward, addressing his former master. "This is Jon Snow, Rheager."

As he struggled for breath, Rhaegar tried concentrating. The bastard? Ned Stark's bastard?

Those gray eyes of his - even more than in Arya Stark, there Rhaegar saw Lyanna.

"He has come a long way, leaving his regiment up North." While his face and voice remained placid, there was a dark regret looming in Varys's eyes as he spoke. "I did not tell you everything that happened that night, Rhaegar." He glanced up at Sandor. "Nor you. I was not making tea when the fire broke out. I was there, in the amphitheater. I followed Elia, trying to convince her not to interfere." He closed his eyes. "I was close to the exit when the flames grew. So...so was Lyanna. Like me, she was just far enough away only to get a mouthful of smoke when the chandelier came down. I had to go after her...she was trying to save your wife. Your children. I heard her say over and over again, 'the babies, we have to save the babies...' She was frantic in her desperation. But the chandelier had come down directly on them. I knew they'd died instantly. Thankfully, I doubt they felt much pain. I finally succeeded in pulling Lyanna away, out of the theater."

His eyes darkened. "She lived, Rhaegar."

The picture vibrated and hummed in Rhaegar's eyes.

"Lyanna...she lived? But...how...?"

"Aye, how?" Sandor interrupted gruffly. "There were five bodies found. If not Lyanna, then" -

"Your brother," Varys said.

Sandor froze. "What?"

"In his zeal cornering Rhaegar below, he apparently did not stop to think of how he'd escape. He'd stumbled back above only to find himself trapped. He tripped and fell into the orchestra pit, which caught most of the flames. The fire ate so much of his body that no one could tell the man that had been close to eight feet tall wasn't the shorter Rhaegar Targaryen. I could only tell it was Gregor when I visited the scene with the police and saw near him the remains of the table leg he'd used to burn your face, Rhaegar. I told the police that it was you. I had in my possession one of your rings and hid it in his ashes. I told them I saw Gregor flee. Meanwhile, poor Arthur Dayne's body...his was taken for Lyanna's. "

Sandor only vaguely felt Sansa's hand on his arm. The world was spinning.

Gregor...Gregor dead. All this time.

As a child after the fire, he'd repeated a mantra to himself, something to comfort him and harden him in his darkest moments: "I will kill him one day. I will kill him."

The Hound had lived his life without any great ambition beyond this. The desire dulled as the years flew by, and it became clear Gregor was far from Westeros's shores, and Sandor had no resources to hunt him down. When he met Sansa the desire for vengeance faded even more with his obsessive care and affection for her. He hadn't truly thought of Gregor in months.

Now Gregor was dead.

Burnt. Burnt alive.

The thought made him feel ill and exulted all at once.

He was dead. All this time.

The initial rage at missing his chance of strangling the life out of his thick horrid neck faded.

Absently, he covered Sansa's hand with his own.

It was all right now.

"Why, Varys?" Rhaegar croaked. "Why the deception?"

"It was Lyanna's wish, Rhaegar," Varys said softly. "She was consumed by guilt at unwittingly playing a part in the tragedy. She was terrified of her pregnancy. She begged me to keep her hidden away until she could get home without detection. I found her quarters in the slums, watched over by a wetnurse, Wylla. She was left much weakened by the fire, inhaling more smoke than I. Still, I kept her safe as I could. However, Ned Stark soon came to investigate his sister's supposed death. Miss Stark, your father is a clever man. He smelled a rat, somewhere. He lingered long after the police had closed their own investigations.

"Lyanna was still so ashamed she refused to let me tell him his sister lived. It was only when she was giving birth that she begged me to find him and bring him to her."

Rhaegar's breath was coming out faster.

The baby. The baby. The baby the baby.

Varys's voice was so soft now, so gentle yet distant. "The birth took what was left of her strength. Before she died, she made Ned promise to look after her child as his own, to never let the world know his origins. I still can't tell if Ned Stark was more honorable or idiotic in his strict keeping of this promise, at the expense of his own father's life at the dishonor and his own wife's happiness in those early years. But keep his word he did." Varys placed a light hand on Jon's shoulder. "He raised Jon Snow as his own."

