Archive of Our Own

Sansa hasn’t slept. 

It’s been sheer chaos and running around on the brink of exhaustion while trying to keep everyone calm. On top of figuring out where Westeros goes now. It’s all anyone can talk about but the city is still in ruin. It’s been less than a day. People have been evacuated where they can. Gendry and Davos specifically have been a huge help in trying to organize the salvaging of what remains. 

Meanwhile Jon and Sansa have been left to deal with the political fallout. Luckily they’ve had help with that. 

It didn’t take long for word to spread about Jon and Daenerys’ battle on dragon back and there had been several tense moments where Sansa was convinced the Unsullied would turn on him. But Missandei had appeared, taken Grey Worm aside, and in moments it was over. They laid down their swords and retreated, remaining out of the city for the time being. Missandei had followed Grey Worm but she had exchanged a long look with Sansa that let her know they would discuss this later. She knew that she would be dependent on Missandei’s loyalty and knowledge going forward and that they were likely to falter on that front going forward without it. 

For the moment everyone has retired to one of the castles just outside of the city that has opened its doors for those who need some time to rest. Sansa had been separated from Jon and Arya at some point during the last hour while they made the journey, she suspected Jon was helping rally their Northern fighting men and that Arya had fallen back to find Gendry. But when she had arrived at their temporary resting place she was instantly directed to a wing designated for the Starks and their people. (She was practically too weary to really notice how much deference was given to her, and she isn’t sure what it means yet anyways. A problem for another day). 

She had found a hot bath waiting for her and it had been all that kept her from collapsing straight on her bed. 

She’s just finished up and changed into a simple robe when there is a knock and the door creaks open. 

It’s Jon. 

Sansa’s exhaustion evaporates as her mouth turns up at the corners. There’s a part of her that still can’t believe this. Can’t believe that they’re alive, that it has all worked out and they are through the worst of it. 

Jon shuts the door behind him and pauses inside. He’s cleaned up too she can tell, he must have been in another room. 

“They told me that I’d find you here,” Jon says quietly. 

And Sansa can’t resist anymore. She takes the steps across the room and wraps her arms around him, holding him close and breathing him in. Jon. Here and whole. Or as whole as any of them can expect to be. Jon returns her embrace and nuzzles his head into her shoulder, she thinks she feels the warm sting of tears leaking out there and she can’t blame him. If all they suffer now are nightmares and wet eyes they are beyond lucky. 

Jon releases her from his hold but takes her hand and brings her to sit on the bed, never breaking contact with her. They both take a seat and eventually Jon meets her eyes. 

“Are you okay? With everything?” Jon hesitates, “We haven’t gotten to talk since the first time about… Cersei.”

Sansa inhales deeply. She has feared this moment in part since the blade found Cersei’s heart. The blood poured over her and she worried she would never fully scrub the stains from her hands. But she looks at her intertwined fingers with Jon’s and sees nothing but white skin. 

“I never thought I’d be the one to do it,” Sansa admits and she can’t find Jon’s gaze.

Gone is her cavalier manner that she displayed in the rush of battle. 

Jon’s free hand moves to her leg and gives it a squeeze. Sansa resists the urge to shudder, it’s not the time. 

“Nobody blames you Sansa. She was a tyrant, she was deeply unwell and cruel because of it. A shell of a person who would’ve destroyed you if given the chance,” Jon’s words are reassuring but they don’t ring quite true to Sansa. 

“But she was more than that. She was a Queen. She was a daughter. A sister. A mother. She had so many facets Jon and I-I don’t know if killing her, am I not just the same–”

Jon cups her face then and she is forced to see his eyes for the first time now. She sees no deception, only the deepest sincerity. 

“You’re right Sansa. And the fact that you’re conflicted shows that you are not. You’re not.”

Jon’s voice leaves no room for questions and slowly the truth sinks in. Sansa might never feel good about killing Cersei, not completely. But she can move forward knowing that at the very least she hasn’t sacrificed the person she is for it. She nods and Jon releases her face. 

“It seems the Lannister line is at an end until some lesser cousin rises up,” Jon says lightly. 

And Sansa pauses because through all that has happened today she hasn’t thought once of Tyrion. Merely slipped her mind in all the rest that they’ve had to deal with. 

Jon must catch her expression because his own falls instantly. 

“Daenerys burned him, before we got to the city. It was me and Arya’s, with Varys’ help I mean. It had to be done, it was…”

Jon trails off but Sansa puts it together well enough. Tyrion was a casualty in the game of thrones. Just a piece in the end. Like his brother Jaime and his sister Cersei. Like their father. Like Sansa’s father and mother. Like Robb and Rickon. Like Theon. 

(She files the information about Varys away though, makes a mental note to proceed with caution there. She’s sure he has many ideas about the future fate of Westeros). 

As for Tyrion, it might be all that has happened and her lack of sleep, but she finds she can feel very little about that loss, if it can even be called that. Tyrion has made his own bed, put in his lot with Daenerys and had ample opportunity to remove it. And yet he had chosen not to. She puts it from her mind for the time being. 

It’s Sansa’s turn for a question. 

“Did you go to see her?” Sansa asks. 

She feels Jon tense beside her and avert his eyes. 

She’d found Brienne and Tormund before anyone else, when they’d all gone looking for others. And it was Brienne who took her aside immediately and told her what had happened. 

Tormund and some other wildlings had found Daenerys, delirious and damaged from her fall and had gone looking for one of the Starks to find out what to do with her. They’d found Brienne first. And as usual, Brienne had read the situation quickly enough. Realized the danger that carrying around the half alive body of the woman who had just burned King’s Landing through said city. So she’d grabbed Davos, gotten the rest of the Wildlings who had accompanied Tormund to leave and had Davos find them a safe place to keep Daenerys in the meantime. 

She’d told Sansa all of this quickly and in hushed tones and Sansa had thanked her and asked for directions on how to find the place. It was a cell that was little known, a smuggler’s hole that Davos was sure nobody within five hundred leagues knew about. Davos and Podrick had decided to stay and watch her until something could be decided.

(They didn’t need an angry mob ripping her to shreds in the meantime.)

Sansa had relayed the information to Jon and Arya. Arya’s eyebrows had raised, she’d given a nod and walked promptly over to Gendry to give Jon and Sansa some privacy. 

Sansa had given Jon the directions Brienne had told her and Jon had only nodded stiffly at the time but she expected that he would have made it over there at some point today. 

Jon finally shakes his head. The slightest no. 

“I told Brienne to relay information to Davos and Podrick to watch her all night until told otherwise. I don’t want to see her, Sansa.”

He’s still not looking at her and it’s her turn to lay a comforting hand on his arm. Squeeze him tight. 

