Chapter Text
Jaime
It had been the longest he'd gone without thinking of Cersei. He thought of little else on his long ride north, yet even after all that he still did not know whether he hated her or loved her more. Time spent with others helped. Drinking by the fire before the battle, it dawned on him how much he missed his little brother. They were Lannisters, despite everything that happened. However they regarded the rest of the family, no one else knew what it meant to live their lives under the shadows of Tywin and Cersei. What it meant to love them, despite every one of their cruel words and deeds.
Then it was the battle. Fighting the dead. Jaime would never forget the colors, the flames, the smell, the pain, from the longest night of his life. But they won. He survived. Brienne and Tyrion and Podrick were all among the lucky ones. Yet many did not, and though Jaime didn't bother to dwell too long upon those who had died, he still couldn't help but gasp at the enormity of it all.
"Ser Jaime."
It was the Lady of Winterfell, striding into the small hall where was sitting, so recently cleared of the dead. It was an endless task, cleaning up after the greatest victory for the living the living had ever seen, and Jaime participated in his share through the morning. But he needed to rest. And to think. But not think about her.
"My Lady," he acknowledged, rising briefly from his chair to greet his host. After Brienne spoke for him, it was Sansa's assent that saved his life, allowing him fulfill for once in his life a promise he gave. What came after, he did not know. And he wasn't sure how much he cared. "I heard you saved my brother's life down there. Thanks for that."
"I don't know about that." The Stark girl collapsed on a chair next to him, exhaustion obviously weighing upon her mind as well. But her eyes were clear, open, surveying the room, studying him even as she rested her head in one hand. "We were stupid for not even thinking the Night King could...it was chaos, any way. I just remember running around, and sticking anything that had a hint of dust on it with the pointy end." She laughed, as if at a joke he would never be privy to. "There was no skill. Just dumb luck."
"Hmm," Jaime grunted in response. Luck was a reason many survived the battle as well, as many with far greater fighting skills died fighting. But Jaime was not any fighter. It was true, he was not the fighter he once was, but even with one hand, he was better than most of them. But not all. Looking back at Sansa, he saw her eyes still examining him, as if probing for any weakness she could find within his countenance. "Thanks for...not letting them kill me, I suppose..."
"Don't thank me," Sansa replied, voice turning cold, no doubt thinking of the family his own had killed. "Lady Brienne is the only reason you didn't die before the battle."
"Ser Brienne," Jaime corrected, unable to keep a wisp of a smile off his face. As he hoped, he saw her anger waver at his words.
"She did tell me that. That was an honorable thing you did last night."
"It was long overdue," Jaime said, thinking back to Brienne's expression when she realized he was not joking. When she realized that she was not dreaming. "I simply righted a wrong."
"Still, you were the only one who did so."
Jaime frowned. He knew the Lady of Winterfell still hated him, and for good reason. She was not here to exchange courtesies, that was clear. Last he remembered, she was a timid mouse of a girl, a wall flower afraid to catch the attention of practically anyone in that pit of vipers where his sister now reigned supreme. From what Tyrion said of her, Ned Stark's eldest daughter had proved their father's words prophetic. She was indeed the key to the North...just not any way Tywin Lannister could have imagined.
"Are we enemies now," he asked, wondering how much he cared about the answer. He had come to Winterfell fully expecting to die. That had not changed, but now that he survived, there was that quiet whispering in his head that he ought to continue to do so.
The Lady of Winterfell thought for a moment. "That's your decision," she said, wasting few words.
"I pushed Bran," Jaime suddenly blurted out. "Out the Tower." He didn't know why the impulse took him. He may have been indifferent towards living after fighting for the living, but he wasn't suicidal, there being a clear delineation between not caring and actively wishing for one's own death. Perhaps after surviving the worst, he wanted to test the limits of this new feeling of invulnerability.
Clearly, the Lady of Winterfell was taken aback by his statement, backing away from him, yet clearly intrigued by why he had chosen to confess this now, and to her, out of all people.
"We always suspected," she finally said, and for a second Jaime thought she was ready to stab him with the sharp end of the chain she always wore around her body. Still, she maintained her composure, letting her mind overrule her heart. "Why?"
