A group was growing in the courtyard of Winterfell. Lords and ladies gathered, whispering to each other, without the faintest idea why they'd been summoned. Sansa spotted Torrhen Karstark in the crowd, and Umber, closer to the gate as he passed low words with the Blackfish. Lord Manderly laughed with Dacey Mormont and Sansa's guard Ollie stood beside Steelshanks. Tormund stood at the back with others of the Stark soldiers, looking around in confusion.
Bran was rolled forward by Meera; Jojen and their father waited behind her and Bran's wheeled chair at the entrance into the castle.
The crowd's murmurings were already falling quieter at the sight of him; when Bran raised a hand, silence fell.
Catelyn stood at Sansa's side. Her face was pale and drawn. She did not know the news, only that she was certain of what the other lords were uncertain of: the news would clearly not be good.
Two more women stood at Sansa's other side: Margaery, with Olenna on her arm.
If Margaery was swimming in furs, Olenna was drowning in them. Only her face was visible, and that, barely.
Bran looked around at the lords and ladies gathered before him. "Jon," he called clearly. "If you would join me."
Sansa could imagine the sound of Jon's resigned sigh even from across the courtyard. He mounted the steps wearily, turning to stand beside his brother and stare out at the crowd with reluctance lining every inch of his face.
Margaery rolled her eyes; Sansa had to repress a giggle. "So dramatic," Margaery whispered to her. "You'd think Bran was ordering his execution."
Sansa shot her own look of amusement back at Margaery. But the thought wasn't as far from the truth as Margaery suggested. "In a way – isn't he? The death of the life Jon always thought he would lead."
Catelyn overheard and shot Sansa a look of horror, failing to understand. Sansa shook her head; she knew Bran would explain soon enough.
"Yes," Margaery leaned closer to whisper in reply. "And the life he always thought he'd lead was surrounded entirely by men and sworn to celibacy. A girl could grow… concerned."
Sansa had to cover her face with her glove to hide her smile.
Olenna leaned around Margaery to glare at Sansa from out of her furry hood. "The cheek," Olenna said, in a voice Sansa wished was closer to a whisper. "The nerve. Telling me and everyone who can hear that that delicious young man is just a bastard, when–"
"Grandmother!" Margaery said sharply, tugging on the old woman's thin arm.
Olenna smiled at Sansa. "Yes, I think I finally discovered what you were plotting with us all along."
"Oh?" Sansa replied, feigning indifference despite how likely it was that Olenna was right. "And what was I plotting?"
Olenna's smile turned mischievous; the resemblance to her granddaughter became uncanny. "You need me to tell you your own plot? What, have you forgotten it already?"
Sansa couldn't help her own laugh in reply.
"Daenerys Targaryen has attacked King's Landing," Bran announced, to a chorus of gasps from the crowd. Sansa's smile fell without aid; it was horrifically inappropriate. Many people, good people, were dead. Stannis. People Sansa had helped, and hoped to keep helping. Davos. People who had not died to dragonfire last time. Shireen.
A sudden thought came to Sansa, one more concerning than the rest – Melisandre was just as likely among the dead.
If Red Priests and Priestesses could only resurrect one person…
Jon had to use the one life that remained to him as best he could.
"Dragonfire has burned the Red Keep to the ground," Bran continued. The cries of horror intensified, as lords and ladies turned to their companions, sure that they must have misheard.
"She has declared herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and named her dragons' next target: a rider came in the night with her terms for the North's surrender!" Bran announced even more loudly.
At that, the courtyard fell as silent as the crypts. Only a lone crow, bleating from the branches of the weirwood tree, split the silence.
Bran cleared his throat. "Among the conditions of servitude, imprisonment, and execution of every Stark who is of age–"
"No!" cried Dacey with horror.
"Hang her!" Umber bellowed. "We don't want no ruddy–"
Steelshanks spat, looking murderous.
"Enough of dragons!" Manderly called out. "The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!" Ollie took up, as did Dacey, and the rest of the lords followed. Umber shouted it loudly enough to carry the chant on his own.
Bran looked amused. "I thank you!" he said over the chant once it had died down the barest hint. "Daenerys's final term was that the North bend the knee – to Balon Greyjoy and the Iron Islands–" Bran became so drowned out by boos and hisses that Sansa could barely hear him speak. "–who demand tribute toward their rulership of our lands."
Dacey shouted something extremely unladylike about where Balon Greyjoy could put his tribute. Margaery had never looked so fond of her.
"We have two options before us," Bran continued. "We know her dragons will be coming here. We can cower and wait – or we can come for her throat."
The courtyard exploded into cheers.
"Throat!" Steelshanks yelled.
"I've always wanted to kill a dragon," Sansa heard Umber remark.
"Down with Southern Kings!" Karstark added.
"Down with Southern Queens!" Dacey yelled in reply.
Bran smiled. "Jon, the White Wolf, will be put in charge of the North's armies. Brynden Tully has pledged to follow him south."