She understands. Better than most. It wasn’t so long ago she was swearing to never go South again while Cersei Lannister remained Queen. 

“You don’t have to. Not ever again if you don’t want to. As long as you help us decide what is to be done, I’ll handle it from here on out,” Sansa says. 

And she means it. She can do this for Jon. Shoulder this burden for him. She wants to do it. She knows he would do the same. Has done the same in forgiving her for killing Cersei. Jon turns to her then and she almost gasps because he looks so lost, so terrified. And it brings her back to that first night when he returned with Daenerys in tow, before they could talk privately and all her worst fears had spiralled. He just looks hollow. 

“Sansa I-I’m the one who brought her here, I won’t do that to you,” Jon’s every word is a struggle. 

Sansa’s heart breaks. Breaks for what Jon has endured. For what Daenerys has inflicted on him, their family, and the rest of Westeros. It is a time of healing but yet the breaking doesn’t seem to be done yet. 

“On your terms Jon. Not before and not because you feel like you have to. And if you can’t… if you can’t, you’re no less for it,” Sansa affirms and takes his hand between both of hers. She won’t let him fall now when they’re so close to survival. 

Jon sniffs once and manages half a smile. 

Their door flies open just then and before she can register it and even think to maybe break apart from him she sees it’s Arya. Sansa heaves a sigh of relief that it’s not someone who might be surprised by their embrace. 

Arya, unlike the two of them, has not washed. She holds a letter like it burns her skin to touch it. 

“They said this arrived for us when I got here and, well just read it,” Arya says as she makes her way to them, completely unphased by their position or proximity and just shoves the letter into their faces. 

Sansa recognizes the scrawl at once.

Bran. 

Her and Jon pour over the letter together. 

My dearest siblings, 

It has always been said that a Stark is needed in Winterfell but given the circumstances I am journeying to King’s Landing. Sam and Gilly will tend to our duties adequately in my absence. When you receive this I expect the battle will have just finished. My vision may have mostly ceased but there are still flickers and I know I must join the rest of you for this, trust me. I’ll see you soon and hopefully you will have made a decision on Daenerys, yet I can’t see it quite clearly just now. 

Yours,

Bran

Arya’s urgency seems somewhat misplaced as Sansa rereads it for a third time and starts to exhale. Bran being here will make things feel safer she thinks. They are stronger together. 

The pack survives. 

“What’s the issue with any of this Arya?” Jon asks, also confused. 

Arya’s brow furrows as she glances between them. 

“What does Bran mean by a decision? As if we have options when it comes to Daenerys?” Arya’s voice is almost accusatory, as if they’ve been caught out. 

But Sansa and Jon look to each other, both lost and not certain what answer Arya wants. So Sansa goes with honesty.

“I suppose Bran means whether she lives or dies, Arya.”

Missandei ushers Grey Worm away once he has commanded his army to stand down. Once he has fanned the flames that their Queen has spent weeks stoking high. She takes his arm and leads him away. Through the crumbling streets, to the water. They don’t speak the entire time but when they get there, away from the noise and the destruction. He pulls her in and hugs her gently. 

“Missandei,” he sighs into her ear. 

And she lets herself break. Lets herself sob freely as he holds her and whispers on about how he thought he had lost her. How he had been furious that Daenerys wouldn’t let him leave to go after her. 

Missandei listens as she cries herself out, as she holds herself to him. And eventually her tears do dry up. They stop tracking down her cheeks and her breath starts to even out. She takes her face out of the crook of his shoulder and looks up into his eyes. 

Eyes she has come to know well and those which she can trust more than anyone else. 

“Thank you, for trusting me. Earlier. When I told you to make them stand down, to not attack Jon and the Stark sisters. Thank you,” Missandei says. 

Grey Worm’s face hardens into a line and he nods. He hasn’t always been the best at words. Not for something like this.

And so Missandei speaks. She talks herself out, and Grey Worm holds her there, never looking away from her face. They stand on the edge of the pier, the water churns around them and the smoke and ashes from the city drift out to land in the sea. But they’re oblivious to all of it.

She tells him of their capture. Of her journey with Sansa. Of Sansa and her friendship, the surprise that she felt at how she cared for this Northern woman. Of everything that has transpired today, her voice trembling and Grey Worm’s arms tensing when she recalls what happened in the alley. His sigh of relief when she gets to Sansa’s intervention. And lastly of the realizations she has come to in the last several weeks.

She has said it all but she can’t say the last words, the most important word of all. 

“Torgu… she-she’s not…” Missandei trails off. 

He doesn’t let her flounder though, completing her thoughts easily.  “She’s not our Queen. Not anymore.”

The finality of the statement hangs between them and something lifts off Missandei’s chest. Something she didn’t know she was carrying around. 

Grey Worm continues. 

“Maybe she was, once. We may always feel that we owe her… something. But we do not. I don’t think so at least. We are free Missandei, she has always told us that, and if she disagrees now…”

Missandei sighs. 

“I thought I would stand by her side for the rest of our lives,” Missandei’s voice is melancholy now. 

Grey Worm shifts. He places his arm around her shoulders and turns them towards the sea. 

“One day I will take you back to Naath. Not today, not tomorrow. We will stay here and help. Because that is who we are, Missandei. Us, not her. But one day, we will go. And you will show me the land you love most dear,” Grey Worm finishes. 

Missandei snuggles into his side, war weary and ready to rest and for whatever comes next. 

“As long as it’s with you, the place matters little.”

Sansa needs the closure if she’s being honest with herself. 

She could’ve just told Missandei where to find her. But she makes the split second decision to join her, to confront Daenerys on her own terms. To settle the score and see her for herself. To face this last enemy and look her in the eye after the devastation she caused. Sansa can do this. She thinks back to the last time she saw Daenerys. Before the Battle of Winterfell. Recalls their conversation that was interrupted by Theon’s arrival. 

Daenerys had been all nice pleasantries and intent on trying to make amends. But their tensions had bubbled to the surface all too easily. There is no need for such facades now that they have Daenerys in chains while the rest of them walk free.

So she says yes to Missandei and she sees the hesitation in Jon’s gaze. Watches as Arya’s hand goes straight for her dagger. But Sansa levels them both with a simple look. She has handled worse than Daenerys Targaryen. She doesn’t have anything to fear from this woman. Not anymore. So she sets her spine straight turns and walks away. Her and Missandei make their way to the smuggler’s hole where they are keeping Daenerys.

Another two days have passed since the battle and Sansa knows they can’t keep her there indefinitely. She has called a meeting for tomorrow to discuss their options. They’ve just been too busy. 

It’s dark now and she thinks rain is coming. Maybe it will help with the ashes that still linger and seem to cling to everything in this god forsaken city. 