"He saw Cersei and I." He thought about justifying it at first, telling her that Cersei was as good as dead if Robert ever found out. But there was no point, considering how little love the Lady of Winterfell had for the woman who would have been her mother by law. "I told your mother too."
The mention of Catelyn Stark brought an inscrutable change to her daughter's demeanor, filling her eyes with fire, and yet a sadness that made her look as vulnerable as Jaime had ever seen this older, colder iteration of Sansa Stark.
"You're lucky she didn't kill you. You're lucky you didn't kill Bran." The Lady of Winterfell rose curtly, suddenly deciding that she could no longer tolerate his company. "You're lucky I won't want to hurt Brienne."
"My Lady," Jaime said, chastened once again at the unexpected mercies he was experiencing at the hands of House Stark. All of it he could attribute entirely to Brienne, and Brienne alone.
"I suggest you tell no one else," Sansa said coldly before she left. "My little sister has less restraint than I."
"The Hero of Winterfell," Jaime muttered to himself, still in amazement with the rest of the survivors how the smallest Stark had managed to save them all in the end. He would have liked to talk to her out of curiosity, quiz her on how she acquired all of these mysterious skills she was said to possess, but he knew that would be an impossibility. The war for the living will never heal all the wounds incurred from the wars between the living. "How's your brother," he asked suddenly, just as Sansa neared the door.
"I intend to let him mourn on his own, until he decides otherwise," she said after a longer than expected pause. "I suggest you do the same."
It seemed to Jaime that there was more she wanted to say on the matter, but he was far from the one she would confide in.
"You say it's up to me whether we're enemies," Jaime said, deciding to press the issue once more. "What happened to her...simplify things, does it not?"
The wolf with red hair glared at him, though she did not say a word, leaving him to fill the silence.
"I suspect neither you nor your brother are as keen as she was to wrestle the throne away from my sister."
"Did Cersei send you here as a peacemaker," the Lady of Winterfell asked contemptuously. "You underestimate your sister. And you underestimate my hatred for her."
"The North is secure now, you know. The Lannister armies have never had to fight in winter, much less the Golden Company. Cersei would be a fool to let her armies freeze to death here...," he paused, thinking over his words as he spoke them out loud, "...which may exactly be why she would do such a thing..."
"Tricky isn't it," Sansa said, surprisingly eager to remain in conversation with him close as she was to an exit. "I suspect the Dragon Queen would have marched for King's Landing to rain fire and blood on your sister before we've even finished burning the dead here."
"You disapprove?"
"You're here to play spy," Sansa scoffed. She shook her head once, a subtle gesture that betrayed to him a deeper, hidden frustration. "It doesn't matter what I'd approve or disapprove."
"Tyrion told me you did not trust the Daenerys," Jaime ventured. Never before had he imagined that he would be keen to converse on politics and military strategy with the stupid girl his family had once held hostage, but along with what his brother told him the new Lady of Winterfell when they drank by the fire last night, there was something to her inscrutability that made him want to dig deeper. If Tyrion respected her, feared her a little, even, then she was not someone to be dismissed.
"It's a funny thing, isn't it," she replied back wryly. "Once you imagine yourself wearing that crown, you let the thought possess you, enough so that you can't even bear to sleep until you're the damned King or Queen of all Seven Kingdoms in fact as well as name." She stopped herself short, though it was clear she wanted to continue. "Daenerys fought to save Winterfell. She may never wake because of it. For her sake, for his sake, for Jon's sake...I'll speak no further ill of her."
Jaime looked down. He was testing her, he knew it, and he couldn't help it. With each word, each spur, he was giving her yet another potential reason to cut off his neck. He wasn't sure why he was so keen to do so with this girl he hardly knew, who clearly despised him. Maybe, he wondered, it was because out of all the do-gooders and men and women of honor he had fought with here in Winterfell to save the world, he had found someone who, like him, was a cynic at heart. Not even Tyrion could claim the same now, as devoted as he was to his new Queen.
"Would you rather she not wake?"
The mere fact that she took time to contemplate her response gave him all the answers he needed to know.
"That's what your sister would prefer," she answered after the pause, directing the ire right back at his family. "Tell Lord Tyrion he ought know better than to spread gossip about those who host him."