From across the courtyard, faces turned to look at the Blackfish. He gave a deep nod in confirmation.
"The White Wolf!" Umber bellowed gleefully. "The Blackfish!"
"Kill the dragons!" someone else called.
"A Stark on the Iron Throne!" Dacey called.
Bran's smile was broad. Dacey couldn't have given him a better opening if he'd asked her to. "There is no more Iron Throne. Daenerys and her dragons saw to that."
"The Southrons will want a king!" Karstark declared. "If Stannis is dead, then who?"
"Jon Snow," Bran said evenly.
An uneasy silence fell across the courtyard. The Northern lords might like the Starks, might even love them, but even they knew a Northern bastard was not a good fit for a Southern King, no matter how competently he'd been manning the North's defenses.
Jon looked to be in immense pain. Next to him, Bran was clearly enjoying himself. "Is not my half-brother," Bran continued, as if the pause had been unintentional. "Nor is he a Snow."
But even as his words spread confusion among the courtyard, Bran refused to speak further.
Catelyn gripped Sansa's arm painfully hard. "Sansa," she whispered. "Bran isn't…"
"Yes," Sansa calmly replied. "He is."
But Bran did not speak. When Jon looked at him, confused, Bran continued to say nothing.
Taking a deep breath, Jon steeled himself. "My father was Rhaegar Targaryen. My mother was Lyanna Stark."
Before the shock could finish rippling through the crowd, Howland Reed's calm voice added, "Eddard Stark and I took Jon from the Tower of Joy as a baby. He's the heir to the Iron Throne."
Stunned silence greeted this revelation. Then Dacey yelled, "The King in the South!"
But Jon held up a hand. "No."
Sansa held her breath. She and Margaery had each grabbed for the other's hand, clasping tight, terrified Jon would shrink from this duty he hated more than all others.
"I will not be King of the South if they do not want me!" Jon continued. Sansa and Margaery squeezed tighter. "That is for them to decide! I march for the North – that it remains forever free and independent from any Southern royalty, no matter if their mother was a Stark!"
Proper cheers exploded at that throughout the courtyard, even as Sansa's heart sank.
"You might have sympathy for the cause of a free North," Margaery whispered to Sansa. "But…"
"I know," Sansa whispered in reply. "The North is the only army he's got. He can't spend his first act as King freeing them. He'll need them to take the throne."
Margaery looked grim. "And to keep it. He's just made it into a throne the North won't care about. Not for long, anyway."
"The King in the North!" the cry started up again. "The King in the South!" it continued.
"The King in the North! The King in the South!"
"THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE SOUTH!"
"May I proclaim to you!" Bran shouted over the melee. "Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the SIX Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
The cheers were deafening.
…
"I see the princess has decided to grace us with her royal presence today," Obara said.
Arya's frown was immediate, her angry reply that she wasn't a princess on her lips – when she realized that the Sand Snake wasn't looking at Arya, her sparring partner, but off to the side of the courtyard.
Myrcella reclined on a chaise under a nearby awning. Her airy pink skirts wafted over the edge of the lounge in the faint breeze from the fan of the servant who never stopped gently waving it. A pitcher of water and a bowl of grapes sat on the table next to her; she plucked lazily at them as she turned pages in her book.
Obara was still frowning and Arya struck, swinging her staff at the older girl's feet. Obara's own staff swung to catch it almost on instinct. Then they were both spinning and clashing and jumping away again.
Arya scored hits on the other Sand Snakes, now. Maybe not as often as she got hit, and maybe not as good of hits as she would have liked, but…
She was a proper Sand Snake; not some pitiable sheltered princess where allowances had to be made for her weakness.
She'd bested Tyene, yesterday. It had been the most brilliant thing that had ever happened to her.
"Wish that Greyjoy boy would have stayed longer," Obara said, offering a hand and pulling Arya out of the dust and to her feet. "Think he'll actually bring me those Yi Ti blades–?"
"No," Arya said quickly, knowing it for the truth. "I don't think he'll be back."
Obara cast her a strange look; Arya shrugged. "Did you think he looked like he liked being a merchant?"
Obara barked a laugh.
Grabbing a towel, Arya mopped the sweat from her face. She knew the real reason that she suspected Theon wouldn't be back soon: he'd treated her like a brother – and he'd flinched at every mention of Sansa.
Which meant that Arya would be just enough Stark to remind him in all the unpleasant ways and not the right Stark for him to care to come visit.
Arya tossed the towel at an empty lounge chair, wishing someone could have cared enough to come anywhere for her.
On the next lounge over, Myrcella looked up at Arya from her book. Then, abruptly, Myrcella shut the book. She grabbed her bowl of grapes, pouring them onto the table. And then she poured her pitcher of water into the bowl, nearly emptying it.
"Here," Myrcella said, and handed the bowl of water to Arya.