“Thank you, Missandei. For all of your help with the Unsullied and the Dothraki. You and Grey Worm have been invaluable the last few days. We truly can’t thank you enough,” Sansa says. 

Missandei nods but seems distracted and looks down. 

“Have you seen her?” Missandei’s hushed voice barely carries over the wind. 

“No,” Sansa says, “There hasn’t been time.”

Missandei nods again, “Do you think–do you think that she hates me?”

She marvels at Missandei’s vulnerability, at the strength in it. She contemplates the question. She doesn’t know Daenerys half as well as Missandei does. She thinks that at the moment she probably does not hate Missandei. Yet. But after she meets with Daenerys the dragon Queen might very well hate her. Because she does know some things about Daenerys. 

She knows she burned Tyrion alive on very little evidence. Likely would’ve done the same to Varys given the chance. And they were her closest advisors. She held Jon hostage, a man she claimed to love, and then forced him into a corner to receive assistance in a land she wanted to rule. More than that, she’s seen how Daenerys treats the people here, heard of how she treated them in Essos. She doubts her loyalty or friendship with Missandei will withstand what is to come. 

So she says the truth. 

“I don’t know Missandei. I don’t think she should hate you,” Sansa sighs. 

Missandei stares straight ahead as they continue to walk and doesn’t talk for a while. They’re almost to the spot when she speaks. 

“I don’t hate her. I don’t. I mourn the person I once thought she was.”

And Sansa is struck by how she once thought the same thing of Joffrey Baratheon. She thought him a kind Prince, destined to one day be King and to sweep her away, loving her for all their days. 

But the dreams of youth have a rather dreary habit of turning to smoky vapours, just out of our grasp. 

They arrive and Podrick comes out of a barely visible cave entrance as their footsteps approach. 

“My Ladies,” he nods to both of them. 

“Ser Podrick,” Sansa says and smiles at him, “Thank you for all of this, we’ll have to make sure you and Davos are properly compensated for your time here. We appreciate it.”

Podrick blushes something awful and stutters out some sort of refusal which Sansa brushes off. 

They go to step inside and Podrick stops them. 

“Did you want to go alone my Lady, or did you want me in there as well?” Podrick asks. 

Sansa looks to Missandei and knows they’re on the same page. 

“We’ll manage fine, thank you Podrick. If we yell, do come running but I imagine it will be quite alright. No dragons can fit inside a small cave to my knowledge,” Sansa says and turns back to the entrance. 

She thinks it’s lucky that Podrick was the one on duty, Davos might have been more difficult to convince into giving them privacy.

Her and Missandei walk in together. The small outer room of the cave has been outfitted with a few lanterns, chairs and a table. Some food and water. Despite being in a cave it feels more like a sewer storage room, there is actually a fair amount of infrastructure to it. 

On the far side of the room is an actual door, just propped open. And they both make their way there. Sansa doesn’t let herself hesitate and pulls open the door. She can feel Missandei right behind her. 

The room is about the same size as the first. It has a cot and a chamber pot. And to Sansa’s surprise a small window, high up and too small to crawl through but wide enough that a sliver of moonlight shines through, helping to illuminate the room which only has one dying lantern in it. 

She doesn’t see Daenerys at first. But then she steps out of the shadows. 

Sansa has to force herself not to gasp. 

Sansa knows that Brienne came down to clean Daenerys and tend to her wounds. That they didn’t want her dying of infection or anything like that. So she’d cared for her the best she could. And as such Daenerys isn’t filthy. She isn’t exactly clean, but the layer of grime seems thin and more due to her living conditions. 

We’ve got to get her out of here soon, one way or another, Sansa thinks. 

But no, it’s the rest of her appearance that startles Sansa. 

Her hair is shorn, unevenly falling around her ears in choppy pieces. The ends are singed black. Her arms are bare and covered in bruises and cuts. And her face. There’s a cut running from her right temple, just cutting below the eye, across her cheek and mangling her mouth to her left jaw bone. 

It’ll scar something terrifying. Blood is crusted through the whole wound and it makes Daenerys permanently grimace. It’s her eyes though. Daenerys’ eyes are dead. Hollow. No fight there. No fiery passion that Sansa grew used to. Just a shell. 

“I wondered when you’d come,” Daenerys says, her voice raspy despite the water jug Sansa can see on the floor, “Come to lock up Missandei with me?”

Sansa shifts, already uncomfortable. 

Missandei steps out of the shadows, further into the light and stands only a few steps from Daenerys. Sansa detects no fear in the woman. 

“She’s not come to lock me up Khaleesi. I asked to speak with you,” Missandei says, voice neutral. 

Something flickers in Daenerys’ eyes. Confusion? Anger? Sansa can’t tell. 

“You mean you’re cooperating? ” Daenerys’ voice is incensed at the mere implication. 

Sansa nearly steps in when she sees Missandei swallow thickly. 

“You could’ve saved me,” Missandei says. 

Daenerys’ brows furrow in confusion at the veering conversation. 

“Missandei?”

She hasn’t put it altogether yet. That Missandei is no longer hers. That she doesn’t belong to anyone but herself (and never has), but Sansa watches as she starts to put the pieces together. 

“Cersei kept us for weeks. She offered us up in exchange for surrender. But you didn’t. Didn’t even attempt to negotiate. And when you did storm the city it was on dragonback. You said. You always promised you were different from the rest,” Missandei takes half a step forward as her voice breaks and Daenerys actually looks small, “Arya Stark saved us, in the end. Arya and Jon’s plan. hile you abandoned us. Abandoned me, Daenerys.”

Missandei’s voice dies on the last word. And Daenerys just stands there for a few moments, untethered in the freefall. But when she catches up with everything that had spewed from Missandei in a steadily rising rage, it’s not Missandei she turns back to. It’s Sansa. And she’s furious. 

“ You, ” Daenerys snarls and lunges towards Sansa only to be caught up in her chains and forced to stumble back. 

Sansa, for her part, manages not to flinch. 

“This is nothing to do with me,” Sansa says calmly, “Missandei’s choices are her own. Cersei is the one who kidnapped us together, I had nothing to do with that.”

“You poisoned her against me. My dearest friend,” Daenerys looks wildly between them and Sansa thinks Daenerys is about to cry. 

“I think you did that yourself, Your Grace.”

Sansa takes a step back as Daenerys turns back to Missandei. Pure venom in her eyes now. 

“Missandei. I saved you. You would’ve lived and died a slave without me. I freed you,” Daenerys pleads now. 

And part of Sansa aches for her. Can see her entire life crumbling before her. Everything that Daenerys thought she was is crashing down around her. She has nothing, is nothing. Not anymore. 