With those words, the Lady of Winterfell finally rediscovered her resolve to leave the Kingslayer alone with his thoughts.
Sansa
Jaime Lannister was right, though she couldn't admit it out loud. The Lady of Winterfell would thank the Gods she no longer believed in if the Dragon Queen passed quietly into the night. She felt for Jon, of course. She knew he loved her with all his heart, and Jon Snow had the largest heart she knew. That was the problem. At the end of the day though, Sansa Stark would rather see her brother alive rather than happy, if that's what it came down to.
She did lie to the Kingslayer though. She was going to seek Jon out. Likely he would not want to talk about Daenerys, but there was plenty other subjects of discourse between them. The uneasy arrangement of power between the two after Jon had bent the knee had yet been fully addressed when the focus was surviving the dead, but that only made it more urgent for them to work out with each other how to handle the aftermath. All the bodies to clean, giants and dragons among them, walls to rebuild, an accounting of supplies, foodstuffs...it would be a long time before she could rest.
Years, possibly. Sansa knew that she could not truly rest until Cersei Lannister was dead. And Daenerys Stormborn too, if she could be honest with herself. Thankfully, at least one of the two lay at the Many-Faced God's door already.
"Jon."
He turned, and a warmth filled his eyes. He was happy to see her, even in the middle of his brooding. She was still his family, Sansa reminded herself. It should be her that her brother turned to for comfort while he needed to mourn. Would be, in a perfect world, were their relationship not deeply tainted already by that poisonous yet all too painful mixture of politics and love.
Watching as her brother force a smile through his brooding, Sansa immediately regretted seeking him out so soon. Their relationship had always been so complicated, the only simple time being when they found each other again at Castle Black. Since then they had their share of arguments, though Sansa knew that the both cared so much for each other. The problem was, she and Jon had starkly different ideas for what was best for themselves, their family, and the North.
"I'm sorry about Theon," he said softly.
Sansa took a deep breath. It was so Jon, to be thoughtful of others even deep in his own pain. She hadn't seen his body yet. Theon's body lay somewhere atop one of the piling burial pyres outside, and she could still not bring herself to visit him. Doing so meant acknowledging the truth, that his story finally had come to an end. He deserved so much more, she thought, after all he had been through. His crimes, his recovery, rediscovering himself...she could not deny his crimes, but he had done more than enough to atone for them. He could have done so much more, had he lived. Now, it pained her to think that he will never find happiness, but she could only hope that peace would be enough.
"We all lost people we loved," Sansa said, closing herself even to Jon. "Every one of us. But we live, and they would want us to go on."
He forced another smile at her, and turned away. Sansa walked forward and felt the dark coat of his armor, a suit of arms she had sown for him herself. "She may wake. Bran did. We'll take care of her here."
"She may not," Jon muttered. "She sacrificed everything to save the North."
"To save her realm," Sansa added, not able to help herself. She quickly moved to mollify him. "We will never forget her. If she wakes, she will have earned her crown."
"Do you truly believe so," Jon asked, turning his head suddenly. Sansa swore to herself. She was a good liar, but she was not above letting her guard down, because he was family.
She moved to redirect their conversation. "I believe so long as she breathes, even not awake, Cersei will stop at nothing to kill her. Winterfell will not be safe."
"Are you suggesting we cut her loose after everything she did to help us?"
"Of course not," Sansa protested, unable to hide her impatience. It was true, she had no great love for the Dragon Queen, but it hurt her that her brother would think her so dismissive of his feelings. "But we need to plan ahead. I know we're all tired, and there's so much repair and cleanup to do, but we need to call the war council. If Cersei comes, we need to be prepared."
Jon sighed, and Sansa watched satisfied, knowing that he was acknowledging her point. "Then do your duty, and I'll do mine."
Sansa nodded. The division of power between her and Jon in the North had always been an awkward arrangement ever since they retook Winterfell, so she was a fool to think that things would be easy once the Dragon Queen was out of their way, however temporarily.
"I talked to the Kingslayer," she said, as she moved to exit.
"He fought bravely with everyone else." Her hint registered, and he turned to see her again. "Do you think he'd betray us to Cersei?"
