Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Ice and Fire Novels, Game of Thrones and House of the Dragon TV shows. However, I decided to have a little play around with the characters. I do not earn any money from writing these stories, it is for my entertainment and is something I like to share.

Jon

The preparations had been long and arduous. Jon had begged and pleaded to those all over Westeros for help. Only the North and the Vale were prepared to fight. The bulk of the fighting forces, along with the dragons, came from the east.

Cersei Lannister, the so-called Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, cared little for her subjects. All she wanted was the Iron Throne and uncontested power. For the North, there was no time left to rue Cersei's lack of aid. They would have to make do without the help of the south. The dead would arrive within hours, leaving little time to spare for anger.

For the last few days, there had barely been any daylight, a sign Winter was Coming. That morning, daylight never came. The skies remained dark, and Jon knew dawn wouldn't return until the army of the dead was destroyed. That was if the army of the dead were destroyed.

The last of the Stark's sat in Lord of Winterfell's solar. Firelight cast a warm orange glow around the room. It illuminated the faces of his three companions; a man and two women.

Two of the figures resembled each other with their thick auburn hair and bright blue Tully eyes, which they had inherited from their mother.

The boy, or rather a man now, Jon supposed; Bran, had a look in his eyes which was not only intense but ethereal. Bran was tall for sixteen, but he was confined to a chair, no longer able to walk. The result of a fall when he was ten.

One of the two women the tall one, Sansa, an exceptional beauty, who shared the Tully look with her younger brother. Her gaze was just as unnerving. She wore a mask to hide her feelings. This was her armour, she claimed, a form of protection, a result of her life experiences.

At ten and nine, Sansa had endured a harsh life. It had made her not only strong but colder, which reflected in her eyes. Despite the scars, both emotional and physical, her beauty remained.

Since Jon had learned of his true parentage, he wondered a few times, if, in another life, and had he been raised by his blood parents, he might have had a greater appreciation for her beauty. There was even a possibility she would have been his wife. Which was quite different to whatever their relationship was now. He couldn't quite define it.

Their closeness was not like the one he shared with Bran or like the younger girl in the room, Arya. The one who bore less resemblance to her siblings. Instead, like him, she carried the Stark look.

On the surface, Jon and Arya were very much alike in appearance, despite them being only cousins. They were the only ones who shared the Stark look—long faces, dark hair, and grey eyes. However, close up their facial features were quite different. Jon wondered if he inherited his features from his father, though he hadn't asked Bran, who could look into the past and see his father's face.

The girls were unaware of his true parentage. They believed he was their half-brother. Only Bran knew who he was, and it would remain that way until the war was over. He didn't want any distractions.

When they were children, Arya was his favourite sibling. Back then she had been wild and carefree. A rebel against what was expected, someone of her station, a Lady. But now she was as measured as the others, if not more so. He supposed one had to be, especially if trained as a Faceless Man, a stealthy assassin.

They had all changed, more than most would in the few years between leaving their home and returning as the last of the pack. Bran had become some kind of all-knowing greenseer known as the Three-Eyed-Raven, Arya a Faceless assassin, and Sansa a different type of assassin, a political one.

Jon himself was no longer a bastard; he was a prince, and truthfully should have been a King had he not bent the knee to the woman he loved, albeit another doomed relationship.

By a cruel twist of fate, it turned out she was his aunt. While it didn't bother Daenerys, it mattered to him. Jon wasn't raised as a Targaryen, where incest was normal. He was a northerner, where cousin marriages were the closest they came to incest. However, matters of the heart were no longer of any concern; only one thing was important—the army of the dead, which was now only hours away.

They should have been in a war council, although there were no more plans to go over. It would merely repeat the same mantra. Yet it soothed Jon, helping to convince him they could get through this. That Westeros, particularly the North, could survive the army of the dead.

Jon didn't care if he lived; he had died before, and it wasn't too bad. He was prepared to die again, as long as he didn't join the army of the dead, for fear of harming someone he loved. That was his greatest fear. Which was why Bran had brought them all together for one last family gathering.

Bran sat by the fire in his wheelchair, draped in a blanket, while Sansa occupied the seat opposite, back straight, her face hidden behind a mask of stoicism, with her hands clasped together on her lap. Arya sat on the floor, playing with the ornate Valyrian steel dagger Bran had given her. Jon stood a little further back, leaning against the desk behind him.

"I suppose you're wondering why I gathered you all here," Bran's dulcet tones still sent a chill through Jon. Ever since becoming the Three-Eyed-Raven, his voice held no feelings, as if he were reading from a ledger.