Missandei looks on with disdain but also with a deep sorrow that cloaks the room. 

“Was I free though? Free to do as I pleased? Truly?” Missandei questions. 

Daenerys’ jaw goes slack, she’s thunderstruck by the question. 

(Isn’t that what they called her? Stormborn? A cruel irony now). 

She can’t answer Missandei. Can’t make her mouth form the words, it merely hangs, gaping. 

Missandei takes another step forward, inches from Daenerys now. 

“I never want to see you again.”

Missandei turns on her heel and walks from the room, leaving Sansa and Daenerys alone. 

There’s a few seconds of silence, as Daenerys watches the person she was likely closest to in the world walk out of her life. Then Daenerys reels on Sansa again. 

“So you came to gloat I suspect?” Daenerys accuses her, self-righteous again in Missandei’s absence.. 

Sansa pauses and chooses her words carefully. Really thinks about what drove her to come here tonight. In the end it’s simple. 

“I wanted to be the one who told you that you lost,” Sansa says. 

Daenerys falters, “I-I am a Targaryen. Ruling is my birthright, you’ll never get away with–”

“Your dragons are dead. Tyrion is dead. Varys is no longer backing you. Missandei and Grey Worm have the loyalty of the Unsullied and have kept the remaining Dothraki in check. Half a dozen people in the whole of Westeros even know where you’re being kept. It’s over Daenerys. You failed.”

Sansa’s voice isn’t cruel. It’s not meant to rub it in Daenerys’ face. She simply lays out the facts as they are and watches Daenerys deflate with each new blow. 

There’s one last thing hanging between them, and Sansa is wondering if Daenerys will broach the subject when she does. 

“You and Jon?” Daenerys asks. 

In an instant Daenerys is hollow again, Sansa realizes. The fight was reignited for a few short minutes and now it’s disappeared.

“Yes.”

Sansa’s one word answer is all that Daenerys needs. There’s an understanding between them, tied up with the simplicity of her answer. 

“He’ll make you his Queen. I see that now, I never was. Not his.”

Sansa bristles. Daenerys had all but forced Jon into the farce. And now she stands here in self pity. 

“Jon has never cared about his claim. Nor have I. If you’d seen that then perhaps things could’ve been different Daenerys. But now… you have left a city in ashes, and yourself to rot.”

Sansa spares one last look at Daenerys. Broken. But there’s still a stroke of brilliance in there. Still something magnificent in the death of a dynasty. She leaves Daenerys in her cell and exits the cave to brave the night.

Arya paces the room as she waits for the others to arrive. 

She’d come early, dragging Gendry with her, because she felt she could already predict how this was going to go and the thought made her anxious, made her skin crawl really. There’s a part of her, an echo in the back of her head from being a little girl in Winterfell saying that not everything should result in death, sometimes we have other choices. But her blood boils at the implication. 

She watches Gendry, seated at the table calmy, out of the corner of her eye as she circles the room. He seems happy to oblige her in this, in her need to expel the energy spinning inside her. She continues her path for several more minutes until Gendry sighs deeply. 

“You’re going to wear a groove into the floor Arya. Come. Sit,” Gendry says. 

His words are more a request than a demand, a plea for her to loosen the tension that is plaguing her shoulders. She huffs and considers him, decides to draw up a seat beside him. 

“I don’t understand your stress Arya. Say your piece, Sansa will listen to it and consider carefully and that’s all you can do,” Gendry says gently and places a hand on her arm. 

But we’ve already spoken, Gendry. Arya thinks solemnly but merely nods at Gendry’s assurances. 

Sansa and Jon had told her in their room that night that Daenerys’ fate wasn’t sealed, wasn’t a foregone conclusion like she thought it would be. Like she’d been certain of when they’d won the battle and gotten a hold of her. There was no other way this ended. And her and Sansa had disagreed, not like they had when they were girls. They talked and argued and made their cases, until Jon interceded. 

“The dragons are gone Arya,” Jon said, almost defeated. 

And for the first time Arya saw Jon take Sansa’s side and not her own. But instead of it enraging her she realized that whatever had grown between them was going to always be around, that it was everlasting. She’d have to trust it to get them out of this mess.

But Jon was right, so Arya echoes his words now. 

“The dragons are gone Gendry,” Arya sighs, “Daenerys’ death isn’t necessary to bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms.”

Gendry’s mouth sits in a hard line as he weighs all the information. She likes this about him, that Gendry is steady and level headed when he wants to be. He’s smarter than he lets on. 

Before he can reply though the door across the hall opens and a steady stream of people file in. 

They were in the same castle they’d taken residence for the last few days and Sansa had told her she’d chosen those necessary for this discreet meeting. It was late, most other people were asleep now. It was time to say what couldn’t be said around prying ears. 

Sansa leads the group and her eyebrows go up two inches when she sees that Arya and Gendry are already there, (Arya’s not known for punctuality) but then she seems to resign herself to Arya’s feelings on the matter and lowers them. Jon follows her in and then Davos and Brienne are right behind him. Varys, to Arya’s surprise, comes next, she hasn’t seen the man in all of this aftermath. Missandei and Grey Worm bring up the rear and in the doorway Arya catches a glimpse of Tormund shutting the doors and acting as sentry for the group. She looks around and realizes Podrick must still be guarding her back at the hovel they’d found.

(She thinks idly that she should’ve just gone there, she could’ve made it past Podrick easily, had Daenerys’ throat slit even easier. And then it would be done).

But no. She stops her thoughts. She takes a breath and tells herself to put that behind her. 

Everyone takes their seats and it doesn’t surprise her when Sansa speaks first. 

“Everyone knows why you’re here. We’re the only ones who know where Daenerys is, that she remains alive even. And we have to come to a decision on what to do with that information,” Sansa says.

A slight unease goes around the table. 

Varys breaks it.

“Forgive me Lady Stark but what exactly are you trying to say?”

Varys seems unbothered but alert. Arya notices Sansa glance ever so briefly at Jon and seems to find some resolution in his eyes because she doesn’t even blink when she speaks. 

“We have to decide whether Daenerys lives or dies,” Sansa says simply.

For several seconds there is silence as everyone takes in her words and Sansa waits for the first comment. Missandei and Grey Worm seem to be having a conversation with just their eyes while Varys is concealing any sort of feeling one way or another. 

“Surely she’ll be put on trial… my Lady?” Davos asks uncertainly after several seconds. 

Arya feels Gendry looking at her and knows that he is trying to communicate with her. Saying silently ‘ see, the others agree with you.’ But Arya waits, anticipating Sansa’s response before it comes. 

Sansa clasps her hands. 