Arya stared at her, holding the bowl of water, and one half second from dumping it over the Lannister princess's head. There had been goblets she could have offered Arya. But no, Myrcella had to be insulting–
"I can't stand seeing her look so hot all the time," Myrcella continued. "It looks like she's dying."
Arya turned, following her gaze. Nymeria, her direwolf, lay flat on her side, tongue lolling as she panted, her eyes closed.
Arya strode across the courtyard, setting the water before Nymeria's muzzle. The direwolf cracked an eye and lifted her head just enough to take great gulping slobbers of the fresh water. Arya stroked a hand through her thick fur.
"She's not made for this heat," Arya said to Myrcella.
"Is there anything she needs? Imported ice, or… or…" Myrcella looked uneasy. "I know it's expensive, but I'm sure if I asked Tristane–"
Arya laughed, moving back to stand with the princess. "No, there's not enough ice to import for her in all of Dorne. She'll be okay."
Myrcella didn't look convinced, a furrow dug between her brows as she watched the direwolf slurp at the bowl till it was empty, then lay back down, the wolf's eyes closed yet again.
"Look at her," Obara scoffed to Tyene from across the courtyard, loud enough for Arya and Myrcella to be meant to hear. "Does nothing but sit around eating grapes and being fanned. Uncle Doran was crazy to think she could ever belong here."
Myrcella flinched.
"Hey!" Obara called out. "What are you doing here? These are my father's quarters. Tristane and Doran are down the hall."
"Oh, leave her alone," Arya said. She snagged one of Myrcella's bunches of grapes and reached for her spear, twirling it in the other hand as she stalked back towards the ring. "Can't be her fault that we're more interesting than your stupid cousin and his stupid court."
She broke off a grape, tossing it at Obara, who caught it easily. She tossed another at Tyene – who caught the grape with her mouth. She and Arya grinned at each other.
Then Arya faced off with Nym in the ring, this time, enjoying the crack of the spears against each other as they danced. So similar to the Water Dance, but not quite.
And besides, Arya thought as she knocked into Nym's side and shoved her away. She thought there was a certain strength to Myrcella that the others didn't see. Didn't care to see. As Nym grabbed a flask, gulping from it, Arya looked across the courtyard. Myrcella still sat on the chaise, a book in her lap, as she pretended not to study the wolf out of the corner of her eye.
Myrcella reminded Arya of Sansa. And if anyone ever called Sansa weak, Arya would gut them herself.
"The servants said I'd find you here," said a voice Arya didn't often hear. A servant rolled Doran into the courtyard, his wheeled chair clacking on the tile. An amused smile was on his face. "We've just received word from the capital. King's Landing has been attacked and Stannis has been killed. Queen Daenerys has landed and claimed the throne."
A clatter sounded distantly as Arya's spear fell from her hand.
"Does it matter?" Obara said. "One king falls. A queen rises. None of them care two shits about Dorne."
Doran's smile broadened. "This one might. For, you see…" He turned to Myrcella. "She's named you her Heir."
Myrcella's face went white as snow, her pale curls framing her terror. "Me?"
Doran gave her a slow nod. "And Tristane as your Prince Consort, of course. Your grandfather is Daenerys' Hand of the Queen and you and your betrothed have been summoned to court, to be at his side." He looked up, toward the other end of the courtyard. "And every Stark has been named an enemy of the crown."
Instantly, Obara, Nym, and Tyene formed a circle around Arya, their practice weapons tossed aside in favor of the real ones at their belts. Arya's and Myrcella's eyes met, suddenly on opposite sides of a war. They stared at each other in horror.
"You can't take her," Obara spat. "You– This queen's commands do not hold sway in Dorne. Not–"
"No, not yet, they do not." Doran looked even more amused. Suddenly, Arya noticed the rest of the courtyard and the soldiers that bristled in every opening. "We shall see how long it lasts."
The Hound walked purposefully towards the knot of Sand Snakes. "Come on, Little Wolf," he told Arya. "We've overstayed our welcome."
Nymeria, for all she had looked exhausted, was on her feet, the direwolf's wild and furious gaze locked on Doran.
Then, footsteps drew closer through the other end of the courtyard. "What is the meaning of this?" Oberyn declared, coming up to stand beside his daughters. They had not lowered their weapons, nor moved from surrounding Arya.
"Father!" Tyene started. "Prince Doran–"
"Quiet," Oberyn snapped. He never removed his eyes from his brother.
"Princess Myrcella–" Doran began.
"I heard," Oberyn replied. "And Tywin Lannister," He said the name with a rolling snarl. "The man who ordered the murder of Elia, thinks he can give us commands with what we do with our guests? In our own kingdom?"
"Of course not," Doran said easily. "But best not to let him know that yet."
Oberyn turned to look at Arya. Her wide, frightened eyes stared back at him.
His whistle split the air. "Come!" Oberyn called out to his daughters, turning and striding back the way he'd entered. "We have a long journey ahead of us."