"He swore to fight for the living," Sansa said, remembering his words in the Great Hall, when Jaime Lannister stood vulnerable before all the lords and ladies and kings and queens who bore him a grudge and wanted to see him dead. "That vow is fulfilled, and he has no further obligation to us."
She could tell he was trying hard to grasp all the ramifications the Kingslayer's continued presence presented them, and also that he was far too weary to think everything through. "We cannot do him dishonor so long as he is our guest in Winterfell," he finally decided. "But do what you must with him otherwise. You know Lannister politics far better than me."
Sansa nodded. "I honestly think he doesn't know what he wants yet. He will continue on as our guest, but I'll make sure to keep a close eye on him." She walked over to the desk of the former King in the North, opening up and reading haphazardly an old scroll. "We need to keep him away from the ravens, for one."
"Aye," Jon agreed. "Well enough, then."
The War Council was smaller than the one preceding the fight against the dead. The main Dothraki she remembered was missing, likely a casualty of that first, ill-fated charge against the dead. Ser Jaime was absent too, uninvited considering few knew where his loyalties lay at the moment. Tormund, the wildling, was absent as well. He was busy gathering the bodies of his people, and this southern war was no longer his to fight. No Arya and Bran either. Her younger brother seemed to have no further interest in battle plans now that the fight was against the living once more, and Arya...well, she knew that her sister needed time to process everything that happened, more than anyone else perhaps, considering that she did save the entire gods forsaken world practically by herself.
As each representative removed pieces from the board, she grasped that they had lost roughly half their fighting forces, if not more.
"The odds have grown distressingly even," the eunuch Varys muttered, exchanging a look at Sansa. She remembered him as one of many conniving snakes in the capital, all responsible in one degree or another for her father's death. Yet Tyrion vouched for him, but then, hadn't he vouched for Cersei as well?
Beside him stood the members of the fallen Queen's entourage. Missandei, who had scolded her in the crypts. Grey Worm, who she knew to be devoted to both his Queen and her translator. A burly, older Dothraki, taking the place of his fallen clansman. All of whom she knew would follow their Queen to death and back. And there was Tyrion as well.
She looked especially to Grey Work and Missandei, knowing they would understand her words. "You have served your Queen bravely on both sides of the Narrow Sea. And you fought as one with the North and the Vale and all who stood with us. Be assured, we are grateful, and you will always have a place in Winterfell."
Both Grey Worm and Missandei exchanged wary looks at each other, and Sansa knew that her words rang hollow. They were foreigners, and considering how the North treated even southerners, she could not imagine the two eager to remain here.
"We won," she continued. "The living won. I know that this is a strange and foreign place for you. If you wish to return..."
"We stay with our Queen," Grey Worm interrupted, rather rudely. She saw Tyrion give her an apologetic look, trying to appease her that he did not mean offense.
"So long as she breathes," Missandei continued tensely, "so will we serve her."
"Very well," Sansa said, feeling the tension rise in the room as even Jon took time away from brooding to look questioningly at her, wondering what she was up to. "I was going to say that we could not promise you safe passage back to Essos, considering Euron Greyjoy's fleet still sail the Narrow Sea unfettered."
The Half-Man walked across the table to where the Iron Islands lay on the map. "Yara Greyjoy is sailing at this very moment to the Narrow Sea." Moving the pieces over, he positioned them next to Euron's fleet. "If she can take out her uncle's fleet, the waters will belong to us again."
"That's well and good," Jon said, "but the Kingsroad still lies open for Cersei." He looked over to Tyrion, who was studying the map intently. "Now that we're weakened, won't she move to finish us off?"
"With the Queen out of commission for the moment," Tyrion agreed, "I'd imagine she sees us as a headless chicken, ripe for the picking. My sister is smart, but she is also arrogant. And she is more arrogant than smart." He looked to Jon. "I don't imagine she thinks much of our former King of the North, except that he's good with a sword." And to Sansa. "As to the Lady of Winterfell, she's not dumb enough to imagine you the same naive girl in King's Landing. But from her standpoint, you may have learned from her. But you're not her. You will never be Cersei, in Cersei's eyes."