“All of us here need to be under no illusions, Ser Davos. Jon and I have discussed this and he agrees with me. If we bring Daenerys out of that cave with any intention of putting her on trial she will die,” Sansa pauses, “Nobody knows where she is for the moment but as the dust settles that place too will become unsafe for anyone to guard. There will be daily attempts on her life. And any trial, regardless of outcome, will result in her death. So we have a choice.”

Exactly as Arya expected. And as much as her own thoughts on the matter differ, she can’t really argue with the logic. Daenerys would be brutalized by the people. And not that she didn’t deserve it. But there’s a certain uneasiness with making yourself complicit in that sort of degradation. 

It’s Missandei who poses the next question.

“Then what is our other option Sansa?”

Missandei sounds unconvinced. Even Missandei expected her once Queen to suffer the pain of her consequences, yet Sansa doesn’t see it that simply. 

Sansa closes her eyes and breathes in deeply before responding. When she opens them they’re resolved. 

“We tell people she has died of her injuries, she fell from a dragon for God’s sake. And we let her go. Banish her to Essos.”

The silence in the room this time rings. And Arya isn’t sure what is about to follow when Varys makes a sound of disbelief, clicks his tongue. 

“You are everything they never expected you to be, Sansa Stark. A true Queen in every sense of the word,” Varys applauds her. 

He is almost awed by Arya’s sister. And she is so proud. She gets it. She gets that Sansa killed Cersei in an act of self preservation and was even happy about it. But when given the choice of mercy she chooses it, every damn time. Even after all that has passed, she is willing to let Daenerys disappear. 

It takes a few moments. There is quiet as Sansa still blushes, head dipped at Varys’ praise. But the rest of the room seems to accept this decision. Davos nods his agreement, convinced. Missandei and Grey Worm look to each other and then smile softly at Sansa, grateful somehow for her kind heart. Brienne, who has yet to speak, beams at Sansa. Varys’ opinion is clear. Arya looks at Gendry, already knowing that he will follow the group, and he looks apologetically at her. 

Suddenly every eye is on Arya. And she realizes that she could stand here and argue the point all night. That they’d listen to her. That everyone here has an equal voice, that they would respect her dissent. It’s that alone which seals it for her. So instead she says only what she asked Jon and Sansa a few nights ago in privacy, hoping to receive the same answer. 

“What of her crimes, should she not be made to suffer for the hurt she caused, for all she took?” Arya asks. 

Jon’s head tilts up and barely conceals a smirk, knowing that Arya already heard his answer. 

“Exile is more a punishment for her than death ever could be Arya. Her titles, glory, name, all stripped from her? She wanted adoration and riches and power. She’ll find none of that where we send her.”

Arya looks at Jon and suddenly she’s a little girl again, being given Needle and finding safety in her brother’s arms. She trusts him. She trusts all of them, and she lets the vengeance seep out of her in one long exhale. 

“Well,” Arya says as everyone waits for her reaction (she notes Sansa’s anticipation especially), “Who is going to be the one to break the news to the Dragon Queen?”

Daenerys doesn’t know how long she’s been here. Doesn’t know how long has passed since all had been lost. Since the red haired man had picked her up from the rubble and they’d hidden her away here. 

She would rot, as Sansa had said. Decay would overtake her and she would return to the earth, not with a yell but with a sigh. Nobody would even know. 

That scared her more than anything. Disappearing, her name never spoken again.

She couldn’t form full thoughts. Her brain gnawed at the edges of her consciousness. Her mouth was parched, her stomach hollow. She refused the food and drink they brought her, let herself empty out slowly. She’d always been stubborn like that. Willful. 

It had served her, for a time. 

Now she is alone. And faces flash before her everytime she closes her eyes. 

Viserys. Drogo. Ser Barristan. Daario. Jorah. Tyrion. Varys. Grey Worm. 

Missandei. 

Had she been a fool? That last loss hurt her more than the rest somehow. Missandei had been hers. Before she’d been anyone else’s. Daenerys had saved her, had taken away her master and cut the chains that bound her. 

Missandei’s words haunt her now instead.

Was I free though?

Daenerys would have answered yes, would’ve been certain in her belief that Missandei chose to stand by her side, not out of duty or obligation but of love and trust, respect. Now she isn’t so sure. 

After a time the faces change and the landscape turns barren, cold and ice. 

Wolves circle her visions. 

Jon. Sansa. Arya. Bran.

Four names. Simple, northern. Old and ancient. Nothing special, not destined. And yet. 

Daenerys Targaryen. Viserys had told her a story of her name once, when reciting the lineages. Of Alysanne and Jaehaerys’ daughter. Her strife. How Alysanne had fought for Daenerys’ claim as eldest when her brother Aemon was born but it didn’t matter once Jaehaerys had a son. And then how a few short years later Daenerys had succumbed to the shaking sickness. 

Daenerys had never forgotten. Vowed to bring honour to her name, to an ancestor she would never know. That little girl. But it seemed she’d suffer the same fate. 

Her claim, stolen. By a man of course. And after that it crumbles. She will die alone in this cell, falling ill eventually. She is certain of it. Just as the first Daenerys had hundreds of years ago. 

And it all comes back to the four of them. To Arya, Bran, and Sansa Stark. To Jon Snow. 

Jon Targaryen. 

Daenerys sits up in her bed, shifts so her head faces the window and lets her thoughts wander, anything to distract her from the ache she feels. 

Hours (days?) pass when she hears something outside of her cell. She’s reminded too quickly of her last visit. Of the look of disgust on Missandei’s face and Sansa’s quiet triumph. She doesn’t think she can handle it again. But when a shadow steps into the room it’s even worse. 

It’s him. It’s Jon. 

And instantly, irrationally, she wishes it were Sansa. Whatever Jon is here to tell her she wishes it were Sansa. Because she can rage at Sansa. Take out her heartbreak and fury and sense of betrayal on her so easily. 

But something in Jon holds her back. (Is it the dragon blood? It can’t be, can it?) She remembers the first time she saw him on Dragonstone. The way she felt a stirring in her gut, an instant draw even as they argued and waded through a war of words. They butted heads at every turn. He infuriated her. But she thought she had found something. Someone.

And even through all that had transpired she’d thought they’d had some understanding. Something keeping them together. Maybe the wight hunt, the sheer terror she’d felt when he fought for his life, when she couldn’t save him. 

But he’d come at her on dragonback, destroyed her children and shattered that feeling. 

Jon takes two steps into the room. 

“Dany…”

Jon winces as if recognizing his mistake at once and Daenerys flinches. 

Suddenly it’s easier to be mad at him. Easier to let fury consume her. He never knew her. She sits there in silence. Chooses to suffocate the room by not speaking. Seconds pass and Jon looks around, unsure of how to proceed. He looks at where her chain is attached to the wall, pulls something from his pocket. 