"Where will you go?" Doran called out at his retreating back.
"Where do you think?" Oberyn said over his shoulder, never faltering in his stride.
…
"A reply came for you," Maester Luwin said. He handed Sansa the tiny scroll as she stood within the cramped maester's room, filled with the cawing of ravens.
She unrolled it greedily, careful not to tear it or smear the jagged handwriting.
Sansa Stark
I appreciate the honor you do me with your invitation. However, I am quite busy at the moment and will not be free to travel North for the foreseeable future. If you would like Arya returned home, please send an escort to Sunspear and we will entrust her care to them.
Until then,
Prince Oberyn
Sansa had to fight not to crush the parchment in her fist, nor spill her tears onto them. That hadn't even sounded like Oberyn had bothered to write his own reply to her letter. He'd never used his titles with her and rarely called her anything but Red Wolf. She'd thought them far better friends than that, than–
Sansa sighed. If the Starks had to unite Westeros, she was off to a rotten start.
"Not the reply you wanted?" Luwin said, with pity in his eyes.
"No," Sansa replied. She swiped a hand across her nose. "Hand me more parchment. I've another letter to write."
As Sansa penned the final word, a shape filled the doorway. She pressed the parchment into Luwin's hands. "You know where to send this."
With a smile, Luwin nodded in reply.
When she turned to the doorway, Jon stood in it. Though, he had a finger raised to a raven as the bird nibbled at it, ignoring Sansa entirely.
"Your Grace," Luwin greeted.
"Did you need something, Your Grace?" Sansa asked.
A deep sigh pulled from Jon. He turned away from the raven. "For my sister to not call me that, for one."
Sansa couldn't stop her smile. "Yes, Your Grace. What was the other?"
Jon glared at her in annoyance. Sansa's smile only grew. He turned back to the raven. "Your prisoner asked to see me. Asked for a private audience. Thought you should be there, seeing as how you're the only one that knows him."
"Tormund?" Sansa frowned. The red-haired Wildling had full run of the castle and had never been a prisoner in Winterfell. "You know him far better than I–"
Jon shook his head. "The Kingslayer. Jaime Lannister."
Sansa stared at him. "Oh."
Jon raised an eyebrow.
"Yes." She gathered her skirts, maneuvering through the shelves. "Lead the way."
…
At least Winterfell's dungeons weren't as wet and dank as Riverrun's, but even with the hot springs beneath the castle, its cells were fairly cold.
Jon and Sansa stopped before one.
"Look at that," Jaime mused, leaning back against the far wall of the cell. "It seems I can still summon a king."
"Were you bad today?" Sansa asked. "I've grown used to seeing you out on walks."
Jaime looked annoyed at her using his own unflattering metaphor back at him. "No," he replied tersely. "It seems your mother's sworn sword is too busy to play nursemaid today, what with all the kings being declared." Jaime gestured at the cells around him, only most of them empty. "Is this your definition of private?"
"Talk," Jon said.
Jaime shrugged, his gesture screaming 'your funeral.' Then he turned his attention to Jon, with far more gravity than Sansa expected. "Are you truly Rhaegar's son?"
Jon waited. "I've been told so," he eventually replied. "I never met either of my parents."
"I did," Jaime replied. He shifted on his pile of straw. "I've met both of them. I'm sure half of Winterfell will sing Lyanna's praises to you. But I might be one of the few who knew Rhaegar."
Jon leaned forward, trying to hide the hunger filling his eyes. "Get to the point, Lannister."
Jaime smiled. "I was his Kingsguard, you know. I begged Rhaegar to take me with him to the Trident. Perhaps if he had, perhaps if…" He trailed off into nothing, a frown creasing his brow.
"What was he like?" Sansa asked, spurring Jaime out of his musings.
"Tall," Jaime replied. "Fair. Looks nothing like you, if I'm being honest."
Jon laughed. A smile tugged at his lips. "I've always been told I've the look of Lyanna."
"That you do." Jaime gave a nod. "Lucky for you, I suppose. Ned would have had a much harder time passing you off as his bastard if you'd sprouted silver hair."
Sansa smiled. It sounded as if Jaime believed them, incredulous as it was. "What else do you remember of Rhaegar?"
But Jaime didn't pay the question any mind. He studied Sansa and Jon, his eyes draped by hair that had grown back long and golden. He finally looked himself.
"She burned it to the ground?" Jaime asked softly.
"Yes," Sansa replied, instead of Jon. They'd received a full report this morning. "Mercifully, not every district. But in a swath from the Red Keep to the Sept of Baelor, little remains. The Street of Sisters is ash. She entirely spared the section by the Dragonpit."
Jaime snorted. "Of course she did. So that her dragon could land triumphantly, didn't she?"
Sansa snorted agreement. "Of course. It's reported that the people of King's Landing shower her with flowers wherever she walks, with fresh wreaths around her head every day."