"And I'd never want to be," Sansa said, trying to repress her growing fire of her hatred whenever the Cersei's name was thrown around in a personal manner rather than an abstract concept. Squinting her eyes at the map of Westeros, she shook her head, remembering what Ser Jaime had reminded her. "But she would be foolish to attack us now, would she not? In winter? The Lannister armies are summer armies. Golden Company, also?" She asked, looking over at Varys, who nodded.
"The climates of Essos are far warmer than Winterfell, my lady."
Emboldened, Sansa continued. "One storm and they are done for, same as Stannis's army. Let them attack us and dig their own graves."
"My sister makes a good point," Jon said, obviously impressed by her observations. He pointed towards the neck on the map. "House Reed still has reserves in the Neck. If we garrison Moat Cailin, move some of our forces there, the North is protected."
"But not the Vale," a bold, raspy voice interrupted. Yohn Royce bowed respectfully to Jon, forgetting for the moment that he was no longer a king. "My lord. My lady. We fought the dead and won. But Cersei will not forget that we declared for House Stark. If the North is protected, she will punish the Vale for our allegiance. Lord Arryn is safe in the Eyrie, but other cities are not, such as Runestone."
"Lord Royce speaks true," Sansa interrupted, speaking before anyone could do so. Jon aside, there were few she felt more gratitude for in the room than Bronze Royce, who had not just declared for her with Littlefinger at the Battle of the Bastards, but continued to stand by her in his liege lord's name well after the death of her treacherous uncle. "We must consider the Vale under our protection, for all they have done for us."
Jon nodded in agreement, and Tyrion continued to study the map skeptically. "The Unsullied and the Dothraki would wish to stay close to their Queen. Between the Neck and the Vale, our remaining armies would be spread thin."
Sansa looked directly at Grey Worm and the Dothraki, wondering how well the latter would understand her. "Your Queen's security depends on the security of the North," she pleaded. "I know your men are tired. As are ours. We all must rest, but we cannot let our guard down against Cersei. Moat Cailin is a short march from here, the Vale not much further. You must understand that this is the best way to protect your Queen."
To her relief, her brother stepped forward. "Sansa's right. We'll assume defensive positions at Moat Cailin and nearby. With any luck, it will be mostly waiting. Our men can recover but still ward off any attack from Cersei."
Sansa smiled. To win over the hardened knights and warriors at the table, she needed her brother's support. Hesitatingly, she looked around, and found another unused piece. Taking it, and doing all she could to keep her hand steady, she placed it on the map. "If we had lost Winterfell to the dead, Howland Reed was to be the last chance for the North. His armies are fresh, having not fought last night."
Aware of all the eyes upon her in the room, a woman with no training in combat or warfare speaking on such matters, she continued, moving pieces from Winterfell south. "If we move half the Unsullied and Dothraki to Moat Cailin, you will still have thousands defending your Queen here, the rest within a few days' march." She walked over, and continued illustrating her train of thought. "The Knights of the Vale can then keep marching south, along with the most rested of the Northern armies. At the neck, we can call upon House Reed's banners to join us."
She pointed at a spot on the map, and looked expectingly at the rest of the men around her. "The Crossroads here," she said, careful to state rather than ask. "We would in a good...position, to defend against Cersei if she tries to attack either the Vale or the North. And we'll be close to the Riverlands also. I hear my uncle Edmure Tully survives. With the Freys dead," she struggled to hold down a wide grin, thinking of what Arya told her befell those traitors, "we can consolidate support in the Riverlands. Cersei's armies will not be able to raid anywhere above here," she said, squinting to read the label on the map, "Harrenhal, without facing our armies. Every town and road north of the Trident will be secure."
Finished, she looked around and couldn't help but be pleased with herself with the looks of astonishment from all the men. Especially Jon and his man Davos, though Yohn Royce did not seem surprised, having worked extensively with her all these months, especially in Jon's absence, whether physically or mentally, from all that which troubled the North. Looking over at Tyrion and Varys, she observed a knowing wariness from the two Westerosi most loyal to Daenerys.
"It's a good plan, milady," Davos spoke first, looking at her and Jon almost like he was a proud father. "It appears you've spent too much time with us old army grunts. Too much, if you ask me." The Onion Knight had long come to worship Jon, but Sansa realized that this was the first time he looked at her in a similar light.