Rhaegar's hand clawed at his chest again. He stared and stared at Jon.

The young soldier knelt. His face was a lost little boy's staring bravely at what he'd sought and not sought all his life.

His strong hand on Rhaegar's. "Father," he whispered.

Happiness like the sun warmed what was left in Rhaegar's heart. Tears poured out of his eyes again.

All this time, all this time...

His son.

Trembling, he lifted his hand and found Jon's cheek. His long narrow face fit right into his hand. The soft gray eyes were Lyanna's and his.

"The prince that was promised..." He laughed through his tears. "My son."

Clasping his wrist, Jon said in his austere grave voice, "I will do all that I can to make you proud, Father. This I swear."

Such happiness is not possible for a wretch like me, surely, Rhaegar thought. He looked over this boy, his boy, Jon Snow. Jon Targaryen. He looked at the noble expression, the respectful warrior's stance. He heard the wise, manly voice.

He was more than the prince, more than Azor Ahai. He was Jon Snow Targaryen, Rhaegar's son.

This truly is the moment to die. I have never felt so happy. Never felt so whole.

Yet hand in hand with this bright happiness was a sorrow he'd never fully taken in until now.

He was nearing the end now. The images in front of him were slightly blurred.

His mind became clouded as well. "My son..." His skeletal brow wrinkled. He choked out through his tears. "Aegon...Rhaenys...oh, gods! What have I done?"

His hands bat desperatley at the air. He stared and stared at his son. "My children...forgive me!"

His eyes swam to Sansa. She was kneeling now, too, his other hand in hers. Her hair looked darker through his wavering vision, like she could almost be..."Lyanna, forgive me." Sansa kissed his hand.

His eyes took them both in, savoring what he could see of them.

Next, he looked heavenward, and a look of such acute grief was never seen before. "Oh, Elia, forgive me..."

Those words held all the sadness of the world.

On impulse, Jon hastily leaned down and kissed his father's forehead. "We forgive you, Father. We forgive you." Tears wavered in his stoic voice.

The happiness returned to Rhaegar's dimming eyes. His angelic voice was gone, and he could only mouth the words, "Thank you. Thank you."

His hands went limp in theirs. He was dead.

The moment of silence stretched on. Jon very carefully folded his father's hand over the dead man's chest.

He looked into Sansa's blue eyes. His sister's eyes. His cousin's eyes. His blood.

He reached over and took her hand instead.

She squeezed his and smiled at him sadly through her tears.

Jon Snow was unmoored, but he'd survive. He wasn't sure how to continue now. His whole life, the very core of his identity had centered around the fact that just, kind, worthy Ned Stark was his father. He'd lived his life with the sole goal of becoming worthy of Ned's legacy.

Jon stared now at the disfigured mad murderer who lay dead before him.

His father.

The realization should kill Jon. Yet he only felt a grief so intense he was afraid King's Landing would sink under the weight of it.

Sandor Clegane - the brother of the man who stole Jon's true parents away from him - bent down and suddenly pressed his cheek into the crown of Sansa's head. His eyes were stony yet heavy with primal possessiveness.

Love?

Jon wasn't sure. He'd never expected delicate, ladylike Sansa to welcome advances from a man this rough and unconventional. But when Jon saw Sansa lean into Sandor's caress, he knew that he hadn't the heart to put a stop to it.

Let the dead stay buried. Let them no longer haunt us.

A great chorus of clashing voices splashing through the waves caught their attention. The flicker of torches and lanterns became visible, then the bodies accompanying them.

The mob had broken through the gates, with the help of the police.

Leading the brigade after climbing over the portcullis was a small boy that Jon quickly recognized through the short hair and rumpled slacks. Arya.

Despite the fact she was sopping wet, she looked vitalized, ready for action.