Jaime shook his lowered head. "They're terrified she'll burn them, next."
"Are they wrong?" Sansa replied.
Jaime sat in silence for a long moment, his face turned away where neither Stark could see it.
Finally, he raised it, looking up at Jon. "Close to a full year that I've been a Stark prisoner," Jaime said. "I'd like to know what you plan to do with me."
"Whatever we want," Jon replied. "That's what it means to be a prisoner."
Jaime rolled his eyes. "Yes, but to what end? Is there a deal you plan to offer my father for my release? Are you just keeping me warm, well-fed, and in fighting shape till you decide to serve him my head on a platter?"
Jon was silent.
"You know what your father trades for alliances," Sansa abruptly realized. "You know what he's getting out of his deal to be Hand of the Queen of Ash."
Jaime looked up at her, something dark in his eyes. "Yes, it's Father's favorite position. He quite resents any monarch who doesn't give it to him."
Sansa pressed onwards. "And you know what he'll require from her in return." Jaime couldn't meet her gaze, suddenly finding his straw pile incredibly interesting. But Jon looked confused, so Sansa continued. "It's not rule of the North – they already traded that away for Balon Greyjoy's support. The Mad Queen is unwed. And Tywin has a living male heir."
"One who killed her father," Jaime snarled.
"Do you think that matters one whit to Tywin?" Sansa said. "It'll be your turn to play Cersei's role as a doting consort and be sold like a horse for the Dragon Queen to ride or pasture as she pleases. I'm sure your father is proud that Daenerys completed her father's work."
Jaime stared at her, his levity evaporated. "I've told that to no one," he whispered.
"Sansa?" Jon frowned, equally confused.
She cleared her throat, her eyes never leaving Jaime's. "Ser Jaime Lannister killed the Mad King for trying to burn down King's Landing with wildfire, using the same caches that Daenerys just exploded."
Brienne had told her in her last life, after Jaime had died. She had wanted Sansa to know that he had been a good man through it all and noble in his own way to the end.
But Jaime shook his head. "I always thought rumors of Stark oddities were exaggerated. Now I learn the rumors didn't go far enough."
Jon snorted in sympathy.
Jaime looked up at him, though his face lacked sincerity. "Give me over to the Dragon Queen and perhaps I'll succeed again."
Sansa raised an eyebrow. "You truly believe she'll let you near her bedchamber? I assume you'll be trading one prison cell for another. Though I expect hers will have finer clothes – and less time practicing your sword."
Jaime said nothing, his gaze drifting to a distant point of the cell.
"But there was something you called us here to propose," Sansa ventured. "Wasn't there?"
Jaime tilted his head to smirk up at her. "Knew you were the smart one of the bunch." Jon's face contorted and Jaime quickly continued. "Yes. I'm proposing that you…" He trailed off, losing nerve.
"Jaime?" Sansa tried again.
"Restore my family titles," Jaime said abruptly.
"Lord of Casterly Rock?" Jon grimaced. "That's Theon's and we're not–"
Jaime leveled him with a disbelieving glare. "For how long? I don't believe the Northerners took too keenly when Theon's father announced his rule of them."
Jon hesitated.
Sansa watched him, feeling similarly. Even if Theon had a stronger claim to Casterly, he still didn't have the men. It would take a miracle to fend off even the smallest force that attacked him. As it stood, their control of Casterly Rock was just a buried cache of wildfire, waiting for the right spark.
"You wish to be restored as Lord of Casterly Rock?" Sansa asked. "In trade for what?"
"No," Jaime quickly replied. "I wish that for Tyrion." He swallowed. "For myself, I meant… Kingsguard."
"Kingsguard?" Jon said. "But why would we…"
Instantly, Jon realized. He whipped his gaze to Jaime, even as Jaime steadfastly stared back. Sansa's breath caught, looking between the two.
Not even the whole army of dead could tear their three gazes from each other, nor break the sudden silence.
"You'd swear to me?" Jon asked in a low voice.
Jaime studied him through the bars of his cell. "If you're truly Rhaegar's son, I'm already sworn to you." Jaime paused, gathering his words. "The Mad King used me as a pawn against my father. If I renew my vows to you, it must be because you're trusting me to perform my duty, and not for a political pawn of your own. I will help you against the Dragon Queen. I will not raise a blade against my family or their men."
"You want Daenerys dead as much as we do," Sansa breathed. "Who knows how many cities she'll burn before we kill her."
Slowly, Jaime gave a nod. "I will need clemency for my father, no matter what he may still do. For Uncle Kevan, Aunt Gemma, and… and for Myrcella," he continued. "And Tyrion, if you haven't already given it."
"Good terms," Sansa replied. Grudgingly, she added, "Even with Casterly. Though we'll have to negotiate with Theon."
"Aye," Jon said. "If we can trust him." He turned to Sansa, awaiting her verdict.