It’s a key. She doesn’t understand, she lets her defenses fall for the briefest moment. 

“We have to go,” Jon says and moves forward slowly, bending down to where Daenerys’ ankle cuff is. 

She flinches away on instinct even as her mind races. 

Is Jon helping her escape? Has she been wrong all along? Is this why he came alone?

Jon sighs and places one hand on her shoulder, holding her in place as he comes closer. She freezes as he bends down and puts the key into the lock, the cuff falls to the floor. 

Daenerys isn’t sure what to do as Jon backs away from her, gestures to the door. He has a sword on his belt still. She would never be able to overpower him. He knows this. What is he doing?

He must see the fear in her eyes because he sighs deeply. 

“This isn’t a plot, Daenerys. There is a ship leaving for Braavos in the next hour. You will be on it. Once you get there, what you do is your choice. You could go on, to Lorath. Get off and make a life there, anywhere in Essos. But you are not to return to Westeros while you live.”

Daenerys’ ears ring. 

“You’re letting me go?”

“We are choosing to allow people to believe you have died.”

Jon’s eyes narrow at her.

Daenerys deflates. Something in her dies right then, at the thought of going to Essos. Nothing to tie her to this place. To her birthright. She will never have it. She will live out the rest of her days hearing tales of Westeros, never to see it again. Her name will become a memory, the faintest of winds. It burns. 

Her shoulders sag and she walks out of the cell slowly. Just before she exits she turns to face him, one last question to ask Jon and then she will be done with him. 

“Are you going to rule Westeros?” her voice cracks, it shouldn’t matter, this last petty inquiry.

Jon’s lips press together. 

“I have no desire for the throne, I was always honest about that.”

But he didn’t answer her question and she suspects that he will. That with her gone and his secret out in the world, the whispers will have begun. They spread even now, like a sickness over the land. It won’t even be his choice, it will become his duty. The last Targaryen heir.

Half the Targaryens went mad. It was a sentiment she’d heard so many times. And she knows they will think it was her, that Jon will be safe. Perhaps they are right. 

They make their way out of the cave, Daenerys’ feet unsteady and Jon has to catch her, right her once when she trips on her feet. It’s embarrassing, her lack of possession over her own body. She’s grown weak. 

Outside there are only three people. 

Sansa and Arya Stark. Their loyal man, Davos. Missandei has not come for this final farewell and Daenerys can’t say she’s surprised given the woman’s parting words. But does she even know? She must. That hurts even worse. 

Jon takes his place beside Sansa and Arya. And then Sansa steps forward. She holds out a small rucksack. 

“Two changes of clothes, a small sack of coins to pay for your food on the ship and afterwards if you’re careful. And sheers, to cut your hair in the meantime so you’re not recognized.”

Sansa steps back and Daenerys peers into the bag. The clothes have a face covering included with them, a shawl to drape over her head to disguise herself. Part of her realizes this is as much for their safety as her own. If their deception about her death is found out some people may not like that, it would pose a threat to them. 

“Davos will take you now, get you on the ship safely,” Jon says as a way of goodbye. 

Daenerys hears his words, feels Arya’s eyes burning into her face. But she only looks at Sansa. Knows, instinctively, that Sansa was the one who packed these supplies for her. Chose them with care. She feels the weight of the coins, a bit more than what is needed for food on a ship. They could carry her a while. 

Their eyes meet briefly and Daenerys is confused by what she sees there. Disdain, yes. But pity and sorrow. Maybe a wish for a different ending. 

Davos says something that Daenerys misses and Jon responds. The Starks turn and before Daenerys can say anything else they have slipped away into the cover of night. 

And she is standing there, alone with her escort, on the edge of everything.

Bran has been feeling more himself. More in control of his faculties. Less other . 

But as they arrive at the castle where he’s told the Stark base is keeping its company he can’t help but feel rattled. 

It’s the first time in a while that he hasn’t been sure. That he’s had to worry about an outcome. His letter left Winterfell before the battle finished. He was gone before his siblings could send any word of their own survival. He’d traveled discretely with a small retinue of men that he trusted to get him South. But the longer he’d gone without being the Three Eyed Raven the less he had seen. 

There’d been snippets sure. Dragon fire. Cersei, lifeless. Daenerys, a decision on her fate. His own arrival in the South. 

But for the last three days there’d been nothing. Hours upon hours free from the shackles that had become commonplace. And it leaves him untethered. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side of this door. It’s unnerving, to be stripped of omniscience. 

(Though he knows he prefers this. His humanity). 

“Lord Stark?” one of his men asks him, a Mormont. 

Bran gives his head the slightest shake and gives his order. 

“The rest of you can bring the horses round the stables, Ser Mormont can bring me inside.”

The men listen and Ser Mormont guides them inside of the castle. There’s a woman there, Bran doesn’t know her name but she looks up from a seat behind a table expectedly. As if they’ve stationed her here for this express purpose what with all the bustling the castle has seen this past week, someone to direct newcomers. 

He watches as she takes them in and she seems to process Bran’s chair as her eyes go wide. Bran speaks before she can. 

“I’m Brandon Stark, I believe my siblings are staying here?”

The woman practically trips over herself to greet them. Clearly the Starks are not unknown here. Bran can’t process anything she’s saying though, only studies her for signs of something she isn’t saying. Did they all survive? He desperately wants to ask. Before he can though Ser Mormont is pushing him into a room beyond the entrance hall and a door is being swung open before him. 

It’s a great hall, a dining hall of sorts. Nobody turns at their entrance, it’s not unusual of course, what with fifty some odd people eating and socializing throughout the room. 

It gives him time. His eyes find them instantly. Seated at what he guesses would be considered the high table, with their hosts and a few others. All three of them. Arya, Jon, and Sansa. Jon between his sisters. To Arya’s left is Gendry, and Bran wonders how she conned a seat for him at the table. A knife to the throat to anyone who tried to tell her otherwise? He grins to himself. Jon and Sansa are absorbed in one another, Jon hanging off whatever words Sansa is saying. 

And Bran enjoys his several seconds of peace. 

A hush descends slowly on the room as murmurs go through from the back where he entered, people start to turn their heads and talk in quiet tones. It reverberates until it reaches the high table. And the three of them find him at the same time. 

They freeze. A tableau of sincere shock despite his letter. A beat passes. 

Sansa moves first, dashing out from behind the table and reaching him in fewer strides than seems possible before she is bending down to envelope him. 

(This time he hugs her back, lets his tears leak out into her shoulder as she repeats his name over and over again. Bran. Bran. Bran ). 