"Since when did my little sister...," he paused at the last word, making Sansa wonder, "become so keen at military maneuvers?"
Sansa shrugged. She was beaming, though she fought it. "I make no claims of the sort. I don't know where to dig a trench, or when to nock arrows, or send in the horses, but I can read lines and pieces on a map."
Ser Davos continued to study her, a small grin buried under his neatly unkempt beard. "I wouldn't be surprised, milady, that when the Dragon Queen awakes, she'll find that you've already taken everything from King's Landing to Dorne for her."
Sansa smiled, this time to shield her own thoughts, noting to glance over at Daenerys's group again, some of whom were better at concealing their concern than others. "Our soldiers are tired, Ser Davos. As are all of us. Unless Jon wants to take his new dragon riding skills down to the Red Keep, I consider it my duty to secure the lands of my people, my mother's people, and those who helped us in the long night. No more than that." A thought came to her. A troubling thought, but a necessary one. She looked around the room, at a suddenly captive audience who seemed to have a newfound respect for her words now that the Dragon Queen was absent.
"Now, does anyone have any ideas as to how to remove a dead dragon from the castle?"
Jon
She did not deserve this, he thought, admiring her pale, delicate features on the bed, covered in sheet adorned by the sigils of his House. Direwolves, the House he grew into, rather than the one he was born into.
They found her next to Ser Jorah after the battle. He had taken more cuts than any man ought ever suffer, yet his Queen, though heavily bruised from the fall, was relatively unscathed. She deserved him, Jon thought, of the man, the son of Jeor, who had protected his Queen until the very end. Someone who could love her completely. Without reservations, without hesitation. Not me.
That they were of one blood was never an issue for her. For the first time in his life, Jon wished that he was not raised by Ned Stark, that his morals...his standards, could be different. That he could ignore that Dany was his aunt, and love her like he did before Sam told him the truth.
My aunt's my mother, and my lover's my aunt. What could be more appropriate for a Targaryen?
She looked so peaceful now, lying in what had been Sansa's bed when they were growing up. Sansa had their parents' room now, and Jon in Robb's, which left this one open for the Queen who gave everything to protect the North. To protect the living. If she did wake, and Jon Snow believed in his heart she will, how could he not love her, not just as a Queen, but as she would want him to? After what she did, was his own honor not a fair price to pay?
And what would his sisters think, once they knew the truth? He owed them the truth, he knew that, and how would Ned Stark's daughters see him if he continued to share his aunt's bed? He could plead ignorance before, but not now. It was then he heard a soft, demonic voice whisper in his head, that things would be much simpler if she never did wake. He shook his head vigorously, trying to wring that poison from his mind.
"You deserve better," he whispered softly to her, admiring her face, truly at peace for maybe the first time they had met. He brushed his course fingers against her right cheek, across the bow of her lips. "Awake, my Queen."
It was just the four of them by the Godswood. The last of the Starks, if he could still call himself one through his mother. Both Sansa and Arya's minds seemed elsewhere even as they both stood before him. And Bran, was he ever present on the same continent as them, it was hard to tell.
"How is she doing," Sansa asked. He could tell it pained her to say the words. He still wasn't sure why she seemed determined to hate her, after everything Daenerys had done for the North. But Jon could at least appreciate that she was at least trying to hide her distaste more than before.
"Healthy," he muttered. "As much as that's possible considering her state."
"And her dragons," Arya asked. This was the first time he saw his littlest sister, he realized, since the battle. He still had yet a chance to congratulate her for, well, saving the world. Or ask her about where in the seven kingdoms did she learn how to do such a thing.
"They're around," Jon said. "Looking for food somewhere, I'm sure."
"Plenty of fodder for them now," Arya said coldly, eliciting an indignant response even from Sansa.
"Arya!"
She shrugged. "What? The dead's dead."
Sansa shook her head and turned back to Jon, knowing better than the argue with her sister. "You should speak before Winterfell tomorrow. This was your war. Your victory."
He struggled to not scoff. If this was his victory, why did he feel so empty? So useless? So helpless?