Sansa's heart beat in her throat. She could be casting the first blow in uniting the kingdoms – or lining Jon up to be killed. She had to trust Jaime, not just with herself, not just without chains, but with guarding the life of their King; a king whose rival to the throne had the support of Jaime's own father.
Jaime had pushed Bran. He'd defied Cersei to fight with the Starks against the dead. He'd strangled Sansa. He'd kept his word to Catelyn and armed Brienne. He'd threatened to kill Sansa in her tent. He hadn't; he'd protected her from Bolton's assassins and stayed his hand. He'd loved Brienne, last time – he'd knighted her. He'd left her to go die with Cersei. And Brienne, the most honorable woman Sansa had ever known, had still thought Jaime Lannister honorable, in return.
Sansa gave Jon a slow nod.
Jon turned to Jaime's cell. He unlocked the gate. It swung open on creaky hinges. Jaime raised his manacled hands to Jon, who unlocked those, too.
Jaime never bothered rising from the straw-strewn stone floor. He simply took a knee, bending his head. "I, Jaime of House Lannister–"
"Wait," Jon said.
Jaime looked up at him, concern in his eyes.
Jon turned towards the entrance to the dungeon. "GUARDS!" he bellowed into the echoing stones.
Jaime froze in fear as the three guards streamed into the room, their blades drawn. One began marching toward Jaime automatically.
Jon held up a hand. "Where is Ser Jaime's sword?"
The guards stared blankly at him.
"Go and get it," Sansa commanded. "It's castle-forged steel. It'll be the best one we captured."
Jaime's lips twisted in amusement as the guards ran off to do the Starks' bidding.
A minute later, one guard returned, the red and gold scabbard in his hands. With a nod, Jaime reached for it. The guard immediately drew back, horrified.
"Give it to him," Jon said quietly. "It's his."
"But… sire!" the guard said.
"You are relieved of castle duty," Sansa commanded. "Report to Lord Umber without delay."
The guard looked between the Starks, unsure what to do. When Jon didn't stop her, the man shoved Jaime's sword at Jon, snapped an angry salute, then stalked from the dungeon.
Jon raised an eyebrow at Sansa.
"He was given a direct command from his king," Sansa replied. "They treat me with that same reluctance; it's absolutely unacceptable toward you."
A smile twitched at Jon's lips as he handed the Lannister blade back to Jaime.
The ring of drawing steel echoed in the stone dungeon. Jaime held the blade reverently. Jon's own blade hung on his hip; Jon was a reputed swordsman, but Jaime would have the advantage with an already drawn blade, would be able to–
Jaime turned his sword point-down into the stone floor. "I, Jaime of House Lannister, do swear to serve, faithfully and true…"
Sansa had never heard vows so long or complex. It was fully an age before he was done, and she only knew that because Jon began to speak.
"Rise, Ser Jaime," Jon said. "Commander of my Kingsguard."
Jaime startled. He hadn't expected the honor of the new title to come with it.
"Unless you refuse it?" Jon asked. He stretched out a hand to Jaime.
Jaime grasped Jon's hand with his scarred right one, pulling up to his feet. "No." He tilted his chin towards Sansa as he sheathed his sword, looping its belt around his waist. "Though you'll soon wish her wolf had gone easier on my hand."
Jon shrugged. "I've seen you spar against Brynden and Brienne. I'm not concerned."
"You'll need more than one Kingsguard, you know," Jaime said.
Sansa cast a sly look up at him. "Why, is there anyone you have in mind?"
Jaime glared down at her. "Ser Brynden, of course."
Sansa didn't believe him for a second. "No one else?"
Jaime glared harder. Even Jon caught on, studying the two of them without any idea what they meant.
"Brienne isn't a knight," Jaime gritted out.
Sansa shrugged, walking with them unconcernedly out of the dungeons. "That can be fixed."
"Sansa," Jon said wearily. "You can't just make knights. They have to prove themselves, have to–"
"Gracious," Jaime said with surprise. "Has she been advising you militarily? It's a wonder you're all still alive. Do you know where she wanted to put cavalry–"
Jon stopped, taking Jaime's measure. "Are you offering?"
Jaime froze mid-step. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "No," Jaime said cautiously. "No, I'm not."
Jon gave a nod. He continued on the path without another word.
Shocked, Jaime looked at Sansa.
She smiled in reply. "Any other recommendations for Kingsguard?" she simply said, sidestepping his unasked question of how in the world they could be so flippant about his split loyalties.
"Several," Jaime replied, though he seemed equally relieved to sidestep it. "Though it's a pity they're all dead."
…
Starks do not kneel and ice does not burn. Winter is coming for you all.
Daenerys closed the scrap of paper in her fist, wishing she could breathe fire from her own mouth to turn it to ash.
"Starks can be made to kneel," she said to Varys, who had handed the paper to her as they walked among the ruins of King's Landing. "My ancestors have done it before."