And he remembers, fading in and out of consciousness in the godswood, the terror he felt at what he was seeing. Sansa, far from them. Sansa in fire. Sansa in rooms meant to harm her. And he hadn’t known what it meant in his addled state but he’d got it out, got Jon to go. And now she was safe. Now Sansa held him. His big sister. 

Jon and Arya join moments after. 

Jon with an enthusiastic, “You made it!”

And Arya with a sigh, “You reckless idiot! You should’ve stayed safe in Winterfell!”

He’s used to Sansa’s scolding, but he can tell by the look in Arya’s eyes that she isn’t willing to lose anyone else, not after spending so long trying to get back. So he grins and elbows her in the side. 

“Yeah, just like all you did rushing off to King’s Landing,” Bran jabs. 

And then they are together. Room is made for Bran at the high table, he’s seated between Jon and Sansa on his left, Gendry and Arya on his right. And they eat, they laugh. They have this one night to be the family that was so brutally torn from them. 

Hours pass and the crowds dwindle. Suddenly almost nobody remains in the hall. Without a word Bran sees Gendry kiss Arya’s temple and slip out a side door before she can object. 

They are alone. The candles burn low. 

“We survived,” Sansa says eventually. 

Nobody’s eyes meet as the implication settles around them, the final realization of what they had lost and what they still had before them. Their family, cut in half. Eight became four. Nine, if you included Theon. (And every one of them at the table did). Mother and Father. Robb, Theon, and Rickon. 

Jon. Sansa. Arya. Bran. 

Four branches on a heavily pruned tree. 

Bran watches Jon wrap an arm around Sansa.

“Now we can go home,” Arya says, her voice more hopeful than certain. 

None of them want to say what they’re thinking. But Jon especially can’t ignore what has come to lie at his feet. 

Jon hesitates and then speaks, “The realm needs a King. A Queen.”

And his eyes meet Sansa’s for a fraction of a second. Bran sees the dread there. Neither of them want this. Jon said the realm needs, not he wants. Each of them want to go home, to hunker down in Winterfell and let the season pass, to learn to grow in Spring again. 

“Jon,” Arya looks at him as her voice breaks. 

Sansa looks sadly at her sister, resignation in her posture. A life in the South. They’re the obvious choice in many respects. There will be calls for Jon to take the throne. And the rest of them know enough to know that Sansa won’t leave Jon now. Not after all they’d lost. 

Bran knows how it would go. Jon made King, likely with the condition that Sansa, his now cousin, is made his Queen. And they would stay. Live, and grow, and die in the South. Never quite able to shake Winter from their bones. 

(But the realm would know peace). 

Arya or Bran would be forced to rule from Winterfell. Neither of them wanting the role, neither of them willing to abandon the other to do it alone. 

Their family halved. Again. 

He won’t let it happen. Bran clears his throat. 

“There’s another way,” Bran says. 

All three of them turn to him. Sansa confused. Arya skeptical. Jon worried. 

“Independence."

Bran’s word reverberates in the quiet room. The candles burn lower. The other’s don’t look away from him. 

“How?”

It’s Sansa, of course it’s Sansa. Her political mind absorbing the facts faster than the rest of them. 

Bran lays his hands on the table. 

“An independent North. Ruled how we desire. But independence for the rest as well. Collapse King’s Landing, give the remaining Kingdoms their power back, before the Targaryens came to conquer us. Before dragons ruled the land.”

A heavy silence fills the room but he sees the same idea filling all of their eyes. 

Hope. For the first time in a long time, for something better than what they’ve known. 

(And Bran knows it will come to pass. His last clear vision as the Three Eyed Raven’s grasp had receded, as the talons had unfurled. What had driven him South in the first place).

It’s to be expected, but Jon can’t help that he remembers the last time he was at the Dragonpit. How out of his depth he had felt. How in over his head he knew he was. Alone, without his family. With only Davos by his side and his own wits. 

(Part of him had been disappointed at the time when he realized Sansa had sent Brienne as an envoy. A larger part had been relieved that she was miles and miles away from any potential harm). 

This day is different. The sky is clear but it’s grey. Winter is reaching them even in the South, and the ashes still leave a grimy tinge to the sky. He wonders how long it will take for that to clear, how long before the people will stop coughing on the air. 

The wind nips at his ears as he takes his seat in the semicircle of chairs they’d arranged. There are many, more than Jon cares to count. But he looks at everyone’s faces in turn. 

They’d been the ones to call the meeting, to send the Ravens and wait in the Capitol while the people arrived. So they had the greatest number of seats. 

Jon with Sansa, Arya, and Bran. Davos and Brienne remain present. Tormund demanded a seat as well. Varys, ever lingering in the aftermath has found himself here as well. Sansa insisted that Missandei and Grey Worm needed to be present too. And then those they had waited for.

Edmure Tully. Yohn Royce. Edric Storm. Yara Greyjoy. Mara Martell. Willas Tyrell. Leon Lannister. 

The last remaining heads of the greatest houses of Westeros.   

The Tyrells, Martells and Lannisters had been diminished significantly but still found representatives to send to express their families interests. (It turns out cousins will wriggle out of their hiding places). The Arryns were gone so it fell to the Royces. Edric Storm was found, Robert Baratheon’s bastard son as Stannis, Robert, and Renly had left no trueborn children. 

(They’d gone to Gendry first, who had expressly refused). 

There was a general uncomfortable air that dispersed over the group. Everyone settles in and seems to wait for someone to take the floor. Before Sansa can stand though, it is Varys who rises. Jon groans inwardly. 

“Today marks a historic turn for the history of Westeros,” Varys begins, “All of you are here as you represent the greatest surviving families of the realm, and it is now our responsibility to decide where to go from here.”

“We?” a soft voice asks. 

Jon turns, it is Mara Martell. She is just five and ten. Barely out of her youth. But she raises one eyebrow at Varys as if she was born on a throne. Jon warms to her instantly. 

Varys turns to her. 

“Yes, I think so. Lady Martell?”

“Surely you mean it is our job. Not including yourself in that I hope. I didn’t think the Spider belonged to any great family.”

Jon watches as the youngest person at their meeting goes toe to toe with one of the most influential people to ever come to Westeros’ shores, all without even rising from her seat. He sees Edmure chuckling silently. 

Varys does not blush. But he pales. 

Of all people, it’s Willas Tyrell who interjects.

“Pardon me, but shouldn’t we get to the crux of why we’re here? I believe it was Lady Stark who summoned us, perhaps we should let her speak?” Willas says diplomatically.

He has a calming presence that soothes the energy around them. Varys takes his seat and Mara eyes him narrowly. 