Her face lit up when she saw the young man in military uniform. It had been a while since she'd seen her brother, but -

"Jon!" Smiling like the horsey little wench he'd left behind, Arya gracelessly threw herself around his neck. A handsome young man followed at her heels, a little awkward.

Behind him were the chaotic remnants of the mob that had made it down without turning back or passing out drunk.

Pushing his way to the front was Selmy. He, like the rest of the mob, initially recoiled at the sight of the skeletal corpse with the death's head before them.

At last the old policeman found his voice. "What has gone on here?"

Jon stood, his manner and bearing perfectly military. "Sir, I am Lieutenant Jon Snow of the Northern Army. I was the son of this late man, Rhaegar Targaryen."

He was as remote and mournful as the Northern winds.

Selmy's mouth was uncharacteristically agape.

Arya was astounded. "Rhaegar Targaryen your father?"

Jon smiled at her with infinite tenderness and sadness. He ruffled her hair.

"But you're still my sister, you hear? You're always my sister." He looked up shyly at Sansa. "You as well?"

Sansa laughed joyously. The shame, the worry about Mother seemed like such a childish thing of long ago. "Me as well, big brother."

Selmy blinked once or twice, then turned to Sansa, who was also standing, very close to the Hound. "You are well, Miss Stark?" He took in her bruise, her white pallor.

She nodded bravely. "Yes." She turned to gaze up at Sandor, who was unreadable outside of the warm gleam in his eyes. "At least, I will be."

Like Jon, her words were questioning.

Sandor answered her by caressing the small of her back. "Aye," he said in a voice so low only she could hear. "We'll be all right, girl. We will."

Her smile was so soft and hopeful Sandor felt parts of himself break and come together again.

Selmy coughed, regaining his composure. "Right. Men!" He turned to the officers he'd brought with him and improvised instructions as the mob, feeling strangely as if they'd walked upon an anti-climax of sorts, looked around the lair and commented about the terrifyingly hideous corpse in front of them. They spoke in softer voices than the warrior cries they'd entered with.

Jon kissed Arya on top of her head. She squeezed him then ran off to check on Sansa.

Jon was left to watch as the officers covered his father with a makeshift tarp that had been a blanket covering his sofa.

He watched as the death's head was covered.

My father's death's head.

"Psst! Ay!"

Jon turned.

A round freckled face with wild red hair in a messy bun grinned understandingly at him. She'd made her way through the crowd and had edged up to Jon, jabbing him with her elbow. "Hard luck for ya, yeah?"

Jon looked at her skinny legs in their breeches and the sympathetic smirk on her face. He couldn't help but laugh at her frankness. "Well, yes, I suppose."

She very companionably nudged a flask toward him. "Take a swig. Give ya courage. Drink it in tribute of your old man, Jon Snow."

Something about the way her blue eyes flashed, and the particularly Northern lilt she gave his name, fascinated Jon as much as anything could through the shock of recent events.

He shrugged and accepted the flask. "Thank you, Miss...?"

She giggled. "Miss Nothin'. Call me Ygritte."

"Ygritte," he repeated. The girl shivered at the way he said it, then laughed at herself. He laughed back. It felt so odd yet good to laugh after all that had happened.

They were interrupted in this sweet distraction by Selmy again. "Mr. Clegane just told me that Mr. Varys led you down. Where is he? His employer Petyr Baelish is dead. We found him in the lake. I have a feeling this man has much to answer for, even if he is not directly responsible for all these deaths."

Jon raised his eyebrows. "Certainly! But he's just behind me -"

Jon looked.

Varys was nowhere to be seen.

A/N: I think we have about one more chapter and then the epilogue!

In case anyone's wondering, I don't think Rhaegar was ever strictly in love with Elia in the purely exciting romantic sense, either here or in canon. But here at least he loved her, y'know? It wasn't enough, and he still didn't deserve to breathe the same air as she did, but at least he acknowledges now that she was the best part of his life.