Reconstruction was already underway, funded by their new queen's generosity. Most days, hats were tipped to her as she passed. Women cried out in joy. Babies were kissed. But for now, she surveyed. Her Unsullied strode casually through the rubble of the town ahead and to the sides of her, protecting their queen at a distance.
Varys gave her an obsequious bow. "Yes, Your Grace, it has indeed been done. Was there a method you had in mind?"
"Many things," Daenerys said, flicking a bit of ash off her shoulder. "Burning Winterfell to the ground would be one of them. Ice does not burn, do they have even the faintest idea what they're talking about? Everything burns."
"Even dragons," Varys agreed.
She shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye, unsure if he was mocking her. "There's more, isn't there."
Varys smiled, but he looked far from happy at being the bearer of this news. "It seems they've declared a contender for the Iron Throne."
Daenerys scoffed. She gestured at the ruins of the Red Keep. "They can have it – if they can dig the melted iron of Aegon's blades out from between the stones, that is." She shook her head, looking at the gash in the tower above them. It stretched from the throne room and up into the royal quarters. She'd gotten to look Stannis in the eyes as he died. Gotten to see him consumed by Drogon's flames as she rode his back. Gotten to see Stannis in his armor burn alive among his soldiers, all screaming, all in fitting devotion to the god whose service he so craved.
Finally, the last of the Baratheons who'd stolen her family's throne had been extinguished. Justice had finally been served for her mother, her brother Rhaegar, her niece and nephew slaughtered in their cribs.
Varys's half-smile had not altered.
"Who is it, then?" Daenerys said flippantly, guessing at the next problem. "What new usurper to my family's crown do I need to put down before these people stop trying to steal what is mine?"
Varys's smile looked even worse than before. "News will be spreading, Your Grace, about this pretender–"
Daenerys stopped walking. She knew by now how to tell when her advisors were hiding truths they found unpleasant. "What. Name."
Varys swallowed. "He is called Jon Snow, known as a Stark bastard."
Daenerys blinked. Varys couldn't be serious. But he failed to explain further and she found herself growing more heated by the word. "Do the Starks mean to insult me in every way they can? What possible claim can a bastard STARK have against–!"
"A very good one, as it may be," Varys explained. "They're claiming that he is Prince Rhaegar's son – through Lyanna Stark."
Daenerys didn't realize that she'd fallen sideways, clutching at a beam of the scaffolding supporting the castle, until she felt Varys's hand beneath her arm, guiding her to sit atop a loose stone.
A Targaryen. Her nephew.
Daenerys stared up at Varys. "The evidence for his claim. What do they have–?"
"Scattered bits," Varys replied. "A single witness. Nothing conclusive, but…"
He trailed off, full of implication. Daenerys understood. It did not take irrefutable proof to raise an army of rebels out of a proud nation that she'd already sworn to crush.
Jorah had wanted to give the Starks easy terms: the return of Jaime Lannister and swearing fealty to their new queen. Tywin had agreed: provided she still burn Winterfell to the ground after. She needed the Iron Fleet and Tywin's assistance and destroying the Starks was the only way to achieve either. But Daenerys hadn't wanted to betray the Starks if they had just sworn to her – nor had she been in a hurry to give Tywin back his murderous son. Her future husband.
So she'd given the Starks harsh terms. It wasn't as if she minded making an example out of the family who had led the rebellion against her father. It wasn't as if Tywin or Grey Worm or anyone other than Jorah and Barristan had even attempted to stop her. And now…
"How soon can my dragons be over Winterfell?" Daenerys said.
"Your Grace, it is not wise," Varys cautioned. "Dragons are not invulnerable and the Starks surely know to expect–"
"I did not ask if it was wise," Daenerys snapped. "I asked how soon."
"Two days," Varys replied. "If the histories are to be believed."
"Let's hope they are," Daenerys said, turning back and striding through the city, every inch of her calling to Drogon.
Come. Now.
There was work to be done.
…
Margaery looked out over the battlements of Winterfell, staring towards the south as if she could see all the way to King's Landing. All the way to the ruined city at the heart of their country, and the ruinous queen who now lived there, along with as many dragons as Aegon the Conqueror.
And they'd challenged this new Conqueror. One Aegon against another.
Even Margaery found herself praying for the Seven's assistance. If they ever gave it, now was surely the time.
"Thought I'd find you here."
Jon's heavy footsteps walked toward her across the battlements until they stood side-by-side, breaths pluming in the silence.
Margaery smiled. They'd talked here many times before, sometimes long into the night. It had felt nice, having someone who understood her pain so completely. She didn't think any of the other Starks even knew Ygritte's name.
Margaery already felt warmer on the side where Jon's body blocked the chill wind. She wished for more. She had enjoyed flirting with him, back when he was a known bastard, but hadn't dared since…
Since she and Sansa had begged and bullied Jon to declare his claim to the throne. Flirting would have been in the worst taste imaginable.