“Thank you Lord Tyrell,” Sansa says as she stands up, “Varys was right, we do have a duty here to decide what happens to the Kingdom of Westeros now that the Dragon Queen is dead.”

“Dead at your hand if rumour is true,” Leon Lannister snarls as he jabs a finger towards Jon’s chair.

Jon’s head turns in his direction and Sansa’s jaw closes shut but before either of them can respond a different voice is snapping back. 

“Jon did what he had to do to protect the people of King’s Landing. Her death was not a loss.”

It’s Missandei. Jon’s never seen her angry but she looks on the verge right then, like she is ready to tear apart this man she has only just met. 

“And who are you?” Leon demands. 

Sansa regains control of the situation. 

“Lord Lannister. This is Lady Missandei of Naath and you will address her as such. Now if we can get back to the issue at hand…”

“The throne?” Yara Greyjoy asks. 

Sansa nods. 

“Well isn’t it clear what you wanted by summoning us here? If Lord Varys’ letter is anything to go by, you expect us to bend the knee to Jon, if his birth is to be believed,” Edric Storm pipes up. 

And then everyone is talking all at once. Yara is making some argument about not bloody kneeling. Mara is muttering to Willas while Edmure and Yohn Royce are sizing them all up as if deciding whether or not this is at all a good idea. Edric looks horrified at what he has caused. Their side looks exhausted. Brienne and Davos exchange expressions of exasperation while his family roll their eyes. Tormund, for what it’s worth, appears ike this is the most entertainment he’s had since that stupid bear. Jon is just about to stop it when Varys stands up again. 

“Lords and Ladies, order if you please. Now I know this is a lot of information to take in. But it is my belief that for the smoothest transition of power to take place, the easiest path is to let Jon Targaryen take his rightful place on—”

“I’m not a Targaryen.”

Jon can’t take it anymore as he stands up to face the entire crowd. They sit there in stunned silence besides his family. He finally has their attention, time to make the most of it. 

“I was born in the South, it’s true. Blood son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I don’t know all there is to know of their relationship, what it consisted of, but from what we understand I am their son. Despite this, I was raised in the North. I was raised in Winterfell. Given the name Snow and told I was Eddard Stark’s bastard. That is the only father I have ever known, the only family I’ve ever had.”

Jon pauses. Watches as Sansa’s chest swells with pride, her eyes brimming with tears. Glances at Arya and Bran, both looking beyond proud. The rest of the group are still too enraptured to interject. 

“This is a formal abdication of the Iron Throne and any claim I may have to it. I don’t want it, I never will.”

Silence. A beat. 

“But then who?” Edmure Tully whispers. 

Arya smirks, “No one.”

Sansa stands and comes to Jon’s side, folds his hand in her own. 

“Jon and I are to marry. As the eldest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn I have the power to give him my name. To make him a Stark. The North is ours, it shall remain free and independent as it was for thousands of years.”

More silence. 

Then Tomrund’s booming laugh. 

“Free as the freefolk always have been.”

And little by little it seems to sink in for the rest of them. Yara Greyjoy gets there before the others. 

“The Iron Islands will retain their freedom as well, under the Salt Throne.”

“Dorne will reclaim what was taken by the dragon riders.”

“The Vale will protect its own.”

“The Westerlands will stay under Lannister rule.”

“The Riverlands can take care of its people’s affairs.”

“As can the Reach.”

The responses come quick, one after another after they realize what it is Jon and Sansa are asking them to do. In the end it’s only Edric Storm who remains as all the eyes turn to him. 

“Who? Me?”

And Jon can empathize with the position, the same one he found himself in when he was made King in the North, a position you never allow yourself to dream of as a bastard. 

Jon nods at him once. 

Edric stands up hesitantly and his voice wobbles, “The Stormlands will be cared for under my rule.”

An agreement settles upon them all. Some sort of lasting peace. How long it will last Jon is unsure, but part of him believes that there won’t be another war in any of their lifetimes. 

Varys looks on, a bit saddened. A bit proud. And Jon can only shrug his shoulders. It’s better than what Varys would’ve got with Daenerys, and it’s all Jon has to offer. 

They spend the rest of the day talking and making up agreements, signing their names a thousand times. The crowd dwindles as the day drags on. They appoint Varys to oversee a council of representatives of the Kingdoms, to be positioned in King’s Landing for the time being so they have a neutral land for centralized negotiations. 

Soon it’s just the Starks again, the Starks and Yara Greyjoy. Jon only just notices as the rest have retreated for the night. They’ll meet again tomorrow, and the next day. 

Sansa steps forward and away from Jon, going to Yara. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect him,” Sansa’s voice cracks. 

Yara stands there for a few moments, solid as a statue. Jon sees one tear trickle out slowly, and then she is embracing Sansa. 

The two stand there for several minutes. Jon has to look away. He can’t hear what they’re whispering to each other. Eventually Bran and Arya slip away and it’s just Jon waiting for them to finish. They do, and they release each other. Some sort of understanding having passed between them through their grief. Jon steps forward to put a hand on Sansa’s back. 

Yara nods at both of them and just before she turns away she pauses. 

“You found her.”

Jon jolts in surprise, unsure what she means. 

Yara smiles sadly, “Theon told me once. That he sent Sansa to find you, the only person in the world he trusted to take care of her.”

Jon’s surprised, at Yara’s appraisal and Theon’s words. But maybe he shouldn’t be. They’d been almost brothers once. 

Jon’s voice lodges in his throat and he can’t find words to articulate what he’s feeling. Before he can say anything Yara is receding, leaving Jon and Sansa alone in the Dragonpit as night falls steadily around them. 

Jon exhales, letting all the tensions of the day leave his body. Sansa turns to face him, her arm still half wrapped around him. 

“We did it.”

Her voice isn’t victorious. It’s bruised and beaten, but finally at peace and Jon can relate to the sentiment. It’s been a long road to get here. 

“Queen in the North,” Jon says as he pulls her closer to him, “We’re free thanks to you.”

Sansa shakes her head at him. 

“We’re safe thanks to you.”

Jon wonders if that’s true. The dragons were dead thanks to him. But Daenerys was not. Somewhere out there she survived, biding her time? Perhaps. Perhaps not. He hoped she stayed far away. But safe. Jon could do safe. Could spend the rest of his days keeping them safe if he had Sansa at his side. 

Sansa grins at him, “When you first came back to Winterfell… I was so anxious. So worried that there had been a shift that I wasn’t even around for but then you came through. You always do.”

Jon smiles, “It’s all been for you, my Queen.”

Sansa blushes at his words, not ready to believe that the long gone childhood dream could come true. 

“My King,” Sansa giggles. 

And then he kisses her. Ready to embark on the next part of this journey with her at his side.