"Arya's the one who killed the Night King," he said back instead. "How'd that feel, stabbing him?"
"Cold," Arya said curtly, and Jon couldn't help but wonder at the distance between them. He could take a guess as to why when she turned the question on him. "How'd that feel, climbing on a dragon?"
"Hot," he said, and was happy to see both his sisters smile at the small remark. It had been far too long. "They say, only Targaryens can ride a dragon."
"Dragons are smart," Arya replied. "They know you love their mother." He could tell there was admiration in her eyes, that to her, he was a Stark who rode a dragon, but there was that conflict, same as Sansa, about the mother of said dragons.
He noticed that Bran was now staring intently at him, as was his habit at times, but for the first time during their conversation here. His attention towards their crippled brother brought Sansa and Arya's eyes over to him as well, Sansa looking back and forth between the two trying to discern their unspoken dialogue.
"It's your choice," was all Bran said, betraying no signs of what he wanted him to do.
He took a deep breath, knowing that were Dany awake, this was not something she would want him to do. But blood or not, she was not his family. Not yet. The three Starks standing before him was.
"Bran and Sam figured it out together," he finally started. "Your aunt Lyanna wasn't kidnapped. They loved each other, her and Rhaegar. Your father found Lyanna...,"
"You say this like he's not your father too," Sansa interrupted, but Jon ignored her and continued.
"He found Lyanna...my mother...after the Trident. She was dying...because she had a child."
"A child," Arya asked. This was something their father never told them about Lyanna. "Our cousin...," she started, before trailing off, realization dawning even before he finished his story.
"Lyanna named her son Aegon Targaryen. She made her brother promise to protect her child. And he knew the only way to do so, was to claim him as his own bastard..."
He took a deep breath, amazed at how easy it was to tell the truth of his life now, a second time around. Both his sisters, cousins but sisters to him, their eyes were open in amazement. He could see them reddening, tears forming as they thought about the tragedy of their parents. That Ned Stark had no choice but to wear a false stain upon his honor for half his life. That Catelyn Stark died never knowing how truly honorable her husband had always been.
"You can't tell anyone," he said belatedly.
"Why not," Sansa asked, as he predicted. "This makes you the true heir to the Iron Throne. Even more than Daenerys, if you are the son of the Prince."
"I don't want it," he yelled back, unable to control his voice. "I never wanted that throne, or any throne."
"That makes you worthier to hold it," Arya retorted.
"It's hers," Jon said curtly, trying to kill this line of thought in its infancy. "I bent the knee, for the Northern throne and all thrones to come."
"She may never wake," Sansa argued.
"She will," Bran interrupted, startling all three of them.
"Do you know this," Sansa asked, bending down apprehensively closer to her brother. "Did you see this?"
"What else can you see," Jon asked, unable to hide his own desperation.
"It's not like that," Bran said, answering him and only him directly. "When it's what's to come, it's never complete. Or clear. I see glimpses sometimes. But not always. Rarely."
"This changes everything," Sansa muttered, and Jon noticed that she was talking to herself, thinking thoughts that she would probably not care to share with him.
"Promise me you'll keep this a secret," he said, realizing his error in not making his sisters swear to do so before he opened his mouth. Especially Sansa.
"Does she know," Arya asked, her voice cold again.
"Aye," Jon nodded. "I told her right before the battle."
"That makes you a threat to her," Arya continued. Sansa nodded beside her sister, agreeing.
"She knows I don't want the throne. I don't care about power."
"She's still a Targaryen," Sansa continued, frustrating him to no end. He did not want to argue. Not here. Not now. Not about her, when she still lay in her coma for the sake of saving them.
"I'm a Targaryen," he cried back. "We all have work to do, and we don't have time to argue. Promise me."
"I didn't mean it like that," Sansa said, her eyes apologetic. "You're a Stark, Jon. To me, to Arya. Bran. To the North."
"I swear it," Arya said, though he could tell she was not happy about it.
"I promise," Sansa added, rather quickly, Jon thought.
Jon nodded, turning to leave, bemoaning why everything had to be so complicated. Even with his own family. Especially with his own family.
"We'll speak of this no further." He was a king no longer, but he still knew how to give an order.