After all, almost a year ago, she'd goaded a different Stark to take the Iron Throne.
Margaery closed her eyes against the immense stab of pain.
"Your Grace," she said softly, trying to invite Jon to speak.
With a sigh, Jon put his gloved hands on the stone, running them over the first hint of ice. "I can't do this alone."
Margaery fought the urge to reply before she knew what he meant, and simply turned to study him. His cheeks were flushed, with bits of snow in his curly black hair, his perpetual frown as deep as ever.
He continued. "No matter what some book in Oldtown may say, and one loyal bannerman of my father's–"
"Your uncle's," Margaery corrected.
Jon squeezed one gloved hand into a fist. "I'm still a Stark bastard, no matter what blood runs through my veins. It's how I've always been known – hells, it's how I know myself." He released the clenched fist, setting his hand back atop the parapet. "And if you think, for one second, that fancy Southern lords are going to kneel to a Northern bastard because of what some old book says, then you're out of your godsdamned mind."
Margaery still studied him. "Yet you announced your claim."
"I did," Jon said. "You were right – we have to fight her, and no one will give two shits about our private little war if we can't give them someone else to swear to. But it means we need allies, and…"
He trailed off. Margaery waited, head tilted, for him to continue. He didn't, still staring at the stones of the parapet. Stepping closer, she put her own gloved hand on his shoulder. Instantly, he covered her hand with his own.
"I need you," Jon said. Slowly, he raised his eyes to hers. They were filled with a vulnerability she'd never seen. "A queen who all of Westeros can respect. Someone who a simple Stark bastard would never be worthy of. Without you, I'll be lost before I've even begun."
Margaery felt her heart lodge in her throat. She would always love Robb – and Jon would never want it to be otherwise. "Yes," she whispered, then, "Yes," more strongly. A smile pulled at her lips, even as tears threatened at her eyes.
Jon smiled at her in return, though she would have to do something to smooth his lingering frown lines.
He took her gloved hand in his own, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Margaery's smile grew. Gods, he was better than she deserved.
Jon pulled away with the sudden realization. "Did you know?" He frowned. "Did you know I wasn't–"
"I knew you were more than a bastard," Margaery said truthfully. "Even Catelyn liked you too much for that. I hadn't the faintest idea what you were. Only that Sansa liked you very, very much. I've learned that I tend to like the people Sansa likes. Seeing as how I was once inexplicably one of them."
He cleared his throat, his smile turning boyish. "I wasn't sure if you'd… agree."
But Margaery raised an eyebrow at him. "What in seven hells did you think I was staying in Winterfell for? The fucking weather?"
His grin was almost too wide to properly kiss her.
Almost.
His lips felt like a little slice of heaven, carved out specifically for her. It was peace, even if it wasn't yet love. It was a beginning. It was a way to move on, and forward, and never forget who they'd left behind. Robb. Ygritte.
And as Margaery eventually pulled away, Jon's grinning face inches from her own, the frown finally gone from his brow, she couldn't wait to see what they'd build together.
Westeros was before them. Neither dragons nor the Long Night could hold them back.
…
Theon sat in a sitting room high in Casterly Rock, one that had once been his favorite, with a view out over the crashing waves below, lit golden by the setting sun.
But the sun had sunk hours ago. Theon still sat, a bottle of mead in his hand that he'd steadily been worked his way through.
The black sea crashed beneath him, the sound calling him, torturing him with its nearness.
King's Landing had been attacked. Stannis was dead. Theon had liked Davos. The dragons were here, and too close to Theon's castle for his liking. At least inside his rock walls, he was safe from dragonfire. For now.
He hadn't the faintest idea what to do, with only nine captains and two drunken companions at his command. Lay low and hope no one noticed him?
"Sing us something, Podrick," Tyrion said, just as drunk, from a chair Robb had once occupied.
Podrick cleared his throat. "High in the halls of the Kings who were–"
"Gods, no, what is wrong with you, boy?" Tyrion hastily stopped him. "Don't you remember what happened here? What…" Tyrion lowered his head into his hand, massaging his brows wearily. "I miss Yara. The two of you are sad drunks. I could do with a fun drunkard right now. There's no point being the only fun one."
Theon took another swig from his bottle. He wished Yara were here, too. It would mean she wasn't off with his father and the Iron Fleet, up to who knew what.
Nothing good.
Burning more castles, perhaps.
A rap came on the door.
"Enter!" Theon called, glad for the opportunity to yell at someone else.
A servant bowed, handing Theon a strip of paper. "This just arrived for you, my lord."
Theon unrolled it, frowning down in the dim gray of the night. Thankfully, the servant also handed him a candle.
Theon hissed as he tipped burning wax onto his fingers but held the candle up to the paper all the same.
His hand shook as he realized that he knew this handwriting – knew it well.
The Dragon Queen is on the move. Come home, Theon.
He was gone that very night.