"To say goodbye?" Arya looked up at her brother. "You know everything. You know how this ends, whether we all live or die."

Bran said nothing. Instead, he pulled out a pouch from under his blanket and handed it to Arya. "Take one and pass it around."

Arya pulled out a dragonglass dagger before handing the pouch to Sansa, who removed one before passing it to Jon, taking the last one.

"We're already armed with these," Jon said.

Bran shook his head. "These are different. None of you can be responsible for each other's deaths. If the wights overwhelm you, place the dagger above your heart and push. It will offer no resistance, and you will not become one of them."

"Can't we give these to everyone?" Jon asked.

Bran shook his head again. "It only works for those with Stark blood, except me. It won't work on me because he touched me. If I use one, I will become him."

"Are you saying we are all going to die?" Sansa's icy facade dropped for a moment, panic setting in.

"True death is joining the army of the dead," Bran replied, looking at Jon, who felt uncomfortable. He knew death; he'd been there. It wasn't a permanent state if the right people were around you. When you became one of the army of the dead, there was no going back.

"Can these be used on him?" Arya examined the dragonglass blade.

"No. These have been created for the specific purpose. To prevent the last of the Stark's from joining the army of the dead. If the last of the Stark's become wights, he will win. If not, there is still hope." His words were cryptic.

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked.

"It will prevent you from becoming one of them. He cannot be allowed to raise you from the dead. That's all we can hope for, to stop him," Bran replied, though it made little sense. Jon knew the Three-Eyed-Raven would not say any more on the subject. He was being purposely vague.

"If we have to do it, at least it will stop us from becoming one of them, and we won't be able to hurt each other," Jon surmised and Bran nodded. "Good, that's all I needed to know." Jon's heart broke as he glanced over the women he had called sisters. They were going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Jon knew Bran wouldn't have given them all daggers if they were to survive. "I was worried what would happen if any of us became one of them. I take it, we will need them."

"If you are to stop the army of the dead, then there's a possibility you will need them," Bran said, resembling the boy he once was and not the Three-Eyed-Raven. "Time to say our goodbyes for now. I'm sure we will be reunited once this is over."

Arya stood up and grabbed hold of Bran, hugging him tightly. "I know you are the Three-Eyed-Raven, or whatever, but to me, you are still Bran," she said. She turned to Sansa, and they wrapped their arms around each other.

Meanwhile, Jon approached Bran and hugged him, but as with Arya, Bran didn't hug him back. Instead, Jon turned to Arya, and she jumped into his arms, while Sansa hugged Bran, who again kept his hands on his lap, his eyes devoid of any emotion.

Waves of sadness washed over Jon as he put his arms around Arya. In another lifetime, she had been his favourite sibling, and he was hers, although something had changed. As adults, their relationship had shifted, becoming more awkward. The warmth he had loved the most about her was almost gone. Her faceless assassin training had erased that part of her.

Jon put her down and mussed her hair, just to annoy her, though it wasn't a wise idea with someone as dangerous as his sister. Because, in truth, she would always be his little sister, no matter what their blood relationship was.

Jon turned to Sansa. Out of all the Starks, theirs was the relationship which had changed the most. As children, they barely knew each other. He was a sulky bastard, and she was a Lady. Indifferent, and sometimes mean to him. No doubt encouraged by her mother, though Jon had never voiced that thought to her.

When they were reunited at Castle Black, they were both at their lowest point. He had just returned from the dead, and Sansa was broken from her time with Ramsay Bolton. From the ashes of their trauma, they had given each other strength. They built an army and fought wars for each other and in private, against one other. He became King, but she was Queen in all but name. In truth, they were almost like the married couple they probably would have been if his parents had lived.

They ruled as true partners, discussing their darkest moments and becoming close in a way more akin to friendship than siblings. They hadn't grown up together in the same sense as Jon and Arya had, but his bond with Sansa was akin to any husband and wife, with the obvious exception. When they held each other, it was like they were at Castle Black all over again—despair, love, and hope all mingled into one. They knew it was a final goodbye.

Arya might have been his favourite sister, but Sansa was his best friend, and despite her being a political warrior, he still felt protective over her. He had a constant urge to save her, just like in some of the stories they were told as children. As he held her tight, he knew that for Sansa, he couldn't become one of them.

The sound of a horn outside separated them. All three turned their attention to Bran.

"They're here!" Bran said looking to Arya. "Take me to the Godswood."

Up in the skies, the cold was bitter, the winds stronger, the snow heavier. The heat from Rhaegal was the only thing that had kept Jon from freezing to death. Then, he'd been caught up in a snowstorm, the wind circling him. He hadn't been able to see where he was going. The wind was too strong. Rhaegal was off balance, and Jon could barely hold on. It was only when the dead dragon was a few feet away did he realize Viserion was upon them?

"Dracarys!" Jon called out, but his voice was hoarse, exhaustion from fighting for twelve hours in the air taking its toll. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on. "Ilagon!"

Rhaegal turned and dove towards the ground. But just before they reached the courtyard, a gust of wind caused Rhaegal to bank. Jon lost his grip and fell off the back of his mount.

Pain surged through his left leg as he he landed. Jon looked down and saw a bone sticking through his leather breeches—an injury which was unsurvivable from where he was now. The dead were descending on the courtyard, only feet away from him.

Jon didn't need to linger on his decision. He took the dragonglass dagger from his belt, positioned it above his heart, and pushed it in easily as if pushing into the snow. He didn't feel pain; instead, the world turned dark and peaceful.

Sansa

Sansa, along with the other women, children, and those unable to fight, were hiding in the crypts. They believed it to be the safest place. The ironwood doors to the entrance were bolted shut, protecting them from the dead who were coming for them.

Sansa sat with Tyrion and Varys, trying to talk as if they would get through this ordeal unscathed. But as every hour passed, they knew the chances were slimmer. The more men who fell, the larger his army became. Their only way of defeating the army of the dead was to kill the Night King. Until that time, the army of the dead would grow.

There were scores of women and children, all crammed into the crypts. The most important ones to care for were Gilly and Little Sam. They were Samwell Tarly's family, and Sam was Jon's best friend, making them her responsibility. Jon protected her, so she protected them. The longer the fight continued, the more worried she was that the people she loved outside were gone.

For Sansa, that feeling had intensified. Minutes earlier, there had been a thud outside the crypts and a giant roar. She recognized it to be Rhaegal, Jon's dragon. Each dragon sounded different, which was how she knew it was Jon who had landed. Fear gripped her. Either he had fallen, or he was coming to rescue them. She clutched her dragonfly necklace in anticipation.

Another loud thud and subsequent screech heralded the landing of another dragon. The unfamiliar roar was one she hadn't heard before. Her heart dropped, for she knew it was Viserion. The Night King's dead dragon. The battle hadn't stopped; Jon hadn't killed the Night King as Viserion's screeching disappeared into the distance. She looked across at Tyrion and Varys, just as the air in the crypts turned icy cold. Their faces held a fear she had never witnessed before. One of knowing it was their final minutes, and the surety of a painful death to follow.

The noise and cold air was enough to tell Sansa that the army of the dead had descended upon Winterfell. In her heart of hearts, she knew Jon was dead, the sound of the dragons told the story of his death.

Sansa hoped he'd used the dragonglass dagger. She took hers out of her belt and poised it her breast staring at the entrance to the crypts. Then the sound of stone against stone caught her attention. Then the surrounding statues moved. More specifically what lay underneath the statues were trying to break free.

Inside the crypts lay hundreds of dead bodies of the Starks of old and new. All trying to escape their tombs. No doubt being raised by the monster outside.

As the statues moved, skeletons crawled out of the ground, grasping hold of those in their path. Screams took over as the dead Starks attacked the living. Sansa stood between the statues of her father and Rickon. She saw the stonework of her little brother move.

Tyrion and Varys got up and ran but were overwhelmed by the dead—those of old and the ones being made in the process. Their bodies disappeared into the sea of bones as they joined the army of the dead.

Rickon's body stood in front of her for a moment before he jumped on top of her. She felt his teeth break her skin. She heard her father's statue move, and that was enough. She placed the dagger above her heart and pushed, expecting resistance, yet there was none. Just like slicing a piece of lemon cake. There was no pain, just darkness taking over, and then peace.

Arya

Theon was dead. Everyone around her was dead. She had been the last hope to kill the Night King. But when she attempted to stab him, his fingers wrapped around her throat and he lifted her from the ground. Arya had never felt this cold in her life as the fingers of the monster who held her.

She tried to stab him with the Valyrian steel dagger, but she weakening and lost her grip. The dagger dropped to the floor. It was the only weapon she had that could destroy him. And now she was too late. Arya couldn't kill him. She would die and he would kill Bran or the Three-Eyed-Raven.

As her vision was fading, in the distance, she saw the wheelchair-bound man himself.

"Use the dragonglass."

Arya pulled the dagger from her hip and placed it over her heart and looked towards her little brother.

"What do you say to the god of death?"

"Not today," she whispered as she pushed the dagger into her chest without resistance. The world darkened and a semblance of peace settled within her.